The intrigue continues as dinner takes a fraught turn upstairs and downstairs...
"Do you think Mr Hammond will be in trouble with Papa?" Jean asked curiously as she and Nicola reached the door of the nursery.
"I don't know, Miss. That's the truth of it." Nicola responded simply, opening the door to the pretty room. She observed her charge's solemn look and sighed. It was true what Mrs Blackstock said, there were "nowt happy wi'money".
Jean sat down placidly on the carpet, picking up two dolls for the dolls house and placed them inside.
"What are you doing there, Miss?" She queried, satisfied to see that Jean had found something to occupy herself.
Jean shut the dolls house, going to her chair by the window. Nicola frowned, carefully opening the dolls house, her eyes widening at the arrangement of the butler doll and lady of the house, obviously positioned straight from Jean's memory.
She rearranged them, brushing her hands down on her apron as though tainted and shook her head, returning to her duties.
"Miss, come here, let me look at you." Nicola insisted, as Jean stood obediently in front of her, her dress stained from the car bonnet, her hair tousled.
"Think we'd better get you cleaned up," she told the girl decisively.
Jean nodded and stood as Nicola dressed her, taking out a fine dropped waist style dress of softest lilac, with a charming little white lace collar and cuffs.
Downstairs, the kitchen was abuzz with gossip as the finishing touches were placed to the main course. Amelia Spencer, a hardy if withdrawn child of thirteen years scurried about the room, sweeping the coal dust from the floor amid barks and calls for her to do this, do that.
"Mightn't we quicken the pace a little, Melia?" Mrs Blackstock advised, tapping her shoulder.
"Yes'm." Was Amelia's meek reply. Mrs Blackstock rounded the large preparation table in the centre of the room, checking each dish in turn.
"Another triumph, I daresay, Victoria." She commented to the young woman collecting dishes from the oven.
She was surprisingly young by usual Cook standards, but Blackstock had been so impressed by her enthusiasm and dedication at the interview that she had hired her on the spot. There was no question of her ability. Miss Victoria Sugden as was, despite the trial of distance from her husband, Adam Barton, had remained faithful and had channelled her melancholy into her work.
Prior to her employment she had been apprentice to an endearing chef of the local public house, which, by request, offered hearty homecooked fare throughout the day, but the landlords of the house could not quite bring themselves to do something so vulgar as to advertise this advantage.
"Melia, another plate here." Blackstock instructed, pointing at the table.
Melia dropped the broom at once with a clatter, charging toward the cupboard, barely aware of Foster as he entered. The group of servants gathered in the corner, enjoying a brief moment of respite suddenly stood to attention like soldiers. Foster commanded authority, his uniform of black tailcoat and pin striped trousers always pristine, his collar perfectly starched and his hair smoothed over with Brylcreem.
"Good evening." He greeted them all, "are we on time, Mrs Blackstock?"
"As clockwork, Mr Foster."
He gave a grunt, tucking his pocket watch back into his waistcoat pocket and moved further into the kitchen, noticing the abandoned broom. His eyes fell on Melia, who was frozen by the door.
"Yours, Miss Spencer?" He asked softly.
Melia nodded.
Foster reached down and brought up the broom to full height.
"I asked Melia to fetch another plate." Blackstock explained, "go on, now." She urged the girl, who scuttled away.
"Beggin' yer pardons," Victoria set the main dish upon the table.
Foster moved swiftly aside to allow her to arrange the dishes and propped the broom against the chair.
"The family is assembled in the dining room." He announced.
"Who are we to attend upon tonight?"
"His Lordship, Her Ladyship, Master Joseph, His Lordship the Younger and Miss Jean." Foster counted them off.
"The child is dining with them?" Blackstock was startled.
"Indeed." Foster answered, a hint of suspicion playing through his tone; "you have some objection, Mrs Blackstock?"
"Not at all." Blackstock corrected herself.
"Good. I shall inform the family that dinner is ready. Kindall, follow me please." Foster instructed, addressing a bald headed, doleful looking man with hound like eyes and a meek expression.
"Right away, sir." He jumped to attention, plodding to the preparation table where the dishes were laid.
"You watch yourself now, Jimmy." Blackstock warned, "we don't want any more accidents."
"No, no, Missus." Jimmy replied; adjusting the plates in his hands.
"Well, good luck; anyhow." Blackstock told him uncertainly, watching Jimmy stumble from the room, barely balancing the dishes in his hands.
"Poor Jimmy," Victoria remarked, pityingly, dusting off her hands, "he does mean well, you know."
"Nobody could doubt his enthusiasm." Blackstock admitted, "its his ability that one has to call into question."
"So Foster says." Victoria shook her head, "must be 'ard for him though. Used to live here with his own."
"How the mighty fall." Biff commented over her shoulder, snatching an apple from the bowl.
"Don't you have anything else to be doing, Mr Fowler?" Blackstock reprimanded him, "you'd better not let Mr Foster hear you talkin' like that."
"Don't intend to; do I?" Biff responded cockily, sitting down next to Ross Barton, another footman and Master Joseph's trusted valet.
"Here, what are you still doing down here?" Blackstock demanded of Ross, shocked to see him still seated at the servants table.
"Taking my tea break." Ross informed her with a shrug.
"Not on my watch, Mr Barton. The family are about to eat and you're meant to be up there, helping Jimmy."
"And he needs all the help he can get." Biff nudged Ross with a cruel chuckle.
"Well, come on!" Blackstock urged.
Ross made a great show of standing slowly, adjusting his dress coat, "want to look my best" before departing upstairs to the family.
"And you Mr Fowler." Blackstock turned her flinty eyes on him, "I suggest you set to preparing His Lordship's trousseau. Unless you have some mending to do?"
She was aware that Fowler despised his master, however much she had tried to encourage him to respect him.
Biff kicked the side of the chair and collected the work basket from the cupboard with a vicious look.
"Where is Melia?" Blackstock queried to the group.
"Haven't seen her." Replied the tight voice of Livvie Flaherty.
"Oh goodness, you don't suppose..." She looked around worriedly, noticing the broom was still untouched where Foster had left it. Ross returned to collect more dishes and carried them upstairs.
As he passed the dining room he noticed a figure crouched in the corner, going through the drawers.
"Ey!" He hissed.
Melia stood up and spun around; terrified.
"Oh, its you!"
"Yea, its me. What yer doin' in 'ere?"
"Mrs Blackstock said to get us 'nother plate." The girl explained.
"Aye, but not from 'ere!" Ross scoffed, beckoning her out, "come on, before Foster sees yer."
Muffled voices were heard next door, becoming increasingly louder as they approached.
"Melia!" Ross pulled her out of sight as the family entered the dining room.
"Now what?" Melia whimpered.
"Ssh." Ross covered her up with a curtain, "stay, don't move."
Melia nodded and Ross retrieved his own penny from the carpet.
"Well, we are privileged, it seems." Lady Tate declared as they sat down at the table, "Mr Barton, are you a conjuror on the quiet?"
Foster fixed his eyes on the footman.
"A conjuror? Really?" Jean piped up, her face flushed with excitement.
"Be quiet, please." Lady Tate shushed her.
"Yes Mama."
"What is this nonsense?" Lord Francis assumed his seat. "Conjurors?"
"A fancy." Lady Tate answered, whipping her napkin in agitation.
Frank caught Jean's disappointed face and attended her at once.
"Little Champion? What on earth is the matter?"
"Nothing, Papa."
Frank's eyes flew to his wife.
"Perhaps it has something to do with your behaviour earlier today. We shall have to have a little word with Mr Hammond. Mechanics are hardly appropriate for a young lady. Unless, of course, you intend to follow your sister's example." She emphasised 'sister' with scorn evident to everyone but Jean.
"Never mind that. I have spoken to Hammond." Frank assured her crisply, "and I think you know, Little Champion, that I have your best interests at heart. Silly old Papa got too cross. He did not mean to scare you."
"I wasn't scared; Papa." Jean confided, putting her napkin daintily on her lap.
"Good. Because Papa loves you."
Kim sipped her wine with disgust.
"Are we late?" Joseph entered in evening dress with James at his side.
"Not at all." Francis bade them sit down at the table and the family assembled.
Christopher was already seated at the end of the table, his father at the head, with his eldest son on his left side and Kim on the other. She sat next to Joseph, James and Zoya opposite and Jean on Joseph's left side.
The bell rang and the family were assembled, the servants attending promptly.
"What is this, Papa?" Jean asked as her plate was placed in front of her.
"Asparagus, Little Champion. A rare delicacy in these troubled times."
"Then why are we eating it?" Joseph queried.
"Because Father likes to show off, Joseph." Replied Christopher coldly.
"Its funny. Its like long broccoli." Jeanie declared, picking it up with her fingers.
"Put it back on the plate and pick it up properly," Kim scolded, "we do not pick things up with our fingers?" She grabbed them, "and they are quite filthy! What have you been doing?"
"I..." Jeanie looked to Francis for support, but he was engaged in a conversation with Christopher.
Zoya avoided looking at Jeanie, her heart struggling to detach herself.
"Leave the table at once and clean them! You may come back when they are washed." She tapped Jeanie's hands sharply, making them sting in red patches, "disobedient child."
"What is going on?" Francis heard the slap.
"Jeanie has filthy hands. No doubt she has been playing with machinery."
"I am sure she hasn't, Father." Zoya attempted to pacify him as his expression clouded, "she wouldn't disobey you." Her long plait flicked sidewards as she turned her head.
"We'll soon find out. Foster, advise Hammond that he is to report to me at the earliest instance after dinner."
Jeanie returned moments later, as Mama caught her by the shoulder as she passed her chair and took her aside to inspect her fingers.
"Cleaner, I suppose?" She sniffed, "so, what have you been doing?"
"Um..." Jeanie looked to Francis, who was still talking with Christopher.
"No, look at me." Kim took her by the chin, "I asked you a question and I want you to answer it."
"I was..." she caught Christopher's wheelchair in her gaze and looked up at her 'Mama.' "I was playing with Crispy's chair."
"Hence the disgusting state of your hands. That was very naughty of you, Jeanie." She shook her head, "so, go to your brother and apologise."
Jeanie's expression was mournful as she approached the gap between her Papa and Christopher and their conversation trailed off.
"Well, what do we have here, Little Champion?" Francis kissed Jeanie's little hands.
"Mama said I was to apologise."
"For what?"
Francis eyed Kim distrustfully.
Christopher kept his eyes forward.
"To me. She stole my chair. She was playing about in it."
"Oh, come now, Christopher, Jeanie was just curious, weren't you, Little Champion?" He asked kindly.
Jeanie nodded.
"But I am truly sorry, Crispy. I am."
"You know what they say about curiosity and the cat?" Christopher replied, his eyes darting at her, seeing all innocence there in her face and relented.
"I accept your apology, but don't ever let me catch you playing with it again. It is not a toy."
"Sorry, Crispy."
"Now, Father, about this meeting, the dinner with Macey and his cronies..."
"Yes, I've booked it in. Friday, at 7:30pm."
"Thanks. I'll take the car."
"You won't be able to do that, Crispy?" Jean spoke up, her brow creasing thoughtfully.
"Oh, why not?" Christopher retorted, annoyed at her interference.
"You're seeing Miss Dingle."
Joseph, who had happened to take a gulp of wine, choked, almost spluttering the contents across the table.
"What is this, Christopher?" Francis demanded.
"I haven't the faintest idea." Bluffed Christopher, but Zoya saw the truth in his eyes.
"You're seeing Miss Baker on Tuesday, Miss Dingle on Friday and Miss Glover..."
Christopher's mouth twitched.
"When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?" He hissed.
"Is this true, Christopher?" Francis asked sternly.
"If it is, we shall certainly have to plan for these occasions," Kim interjected, "three dinner parties in one week, Christopher. How extravagant." Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
"Jeanie, Little Champion, why don't you go with Miss Hart, see if she can find you some toast and jam."
"Again?" Sneered Joseph, "if that is the case, may I be dismissed from the table too, Grandfather? The offerings are better in the kitchen, it seems." He smirked, adjusting his collar.
"Yes and you may also leave, Zoya."
"I am staying." Zoya declared.
"Come along, Miss."
Kinsett came forward at once and ushered Jeanie out of the room, shutting the door behind them as she led Jeanie to the servants hall.