Page 3 of The Last House in Lambton (Pride and Prejudice Variations #6)

CHAPTER TWO

T hose words— other than paying out wages and deciding what will be served at dinner— rang loudly in my head four days later as I stood in front of Mrs Burke, the housekeeper whose furlough had necessitated my arrival.

“You will need to visit the chandler on Tuesday—early, mind you—lest the best wax be claimed by the vicar’s wife. If you arrive too late, you will be given wax mixed with tallow and will only discover it when the candles give off a malodorous smoke.

“The butcher is generally to be counted on. Still, you would do well to see him Wednesday shortly before noon, since the chickens are most always slaughtered in the morning. Never let him sell you a day-old bird, which he will try to do after taking one look at you, and whatever you do, do not forget to enquire after the pork bones for jelly…”

My mind wandered as I listened to an endless list of things to remember and consider.

Mrs Burke clearly disliked me. That said, she also enjoyed overwhelming me with the details of a position that defined her importance in the world.

She was an imposing woman—tall, large boned and straight-backed, with a shock of red hair shot through with streaks of grey.

The impression of an angry hawk was perhaps underscored by a pair of fearsome black eyes and a prominent beak—er, nose.

“My word, Mrs Burke,” I said faintly. “I do hope you have written all this down for me.”

“I hardly have time to do such a thing,” she said, puffing up to her full height.

“I am not now and have never been a scribe. Now, the medicinal teas, powders, and cordials are all clearly marked in the cabinet beside the bed. Mrs Jennings has castor oil every morning first thing, tincture of rhubarb when she is feeling weak, and the spirits of lavender if you suspect she might turn maudlin, which she does from time to time. And…”

I listened in an increasingly weakened state.

I had only just arrived not an hour before this meeting in the kitchen, dishevelled and shaken to bits by a journey of three long days across the winter-roughened Great North Road.

A hasty wash, a change of clothes and a lie-down of ten minutes were insufficient to restore my wits.

As I struggled in vain to understand who Mr Kelly was and why I should distrust his advice, or worse, why I should never open the door to Mrs Edmonton, I decided that I would simply have to rely on Mrs Jennings to guide me, and failing that, I could always trust my own good sense and ability to learn.

Meanwhile, Mrs Burke ticked off several more pearls of wisdom about the bluing of the laundry and where she kept the gall for cleaning the rugs before she abruptly ended her list, poured out a pot of hot water from the kettle on the hob, set a tray with tea, a slice of bread and pat of butter, and said, “I will take this to your room. I am sure you will not want to bother Mrs Jennings at this hour, and you will want your rest. I leave shortly after the mistress has had her breakfast in the morning.”

As we went up the stairs to my room, I wearily congratulated the woman on the impending birth of a grandchild, only to be told she would be amazed if the infant survived at all, since she had not been present for the duration of her daughter’s confinement and did not expect the girl had followed her mother’s advice.

I fell silent, only vaguely thinking I might laugh at such a claim were I not dead on my feet.

We reached my room at the end of the hall, where Mrs Burke plunked the tray onto a small table by a window.

She sniffed and looked around, smoothing her starched apron as she did so, and in that series of gestures, clearly spoke her disgust that I would enjoy a room reserved for guests.

But she then drew herself up into a figure of majestic height as though to remind herself she was above such petty resentments, and said, “One last thing, Miss Bennet.”

“Yes, Mrs Burke?”

“She forgets.”

“What do you mean?”

She looked down her nose at me. “I hardly know how to say it more plainly.”

“Mrs Jennings forgets things?” I asked for the sake of clarity.

“Yes.”

“I am sure she does at such an age.”

“You will need to help her remember.”

“Remember what?”

“Everything.”

“I see,” I said, though I did not see at all. “And how shall I help her?”

“You must relate events to her again and again, and write things down in her calendar. I will show you the way of it in the morning.”

Naturally, my first night in new surroundings on the heels of an exhausting journey, passed fitfully .

In the morning, with eyes that felt gritty when I blinked, I stared at the foreign ceiling of my room and strove not to regret my decision to come.

I rang for water—which arrived outside my door ice cold—washed while gasping, and struggled into my dress.

Unable to button the back closure, I rang the bell once again.

A girl arrived with a perplexed look on her face as though mystified as to what I could possibly require.

“I need assistance with my buttons,” I said, failing to disguise my impatience.

She dipped a curtsey and performed the office.

When she was done, I ascertained her name was Doreen, and she served as both upstairs and downstairs maid.

Unfortunately, as maids went, this one was neither smart nor charming.

Nor was she even pitiable, such was the expression of a dull resistance on her face.

Doreen, I surmised, was on par with a field ox—just as stubborn and only slightly wittier.

I hoped for better below stairs and went to breakfast.

Once in the dining room, I met Mrs Jennings.

The lady sat in a silk robe, with shawls draped on her shoulders and lap and knitted slippers on her feet.

She was terribly small, particularly when Mrs Burke towered over her chair, but she had a pleasant face with bright, sparkling dark eyes.

I liked her instantly and felt the revival of my spirits.

“Miss Bennet,” she said, clapping her hands. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet. I am so glad you have come to me. I have read about you in this letter from my niece.”

“My aunt Gardiner, yes, ma’am,” I said, taking the tiny hand that peeked out of her shawls.

“Good, good,” she said, glancing up at Mrs Burke. “Well, well. So, you are Elizabeth Bennet. From Hertfordshire, I understand?” When I nodded, she continued. “Your father’s estate is Longbourn, is that right? And your uncle, who married my niece, is your mother’s brother?”

“Indeed,” I said, taking the seat she offered me.

“And Mrs Burke is going away,” she said, turning a little tentative.

“To Yorkshire, ma’am,” Mrs Burke interjected.

“My daughter is due to deliver her firstborn and has need of me. I will be gone for twelve weeks, and I have marked the day of my return on your calendar.” The housekeeper gave me a significant look and then eyed the little escritoire in the corner where I assumed Mrs Jennings kept her calendar.

“My calendar? Oh yes. Remind me, Burke, what day is it?” Mrs Jennings asked sweetly.

“Today is the tenth day of December, ma’am.”

“Oh. Yes, now I remember. Something important is to happen today, is it not?”

“Miss Elizabeth Bennet has come from Longbourn in Hertfordshire, ma’am. Her aunt is your niece, Mrs Gardiner.”

“Of course,” Mrs Jennings said, looking at me pleasantly, even as Mrs Burke gave me another pointed look.

We ate breakfast and spoke of extreme generalities, such as the tartness of the blackberry jam and the embroidered pattern on the napkins, after which I went to the kitchen with Mrs Burke.

There I met Mrs Smith, the cook who came in for half days, and the kitchen maid, Penny, who was a child of perhaps twelve or thirteen.

We then went out the back door to a shed, where I met Mr Smith—no relation to the cook, I was assured—a toothless elder who shuffled forwards and greeted me with amiable, if slightly vacant, good will.

Mrs Burke and I returned to the house. She locked the door to her small room and put the key in her pocket rather than give it to me, which struck me as churlish but also understandable.

She did not know me, and had I been in the same situation, I might have done the same thing.

She took up her valise, and we went back to the breakfast parlour where she said a formal goodbye to Mrs Jennings.

At the door, she turned and looked back at me and her mistress with an expression of great foreboding, and then she was gone.