Page 51 of The Gentlewoman Author

“You must go to your father,” she whispered, though she couldn’t tell why. Her voice reverberated around the hall in shushed tones, then all fell silent.

“Fix it!”

“You cow!”

“Ouch!”

Each word echoed off stone walls. Mary raised a brow at Daniel.

Daniel grimaced. “Trouble among the servants.”

“Go to your father,” she repeated.

“You don’t mind showing yourself around?”

“After riding in a carriage for nearly a week? Not at all. I will go to the kitchen for tea and then explore.”

“Follow the shouting, and you will find your tea in no time.” His lip twitched into an almost smile, but his brows drew together. Of course he was thinking of his father, anxious to discover his condition. With another apologetic look, Daniel disappeared into a dark hallway, his footsteps muffled by a red and black rug that seemed as old as the castle itself.

Alone, she scrutinized rows of portraits that decorated the entrance hall. She expected a servant to appear. But beyond the valet and the coachman who were carrying their trunks inside, there was no one.

The shouting hadn’t ceased, so Mary did as Daniel suggested and followed the noise down the same hall into which Daniel had disappeared. With meandering corridors, it was a wonder their voices carried all the way to the front door. Mary trailed after the shouting until she found the stairs that descended into a refurbished kitchen. A hearth spread over one wall, complete with a bread oven, and an array of pots, pans, and cooking utensils organized just as they ought. No kitchen was ever so neatly arranged.

Three women in white aprons and mobcaps surrounded a flour-strewn worktable. They looked up at her as one, and indeed, to Mary they were identical. Stick-thin with too-big blue eyes and thin lips, each scowled at her as if she’d poked a hole in a rising loaf of bread.

“Good afternoon.” Mary smiled and cast on her most ladylike demeanor.

“Who are you?” one of the women asked.

“I am a friend of Mr. Fletcher. He went to see his father, and since I did not see a servant, I came for my own pot of tea.”

The women glared at each other. The scowls turned to nudges. And from there, they began whispering “You do it” to one another.

“I am very well able to get my own tea, thank you.” She began by opening jars and poking around the shelves. She rearranged the burlap bags of dry goods.

“No, no. Let me help you.”

“I would never think to ask you.” Mary put up a hand and feigned innocence while unhooking several implements from the wall and exchanged their positions. She may as well teach these girls a lesson. Poor Mrs. Fletcher did not need insolence at this difficult time.

She pried open the canister of tea and spilled a few leaves while spooning them into a teapot. Water boiled over a fire, and she ladled it, steaming, into a pot.

The sisters sprang into action. No one complained, and they worked together in amiable cooperation.

The tea was steeped by the time Mary’s mess was clean. She wrapped her fingers around her cup, soothed by its heat, and sipped slowly, sitting in a corner chair that faced the women, who returned silently to their various tasks.

“That is better. If I hear you fighting again, I will make my own pudding tonight.”

Their eyes narrowed, and Mary smiled. One of them laughed, at first nervously, but when Mary’s smile did not falter, the others followed.

“Don’t think I won’t.” She dropped her grin, wanting them to know she was serious. “How is Mr. Fletcher doing after his accident?” The maids eyed one another but did not speak, a sign of their loyalty. “What are your names, and how long have you been with the family?”

Mary was relieved that through the conversation, their demeanors changed. They were at once respectful and welcoming and fell into pleasant banter.

“Mary…er, Mrs. Allen.” Daniel interrupted a story one of the sisters was telling about when she had taught her younger sister to make a cake and what a disaster it had been.

She followed him out the door and into the corridor, eager for news of his father.

“He is alive. But broken.” Daniel’s stoic voice did not hide his anxiety. “For three days after the accident, he did not open his eyes. Even now, he stays in bed most of the time.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Will he recover?”

“They are unsure. He seems to improve but falls into sudden fits of pain in his head and is tired all the time. Most distressing. He was walking alone. No one knows the cause, only that he hit his head.” Daniel rubbed his eyes before turning his uncertain gaze upon her. “He wishes to meet you.”

Modesty is the guide and regulator of all decent and comely carriage and behavior. It checks and controls all rude exorbitances and is the great civilizer of conversations.

The Whole Duty of a Woman, An Infallible Guide to the Fairer Sex, 1737