Orphans from the Storm. Penny Jordan
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bother exploring them. A good housekeeper would keep a domain like this well stocked and spotlessly clean, and it would be run meticulously in an ordered routine, to provide for the comfort of its master and mistress and their family. If the kitchen was anything to judge from, this house did not provide comfort for anyone.
In the back scullery Marianne found a sink piled high with dirty pots. The pain in her ankle had turned into a dull ache, so she found a small pan, unused and clean enough to need only rinsing under a tap before she put some milk in it to heat up for the baby. He was so very, very frail. Tears filled her eyes.
Ten minutes later she was seated in the rocking chair she had drawn up to the range, feeding the baby small pieces of bread soaked in the warm milk into which she had melted a teaspoon of honey and beaten a large fresh egg. He was so weak that he didn’t even have the energy to suck on the food, and Marianne’s hand shook as she gently squeezed so that the egg and milk mixture ran into his mouth.
It was over an hour before she was satisfied with the amount of nourishment he had been able to take, and then she removed the swaddling bands to wash him gently in a bowl of warm water in front of the range. After she had dried him, she used a clean cloth she had found to make a fresh clout for him. He was asleep before she had finished, and Marianne put him down in a wicker basket she had found in the larder, which she had lined with soft clothes she had warmed on the range.
Was it her imagination, or was there actually a hint of warm pink colour in his cheeks, as though finally he might begin to thrive?
Marianne turned her attention to the range, ignoring the aching misery of her ankle as she poked and raked at the old ashes until she had got the fire blazing brightly and the discarded ash swept into a bucket ready to be disposed of. An empty hod containing only a couple of pieces of coke told her what the range burned, but whilst in a properly organised household such a hod—and indeed more than one—would have been ready filled with coke, so that the range could be stoked up for the night, in this household no such preparation had been made.
There was no help for it. Marianne recognised that she was going to have to go out into the yard and find the coke store, otherwise the range would go out.
The wind had picked up during the time she had been inside, and it tore at her cloak, whipping it round her as she held a lantern aloft, the better to see where the coke supply might be. To her relief she found it on her third search of the yard. But again, just like the kitchen, the store was neglected, and without a cover to keep the rain from the coke. The handle of the shovel she had to use to fill the hob was gritty, but she set her jaw and ignored the discomfort.
She had just finished filling the hod when she felt something cold and wet slither against her ankles. She had lived in poverty long enough to know the creatures that haunted its darkness, nor did it surprise her that there should be rats so close to the house. Instead of screaming and running away, she gripped the shovel more firmly and then raised it, ready to despatch the too-bold vermin.
‘Miaouww.’
It was a cat, not a rat. Half wild, starving, and probably infested with fleas. Marianne tried to shoo it away, but as though it sensed her instinctive sympathy for it the cat refused to go.
Perhaps she would put out a saucer of milk for it if it was still there in the morning, Marianne decided, as she shooed it away a second time. She started pulling the hod back across the yard, but its weight forced her to rest several times before she finally reached the back door. She leaned against it, then pushed it open and dragged the hod into the kitchen. Her ankle was still swollen and aching, but at least she had not twisted it so severely that she could not walk, she reflected gratefully.
First thing in the morning she intended to find out if the Master of Bellfield employed an outside man to do such things as bring in the kindling and fuel to keep the fires burning. If he didn’t, then she was going to insist that he provided her with a wheelbarrow, she decided breathlessly as she opened the range doors and stoked up the fire. Properly banked down it should stay in until the morning.
She stood up and stepped back from the fire to check on the baby, who thankfully was still sleeping peacefully. When she looked back towards the fire she saw to her bemusement that the cat was sitting in front of it, basking in its warmth. It must have slipped in without her noticing when she had brought in the hod. Its fur was a silky soft grey, thick and long, and beautifully marked. Marianne stared at it in astonishment as it looked back at her with an unblinking gaze. She frowned, remembering how long ago, as a child, her aunt had taken her to visit a friend of hers. She had been entranced by the cat that lived there because of its beautiful long coat. It had been a special and very expensive, very aristocratic breed, she remembered her aunt’s friend informing them.
But, no matter how aristocratic its coat, the cat couldn’t possibly stay inside. Marianne went briskly towards it, scooping it up. Beneath its thick coat she could feel its bones and its thinness. Surely that wasn’t silent reproach she could see in those eyes? Marianne hesitated. It wouldn’t hurt to give it a saucer of milk and let it stay inside for a while. It would be company for her whilst she set to work cleaning the kitchen.
Telling herself that she was far too soft-hearted, Marianne returned the cat to the hearth and poured it some milk.
Even the way it lapped from the saucer was delicate and dainty, and when it had finished it set to immediately cleaning its face, before curling up into a tight ball and going straight off to sleep.
Lucky cat, Marianne reflected, as she covered the baby’s basket with some muslin netting, just in case the cat should be tempted to climb into the basket whilst her back was turned. Marianne had never forgotten hearing her aunt’s cook telling the most dreadful story of how in one place she had worked the mistress of the house had gone mad with grief after her pet cat had got into the nursery and lain on top of the baby, smothering it to death.
The pans of water she had set to boil whilst she had been out filling the hod were now bubbling and spitting with the hot water she needed to start washing the dirty crockery that seemed to have been left where it had been used. Marianne had no idea how anyone could tolerate so much disorder.
It took her the best part of another hour, but at length the crockery was washed and dried and put back on dresser shelves that she’d had to wipe down first to remove the dust and grease.
She was so tired—too tired now to want to eat the bread and jam that had made her mouth water so much earlier. But she could not sleep yet. There was still the table to scrub down and bleach, and the floor to be cleaned, the range to be stoked up again for the morning, and the baby to be fed again—if he could be coaxed into taking a little more bread. Refusing to give in to her own exhaustion, Marianne set to work on the table.
The mixture of strong carbolic soap and bleach stung her eyes as she scrubbed, and turned her hands red and raw, but there was still a sense of accomplishment and pleasure in being able to stand back from the table to survey her finished handiwork.
The glow from the oil lamps was now reflecting off a row of clean shiny pans above the range, and the air in the kitchen smelled fresh instead of stuffy. The baby gave a small thin cry, signalling that he was waking up, and the cat, no doubt disturbed by the sound, uncurled itself and stretched.
Washing her hands carefully, Marianne headed for the pantry—and gave a small shriek as she opened the door to see three or four mice scattering in the lantern light, a tell-tale trail of flour trickling from one of the many bags of foodstuffs stacked on the larder floor.
A streak of grey flashed past her to pounce on a laggard mouse, before despatching it with swift efficiency and then padding towards Marianne to drop the small body at her feet.
‘So, you’re a good mouser, are you? Well, then, between us we should be able to get this kitchen into a proper state. That’s if the Master of Bellfield will allow us to stay,’ she warned the cat, which, having accepted its due praise, retrieved its trophy—much to Marianne’s relief.
The baby’s basket would be safer tonight placed up on the table, she decided a few minutes later, watching in relief as the baby fed sleepily on his milk and egg bread. Marianne