As always thank you for all your kind words. And to the guest reviewing in Italian, "Grazie. Spero che questo capitolo vi piaccia." And apologies for having to resort to Google translate!
The afternoon sun streamed in through the high windows that ran half the length of the main kitchen, the gleaming copper pans on the shelf beneath standing out brightly against the whitewashed wall. The various moulds hung neatly on their pegs, mixing bowls stacked as they should be, the long table in the centre clear of equipment. Beryl ran her finger over the cold range and smiled in satisfaction that there was not an inch of grease to be found anywhere, not even in the tiny gaps between the hot plates. Everything was as it should be. Clean. Ordered. Ready.
Beryl did so love it when the family were away. She missed the hustle and bustle of course, the young girls she kept under her wing, the feeling of being at the centre of things. But the calm that she felt at the start and end of each and every day, when it was just her and the serving dishes, the sharp knives and the butcher's block, that was what she savoured the most. And now she had an extra week to soak up the peace and quiet. An extra week to think about what to do.
"Mrs Patmore?" came the familiar brogue coming towards her down the corridor.
How many years had she heard that voice calling to her, asking if things were ready? It must be 20 at least. Of late though it had been one of concern, not of instruction, and it was getting harder not to surrender to it. Beryl stood and waited, the swish of skirts announcing Mrs Hughes imminent arrival.
"Ah, there you are," she bustled.
"Where else would I be?" Beryl asked curiously.
"I wondered whether you'd have left already," Elsie replied kindly, not wanting to risk an argument.
"No, not yet," she said. "I wanted to check that all was in order here first before I packed. Not that I'll need much, mind. It's only a few days and I can easily pop back."
Beryl saw as Elsie gave a nod of understanding and began to set out her own timetable for departure. She'd never considered herself to be the jealous type. Generally speaking she didn't have a lot of call to be. She lived well enough for someone of her station. She'd risen up from scullery maid to cook, oversaw the kitchen of one of the finest houses in the country. She'd even cooked for the king for goodness sake! But over the last few days she'd been forced to admit that she was envious of one thing and that was the love between her two oldest friends. To have someone to spend time with must be lovely, she mused, and became so consumed by the thought of it that it took her second to realise that Elsie had fallen silent and was looking at her expectantly.
"Oh," she started, "Whatever you think best, I suppose," hoping it was the right response.
"A nice try but not quite," Elsie said bemused, "I asked if you fancied meeting me in York on Friday. As happy as I am to be getting away, I'll confess that a whole week with Mr Carson is a daunting one."
Beryl frowned. She'd not expected her friend to be anything but enthusiastic about her plans. She went to reply but stopped as they heard the servant's entrance door knob turn, felt the rush of air as it opened and then the sound of hesitant footsteps on the tiles.
"Hello?" came a voice.
Beryl went pale and threw Elsie a look of panic. She couldn't talk to him, or even see him. She hissed a plea to the housekeeper before she hurried away, disappearing into one of the side kitchens. She could feel herself shaking with nerves as Elsie politely greeted Mr Mason and inquired after the farm. She strained her ears to hear the reply, his gentle voice too quiet to make everything out. Something about pigs maybe, the feed being delayed perhaps? She couldn't make out the rest and so just waited, leaned up against the wall and tried to remember to breathe.
After what felt like an age, she heard the outside door close, the sound of movement in the next door room and eventually she dared to venture out. The main kitchen was empty, the signs of the kettle having been used. She made her way to the servant's hall and found her friend in one of the chairs by the fire, tea and shortbread set out in front of her.
Elsie looked up as she entered. "I think it's time to tell me what's going on," she instructed, offering a warm smile as Beryl did as she was told and sat down meekly.
Elsie sipped her tea as her friend procrastinated, fussing with the milk and her teaspoon before at length she began. From deep within the house she could hear the two grandfather clocks chiming the hour, their deep chimes audible from almost anywhere the way they reverberated through hallways and doors. She frowned crossly as she noticed that at least one must be wrong, its bell calling out half a beat behind the other. Another thing to add to the list, she noted to herself.
She listened as Beryl told her tale of how the evening had come about, a chance to be just the two of them without Daisy or Andy questioning them. She felt the build up was a bit too much but perhaps that was just how it had to be for the usually bombastic cook to share her worries. Elsie saw how she avoided her eye, looking down into her lap as she spoke of the walk to the farm, the pleasant evening it had turned out to be. She even detected a hint of a smile as she recounted her arrival, his red face as he'd emerged from the hot kitchen. It made her think of the early days of her and Charles' courtship. The awkwardness of trying to shift their friendship, trying too hard and not enough in equal measure. It wasn't easy, decorum holding back even the simplest expression of feeling, although some Scottish frankness had helped in places.
Detecting a change in tone from her friend, she stopped her thoughts from drifting and concentrated on what was being said.
"He cooked a lovely meal. I think he was probably nervous, me being a cook and all, but it was very tasty and I told him as much. We sat there for a bit, chatting as you do. He asked about my day and I asked about his, nothing extraordinary in that."
"And?" Elsie encouraged.
"And then we moved to the sitting room. It was a nice evening and so I was looking out of the window across the hay meadow, you know the one that runs down to Oak Wood, and went to fetch a drink for us both. I didn't mean for it to happen, honestly I didn't."
"But what did happen?" Elsie implored.
"Well, I turned at the wrong moment, didn't I? Knocked one of the glasses out of his hand and it smashed all over the floor, sherry up the wall. He dashed for a cloth and then it all sort of went sideways from there."
She sighed back in her chair, her face flushed as she recalled what had happened next. Their heads close to one another as they bent down to clear up the mess, her on her knees, he crouched down. The way they'd both looked up at the same moment and caught each other's gaze. Beryl thought time might have stopped for a moment just then. His blue eyes smiling at her as she muttered an apology, a shake of his head as he dismissed it, telling her not to worry. And then something changed, suddenly he was leaning in, his dry lips softly brushing her cheek and she'd jumped. Not at it happening but at the spark it seemed to light. She turned her head and somehow her lips were now on his, they'd both frozen and then she moved, surged forward to capture his mouth with hers. She'd thought for a minute that he would return it. Of course he would, things had been simmering between them for months now, shared looks and little excuses to talk for a little longer when he stopped by the Abbey. But instead he'd pulled back, his face unreadable as he just stared at her. She'd blinked first, turned what she imagined to be a very deep shade of red and fled. There was no other word for it. If she'd been aware of him calling after her then she'd forgotten it in her desperation to get away. And today was the first time she'd heard from him. She'd been thankful for that, not having to face him, but as the days had passed it had only served to build up in her mind.
"It was just a little kiss," Elsie said, kindly. Her voice soft and at its most reassuring. "Nothing so bad."
"Oh, but it wasn't, was it?" Beryl insisted. "It was terribly forward. He was just being kind and gentle and I kissed him, Elsie! Kissed him! Fully, on the lips, my tongue..." burying her head in her hands.
Elsie sat back, unsure how to respond. Beryl was right. It wasn't done for a woman to kiss a man, and certainly not at their age. Perhaps the young girls of today could get away with a little forwardness but not them. And for Mr Mason not to have visited or said anything since. It didn't bode well, she had to admit.
"The real truth of it is, Mrs Hughes," Beryl sniffed, raising her head, tears once more lining her cheeks. "I've not done it before."
"Kissed Mr Mason?" Elsie asked, slightly surprised at the comment. "Well no, I didn't suppose you have."
"No," her voice cracking, "Kissed a man."
