The Disgrace of Kitty Grey (2 page)

‘Train it,' put in her sister.

‘And then bring it into the music room secretly, through the servants' quarters.'

‘I see, miss,' I said slowly, seeing the dangers in this undertaking. ‘But what do you think your parents . . . what do you think Lord and Lady Baysmith will have to say about it?'

‘Oh, Father will be charmed!' said Miss Alice.

‘And everyone present will be so enthralled that our mother will end up being charmed, too,' added Miss Sophia.

‘And will either of you be milking the cow?' I asked.
Tableau vivant
, I said to myself, just in case I forgot the words.
Tableau vivant.

‘Oh no!' Miss Sophia said in horror. ‘I should be too frightened in case it kicked me.'

‘Certainly we will not milk it,' added Miss Alice. ‘We just intend to stand there looking quaint under a bower.'

‘The gentlemen will love it!' cried Miss Sophia. She smiled at me. ‘So if you would begin preparing the cow, Kitty. Perhaps you can get it used to standing about and walking to heel and so on.'

‘And wearing ribbands and flowers!'

‘I don't know if . . .'

Both young ladies looked at me keenly.

‘We are relying on you, Kitty, to help make the evening a memorable one. There will be certain young gentlemen in the audience who we are hoping to impress,' said Miss Alice.

I bobbed a curtsey. ‘I'll do my best, miss,' I said, thinking that on this occasion my best probably wouldn't be nearly good enough.

Chapter Two

 

 

Mrs Bonny came into the dairy later that afternoon to check that everything was scoured and spotless for the second milking. It was, of course, for I loved my job and did it meticulously, knowing that I was very lucky to be working at Bridgeford Hall. This employment had come about because my ma was of an age with Mrs Bonny; they'd gone to dame school together and learned their alphabet from the same primer.

At home Ma had taught me how to look after the chickens and the family cow and make butter and so on, and when I was coming up to eleven years old and looking for a position, had had the idea of sending me to Mrs Bonny with a note saying she would be pleased to renew their acquaintance and recommending me as reliable and sensible. I had started off at the hall as a kitchenmaid, helping the elderly dairymaid who'd been there, and when she left I happily took over her position.

The dairy at Bridgeford Hall was called by Lord Baysmith a
model
dairy. That was not to say that it was in miniature, but was an ideal model upon which other dairies should be based. Milord owned three great swathes of land given over to dairy farming, but my little dairy was attached to the big house, and the milk and its products (cream, butter and cheeses) from its cows were made only for the inhabitants of the household. Twice every day I washed the floor, scrubbed the marble worktops, scoured the pails and scalded and aired the pans, and when I'd milked the cows I was free to make any other dairy products needed that day.

The dairy was a round room next to the kitchens but separated from it by an airy walkway which led on to a cheese-making room and then on to a small milking parlour with stalls for four cows. The dairy, to my mind, was the nicest part of the whole house, for it had blue-veined marble worktops, white porcelain tiles, bunches of fresh mint and thyme to discourage the flies, and little water fountains to cool the air in summer and keep everything fresh. It was separate from the dairy farm next door – that big, smelly, muddy affair with lines of milking sheds – but if there was a special happening at Bridgeford, a ball or great dinner, then we would go next door in order to obtain enough cream for our flummeries and fools.

My cows were four lovely South Devons who lived in the fields just outside and got brought into the milking parlour twice a day. I thought of them as being amongst the most fortunate of animals, for they had several small pastures which they visited in rotation and, if they wished, could feed all day on lush grass and clover. They had a much better time of it than the herds of ordinary black-and-white Friesians at the big farm who gnawed the grass in their paddock until 'twas almost bald and then trampled the ground to slush. Beside them, my South Devons were very handsome beasts, more docile, and seemed to have nicer habits. They were the colour of the rich red soil and named Daisy, Buttercup, Clover and Rose. They were let out to run with a bull of the same breed once a year, after which they sometimes went into calf. Their calves usually joined the big herd, and Daisy or whoever would come back to give milk for another year. There were always four cows and they always took these names and, when one went to slaughter, another took its place. I loved them dearly but didn't weep when I lost one, because I knew I'd get just as attached to the next in line, and that that was the way of the world.

I thought it best to tell Mrs Bonny that I would not be in the dairy very much that afternoon. ‘I have to take one of the cows for a walk,' I explained, hiding a smile.

‘Yes, and after that I suppose you'll take one of the sheep for a ride in the carriage,' she replied sharply.

‘No. Really, Mrs Bonny. I saw Miss Alice and Miss Sophia earlier and they said . . .' I lowered my voice and whispered the rest, and when I got to the
tableau vivant
business I hoped she wouldn't know what it meant so I could have the pleasure of explaining the term to her, but she did.

‘Attitudes!' she said. ‘Young women standing about pretending to be paintings or acting out lines of poesy. Heavens above! I didn't think it would ever reach Devonshire.'

I nodded. ‘I have to get a cow used to obeying instructions, and on the first of May it has to be taken into the music room and hidden behind a screen.'

‘Whatever will Society think of next?' Mrs Bonny flapped her hands in the air as if trying to dispel the very idea of a cow. ‘I don't want to know. You must do what the young ladies ask – but don't tell me about it. If Lady Cecilia asks questions afterwards I want to be able to say that I knew nothing.'

‘So, may I go now and begin its . . . training?'

She gave a nod, then changed it to a shake of her head. ‘Oh, I don't know, I'm sure.'

I went.

Agreeable though my work was, I was also very happy to have a reason for escaping it and taking a walk with one of the cows, for that gave me the perfect excuse to go down to the river and see Will.

He laughed to see me leading Daisy on a rope, but looked almost indignant when I told him the reason for it and the lengths the Misses were going to for a few minutes' entertainment.

‘ 'Tis called a . . . a
tableau vivant
,' I said carefully, trying to remember the shape Miss Alice's lips had made when she'd said those words.

‘No matter what they call it, 'tis not right. Your young ladies are to have gowns and bonnets made especially to play-act? Not to keep them warm or dry, but to wear for only a few minutes and then discard?'

I found myself defending them. ‘If they wish to, why not? They are a wealthy family and may surely do whatever they like with their money.'

‘But is it proper that they should scatter it on frivolities when so many are starving?'

‘The dressmaker will be pleased; she'll profit from it,' I pointed out. ‘And the draper and milliner.'

It was very like Will to wax indignant like this. He'd not had an easy life, I knew; he'd helped his father on the ferry since he was nine or ten, but when he was fourteen his father had died, leaving him in charge of both the rowing boat and his youngest sister, Betsy (for his ma had died in childbed). Betsy had gone to live with their older sister, Kate, and Will had come to live in the ferryman's shelter at the river's edge. His new home was little more than a few planks of wood, chill and bare, but it meant he was always there, ready and available to ferry people across the river for a penny each way.

Just then, protesting about the Misses' gowns, he looked so handsome, with his eyes so blue in his tanned-by-the-wind face, that I could not help but smile at him.

‘Don't let's argue,' I said. ‘I see little enough of you that we should have cross words about something so silly – something that is nothing to do with either of us but only concerns lords and ladies.'

He frowned still and I made a face at him, and after a moment his mood changed, and he smiled, caught hold of my free hand and kissed it. I believe he would have kissed me on the lips then – and I was willing enough – but we heard a cry of ‘Will! Oh, Will!' from further along the river and turned to see Betsy running through the trees from the direction of the village.

Now, I loved Betsy as if she were my own little sister, but I have to say that my heart sank on seeing her, for I hardly ever got time on my own with Will. Although Betsy had lived with Kate and her husband for three years, the couple had four young children of their own and not much time to bother about an extra one. Consequently, Betsy doted on Will (and he on her) and she spent most of her waking hours with him down by the river, splashing through the reeds, chasing insects to feed to the frogs, climbing trees and playing house.

She reached us and Will picked her up and swung her round. When he'd put her down and she'd caught her breath, her first question was to ask why I had a cow with me.

‘I've got Daisy in tow because I'm training her,' I explained. ‘She's going to be acting in a play and I have to teach her how to behave herself, how to walk daintily and come to me when I call.'

‘A play?' She frowned at me. ‘What? Like in church at Easter?'

‘Something like that,' I said. ‘You can help me get her ready, if you like. You can walk her up and down along the riverbank and . . .' I tried to think of what else an obedient cow would do, ‘. . . get her to answer to her name.'

Betsy looked from me to Will. She was scarce five years old but she knew that I was trying to be rid of her.

‘It's for Miss Sophia and Miss Alice,' I said persuasively, for although Betsy had only ever viewed these two young ladies from afar, I knew she very much admired their gowns, their hair and their fashionable demeanour. Quite often, when the Misses went down the drive in their smart little carriage with parasols aloft, I saw Betsy peeping over the wall at them.

‘Is it really for them?' she asked breathlessly.

‘Honestly and truly.' I crossed my fingers and added, ‘And Miss Sophia asked especially that Miss Betsy Villiers should help in the training of Daisy.'

Betsy fell for it and, taking the rope from me, she marched off with Daisy. When she got to the trees we heard her say, ‘Daisy! We're going to walk along here and when I say
Stop!
you must be a good cow and stop walking.'

Laughing, Will and I went to sit in his rowing boat and, after we'd shared a kiss or two, he started talking about the subject he lately held most dear to his heart: London. Where, apparently, the streets were paved with gold and every man could live like a king.

‘The watermen on the Thames earn four pence a trip and there are always customers. It's possible to earn ten shillings a day. A day!' he repeated. ‘If I saved I'd soon have enough money to buy a little cottage.'

‘What am I supposed to do while you're off in London earning all this money?' I asked. I looked at him coyly. ‘And what if I have my head turned by a visiting peddler or a lad at the Friday market?'

‘You wouldn't be here to have your head turned – you'd be by my side. You'd have to come to London with me.'

‘To London? What would a milkmaid do in London? 'Tis all gin shops, taverns and coffee houses.'

‘For certain it is not!' he said. ‘People live in houses there, just as they do here. And where there are people there are servants – and milkmaids. You'll easily find employment.'

I shook my head. ‘I don't think I'd like it there,' I said. ‘I've seen pictures . . . there are robbers and footpads and a deal of noise and clamour. People get knocked over in the streets and mown down by horses. Besides, I'd never see my family.'