“Your what?” Margaret prompted.
Betty lifted her quivering chin. “Never you mind; I’ll sort it somehow.”
I am as yet ‘wanting a situation,’ like a
housemaid out of place. I have lately discovered I
have quite a talent for cleaning, sweeping up hearths,
dusting rooms, making beds, etc.; so, if everything
else fails, I can turn my hand to that.
—Charlotte Brontë, in a letter to her sister Emily
Chapter 11
The next day, Margaret backed from the drawing room, pulling the double doors closed as she went. Thomas, the first footman, appeared out of nowhere and gave her arm a playful pinch.
“Fetch me up some German polish, there’s a love.”
Margaret hesitated. Was that one of her duties as well?
Thomas smiled at her. He had very good teeth, though quite large. And something about those gleaming teeth, hard blue eyes, and dark hair reminded her of a wolf.
He gave her a gentle nudge. “You do know where the stillroom is, I trust?”
“Of course.” Chin high, Margaret turned on her heel and padded through the servery and down the basement stairs.
The stillroom. What memories of Lime Tree Lodge it evoked. The snug room with a cheery fire and sunlight from its high windows gleaming off copper kettles and colorful glass bottles. With its own stove, brick baking oven, worktable, basin, shelves displaying pots and jelly moulds, and cupboards containing tea, coffee, and more. Filled with the aromas of spices sweet and savory—ginger and coriander, cloves and rosemary. Where pastries and biscuits were prepared one moment, distilled beverages the next. Vinegars, pickles, and preserves on some days. Soaps, cosmetics, and medicinals on others.
Oh, the hours Margaret had spent perched on a stool in the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge with Mrs. Haines, cutting ginger biscuits with copper cutters or making toffee.
Belowstairs, she passed the butler’s pantry, kitchen, and the housekeeper’s parlor. The stillroom was next door, the domain of both Mrs. Budgeon and the stillroom maid who carried out her many orders and receipts.
“Hello, Hester.” Margaret smiled at the round, sweet-faced maid as she entered.
“Hello, Nora.” Hester returned her smile and added a wink. “What brings you down to the dungeons this time of day?”
“The footman needs something called German polish.”
“Does he now? And why is that your problem?”
“I don’t know. He asked, so I thought it was something I was meant todo.”
“Thomas was it?”
Margaret nodded.
“Craig is a lamb, but mind you watch that Thomas. Charmer he may be, but lazy in the bargain. Gettin’ the new girl to fetch and carry for him.” She shook her head. “Maybe in your last place housemaids was responsible for furniture polish, but here that’s the footman’s duty. Ah well. You’re here now and I’m glad for an excuse to chat.”
Hester continued on with her work, crushing rose petals into a jar of salt.
“Um... have you any of this polish?” Margaret asked.
Hester looked up. “You’ve got to make it, love. Have you never?”
“I am afraid not.”
