Page 28 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

So, the cook would not bring the tea things herself, but was still sweet-natured enough to send the housekeeper a glass of cinnamon milk, just because she thought the housekeeper would like it, and now Esther felt perfectly wretched.

‘I see.’

There was a pronounced pause in which neither one of them looked at the other. Then the scullery maid hastily dipped her knees, but not before Esther saw the expression on her round face – Lowdie Lucas looked deeply uncomfortable and clearly wished to be gone.

Heartless. She was not heartless, and Esther would prove it.

‘Wait.’

The maid paused, stiffened with apprehension, and the housekeeper took a nervous breath.

‘Thank you, Loveday. You have come along swimmingly these past few days. I am very pleased.’

At this stilted declaration the girl’s eyes widened in surprise, and that small measure produced in Esther the realisation that she had never once called Miss Lucas, or any of the servants, by their Christian names.

It occurred to her too in that moment that Esther had never once said please or thank you for anything, nor acknowledged – as Viscountess Pépin so often did – the good work they all had done.

When, precisely, Esther thought in astonishment, had she become like this?

‘You … you’re welcome, Mrs Wilson,’ said Miss Lucas.

The maid’s voice was somewhat breathless in her shock, and Esther looked away so the girl might not see the flush that bloomed upon her scarred cheek.

‘Would you send for Mrs Denby?’ she asked then, with a somewhat brusquer tone to disguise her discomfort. ‘I should like to speak with her.’

‘Yes’m,’ said Miss Lucas, and when the maid disappeared Esther picked distractedly at the warm crumbling pastry of her mince pie.

Mr Palamedes – intrigued by the prospect of a treat – jumped onto her lap, and with deep resonant purrs began to knead her skirts.

Esther scratched the feline behind his silky orange ear.

The fire crackled and spat. The mistletoe was now barely perceivable, a burnt sprig, its leaves ash, and Esther stared at it in a melancholy stupor until her door opened.

Mr Palamedes (having given up his mission to procure the mince pie) vacated her lap and slipped through the door into the servants’ corridor, just as Bess Denby shut it behind her.

‘You wanted to see me, Mrs Wilson?’

The cook’s voice was reserved. Esther’s guilt swelled.

‘Yes. Will you take a seat?’

She gestured to the small armchair opposite hers, so rarely sat in that its cushions were still as hard as the day Viscountess Pépin had it installed.

Mrs Denby knew this, too, for she looked at the housekeeper with surprise before doing as she was asked, teasing the cotton of her apron which had upon it spots of brown sauce and a stray goose feather.

The two women looked at each other and Esther, in that moment, did not know what to say. The silence ran on, until Mrs Denby dared to break it.

‘Dinner is prepared,’ she declared, as if she thought herself to be under interrogation and was required to defend herself. ‘Goose with an onion sauce and boiled mashed potatoes, and Kate has made a mighty fine job of the syllabubs. I—’

‘Bess,’ said the housekeeper quietly, and the use of her first name made Mrs Denby stop and stare. ‘I want you to know I never intend to be so … ill-tempered. With you, or any of the servants.’

Still Mrs Denby stared. Esther cleared her throat.

‘I spoke with Miss Rosalie earlier. She told me some of the maids had been complaining of me.’

At this the cook shook her head. ‘Harmless chitter chatter, Mrs Wilson. Such young girls, they like speak harshly of me too when I scold them for getting in my way. I would think nothing of it.’

Esther smiled, though it was bitter – she could feel it was by the pull of her lips, how tight it was across her pockmarked skin.

‘They called me hard and unkind. Heartless. I knew I was hard, for I always have been. How could I not be, after all I endured at Heysten Park? But Bess, I never thought myself unkind, nor heartless. Especially not heartless.’ Esther shut her eyes briefly, then opened them once more as the fire crackled and spat.

‘I have only ever endeavoured to run this household fairly. And as I do run it, I am required to be severe on those who do not work well. But unkind? Heartless? I confess, Miss Rosalie’s words shamed me greatly.

I am sorry,’ the housekeeper added when Mrs Denby made to interrupt, ‘that I was so unfeeling to you earlier. I understand that Christmastime is especially painful for you, what with Phillip being …’ Esther trailed off, unable to finish.

‘It has never affected your work, and I was wrong to imply otherwise.’

Bess Denby blinked, then blinked again. In the firelight Esther thought she saw a sheen of tears in the cook’s eyes (for the mention of her son invariably did serve to have such an effect) but then she turned her head and the housekeeper could not be entirely sure.

‘When you first came to Wakely,’ murmured Mrs Denby, ‘you were already, shall I say, of poor spirit. Having come from Heysten Park it can be of no surprise – no woman of service who came from there ever was contented. But in time they thawed. All of them, except you. John and I came to the conclusion that there was a good reason for that, and we left well alone. My Phillip seemed to be the only one of us that could ever make you smile.’ Still with her face to the firelight, the cook shook her head.

‘He was good at that, wasn’t he? Making people smile. ’

‘That he was,’ Esther said softly. ‘That he was.’

It was true that young Phillip Denby could draw her out.

Perhaps it was because he was so young, so quiet and well-behaved.

Or, perhaps, she saw in the bonny lad an echo of the boy her own son might have grown to be, if he had lived.

Often Esther wondered what had become of Bess and John’s boy.

Had he died well? Or was he still about in the world, and simply had no desire to come home?

At such an unwelcome thought Esther shifted on her chair so it creaked in its springs, and Mrs Denby turned back to face her, eyes now quite dry.

‘The maids … as I said, they are young. They do not understand enough of life to realise what it can do to a person. Let them never know the hardships so many of our class suffer under.’ The cook watched the housekeeper in the shifting firelight.

‘’Tis true you irked me somewhat this morning, but I do not think you heartless.

I simply think you a bitter woman, Esther Wilson, and you take that bitterness out on others. Which I must say, is a mighty shame.’

If the housekeeper had dared, she might have met the cook’s gaze in that moment. But Esther did not dare. Instead she reached for the glass of cinnamon milk on the tea tray, and took a sip.

It was warm, comforting, and the spice gave it a rich and indulgent flavour. If one were to bow to a cliché, the milk tasted of Christmas, and Esther could not help but smile.

‘’Tis lovely.’

Mrs Denby inclined her head.

‘But …’

‘But?’

‘Might I make a suggestion?’

The other woman’s fair eyebrows rose, for one thing Esther had never done – for all of her long years at Wakely – was question the merit of Mrs Denby’s cooking.

Esther placed the milk down, and went to the tiny cupboard on the other side of the room. From within she brought out a bottle (her own Christmas box gift) and two glasses, depositing the latter on the small table between them and pulling the cork of the former.

‘Brandy,’ said she, ‘just a tiny drop,’ and poured a tiny dribble into the glass. Esther brought it to her lips to taste, and with a smile handed the glass across the table to Mrs Denby, who consented to take it.

‘Oh yes,’ breathed the cook, licking her lips. ‘Yes, you are quite right.’

Between them, the cinnamon milk was soon drunk, after which Esther poured more brandy into the two empty glasses, and the cook and the housekeeper – now looking so much more at ease in each other’s company – clinked their drinks and drank.

Esther rarely imbibed. It was a treat she reserved only for Christmas, but always alone, and for the very first time the housekeeper wondered why she had not thought to invite Mrs Denby before this.

The cook appeared to read her thoughts, for she settled deeper into the armchair and said, ‘This is nice,’ to which Esther nodded her agreement.

One glass turned to two, and at length, above stairs, there came a cry of indignation.

It sounded very much to Esther’s ears like Miss Maria, and in the warm fug instilled within her by the brandy, she wondered absently how Miss Rosalie did with the treasure hunt, and who might win the crown.

But then Mrs Denby cleared her throat, quite distracting the housekeeper.

‘Is that mistletoe?’ the cook asked, squinting at the charred remains in the fire, to which Esther shrugged and took another sip from her glass.

‘Not any more.’

Mrs Denby leant back into the armchair.

‘Just as well, I suppose,’ she said softly. ‘After what you told us this morning of the duke … Poor Mol. It was Molly, wasn’t it? Silly girl. Still, men like that always get their comeuppance. Sooner or later.’

‘I am inclined to disagree,’ murmured Esther, thinking of Theophilus Heysten, and though neither she nor Mrs Denby had explicitly stated that that man had anything to do with Esther’s past, the cook clearly understood he had.

‘Lord Heysten died alone, hated by everyone who knew him,’ she said, watching Esther across the lip of her glass. ‘If that is not penance for his sins, I do not know what is. Whatever he did to you, however you lived before you came to Wakely … you must not let this bitterness rule you.’

The brandy sat hot in Esther’s stomach, and at Mrs Denby’s words she wondered again when, precisely, had she become like this?

There was no definitive moment, not one event where the change occurred. Indeed, it had happened gradually, but there could be no denying that it all started with Lord Heysten. But as God was her witness, thought Esther – it would finish today. If it did not, she would risk becoming just like him.

Hard, unkind and heartless.

Esther looked at Mrs Denby, gripped firm her glass. And though she felt somewhat foxed and her vision was blurred, the housekeeper of Wakely Hall had never seen more clearly in her life.