T Kinsey - A Quiet Life in the Country (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 1)

‘I shall do my share and nothing more, Bert, I promise.’

‘Very wise, miss. They’s a bit . . . apprehensive of you, as it goes.’

‘They are? Why?’

‘Stands to reason, don’t it? You come down here from London. Your mistress is a bit . . . she’s a bit—’

‘Individual?’ I suggested.

‘Individual, yes,’ he said. ‘She don’t seem to follow the rules much, does she?’

I laughed. ‘No, she very much makes up her own rules.’

‘Right. So you’re from up London—’

‘I’m from Aberdare.’

‘Are you? Are you indeed? Well, they’re worried all the same. Thinks you might be a bit too sophisticated for ’em, they does.’

‘But not you?’

‘Ah,’ he said with a knowing wink. ‘I’ve already met you, see? I knows what to expect.’

I laughed again and he smiled back.

As we entered the gates, I smiled again as I got my first proper look at The Grange.

There was something altogether charming about the higgledypiggledy manor house. My knowledge of architectural styles is hazy, but my guess was that the present house had begun its life in Tudor times. There were glimpses of ornate brick chimneys at the back, but the main body of the Tudor house had been replaced by an elegantly symmetrical Georgian structure built from the local stone.

What lent it its charm, though, was that at some point in the previous century its owner had chosen to extend the house by building a new wing. Rather than try to match the new wing to the existing building, or even to try to make it ‘sympathetic’, as I believe the architects say, they had built it in the Gothic Revival style with turrets and towers and pointed, arched windows.

The result, though it was an absolute aesthetic shambles, was a house that looked as though it had been lived in and loved for generations.

We rounded the house and pulled into the stable block, which had been converted to store the motor car.

‘If you go through there,’ said Bert, indicating a door at the back of the workshop, ‘you’ll find the way to the servants’ passage round the back of the house. Go down the stairs and follow the sound of angry screaming and you’ll pretty soon be in the kitchen. I’ll be out here . . . er . . . adjusting the carburettor . . . yes, that’s it, I’ll be adjusting the carburettor if anyone asks.’

‘Righto, Bert. Thank you for the lift.’

‘My pleasure, miss. Good luck.’

I left him to his skiving and set off in search of the kitchen.

His directions, though vague, were uncannily helpful. The sounds coming from ahead were, indeed, the sounds of pots and pans being clattered about and of Mrs Brown, the cook, screeching invectives at the top of her formidable voice. Someone in the kitchen was not having a happy time of it at all.

I decided that any show of timidity, even polite deference, would most certainly be my undoing and would see me badgered, nagged, hounded, and generally put upon for the remainder of the day. The strict hierarchy generally observed among household servants could be all too easily forgotten if one failed to assert oneself. With that in mind I stood a little straighter, breathed a little more deeply and opened the kitchen door with a confident flourish.

‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ I said in my most self-assured, take-no-nonsense, lady’s maid’s voice. ‘How are we all today?’

Mrs Brown halted in mid-slam and stood with the pan in her hand, glaring towards the door as though her kitchen were being invaded. Rose, the kitchen maid, carried on with her chopping. She kept her head down and it was apparent that she was crying, but she glanced up and smiled gratefully at me for bringing her a moment’s respite from the yelling.

‘Oh,’ said Mrs Brown, placing the pan on the range, ‘it’s you, Miss Armstrong. Come to join our merry band?’

‘Indeed, yes,’ I said breezily. ‘I was told Mr Jenkins would need some help upstairs.’ I had been told nothing of the sort, but I wasn’t going to give Mrs Brown an opportunity to co-opt me into her downtrodden kitchen brigade. ‘Is there somewhere I can leave my coat?’

‘Rose!’ she snapped. ‘Show Miss Armstrong to Miss Denton’s room, she can leave her coat there. Then come straight back here. No dawdling.’

‘Yes, Mrs Brown,’ said poor Rose, weakly, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Follow me, miss, I’ll show you the way.’

As she led me through the warren of subterranean corridors, I tried to engage her in conversation.

‘How long have you been working here?’

She plodded on forlornly. ‘’Bout two munfs.’

‘It’s early days yet,’ I said. ‘Things will get better.’

‘Will they?’ She was close to tears again. ‘I never thought it’d be like this. I can’t get anything right.’

‘I rather think the problem is with Mrs Brown, not with you. She hasn’t impressed me so far. I’m very much thinking of giving her a piece of my mind. All that shouting and banging. It’s not on.’

‘Oh, please don’t make trouble, miss. You don’t know what she’s like.’

‘I’ve met her sort before, Rose, don’t worry. I know how to deal with the likes of her.’

She didn’t seem reassured and when we arrived at Miss Denton’s room she simply gestured at the door and scuttled off as quickly as she could manage.

I knocked on the door.

‘Yes?’ said an imperious voice from inside.

I opened the door and poked my head round. Sitting in an overstuffed armchair with her feet on a stool was a small woman with greying hair swept up in an unfashionable style. Her face was set in a scowl. ‘Good afternoon,’ I said cheerfully. ‘I’m Florence Armstrong, Lady Hardcastle’s lady’s maid. Mrs Brown suggested I might be able to hang my coat in your room.’

‘Come in,’ she said more brightly, her face softening. ‘I’m Maude. Maude Denton. Housekeeper, and Lady Farley-Stroud’s lady’s maid. Pleasure to meet you.’

‘And you, I’m sure.’

‘I half want to say no, just to prove that bossy old biddy wrong, but I can’t take it out on you, my girl. Of course you can hang your coat in here. Join me for a cup of tea?’

‘I should love to, thank you.’

‘It’s just brewing now. Fetch yourself a cup from the shelf over there, there’s a good girl.’ She indicated a shelf above the small gas ring. ‘I gather you volunteered to come over to help us with the party.’

‘That’s the plan, yes,’ I said, reaching for a cup and saucer.

‘What on earth possessed you to do something as silly as that?’

‘Well, it was this or sit at home on my own for the evening. This way I might get to listen to the band, at least. And I’m not exactly a volunteer. There was talk about “hiring” me for the evening.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t hold your breath, m’dear. If any payment is eventually forthcoming, it’ll be grudgingly given and probably a penny or two short. Times is hard for the Farley-Strouds.’

‘Ah, well,’ I said. ‘I’m here now. Have you any idea what I’ll be doing?’

‘Hiding out here with me for a couple of hours is your first duty, m’girl. Then, when the heavy work has been done, we shall swan imperiously about the place doling out canapés and cheap sparkling wine as though they were the food and drink of the Olympian gods.’

‘That sounds like a workable plan,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose you have any biscuits?’

‘Funny you should ask,’ she said, reaching into a cupboard behind her. ‘I happen to have snaffled a plateful from under cook’s eternally grumpy nose this very morning. Help yourself.’

It was going to be quite a pleasant day after all.

I was, as predicted, given the task of mingling unobtrusively with a tray of nibbles and indifferent fizz. We were also charged with keeping guests out of the library, which had been given over to the band to use to store instrument cases. It wasn’t onerous work.