Chapter 2 #2
“Yes, it’s lovely, Eddie,” she said, “just what I have longed for ever since our wedding. Now if only I can prove Papa wrong.” After a pause, she added, “I must say I’m not impressed by the housekeeper.
Whatever was the solicitor thinking of to hire such a person?
I believe she just cursed under her breath at me. ”
Eddie shook with silent ghostly laughter. He was a happy ghost, as cheerful in the afterlife as he’d been in this earthly existence. He’d appeared at her father’s house on her twenty-first birthday and urged her, with gestures and ghostly writing, to move to Lucky Cottage.
“Let’s have a look round, shall we?” She found herself in a paneled gallery that ran the length of the house, with tall windows facing the front and at both ends, and four doors on the opposite side. Paintings on the walls were covered with dust sheets.
She turned left and went to the end of the gallery to look out the window.
She ran her gloved finger along the grimy pane and immediately regretted it.
Eddie’s ghost seemed mightily amused at her dirty fingertip.
The window revealed only a ragged path toward what she assumed was the stable—and also the housekeeper rounding the corner to meet a tall, gaunt man just below.
They spoke for a while, the man casting uneasy glances at the house.
Mrs. Wix gestured towards the stable, then back at the house.
She looked up, noticed Thisbe in the window, and said something to the man, who raised his head just enough to see her—and for her to see a scar down one side of his face. He bowed jerkily and hastened away.
Was this the man of all work? Poor man, was he perhaps a former soldier who had been wounded in the war?
The sort Papa would never hire, for he deemed them all feckless and lazy.
She felt sure this judgment was, in general, unkind and unfair, but given the condition of the grounds it might not be so in this case.
However, she wished to be helpful to those less fortunate, so she must wait and see.
Even so, the property required at least two able-bodied men.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t afford more than one, if that.
Thisbe made her way along the gallery from room to room.
The first bedchamber had two windows, a tester bed with hangings desperately in need of cleaning, and a sofa and chair under Holland covers.
The shrubbery below had been maintained just enough that one could discern the paths from above—and to see that one would get a great many scratches if one tried navigating them below.
The next two chambers were much like the first, although the second was also used as a lumber room.
As well as a bed, dressing table, washstand, and chair, it contained a sofa missing two legs, a backgammon table with bits of inlay missing, a cracked stool, and a vase containing cobwebby dried flowers.
At this end of the house, the windows gave onto a kitchen garden which seemed reasonably well maintained.
Mrs. Wix was below, plucking this and that from beds of evergreen herbs.
The last bedchamber had been inhabited more recently.
In the first place, it smelled faintly of occupation.
A male sort of smell? What a strange thought, as she had very little experience of rooms occupied mostly by men, and she had come to dislike her father’s personal odor as well as the scent he used, an unpleasant mixture which permeated the rooms where he spent most of his time.
After that first impression, she saw that the room was free of dust and the bed neatly made.
A book lay on the bedside table—and a man’s coat hung over the chair!
It seemed her nose had informed her correctly.
She opened the clothes press and found shirts, cravats, and various undergarments that a lady should not inspect.
Nor did she wish to. Nor could she stay here if a man occupied this room!
She controlled her indignation—evidently, the solicitor had not overseen the servants properly—and found her way to the kitchen. It was unexpectedly clean and tidy, with pots hanging from the walls and shelves of crockery, and a new-looking cast-iron stove.
The housekeeper had rolled out the crust, and now glanced up from placing a pie bird in the middle of a pan. That glance was the extent of her acknowledgement of Thisbe’s arrival in the kitchen.
Obviously, the woman had very little notion of the appropriate behavior of a servant towards her mistress.
“Mrs. Wix!” Thisbe said. “The room I wish to use—the only clean room up there—contains the clothing and other personal effects of a man.”
“Aye,” she said in her creaky voice. “They belongs to Mr. Storm, the paying guest.” She spooned meat filling into the pan. “Don’t this smell good, missus?”
Yes, it was the same mouthwatering aroma of mutton with onions, and also mushrooms, herbs, and something else. Despite the woman’s lack of proper respect, Thisbe couldn’t bring herself to object. Mrs. Wix was clearly proud of her pie. “Yes, it smells wonderful.”
The housekeeper smirked. “Wait till you see how wonderful it tastes.”
“I look forward to that, but the thing is, Mrs. Wix, that my husband’s solicitor did not mention anything to me about a paying guest.”
Mrs. Wix continued to spoon the filling gently around the pie bird. “Did he not, then?”
“Either he lied, which I doubt, or he didn’t know—in which case you were lining your own pockets.” Thisbe sighed. “For which I cannot blame you.”
The housekeeper gaped briefly at Thisbe—not surprising, since most employers, such as her father, would deem renting that room without the owner’s knowledge a form of theft. However, it meant the room was cleaned regularly. Perhaps it also explained the tolerable dining and drawing rooms.
“I know what it is to have very little money, and renting it did no harm,” Thisbe said. “In fact, with several empty bedchambers, paying guests are quite a good idea, but they will have to be female. Mr. Storm must leave immediately.”
The housekeeper cut an X in the center of the pie crust and lowered it gently over the filling. The bird’s perky head peeked through the hole.
Finally, she deigned to speak. “He can’t do that, missus.” She patted the crust gently around the bird. “He ain’t here. Can’t say when he’ll be back.”
“Then why are his belongings in that room?”
“For when he comes.” She gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll pack ’em up, shall I? And send them to the inn?”
“Kindly do so,” Thisbe said.
“Aye, missus, but what about his gelding? There ain’t no room for him at the inn, and Sergeant Dolman—that’s the man of all work you saw me a-talking to—he takes good care of him, he does. Wouldn’t want to upset Mr. Storm.”
“Very well, he may stay for now,” Thisbe said, wondering if she could rent out the stable, too.
Ladies traveling alone were unlikely, but one with a servant or two might like to stay with her rather than at a noisy hostelry. Not only that, a woman alone often had difficulty securing a room at an inn, due to stupid prejudices about what was proper and what was not. Such nonsense.
Thisbe approved of independently-minded women. The world needed more of them.
“I’m sure Sergeant Dolman does his best, but there is work here for three men at least.” She had to ask. “He seemed…uneasy this morning. Is it because of the scar? Does he fear I will dismiss him?”
“He don’t take well to people,” Mrs. Wix said. “Came back from the war with a scar on his face and a chip on his shoulder. Too many people are afraid of him ’cause of that scar.”
“Which he got defending England!” Thisbe said indignantly. “You may tell him I’m not afraid of scars. As long as he does his job, we shall do fine.” And as long as you do yours, she thought, but didn’t say.
Drat! She’d decided to speak her mind from now on, instead of stifling herself as she had in Papa’s house, and here she was hesitating… But she couldn’t make up her mind what to think about Mrs. Wix.
“I don’t know much about stoves, but that looks to be in excellent condition,” Thisbe said. The stove was better than the old hearth in Wrapton House, for certain—but how had Eddie Rose been able to afford such a thing?
“She’s a beauty, and I keeps her clean and polished,” Mrs. Wix said. “Safer than cooking over a hearth.”
This was true, and it might be needed if she had lodgers, but who had authorized such an expense?
It was too late to do anything about that. Thisbe seated herself at the deal table. “I’ll have tea now.”
Mrs. Wix frowned. “Here? In the kitchen?”
“Why not? It’s warm and cozy, and I enjoy watching you cook.”
“Whatever you say, missus.” The housekeeper spooned tea leaves into a pot and poured water from the kettle that steamed gently on the stove.
Thisbe’s father had forbidden her to enter the kitchen; it was unladylike to show an interest in cookery, or so he said. If so, she refused to be ladylike. This was her house, and she could spend as much time in the kitchen as she liked.
Except that she had a feeling Mrs. Wix didn’t want her there. “I’ll have my meals in the dining room, though,” she added placatingly. “Or better, how about a tray in the drawing room for tonight? There’s no sense having a fire in both rooms. I can’t afford to waste fuel.”
“You’re really planning to live here, missus? All on your own?”
“With what few servants I can afford.” It was vulgar to discuss money, but this was her house and her money or lack of it.
“My resources are limited. The solicitor will do his best to sell my husband’s commission, but with the army so much smaller now, it may take a while.
In the meantime, and perhaps even afterwards, I shall have to pinch my pennies. ”
The housekeeper said nothing, perhaps wondering about her own chances of remaining at Lucky Cottage. She placed the teapot, a cup, and a plate with two rock cakes in front of Thisbe.
The cakes more than lived up to their name, but Thisbe politely refrained from saying so, merely dipping them in the tea to soften them a little.
Perhaps she should learn how to bake them herself.
She might even learn to cook simple meals.
With a maid and a competent man of all work, she would do fine.
Was there a kind, polite way to get rid of Mrs. Wix? Something about the woman made her uneasy, but she couldn’t quite pin it down. The housekeeper was disrespectful in a rough sort of way, but not disobliging.
Mrs. Wix opened the oven, waved a hand inside it, muttered, “Hot enough,” and put the pie in to bake.
“Which herbs did you use in the pie filling?” Thisbe asked. “I smell savory and sweet marjoram, and you surely used parsley, but there’s something else…”
“You’ve a powerful good sense of smell, missus.” Mrs. Wix sounded surprised.
Thisbe smiled and inhaled. “Hmm. It’s not one of the savory herbs. Perhaps a spice?”
“Aye,” Mrs. Wix said. “Take a guess, love.”
Thisbe closed her eyes and inhaled the delightful aroma. “Not pepper, not exactly nutmeg…I have it! Mace!”
“Got it in one!” the housekeeper said.