Page 4 of The Spinster's Resolve
O n the morning of the move, the sisters walked through every room in the Manor, trying to imprint each detail in their memories one last time. They ran their fingers over the soft silk cushions in the drawing room and traced the polished keys of the piano in the music room. They stole a biscuit from the jar the cook had stored, strolled through the halls, and admired the portraits of their ancestors. Grace sat in her favourite armchair one last time, while Heather bid farewell to her collection of cats. The older ones were too frail to move, and both sisters agreed it would be cruel to uproot them. However, Heather pleaded with Grace until she reluctantly agreed to bring Ginger along.
Grace carefully arranged the paperwork and keys on the study table for the new steward. Outside, the household staff lined up to bid their farewells. It was a bittersweet end to an era for the Skye sisters. Yet, in a way, Grace felt relief. For the past six months, she had lived in constant worry. This was not the future she had envisioned, but at least she was no longer beholden to any man. She had full independence now—the freedom to shape her life as she saw fit.
At least she no longer carried the burden of running the Estate. The weight of so many responsibilities had pressed heavily upon her shoulders for years. Now, she would not need to work so tirelessly, though the awareness left her unsettled. The Estate had consumed so much of her life that she was unsure what to do with herself. Perhaps she could rekindle some friendships she had long neglected. The thought gave her some hope that things might not be so bad after all. Her only regret was that she would no longer be able to provide for Heather in the same way.
As the carriage rolled away, both sisters turned in their seats for one last look at their beloved Manor. It was a magnificent building, but it was not the grand architecture they mourned. Instead, they grieved for the memories within its walls—both joyful and painful.
Suddenly, Heather called for the driver to stop the carriage. Without explanation, she leapt out and ran towards the pleasure garden, the one their mother had designed. A few minutes later, she returned, breathless, clutching a small bundle of roses.
Grace felt a lump rise in her throat. She had forced herself to push aside her emotions for weeks, but at the sight of the flowers, her composure wavered.
‘Oh, Heather, these are from Mama’s rose bushes,’ she whispered, as she caressed the petals. ‘She planted and pruned them herself.’
‘I thought we could try to cultivate them in our new garden,’ Heather said. ‘We were not allowed to remove any of the family portraits of Mama and Papa, but at least this way, we can have something.’
She too was bleary-eyed as she embraced her sister.
A sudden squeal came from within Heather’s pelisse. Alarmed, Grace recoiled in her seat.
‘What on earth!’ she exclaimed.
Lifting Heather’s pelisse, she found a tiny white kitten nestled inside.
‘Heather!’ Grace cried in exasperation. ‘We are already taking Ginger on your insistence—we cannot take another!’
‘But Ginger will be lonely without a companion, and I thought Garlic would be perfect for him. They belong together! You would not be so heartless as to separate them, would you?’ Heather pleaded, wide-eyed.
Grace sighed, unable to deny her sister when they were already leaving so much behind.
‘I suppose I should have expected this,’ she muttered. ‘With a name like Ginger, it was bound to be either Bread or Garlic.’
THE FIVE-MILE JOURNEY to their new home stretched on at a painfully slow pace. The roads were thick with mud after an English downpour, and the carriage wheels struggled through the waterlogged paths.
At first, Heather remained optimistic, chattering about how she would arrange the furniture and what kinds of curtains she wanted. Her excitement was boundless, and more than once, Mrs Merriweather had to remind her to sit still and stop flailing her arms before she accidentally poked someone in the face.
But as they neared their destination, her enthusiasm faded.
The cottage loomed before them in a state of utter disrepair. To say it needed work was an understatement.
Mrs Merriweather, Betty, and Heather all stared in dismay.
Jimmy gave a low whistle, while Johnson stroked his jaw and remarked wryly, ‘We are going to need more pairs of hands.’
The cottage sat nestled between two fields, with a small parcel of land that looked as though it had once been a vegetable garden but was now overgrown and wild. Behind it, a sparse crop of trees framed a breathtaking view of the surrounding countryside. The sweeping valley stretched towards the nearest village, offering a picturesque scene that almost—but not quite—compensated for the lack of comforts in their new abode.
Once, the cottage might have been a handsome dwelling, but years of neglect had taken their toll. Overgrown grass was rampant, weeds crept along the pathway and up the walls, and behind the house, a half-collapsed shed stood in ruin. It had likely once housed cows or horses but was now unfit for even chickens.
The gates were decayed, and the fences leaned precariously, desperate for repair. Slipped tiles marred the cottage roof, ivy had wound itself around the walls like an uninvited guest, and several windowpanes were missing. Inside, the rooms were spacious but thick with dust and grime. Shattered, uneven tiles lay beneath their feet, and spiders and insects had claimed every shadowed corner.
A few pieces of furniture remained, though all were in need of thorough cleaning and mending. The only truly sturdy furnishings were the four-poster beds in the bedchambers. They had likely been built inside the rooms, as removing them without dismantling the entire frame would be impossible.
Heather and Mrs Merriweather were visibly deflated. Grace, however, could see the potential—but how would she convince the others to see it as she did? She made a mental note of the major repairs. First, the house needed to be made weatherproof. The roof required retiling in some areas, fireplaces needed unblocking, and several windows had to be replaced. She spoke to Johnson, instructing him to hire some men from the village to begin the work.
Her next task was to clear the kitchen to prepare meals and clean the servants’ bedrooms on the ground floor. She assigned Betty and Mrs Merriweather to start in the kitchen, knowing that once Jimmy and Johnson returned, they could begin in the servants’ quarters. With clear direction, Betty and Mrs Merriweather bustled into action.
‘Right you are, Miss Grace! A little hard work is all we need, and we can get this place in order soon enough,’ Mrs Merriweather replied, though not entirely convincingly.
Meanwhile, Heather and Grace set to work upstairs, each choosing their bedrooms. They also selected one for Mrs Merriweather, who refused to be paid as a companion and was now staying with them as family. The rooms, though spacious, needed airing out, but most importantly, they had intact windows and no holes in the ceiling. Thick layers of dust coated every surface, and the rugs and mattresses needed beating. Any broken or irreparable furniture and paraphernalia left by the previous owners were promptly discarded.
Heather, having never cleaned anything in her life, was hopeless. Her idea of sweeping consisted of wildly swinging the broom around, which only succeeded in hurling dust into the air, sending her into a violent fit of coughing and spluttering.
Startled by the ruckus, Betty ran upstairs with a bowl of water, only to find both sisters staring at her in confusion.
Laughing, Betty demonstrated how sprinkling water over the floor prevented the dust from rising. The tip was most welcome, and with renewed effort, Heather eventually managed to clear a small corner of the room. But when Grace pointed out the rest of the bedchamber, Heather was deflated once more.
‘This is ridiculous! How do people use these things?’ she huffed, glaring at the broom. Frustrated, she threw it onto the floor and stomped on it—only for the wretched thing to snap up and strike her back.
Grace stifled a laugh. ‘I know you are not annoyed with the broom—you are just disappointed with the house,’ she said knowingly.
Even Grace did not remember the cottage looking quite this bad when she had first come to view it. A pang of homesickness overcame her as she thought of the Manor—how warm and inviting every room had been. The servants had never let a speck of dust settle, and all their needs had been catered to. Now, they were reduced to battling dust and waging war against cleaning tools.
How different their lives were, just a few short hours ago.
Grace sighed. ‘Look, squirrel, we need to keep going. If we give up at the first sign of difficulty, how will we ever manage? I know it is hard, but we can make this our home. In a way, it can be better than the Manor—because no one has the power to take this away from us.’
She wiped the tears from her sister’s face, unintentionally smearing it with dirt. But the words had the desired effect. Heather perked up, and after a few more attempts, she managed to speed up considerably with the cleaning.
When Johnson returned, he and Jimmy set to work beating the mattresses and rugs to remove the dust. They also cleared the fireplaces in the bedrooms. At one point, Jimmy, in his usual miscalculation, managed to get stuck in the flue, having foolishly squeezed his scrawny body inside. It took the combined effort of Johnson, Heather, and Grace to pull him out. Mrs Merriweather was less than amused—she scolded the boy mercilessly as she roughly scrubbed his blackened face with soap and water.
With the worst of the grime tackled, Grace and Heather laid clean sheets on the beds and took a moment to admire their amateurish handiwork. Though not perfect, it was progress. Utterly exhausted, they made their way downstairs to the kitchen, where they were greeted by the enticing aroma of freshly baked bread.
Upon entering, they found the once-grimy worktops clean and a cheerful fire burning in the hearth. Though there was still much work to be done, at least it was functional. Betty, flushed from exertion, was still hard at work scrubbing surfaces. Spotting the sisters, she carried over the food Mrs Merriweather had prepared and placed it on the long wooden table.
The girls were in raptures over the progress, and Grace was grateful to finally sit down and sip a sweet, comforting cup of tea.
‘I had no idea you could cook, Mrs M!’ she exclaimed, biting into a slice of buttered bread that melted in her mouth before swallowing a spoonful of wholesome leek and potato soup.
‘I learnt some simple meals from our cook over the last two weeks. I anticipated we would need to fend for ourselves,’ Mrs Merriweather replied as Grace marvelled at her old governess’s prudence.
After a cheerful dinner in the kitchen, Mrs Merriweather entertained them with tales of her youthful misadventures in India.
‘I should love to visit Lucknow and see the places you and Mama grew up in,’ Heather sighed wistfully.
‘Maybe you shall, someday,’ Mrs Merriweather said, though Grace recognised that someday was merely a gentler way of saying never .
The Skye sisters had a basic understanding of Hindi, taught by their governess, and had long harboured hopes of visiting India to see their mother’s homeland and reconnect with her family. Grace, in particular, had been deeply fascinated by Indian culture and the Islamic faith, absorbing much of her mother’s knowledge and traditions. Yet, in their current circumstances, such a journey was little more than a distant dream—one that, despite their longing, seemed further out of reach than ever before.
Eventually, they all turned in for the night, grateful at least to have a place to call home. Grace slept surprisingly well on the lumpy mattress—until she was rudely awakened in the middle of the night by Heather, who was convinced she had heard the scurrying pitter-patter of mice across the floorboards and refused to return to her room. Unfortunately for Grace, her second attempt at sleep was just as unsuccessful. Heather fidgeted incessantly, kicking her more than once until Grace was forced to retreat to the very edge of her large four-poster bed, clinging on for dear life.