In which breakfast leads to ructions...
Another week began, much as its previous counterparts did at Home Farm. The fires were lit to ease the early morning chill that swept through the house as the curtains were opened and the servants scuttled about urgently, determined to keep to the tight schedule organised by Mrs Blackstock and Foster.
Yet, Mrs Blackstock, whom had spent her previous employment as the manager of a boarding house, knew the importance of a regime and rota and never appeared flustered nor agitated.
"Belle, have you lit the fire yet in Her Ladyship's room?" She asked, consulting the rota as Belle sat at the servants table, tucking into bread and dripping.
"Yes, Mrs Blackstock." The girl returned in earnest. Of the three housemaids to attend the family, she was quite the fairest. Golden hair, however scandalously similar to Her Ladyship's, was swept up into a bun over which she wore a smart white cap with a lace trim. It was well known that Her Ladyship had a particular dislike for the Dingle girl, in comparison to Ceri Spencer and Liza Fowler, who at best were only passable as servants.
Ceri herself hailed from the uttermost Northern province of Newcastle, whereas Liza was a local girl and a favourite of The Earl's son, Christopher, whom she avoided at every opportunity.
He would never have dared to approach Ceri or Belle, by the restrictions of their class, but there was something alluring about Liza that the young heir valued and was often to be found ringing the bell for Liza exclusively.
"And where've you been, Ceri?" Demanded Mrs Blackstock as Ceri trudged in to the kitchen, spilling mud in her wake.
"Horse threw a shoe, din't it?" She grimaced, dark hair tumbling out of its messily placed cap as she leaned on a chair to slip off her outdoor boots. "Me an' our Dan 'ad to make ours way 'ere through t'fields. No easy feat, I tell yers."
"So I understand," Blackstock shook her head in astonishment. "Well, get yourself to the boot room, clean off that mud before Mr Foster sees you." She urged, gesturing to the boot room where Jacob Gallagher, the boot boy, was working.
Or shirking, as Foster termed it.
"Everything on time, Mrs Blackstock?" Foster strode into the kitchen and the entire staff stood to attention. They were conscious of his military profile and knew to respect his rank, at least in that regard.
"You may sit." He directed and they assumed their seats. "What is this, Mrs Blackstock?" His eyes honed in sharply on the mud that Ceri had trailed across the slate floor.
"Oh, that were from t'laundry baskets." Mrs Blackstock bluffed, "nothing of note."
Foster grunted by way of response.
"Then perhaps you might organise Amelia to remove this. I believe Her Ladyship will be making her inspection this morning. I should like her to see an immaculate household."
"Well, quite!" Agreed Mrs Blackstock with vigour.
"Aye, man, these boots, I tell yer..." Ceri emerged from the boot room and Foster raised his eyebrows, running his eyes over her ragged and dirty ensemble.
"Miss Spencer?"
"Aye, its Missus if yer must know." Ceri grumbled.
"Quite." Foster corrected, "can you kindly explain how you came to be in such a state of disarray?"
"Well, me an' our Dan, me 'usband, we're on our way 'ere in t'cart and t'horse throws a shoe, like. Chucks us off, it does. So 'e says, 'you go on ahead, can't be long afore someone finds us, eh?' So after a quibble, I says to 'im, 'if yers wait 'ere I can get 'elp from t'house."
Foster opened his mouth to interrupt but Ceri had become quite determined to finish her story, as amusing as it was for the other servants to observe.
"...so I ends up trottin' me way through t'fields, like, only I get lost. Place is grand, but enormous, like. So I 'as to ask Hammond and 'e says that yers are all in 'ere, so I comes in and I know I'm a bit...untidy, like, but I got 'ere, didnt I?"
Foster was quite simply flabbergasted by her admission and temporarily dazed.
"Well, that's understandable enough, Ceri," Blackstock offered, "however there is no sending you up to the family in this state."
"No, Mrs Blackstock is right. Melia will have to assume your place for the day, Mrs Spencer." Foster concurred.
"Aye, man, but she's fourteen years old!"
"Any more protestations like that will only add to your offence," Foster warned her, "you will be deducted two shillings for your tardiness and a further threepence for your insolence." He paused, "Mrs Blackstock, see that Mrs Spencer is correctly attired before inspection." A bell rang in the background, signalling the first tray to be brought to Lady Zoya. She was always the first to rise in the morning. It was something of an accolade for her.
Despite her liberal protestations on subjects of hunting and suchlike, she remained faithful to her class by observing the privileges.
Upstairs, in her room, she stretched elegantly and reached for the bell, tugging it gently.
"Three. Two. One." Belle muttered in the kitchen. The bells began to ring in sequence, prompting breakfasts to be abandoned in favour of service.
"Lady Zoya," Victoria confirmed to Effie, the unofficial Lady's Maid to Lady Zoya.
Effie seized the tray at once and bounded upstairs in her heavy footed fashion, coming to pause at Lady Zoya's door.
"Milady, your breakfast." She advised.
Zoya was already dressed, yet allowed her to bring in the tray.
"Thank you, Effie." She smiled warmly, taking a slice of toast from the plate and wandering over to the window. "Do you ever wonder what you would be doing if you weren't a servant?"
"I don't really, Milady. I suppose I would be a wife and mother. Find some nice young chap or other..." she blushed.
"Of course, as that is our natural function, is it not?" Zoya sighed, her tone filled with scorn.
"I do think it would be nice to have a little boy or girl, Milady." Effie confessed.
"Oh, yes." Zoya took a bite of toast.
"Beggin' yer pardon, Milady, for my impertinence, but I suppose Miss Jean is an ample example of how it would be."
"Indeed she is." Zoya looked out of the window, "and you are not impertinent, Effie. Just curious."
"Me mother always said it'd be t'ruin o'me." Effie chastised herself.
"Not at all." A melancholy look came over Zoya's face, as she began to think of her daughter, shut away in the nursery as she herself had been as a child. "I suppose I do myself little favour with my chosen ensemble." She gestured to her trousers and waistcoat over a silk blouse.
"I think it very fine, Milady."
"Yet hardly appropriate for a Lady. My father dislikes it immensely."
"I should not care for his opinion, Milady. You are modern, as I am." She stammered, "oh...not that I imply that we are equal, Milady! Far from it!"
Zoya chuckled.
"Oh, Effie, dear Effie, you worry yourself too much!" She assured her. "And we are indeed equals."
"Thank you." Effie's cheeks flushed, "I had better get back to t'kitchens."
"Yes and I shall attune myself to the task of choosing something more acceptable to wear." Zoya advised dully, opening the wardrobe behind her.
"Can I assist in any way, Milady?" Effie asked quickly, hesitating by the door.
"No, that will not be necessary, thank you, Effie. I can manage."
"As you wish, Milady." Effie bowed her head as she closed the door, leaving Zoya to contemplate the array of garments in her wardrobe. She openly despised the dresses that had become the fashion, but it was her only means of pacifying her father enough to ensure that he would listen to her.
With this in mind, she selected a rose pink silk blouse with charming soft sleeves and a slightly flared cotton navy skirt with a navy trim around the 'dropped' waist.
She gathered her long hair into a roll at the side of her head, securing it with a jewelled clip with a peacock feather and added rouge to her cheeks and a line of lipstick to enhance her definitive features.
Satisfied with her reflection, she left the room and trotted elegantly downstairs to the drawing room where the other members of the family were already assembled, proud and immaculate, with the exemption of Jean, who was no doubt still in the nursery, only being permitted to attend the table once Papa and Mama had breakfasted.
"What a charming outfit," Lady Tate remarked, eyes sparkling as Zoya entered the room, "I must commend Harrison on her choice. Such a beautifully feminine ensemble."
Zoya managed to keep the smile on her face, fully aware of the true meaning behind Lady Tate's compliment.
"Thank you." She replied graciously.
"I daresay you do scrub up well." Her brother commented, wheeling himself back to allow her to assume a seat alongside Lady Tate.
Zoya perched herself elegantly on the sofa, hands folded neatly, ankles tucked inwards, her back straight, determined to show her father that she was quite capable of being worthy of her title of Lady.
"And James is here!" Declared Lord Francis, thumping his youngest son enthusiastically on the back as he joined them.
"A moment whilst I indulge in this unique opportunity." Christopher muttered snidely, "Father's favourite and all."
"Don't be bitter, Christopher." Warned Lady Tate, with a smirk, "it quite cripples your face."
Christopher scowled at her.
"Good to see you, my boy." Francis ushered his son into the throng, "how was London?"
"As good as it can be, considering the circumstances. There are flutterings in the City, Father. The outlook is quite grim." James admitted sedately.
"Ha!" Christopher let out a dark laugh, "well done for another optimistic start to the day."
"Must you be so cruel to your brother, Christopher?"
"Anyone would think he was three, not twenty three." Christopher murmured.
"And when you behave like that I'm tempted to ring for Nanny and send you to bed without supper." His father advised.
"Jam sandwiches are a delicacy for disobedient children, I hear." Christopher retorted, turning his chair slightly.
"Humph!" Was his father's best response, "if you're referring to your young sister..."
"Good morning, Mother." James leant down to kiss his mother's powdery cheek, sweeping past Christopher.
"Don't mind me." Christopher grumbled, "and yes, Father, I do refer to her. It seems you have your priorities in order."
"Christopher, please don't." Zoya added starkly.
"Oh I am sorry," despite his admission, there was no hint of remorse, "dearest brother, I do beg your pardon." He bowed his head.
"I wondered if you and Joseph might like to review the figures later in the study."
"Capital idea!" Agreed Lord Francis.
"Hmm, I'll see what's in the diary."
"A visit to see Miss Glover, no doubt." Suggested Lady Tate with a tone unbecoming to morning conversation.
"Well anything's better than listening to the warblings of the prodigal daughter." Christopher replied coldly.
"Your sister has a fine voice and should not be teased thus." Lord Francis reprimanded his son.
"Oh please, Dad, do you honestly believe that anyone should care for the scandal? Its an open secret." He emphasised, "everyone knows that the little darling is the product of the chauffeur."
"Chris." Zoya spoke up, highly discomforted by the direction of the conversation.
"Sorry," he glanced at his sister, whose face was pained.
"Well, that's a lovely start to the day." Lady Tate shook her head, "no more of this nastiness."
Christopher met Zoya's eyes.
"Quite right, darling." Lord Tate patted Lady Tate's shoulder, standing behind the sofa, "it appears that we are famished and that is causing this ill temper." He rang a small bell upon the side table and Foster promptly appeared.
"Sir." He bowed.
"How long for breakfast?"
"I shall see to it immediately, My Lord." Foster advised.
"Thank you. It should not be long."
An awkward silence descended on the room, as the previous subject of conversation had been closed. A few dark looks were exchanged between Lord Tate, Christopher and Lady Tate, whilst Zoya and James remained silent.
Foster was most astonished to find the family in such an uncertain state upon his return. They seemed so detached from one another, as noble families often are, yet he couldn't help but notice the smirks on Christopher and Joseph's faces as though they had been instrumental in the forming of the situation.
"Breakfast is served, my Lord." Foster announced.
"Thank you." Lord Francis replied, "will you be joining us, Christopher?"
"Indeed I will. Wouldn't miss it." Christopher answered pompously.
His son admitted a guffaw and followed the family in single file to the adjoining room, upon which breakfast was set.
Needless to say, food was plentiful here. Bacon, eggs, two racks of golden toast, accompanied by butter and jam, kippers for Lord Francis and a charming tea service.
The family took their seats as Foster awaited further instruction. Lady Tate stole a glance several times toward Foster. He was a distinguished sort of man whom had caught her eye upon his arrival as the adopted valet of Joseph. His dark eyes were mysterious and his voice dangerously exciting. It was no wonder that she had taken a fancy to him.
Zoya sat in melancholy, uncertain of how the conversation might progress. Christopher might have apologised, but he was persistent all the same.
"Will there be anything else, my Lord?"
"The Courier, please, Foster." Lord Francis explained, transferring kippers to his plate.
"Of course."
"And The Sketch, if you please, Foster?" Lady Tate requested, her attention firmly on him.
"Yes, Milady." He offered a hint of a smile.
Upstairs in the nursery, Nicola was occupied in the nursery maid's sitting room adjoining the nursery itself where Jeanie was playing.
Nicola, exhausted from the previous restless night, during which Miss Jean had struggled to sleep, had settled herself in the chair by the window with some darning only to be overcome by drowsiness and had fallen asleep, her mouth hanging open, little snores slipping out.
Not that Jean noticed. She was too busy with her dolls.