‘See to it the dining table is set with the silver and my best crystal, and use the new damask cloth I bought last week, the one with the roses and leaves. Eight places. And the fire in the drawing room needs attending to. It was almost going out when I left.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Bridget knew this to be untrue, since she had piled up the coal in the large grate only an hour before, but not by intonation or expression did she reveal this. The mistress was never satisfied, and if there wasn’t anything to find fault with, she’d make something up. It had always been the same. ‘Do you want the best candelabra in the centre of the table, ma’am? The one with the crystals hanging from it?’
‘Of course, girl.’ It was a snap. ‘I told you it’s a dinner party.’
And if I’d put the best one out you’d have said you wanted the second best that the bishop bought, Bridget thought grimly.
Mary stood a moment more, surveying the maid. She hadn’t glanced directly at Sophy but each feature of the child’s face was burned on her mind, day and night. It was through this creature that the gulf between her and Jeremiah had come about – she had long ago glossed over her own actions in the matter – and her marriage had been ruined. She had been forced to lie to the bishop and the rest of her family – the truth would have brought unthinkable humiliation – and continue the deception year after year. And the child herself, she was the very embodiment of the mother’s provocative predilection for lasciviousness, with her great saucer eyes and Titian hair. She had watched her own sons soften towards the girl despite her warnings that they should have little to do with her, and the scut was a cross that her poor Patience had been compelled to bear daily. From a small child the girl had displayed the same waywardness as the mother – it was in her every glance, the tilt of her head, the pout of her lips. But she would break her spirit, Mary thought; the creature would not get the better of her.
She now turned about, her petticoats swishing and her carriage ramrod straight as she left the kitchen after checking a few details about the evening meal with Kitty. Sophy sank down on the bench and continued to rub at the silver plate she had been cleaning when her aunt had made her entrance, Bridget disappearing to see to the drawing-room fire.
She liked it when her aunt and uncle had a dinner party. Kitty always let her stay up late and have a taste of the different dishes, just a mouthful, before Bridget whisked them up to the dining room, and often there were five or six courses instead of the normal three the family had. She slid off the bench and sidled into the kitchen where Kitty was occupied in expertly filleting a whole salmon. ‘What are they having for dinner, Kitty?’ she said, standing by the kitchen table.
Kitty smiled. She knew what Sophy was really asking. ‘Salmon puffs to start with, like they had when the bishop came last time, do you remember?’
Sophy nodded. Kitty had done a whole extra puff for her and the filling – a mix of salmon flakes, cream, butter, flour, eggs and spices – had been mouth-watering.
‘Then soup, chicken fricassée, followed by lamb cutlets. The hot pudding is pears in ginger sauce, and the cold is Charlotte Delight, and I’ve made some of my shortbread to go with their coffee. Does madam approve?’
Sophy nodded, grinning. Pears in ginger sauce was her favourite pudding.
‘An’ aye, before you ask, you can stay up, as long as you’re in your nightie in case the mistress takes it on herself to come down for any reason.’ Kitty had the notion the mistress was beginning to suspect that on such occasions the odd treat or two found its way into Sophy’s small frame.
Sophy nodded again, her eyes alight as she hugged herself in anticipation. Pears in ginger sauce, and her birthday tomorrow. Last year Bridget, Kitty and Patrick had bought her a sketchbook and coloured pencils which she kept hidden under her bed away from prying eyes. They always bought her something. One year it had been a whole box of chocolates to herself, another, a picture book which resided with the sketchpad and pencils and had been looked at so often it was falling apart. Her favourite present, though, was one she’d received when she was five years old, a cloth dolly she’d named Maisie. She slept with Maisie every night and in the day tucked her well down under her blankets on the pallet bed, knowing if Patience or her aunt ever became aware of the doll’s existence, that would be the end of Maisie. ‘I’ll stay in bed and look at my picture book and if we hear anyone coming I’ll hide it under the covers and pretend I’m asleep.’
‘Aye, that’s right, hinny, you do that.’ Kitty’s voice held a tinge of sadness, and as she had done countless times before, she thought, You poor little mite. There was this bairn, as bonny as a summer’s day and as sweet as a nut in nature despite the way she was treated by her own kith and kin, and then there was Miss Patience, as spiteful and mean-minded a little madam as ever had been born, who was spoiled rotten by the mistress.
‘Kitty?’
‘Aye, me lamb?’