Chapter One: Elsie Hughes

Elsie Hughes should be accustomed to January in Yorkshire by now. It's her tenth year in the county but she's never gotten used to the cold dampness that meets her when she swings the door open to leave the servant's hall of Parkside Hall. Even though her one indulgence is a new, warm winter coat and pair of nice fitting gloves, these do little to keep the biting cold from numbing her cheeks as she makes a brisk walk into the village or to church with the rest of the servants. Though a young woman of twenty-eight, the freezing temperatures of her attic room in the servant's quarters cause her very bones to ache. No matter, the number of blankets she covers herself with or the thick cotton of her nightgown and dressing gown wrapped around her, she seems to never warm up enough to get a good night's sleep. Even at home in Scotland when the nights were cold and the snow fell in sheets so blindingly thick that she couldn't see the bearn, her Da kept the fire stoked, and she had little sister Becky to keep her warm. But there's no fireplace in her drafty attic room and she doesn't share a bed with her younger sister anymore. Still she has it better than many. She has a roof over her head, three meals a day, clothes on her back, and job security.

Elsie left her father's farm at Argyll when she was sixteen. Her mother had insisted that she go, that she not wear out her body and waste her youth on farm work. Margaret Hughes was insistent that her elder daughter, fair-skinned and lovely, not be caught in the cog that was an uncertain tenancy. A tenancy that the local laird could withdraw from one year to the next. She insisted that Elsie not worry over whether a crop would make it to harvest or whether the new calf would be stillborn or worse yet, lose its mother while she's struggling to bring it into the world. The loss of a milk cow would devastate the Hughes's farm and if the crop failed to produce, they could ill afford to replace the her. Margaret didn't want her daughter to count every penny and then count them again, hoping to find a miscounted cent in the hopes that she could afford that new pair of shoes that child so desperately needed only to just patch them. Again.

Margaret insisted that Elsie find her way in the world away from the farm, away from babies that would come every two years until she could no longer bear them; one in her belly, another on her hip, while yet another clung to her skirts. She wanted her daughter, who was whip smart, a bright student according to Mr. Graham the local teacher, to make a life in a city perhaps as a shop girl or maybe working her way up as housekeeper in a fine manor house. She wanted Elsie to acquire a set of skills so that she could support herself or catch a husband who worked in a factory or owned a shop. Her daughter deserved the best. Elsie deserved the best life could afford her.

"Elsie, may I see you for a moment please."

"Of course, Mrs. Corbin."

Mrs. Corbin, Parkside Hall's Housekeeper, has been especially good to Elsie since she first arrived as a housemaid rising through the ranks and now as head housemaid. She'd immediately noticed the young woman's work ethic and attention to detail, the way she commands the respect of the younger women and how she refuses to tolerate any foolishness from the footmen who cast a lascivious glance or speak unsavory words to her or any of the girls under her care. Mrs. Corbin plans to retire soon. She's already put in a word for Elsie with Her Ladyship.

"Have a seat Elsie," the older woman offers kindly indicating for Elsie to take a seat in the chair nearest her. Elsie complies but by now knows Sarah Corbin well enough that though she seems composed, there is sadness behind her kind eyes and so Elsie steels herself for what the housekeeper is about to tell her.

Mrs. Corbin holds two identical envelopes and passes one to Elsie.

Elsie turns over the envelope to see that the postscript is stamped "Argyll" and that if Mrs. Corbin has received one as well, it only means one thing. Her stomach sinks with the same bottomless feeling that she felt that day years ago when the one of the farm hands came running to the house to tell them that her father had dropped dead in the fields.

"Your mother is gravely ill, my dear. I have discussed it with Her Ladyship and we've agreed that you must go home immediately. Mr. West will arrange your ticket."

Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of her pristine white apron to dab at the corner of her eyes, Elsie can scarcely take in the notion that her mother, a woman who has always been such a pillar of strength, the one who had tried to hold the farm together after her husband died, has taken ill. Margaret Hughes had clawed and scraped with everything in her to keep the farm going until the landlord forced her off the land. Never one to be defeated, she moved into a small cottage the next village over to be near her brother, and takes in other people's laundry for a small fee. Elsie sends home money every month but her mother never accepts much, always telling Elsie that she needs it more. She has almost single-handedly cared for poor simple-minded Becky; Elsie's sister who was born under duress, born blue, and with the cord wrapped tightly around her neck. Becky is a kind soul, but a child in a woman's body and prone to outbursts, prone to periods of silence, and melancholy. Yet Margaret never pities herself. She is a mother; the care of her child is not a sacrifice.

In all the letters that they have exchanged, Elsie's mother hasn't let on a thing. Elsie feels a pang of anger that her mother has lied to her.

"Are you all right, Elsie?" Mrs. Corbin is such a concerned and caring woman; a second mother in many ways. Only that she isn't is she? Elsie hopes to take the woman's place one day when she retires; they've spoken of it and Elsie hopes to be like her - kind, patient, demanding.

A benevolent dictator.

"Yes," she replies quietly as she clutches the envelope to her chest. "If you don't mind I'll go up now."

"Of course. Lavinia will take over your duties today and if you like I'll have her bring a tray to your room."

"Thank you, but I'd like to have supper with the rest of the staff." While her words are resolute, stubborn event, her voice wavers, but Mrs. Corbin doesn't press her and doesn't order her to bed to recover from such distressing news. For she knows that her protégée knows her own mind.

When Elsie has excused herself, and made her way up the long winding staircase to her attic rooms, she closes the door behind her and presses her back against it. She sighs deeply and then feels the shock of hearing that her mother is dying build into an unbearable pain. The pain of losing her father was one thing, but losing her mother is something entirely different. Entirely unexplainable.

Sinking to the floor, Elsie holds the envelope in her hands and after what seems an age finally slides a fingernail under the flap to open it. Trembling fingers free the letter and she unfolds it to see the distinctive scrawl of her Uncle Rab.

2 June 1890

Dear Elsie,

My dear niece after having received your letter of the 19th I had hoped to return the good cheer of your sentiments with my next letter however, my writing finds that I must inform you of a sadness that has befallen our family. Your dear mother, my beloved sister Margaret, has fallen gravely ill. I know that she has not mentioned this in her letters and she did not wish for me to mention it to you, but I feel I must break my confidence with her. She is suffering from cancer and Dr. Lloyd informed me that he suspects the time is drawing near that she will join your dear father. If you wish to see her I suggest that you come at once.

With fondness,

Your Uncle Rab

Elsie's tears flow in earnest now. She weeps for her mother. She cannot imagine her mother wracked in chills and gasping for breath, her body twisted in pain. She cannot envision her strong, stout mother wasting away in the back room and the thoughts of hearing the death rattle filling the small stone cottage that she and Becky were forced into cause her to curl into a ball like a new borne babe on the floor.

She weeps for poor Becky who is so like a child. Elsie wonders if Becky will register what the death of their mother will mean. If she knows that it will mean that even though they are grown women, they will be orphans. That there will be no parents left to comfort them, to give solace when times are hard. No mother to comfort her when thunderstorms rage. No mother to hold her and sing her favorite lullabies when she cannot sleep.

Elsie weeps for herself. For the years, she's spent away from home even though her mother insisted that she get away from farm life and make a life of her own. Elsie weeps for the time she's missed with her mother, the good years, when her mother was young and vital. The years when they could have laughed and shared memories. Oh, Elsie visits. On the week that she is granted every year while the family is in London. When the three Hughes women, laugh, bake shortbread, and tell stories of the old days when Da was alive. When Becky begs her not to return South.

Now, they will share Margaret's worst days. Her last days.