sure what.
Pamela rose to her feet. “Shall we go for a stroll in the garden?” she suggested. “There is a clear sky and a full moon. I think it would be very beautiful.”
Freddie sighed with relief. Bertie’s face broke into a smile. Violet was obliged to agree, more so, civility demanded it.
*
The following morning Brodie woke Pamela with a hot cup of tea, and drew the curtains to a brilliant spring day, with light and shadow chasing each other across the land. A huge aspen, green with leaf, shivered in the breeze and the garden glistened from overnight rain. Pamela’s clothes were ready, since she had decided the previous evening what she would wear. After a few exchanges of pleasantries Brodie left to run the bath, and came face to face with Colette on the landing, looking efficient and very pretty, and to Brodie’s eyes, a trifle smug.
She looked even more pleased with herself two hours later when Brodie encountered her in the kitchen. She had just come in from the back door and, glancing towards it, Brodie saw a nice looking, if rather foreign, young man in the yard, somewhere between the coal chute and the rubbish bins. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, as though undecided whether to leave or return, but Colette did not look back, and indeed she flushed with colour as she caught Brodie’s eye. But there was no way to know if it was annoyance or embarrassment. Brodie thought the former.
A junior housemaid, a girl of about twelve, passed by with a bucket full of damp tea leaves for cleaning the carpet. They were excellent for picking up the dust. She nodded to Brodie respectfully, and walked past Colette as if she had not seen her. Brodie assumed she was another victim of the superiority of all things French. What did the French clean their carpets with? She had heard they did not drink tea! Coffee grounds would hardly serve. The very thought of it was unpleasant.
The cook was giving orders for the day’s menus. She was a buxom woman with a face which atfirst glance seemed benign. But Brodie knew her well enough to be aware that a fierce temper lurked behind the wide, blue eyes and generous mouth. At the moment it was drawn tight as she caught Colette’s smirk at the mention of custard for the suet pudding. “Yes?” she said challengingly.
Colette shrugged. “In France we ’ave more of the fruit and less of the suet,” she said distinctly, but without looking at anyone. “It is lighter, you understand? Better for the digestion, and of course for the form.” She was petite herself, beautifully curved, and moved almost like a dancer on a stage. Brodie felt a little squat and clumsy beside her. “Although you could be right,” Colette went in with a delicate little shiver. “After all, the climate, it is so damp! Maybe you need all the suet fat to keep you warm.” And without allowing time for anyone to think of a retaliation, she swept out, giving her skirts a little flick as she turned the corner.
“Oh!” the cook let out a snort of exasperation. “That girl! I swear if she comes in here one more time and tells me how good French cooking is, I’ll … I’ll … I’ll not be responsible!”
The kitchen maid muttered her agreement and heartfelt support.
Stockwell arrived looking portentous. It was his job to keep the entire household in order, and domestic difficulties were his to deal with. He had anticipated trouble in his address to the servants in general, in this morning’s prayers before breakfast, but it appeared that might prove insufficient. He should have known the cook by now, but habit and duty were too strong. “I am sure you will always be responsible, Mrs Wimpole,” he said smoothly. “You are the last person to let us down by behaving less than perfectly.” He straightened his shoulders even further. “We must not allow other nationalities to think we do not know how to conduct ourselves … even if they do not.”
Mrs Wimpole snorted again and banged her wooden spoon so hard on the kitchen table she all but broke it. The scullery-maid dropped a string of onions and gave a yelp.
“We all have our own difficulties to bear,” Stockwell said sententiously.
“Leastways Mr ’Arrison in’t French,” the bootboy said venomously, looking at Stockwell as boldly as he dared. “And no visitin’ General in’t makin’ a machine wot’il take away yer job