Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the sitting room soon after nightfall, Miss Hughes leant in and whispered to Elizabeth, “Please come to my bedchamber for a chat before you retire, Miss Bennet. I have so much to tell you.”
Later, when Elizabeth tapped at the girl’s door, Miss Hughes’s harried-looking lady’s maid opened it, her grey-streaked hair neatly tucked beneath a cap.
“Miss Taylor has already heard all my news.” In the candlelight, a rarely seen dimple appeared on Miss Hughes’s cheek as she stood in the middle of the room in stockinged feet. “And I believe she may have gained a few more grey hairs because of it.”
The maid’s mouth formed a thin line, but Elizabeth suspected Miss Taylor was merely suppressing a grin.
Miss Hughes paced about the room. “First of all, some personal discretion may be exercised within a family regarding proper conduct during one’s mourning period.
Because manners in the country are less rigid than in London and three months have now elapsed, Aunt Baker has declared that I may enter half-mourning and may wear my mother’s pearls and silks of grey, white, or even purple.
I shall be grateful to shed black, for it is such a depressing hue.
Although I may not dance, I shall be permitted to attend a few public activities.
Unfortunately, I doubt there will be any such things in which to participate hereabouts. ”
Three months, in Elizabeth’s opinion, hardly seemed a long enough duration to deeply mourn one’s parents. Having assumed her friend would be in full mourning until autumn and wanting to respect that, she had not even thought to bring more colourful gowns for herself.
“Piety and respect will be maintained.” Miss Hughes spoke with some urgency.
“Do not think for an instant that I am being disrespectful or that I am not still grieving. I desperately miss my parents. But the Bakers already are becoming very dear to me, which helps tremendously.” Throwing herself upon the bed, she tucked her legs beneath her and patted the mattress.
“Have a seat here with me, Miss Bennet. For my part, I was glad to be sitting when Uncle Baker told me the story of my ancestors.”
“Yes, make yourself comfortable, miss,” said the maid. “You may be here awhile.”
Elizabeth removed her shoes and joined her friend. With no sense of foreboding, she hoped to soon be congratulating Miss Hughes on acquiring either an elevated station or impending riches.
“Through the years, even as a child, I heard whispers of a family connexion to the royal house of Hanover. And I might have mentioned it, boasted of it even, at times. It seems I might have been somewhat impetuous, if you can believe that of me.”
Elizabeth poked her friend’s side. “Miss Bridget Hughes, act without thought or care? Never!”
“Ha!” Miss Hughes poked back. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, sarcastic? Frequently! Seriously now, let me tell my story. As the son of a village baker in Germany, my great-great-grandfather, Friedrich Becker, worked in his father’s shop making bread.
But his true passion was pastries. Do you suppose it is a family trait?
I am as fond of baked goods as my aunt and uncle are. ”
Coming from between the open doors of an armoire, the maid’s voice was somewhat muffled. “And if you continue eating marzipan, spiced cakes, and fruit pies at your current rate, I shall be required to let out the seams of all your gowns.”
“Pay Miss Taylor no mind, my friend. At seventeen, Friedrich travelled to Paris. It was a slow and arduous journey by river, on mule, and on foot. His goal was to learn and to perfect a variety of elaborate baked creations. After several years with an established French guild, he returned to Germany and was hired in the princely court as master pastry cook, a ma?tre patissier. In 1714 he came to England with the retinue of Queen Anne’s heir presumptive who soon became our first King George. ”
Miss Taylor bustled over with fine white cotton over one arm. “Let us get you out of that bombazine for the last time, ma’am, and into your dressing gown. For tomorrow, which gown shall I press for you?”
“The soft grey with blonde lace, please. I shall slowly graduate to lavender-grey and more colourful choices. Now, to resume my story, also at the Court of Hanover was Brigitta Schmidt, personal maid and close friend to lady-in-waiting Katharina something-or-other, who, like me, was inordinately fond of pastries. Consequently, Brigitta was often sent to the kitchens to communicate Katharina’s special requests to Friedrich, who was immediately smitten with her. ”
While Miss Hughes’s hair was being brushed and braided, she continued.
“Now, here comes the scandalous part of the story. At the same time that Katharina was falsely accused of having an illicit liaison with the Master of the Horse, the poor woman had been experiencing a dull ache and slight swelling in her abdomen. And what do you suppose then? The lady-in-waiting was suspected of carrying the official’s child, of course.
She refused to be examined by a physician and consequently was banished from court.
With her reputation in tatters, Katharina was sent to live in a cottage on her cousin’s estate on London’s outskirts. ”
“Good heavens!” cried Elizabeth. “And whatever happened to Brigitta?”
“Before Katharina left court in disgrace, she begged Brigitta to go with her. But the maid would not go without Friedrich, for the two had fallen violently in love. So, Katharina, with her cousin’s permission, promised Friedrich the position of ma?tre patissier in his house.
The two lovers were even allowed to wed while in his employ, but they changed their name from Becker to Baker.
” Miss Hughes’s enthusiasm for the story suddenly ebbed away, and she bit down on a thumbnail.
Elizabeth was almost afraid to ask. “What happened next?”
“Katharina’s condition grew much, much worse. She was diagnosed with cancer of the liver and, sadly, died a fortnight later.”
“Great heavens! I hardly know whether I am more saddened by Katharina’s suffering or cross with those who accused a perfectly innocent woman of having had an illicit liaison. Please tell me that your great-great-grandparents, Brigitta and Friedrich, had a happy ending to their story.”
“They did. Friedrich and Brigitta were frugal, saving every farthing of their wages. They built a nice nest egg for themselves, but best of all, Katharina had unexpectedly left them a considerable legacy because of their diligence, trustworthiness, and friendship. So, when they had enough capital to fulfil Friedrich’s dream of opening a patisserie in London, they did so and lived above his shop.
The bakery became highly profitable once word got about that he formerly had been master pastry cook to the King.
Consequently, he was able to buy land, build a fine house, and raise a family with his beloved Brigitta. ”
Elizabeth smiled and patted her friend’s hand. “A happy ending, indeed.”
“Yes.” Miss Hughes sighed. “But my great-great-grandfather was often looked down upon as a parvenu, an upstart, one who, by an accident of fortune, dared to live beyond the station of his birth.”
“Do you not think that hard-working people like Friedrich and Brigitta, and your long-suffering Miss Taylor here, deserve every good fortune that might come their way? What have nobles—and, yes, even members of the landed gentry—done to deserve their wealth and, especially, done to prove their worth?”
“Good gracious!” cried Miss Hughes. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet, the radical.”
“My uncle Gardiner is in trade, and I greatly admire his diligence and integrity.”
“Have you never had to contend with disdain because of that association?”
“Not to my face, but I suspect there was much scorn and ridicule behind my back at Netherfield Park.”
Miss Hughes gazed into the flame of her bedside candle. “I am afraid some people, if they learn the truth, will treat me differently upon learning my great-great-grandfather was a servant and then a tradesman.”
“No one need ever learn of it. And I think Friedrich was a remarkable person, one who should be remembered for his resourcefulness.” Elizabeth wrapped Miss Hughes in an affectionate embrace.
“I will always be your friend, no matter what. I do not care a fig whether your great-great-grandparents were royalty or street urchins, or even prickly sea urchins.”
Miss Hughes’s lips twitched into a smile, then she spoke with genuine appreciation.
“I am fortunate to have you as a friend, and I am blessed to have such relations as Aunt and Uncle Baker.” Moving out of Elizabeth’s embrace, she clasped her hands beneath her chin.
“I have even more news to tell you. My uncle informed me that I, not my brother, am to be his beneficiary. After all, Jasper will have Greenlea. Soon Uncle Baker will go to speak with his Bristol attorney.” In her enthusiasm, she grabbed onto Elizabeth’s hand.
“Oh! And in addition to my current five-thousand-pound dowry, I am to have an additional five thousand.”
“What magnificent news!”
“Indeed, and I surmise Aunt Baker is to thank for the entire scheme. My uncle has suggested that, if I so choose, I change my name and be”—she spoke with an exaggerated fustian inflection—“Miss Bridget Hughes Baker.”
“Ooh, that sounds so terribly grand.” Jumping off the bed, Elizabeth bowed her head and dropped into a courtly curtsey.
“I am honoured to meet you, Miss Hughes Baker.” Settling back beside her friend, she nudged her.
“But do not become too fond of either the name Hughes or Baker. With such a good character, an enviable dowry, handsome looks, and no hereditary prickles—at least that I know of—you soon will be obliged to take some gentleman’s name as your own. ”