Chapter 11
Sarah met with the home steward the next day.
Since it was an even year, the crops had been rotated according to the schedule put into effect by her grandfather.
The eleventh Duke of Herridge had made Chavensworth famous for more than its lavender fields.
Thanks to him, the farms that had begun as an experiment were now successful.
If it could be grown in England, it was grown at Chavensworth.
Jeremy Beecher was her home steward, a post he’d held since she was a little girl.
His face was long and narrow, his nose thin.
His eyes looked too close together, and when she looked at him straight on, it always seemed that he was slightly cross-eyed.
For that reason, she always sat at his side at the table in his office.
He was a man of advancing years, and frail for his age, if the stooped shoulders beneath the loose-fitting jacket were any indication.
Wispy white hair ringed a bald head mottled with freckles and liver spots.
Loose skin hung from his jowls, as if he’d once weighed considerably more.
She never pointed out that his shirt cuffs were frayed and ink-stained or that his hair needed trimming. Such personal details did not detract from Mr. Beecher’s abilities or his loyalty to Chavensworth.
Today, he presented the monthly budget to her. She reviewed the columns of figures, her eyes widening at the cost of the livery.
According to custom, the estate paid for everything a footman wore—his work clothes for morning chores, as well as the more expensive livery and party jackets.
After six months, if a footman left their employ, he must surrender his livery; but he was free to take all the other clothing with him.
All that a footman must provide were his shoes and underclothes.
“Have we had that much turnover?” she asked, distressed by the figures. The amounts were a full fifteen percent higher than last year’s.
“No, Lady Sarah. Actually, you haven’t had any turnover at all.
Young Thomas was elevated to the position of underbutler, so we took one of the stable lads and moved him to footman.
In addition, there are three footmen who seem to be growing out of everything.
I attribute it to Cook’s meals. Perhaps we shouldn’t hire them so young. ”
He knew very well that if she didn’t employ some of the young men from the neighboring village, they might well starve. Chavensworth was the only true source of employment for miles around. Either the able-bodied men worked on the farms, or within the house itself.
More than one young man had left Chavensworth and gone on to more profitable employment in London, but some of the people who worked at the estate had done so for a lifetime.
More than one family had two or three members employed here, and it was a common occurrence for a father or a mother to come to her and ask if she could find room for a child to go into service.
“It’s also time for the Gift, Lady Sarah,” Mr. Beecher said.
Sarah bit back a sigh. The sinking feeling was harder to prevent.
Once a year, all the servants were evaluated, not only for the state of their uniforms and whether they needed to be replaced, but personally as well.
Which tasks had they not mastered? Which new tasks should be given to them to learn?
Another reason to judge their performances was to measure each employee against the greater whole.
Had their performances for the prior year been superlative?
Should any or all be rewarded with the Henley Gift, a small stipend named after her great-grandfather who began the tradition.
For the last three years, there hadn’t been any money for the Henley Gift. Sarah had done what she could to compensate by giving the best employees a full extra day off in each of the twelve following months. She knew, only too well, however, that the staff would much rather have had the money.
Chavensworth managed to support itself, but only barely.
She could never expect any funds from her father to support the estate.
Instead, the Duke of Herridge swooped down on Chavensworth from time to time to take those furnishings that were not part of the entailed estate and sell them.
She knew better than to argue with him. All she could do was stand by helplessly as he had wagons loaded with anything valuable.
As it was, the ballroom was left unlit; the chandeliers had been taken years earlier.
The windows were unadorned since the gilded drapery rods had been removed a few months ago.
None of the guest chambers in the south or north wings were furnished and hadn’t been for longer than she could remember.
“Very well,” she said. “I will need the ledger book with all the employee names. Please leave word with Mrs. Williams that I will meet with her and evaluate the housemaids first. Then Cook’s staff, the stables, the farmhands, and leave the dairymaids for last.”
Mr. Beecher began writing furiously as she spoke. “As for the livery, we shall have to do with what we have. We no longer entertain, so party jackets are not necessary for most of the footmen. As far as ribbons, I absolutely refuse to order new ribbons.”
Mr. Beecher smiled.
Even though Sarah had gone to pains to reiterate to all of the staff that they were part of the Chavensworth estate, people had a way of creating hierarchies for themselves.
The second-floor housemaids were no more talented than the third-floor maids.
Nor did they have more responsibilities.
It was simply that they wanted to be different, and she had finally given in, allowing the second-floor girls to wear blue ribbons in their hair, and being totally unsurprised when the third-floor wanted to wear green.
At least the stableboys and the farmhands hadn’t demanded their own ribbons.
“When do you wish to inventory the farm tools and implements?” he asked.
Inventory was a chore she dreaded. In the kitchen, it was done once a week. An estate the size of Chavensworth, especially with the number of people employed, could go through enormous amounts of food. The linen was counted once a month and other essentials every three months.
“As soon as the evaluations are finished,” she said.
Somehow, she would have to find the time to do everything that needed to be done.
She stood, and the steward did as well, looking at her with a kind, almost fatherly, expression. If he had not been of a good disposition, she doubted she would have been able to work so closely with him.
At half past noon, she entered her mother’s room, nodded to Hester, and took her place on the chair.
An approaching storm shrouded the room. Hester had lit a lamp on the far table, but the light only served to accentuate the shadows stretching out like fingers from the corners, pointing at the bed. Or perhaps they were reaching for the Duchess of Herridge, to pull her toward Death itself.
“Has there been any change?” Sarah asked.
“Not since you saw her this morning, Lady Sarah.”
There was more in Hester’s eyes, but Sarah looked away. Kindness was not what she wanted. She needed strength, the ability to carry on, to do as she must regardless of the circumstances. Her ancestors had done so—she needed that ability as well.
“Go eat, Hester. I’ll stay with her.”
“What about your own meal, Lady Sarah?”
“I’ll have Cook prepare a tray.”
“When will you eat?”
She glanced at Hester. Her features were frozen in an implacable look of resolve. Hester was excessively nurturing, but she was also excessively stubborn.
“I’ll eat, I promise,” she said.
Hester left, murmuring something about people making promises they had no intention of keeping. Sarah ignored her, intent on her mother’s face.
The faint light made Morna’s face appear gaunt, older than her years. For a moment, Sarah couldn’t see the woman she knew in the face illness had created. She closed her eyes and recalled earlier days, when her mother’s laughter had sparkled throughout Chavensworth.
In that instant of time, she became nine years old again, swinging a picnic basket in her left hand, overjoyed with the thought of being able to eat her lunch beneath a tall oak tree on the hill overlooking the lavender fields.
Never mind that it was only a few minutes from Chavensworth proper; her mother could make the hour or so an enchanted time.
She would tell stories of her forbears, of a castle named Kilmarin, of pixies, brownies, and the Hag of Winter.
“Will you never go back there again, Mother?” she’d asked once, on a day when her mother seemed particularly sad.
“I shall never,” Morna said, but then she’d smiled.
The child she’d been, perceptive and almost hurtfully honest, had known that her mother did not wish to discuss her home. So she hadn’t mentioned it again, and it never occurred to her until now, when Morna seemed inches from death.
Had her mother ever wished to return to Scotland? Had she missed her own family, people Sarah had never met?
That question might never be answered.
The clouds, visible through the French windows, were swirling overhead, forming pendulous bellies darkening from soft gray to nearly black. As she watched, lightning flashed from one swollen cloud to another.
When she was a little girl, she was afraid of thunderstorms, cowering in her bed whenever they came.
A rainy spring only brought terror for her.
Countless times, her mother had sat with her, trying to get her to smile.
Morna told her one story after another, transforming the freakish sound of thunder to Thor’s hammer, God laughing, or a dozen other futile analogies that didn’t ease Sarah’s fears one whit.