housekeeper’s grating blocked up when she first got here so that the bells wouldn’t disturb her.’
‘Yes, there was never any doubt as to who was in charge,’ William agreed, and pointed Josephine in the direction of the kitchen.
In spite of Mrs Snipe’s reservations, the servants’ quarters seemed to be tidy and well ordered. The kitchen was not especially large – about twenty feet by twenty – but the ceilings were high and every inch of space had been put to good use. Sturdy wooden pegs were everywhere, set along the beams to hold pots and pans, as well as a few provisions – onions, garlic, a large flitch of bacon – which were presumably needed close at hand for regular use. How little must have changed here over the years, Josephine thought; she might easily be looking at an Edwardian or even a Victorian kitchen. Fascinated by the scale of some of the implements – in one corner, there was a slice of tree trunk bound with iron hoops to make a fine chopping surface; in another, a massive mortar stood mounted in a heavy wooden stand, with the long handle of its pestle held in a high wall bracket above – she realised that the Snipe must have a physical strength to match her spirit, and her opinion of the Motleys’ cook – which was already high – went up a notch or two. In the grate, a big black kettle hung on an iron bracketover the coals, but the fire was beginning to die down and the chairs on either side of the hearth remained empty. Sheila was still there, scrubbing down the large oak table ready for the next morning, but there was no sign of Mrs Snipe.
‘She’s through there,’ the girl said, nodding to one of three doors that opened off the kitchen. ‘Popped through to her sitting room, then told me to put the kettle on. I thought we were having tea, but she’s told me to go when I’ve finished this.’ She looked at the sherry in Josephine’s hands. ‘You go through – I’m sure she won’t mind being interrupted for that.’
Feeling a little like the proverbial fly, Josephine did as she was told. She wasn’t surprised to see that the Snipe’s personal domain – at the end of a short corridor from the kitchen and well placed to overlook other areas of work – was a spacious, comfortable sitting room, plainly furnished but lacking nothing, and rivalling William’s library for faded but cheerful warmth. There was a jolly wall-to-wall carpet, matched with pleasant chintz curtains which had probably hung higher up the house in their younger days, and a pile or two of cushions made the old chairs look loved and inviting. The room was lined on two sides with well-stocked linen and china closets and, on another, with a mending table and desk which stood side by side. On top of the desk, grouped affectionately in the middle, there was a small collection of photographs of the Motley family which Josephine would have loved to explore – had she not realised immediately that she was intruding. At the round central table, where tea cups had been pushed to one side to make room for a large pan of water, Mrs Snipe was bending over another woman, gently bathing her face.
It was the other woman who noticed her first. She jumped up from her chair, nearly knocking the pan over as she did so,and turned quickly away from Josephine – but not quickly enough to hide her injuries. Her left eye was so badly swollen that she couldn’t open it, and a cut to her lip had covered her jaw and collar with blood. Startled, the Snipe looked up.
‘Miss Tey,’ she said, horrified, and Josephine realised it was the first time she had ever seen the cook at a disadvantage. ‘I didn’t see you there. Is there something I can get for you?’
Surely they weren’t going to pretend that nothing was wrong, Josephine thought. That was ridiculous. ‘Has there been an accident?’ she asked. ‘That cut looks like it might need stitches. Do you want me to call a doctor?’
‘No, please don’t.’
‘Yes, there was never any doubt as to who was in charge,’ William agreed, and pointed Josephine in the direction of the kitchen.
In spite of Mrs Snipe’s reservations, the servants’ quarters seemed to be tidy and well ordered. The kitchen was not especially large – about twenty feet by twenty – but the ceilings were high and every inch of space had been put to good use. Sturdy wooden pegs were everywhere, set along the beams to hold pots and pans, as well as a few provisions – onions, garlic, a large flitch of bacon – which were presumably needed close at hand for regular use. How little must have changed here over the years, Josephine thought; she might easily be looking at an Edwardian or even a Victorian kitchen. Fascinated by the scale of some of the implements – in one corner, there was a slice of tree trunk bound with iron hoops to make a fine chopping surface; in another, a massive mortar stood mounted in a heavy wooden stand, with the long handle of its pestle held in a high wall bracket above – she realised that the Snipe must have a physical strength to match her spirit, and her opinion of the Motleys’ cook – which was already high – went up a notch or two. In the grate, a big black kettle hung on an iron bracketover the coals, but the fire was beginning to die down and the chairs on either side of the hearth remained empty. Sheila was still there, scrubbing down the large oak table ready for the next morning, but there was no sign of Mrs Snipe.
‘She’s through there,’ the girl said, nodding to one of three doors that opened off the kitchen. ‘Popped through to her sitting room, then told me to put the kettle on. I thought we were having tea, but she’s told me to go when I’ve finished this.’ She looked at the sherry in Josephine’s hands. ‘You go through – I’m sure she won’t mind being interrupted for that.’
Feeling a little like the proverbial fly, Josephine did as she was told. She wasn’t surprised to see that the Snipe’s personal domain – at the end of a short corridor from the kitchen and well placed to overlook other areas of work – was a spacious, comfortable sitting room, plainly furnished but lacking nothing, and rivalling William’s library for faded but cheerful warmth. There was a jolly wall-to-wall carpet, matched with pleasant chintz curtains which had probably hung higher up the house in their younger days, and a pile or two of cushions made the old chairs look loved and inviting. The room was lined on two sides with well-stocked linen and china closets and, on another, with a mending table and desk which stood side by side. On top of the desk, grouped affectionately in the middle, there was a small collection of photographs of the Motley family which Josephine would have loved to explore – had she not realised immediately that she was intruding. At the round central table, where tea cups had been pushed to one side to make room for a large pan of water, Mrs Snipe was bending over another woman, gently bathing her face.
It was the other woman who noticed her first. She jumped up from her chair, nearly knocking the pan over as she did so,and turned quickly away from Josephine – but not quickly enough to hide her injuries. Her left eye was so badly swollen that she couldn’t open it, and a cut to her lip had covered her jaw and collar with blood. Startled, the Snipe looked up.
‘Miss Tey,’ she said, horrified, and Josephine realised it was the first time she had ever seen the cook at a disadvantage. ‘I didn’t see you there. Is there something I can get for you?’
Surely they weren’t going to pretend that nothing was wrong, Josephine thought. That was ridiculous. ‘Has there been an accident?’ she asked. ‘That cut looks like it might need stitches. Do you want me to call a doctor?’
‘No, please don’t.’
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