Lynne Francis - Ella’s Journey - The perfect wartime romance to fall in love with this summer

When she had first arrived, Ella had been sceptical that such a number of servants could be required to run a house of so few people. Now she could see what Doris meant by her heartfelt plea for more help and, as the day progressed with the washing of the breakfast dishes and the immediate commencement of preparations for lunch, Ella felt she had a clearer insight into the workings of the house. Every servant had to know and perform their role like clockwork for the house to function at all. Orchestrated by Mrs S, the household moved through its day. Dirty laundry was sent out, clean laundry counted back in. Food for the evening was ordered by Cook once Mrs Ward had made her decision about the menu. The grocer’s boy came to collect the list as, although there was a telephone, another innovation for Ella to marvel at, it was in Mr Ward’s study and for his personal use only.

Lunchtime came and went in a blur and Ella was glad to be able to sit down in the afternoon for the hour that Mrs S insisted on to allow her staff a chance to rest, provided there were no visitors and the family didn’t need them. It was a chance to talk with Mrs Dawson while she baked, or to do some sewing for the household, but not to do any of the heavy work or cleaning or any other of the myriad duties likely to arise during the course of an average day at Grange House.

Ella was used to long days of hard work. At the Ottershaws’ she never stopped from five in the morning until she fell into bed around ten or eleven at night. She supposed the difference was that there she had fulfilled all the roles – cook, maid and nursery maid. As if reading her mind, Mrs Dawson, stirring egg yolks into a custard for the evening dinner, commented ‘You’ll be finding this very different from your previous employment? I heard you were a maid-of-all-work over near Leeds?’

‘Not so close to Leeds,’ Ella replied, sewing steadily as she took up the hem of a nightgown, back from the laundry and in need of repair. ‘Out in the country, in Nortonstall. Yes, I worked for a family with four small children and you’re right, it was hard work. But I’m not sure this isn’t harder…’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ Mrs Dawson said. ‘It’s your first day and there’s a lot to learn in a big house like this. And we’re short-handed at present. We need a new kitchen or scullery maid then you’ll be above stairs, I’ll be bound. Doris and Rosa are run off their feet up there. So much for this being a labour-saving house. Mrs Ward was convinced we could manage here with fewer servants, not like the last place in Micklegate.’ Mrs Dawson paused and looked at her critically. ‘It looks as though a breath of wind could blow you away. Here, have another piece of cake; you need feeding up a bit if you’re to have enough strength for the work upstairs.’

She pushed a plate of sponge cake towards Ella and patted her own hips ruefully. ‘The curse of the cook – too much sampling of our own food. Who would trust a thin cook, though?’ and she chuckled to herself as she strained the custard into a large bowl, the rim patterned with a trellis of roses.

That night, as Ella fell into bed, she barely had a moment to reflect on all the tasks she had accomplished during the day, and all the amazing sights she had seen, before her eyes closed and she was seized by sleep.

It took very little time before Ella stopped feeling like the awkward new girl. Familiar with most of the duties expected from her, after her years spent at the Ottershaws’, she was also quick to master anything new. As Mrs Sugden had foretold, she soon found herself drafted in as an upstairs maid in the afternoons, initially to help out when the family had visitors for afternoon tea. She wore the smarter dress, with apron, cap and cuffs, for these occasions. Mrs Ward had nodded approvingly the first time she appeared in it. A glamorous woman, taller than her husband, she kept herself at a distance from her staff. Ella had been introduced to her formally, shortly after arrival, when Mrs Ward had looked her up and down and asked Mrs Sugden whether she was the one whose mother had written. Answered in the affirmative, she had thanked Ella for coming to her husband’s aid when his car broke down, then had turned and walked away to signify that their conversation was over.

‘I hear from Mrs Sugden that you are doing well,’ she said now, as Ella paused with the tea tray to let her precede her into the sitting room. ‘I expect we will find plenty of employment for you above stairs.’

So it was to prove. Ella frequently helped out on lunch service, which, taking place as it did under the fierce gaze of Mr Stevens, she initially found terrifying. An affable man at the servants’ table, he adopted a very different persona in his role of butler above stairs, where he had status as the key servant in the household. His manner and demeanour, the result of years of experience, led Ella to believe that he was much older than she was, although it became apparent in time that there was barely a ten-year age difference. Aware of his sharp scrutiny, Ella found her hands shaking so much that the serving spoon rattled against the tureen as she went around the table with the vegetables. Some of the serving dishes were so heavy that she longed to rest them just for an instant on the table while a guest deliberated over-long as to whether or not they would take the soup, or dithered over which vegetables to have. Whenever she glanced up, though, she would find Mr Stevens’s eyes upon her and she would straighten up and try to remain composed while her shoulders and arms burned with the effort.

One of her favourite roles in the household was spending time with John, the Wards’ youngest son, who was a frequent visitor to the kitchen. Only that morning he had appeared, a large book clutched to his chest, and settled himself at the kitchen table.

He was silent for a little while, deeply absorbed as he turned the pages, before he said: ‘What sort of bird is this? Where can I see one?’

Ella had paused, broom in hand. ‘What do you mean, Master John?’

John stabbed his finger at the page of his book. ‘This one. Look.’

Ella peered over John’s shoulder at the illustration of a small black-and-white bird, with a preposterous brightly striped beak. It looked ridiculous, quite unlike anything she’d ever seen in the Yorkshire woods and fields of her childhood, or in the back gardens of these houses in York for that matter. She was thankful for the illustration though; the words beneath were a meaningless jumble to her.

‘You’d best ask your governess,’ Ella said. ‘I’ve no book learning. Miss Gilbert is the one to help you.’ She was brisk, sweeping the crumbs from beneath his feet as they dangled from the kitchen chair, but she felt very sorry for him. She ruffled John’s hair, poured more milk into his glass and cut him another piece of cake. She knew Mrs Dawson wouldn’t begrudge it. ‘Such a shame,’ she’d confided in Ella, her arms dusted with flour almost up to the elbows as she set about rolling the pastry for an apple tart, ‘barely seven years old, and small for his age, and they’re talking about sending him to boarding school. Why have the child if you can’t be bothered with him, I ask you?’ She’d sniffed and wielded the rolling pin more vehemently.

‘Now, don’t go letting all this cake spoil your appetite for your tea or I’ll be in no end of trouble,’ Ella warned. ‘Why don’t you put your books away now and run around outside for a bit? Look – the sun’s shining and you could put your coat and scarf on and take your ball?’

Ella knew it was unlikely. John was a solitary boy, an afterthought, his sisters older than him and too pre-occupied with their own affairs to spare the time to entertain him. He spent more time with the servants than with anyone else in the house.