Thornfield Hall by Jane Stubbs Page B

cleaning ate their meals with us in the servants’ hall. We had to go back to our formal ways – and highly uncomfortable it all was. We had to call each other by our official names as we went about our duties.
    I entertained Monsieur Alphonse to dinner in my room as etiquette demanded. Mary obliged by sending us the worst food she could create in the hope of encouraging him to leave. We fed him porridge, boiled mutton, cabbage and the coarsest bread we could find. Whilst he struggled to swallow the tasteless slops and chew the hard tack we offered him, Grace slid secretly down the back stairs for her bread and cheese and a pint of porter.
    To keep our monsieur busy we set him to sorting out the clothes accumulated by two generations of Rochester men. He tutted and fussed something shocking. He ran the garments through his fingers lamenting the old-fashioned styles and the heavy material. He made the mistake of criticizing the locally woven broadcloth that had clothed the Rochesters for generations. His biggest mistake was to do this in the hearing of Old John. The coachman promptly joined with gusto in the unofficial campaign to make life as unpleasant as possible for poor Monsieur Alphonse.
    â€˜Master’ll want you to ride with him when he goes to hounds,’ Old John informed the valet with malice aforethought. ‘Now he’s got his own gentleman he’ll want him out in the field with him. All the gentry bring their personal servants. Case they’re needed. Help carry them home if they breaks their necks.’
    The little man blenched so thoroughly he was positively transparent.
    â€˜We’d better be thinking of a mount for you.’ Old John was relentless in his torture. ‘Nothing too big, but able to handle the hedges. A good jumper. I’ve got a nice little filly would just suit you. A bit young and frisky but she’ll soon learn. Come round stables this afternoon and give her a try.’
    By the end of the week I was beginning to feel sorry for Monsieur Alphonse, especially when John the young footman told his story to me and Sam. There’d been a knock on his door at night. He’d opened it to find the little Frenchman on the threshold. For some reason Sam chose this moment to slap his forehead as if he’d forgotten to tell us something very important.
    â€˜I don’t know why he came to me,’ John continued. ‘Except I’m the only one as hasn’t been actively nasty to him. I’ve not spat in his food or terrified him with horses. Anyway he wanted to know where he was. Poor chap didn’t seem to know. I told him Yorkshire. I had to explain to him it was a whole big county. All he wanted to know was how far he was from London. And how soon could he get there. From London he wants to go to Dover. Apparently there’s a boat that’ll take him back to his own country.’
    We looked to Sam for enlightenment. Sam had sailed the world. He would know where London was.
    â€˜Must be several hundred miles. Old master used to do it by post chaise in two days, but that were pushing it. He’d be black and blue from the shaking about. And it costs. Specially for a seat inside. It’s not so much to ride on top but it’s cold and wet up there. I’m beginning to feel sorry for the poor little beggar.’
    â€˜If only the railway had got to York. They say them steam trains can go at thirty miles an hour.’
    â€˜If wishes were horses then beggars would ride,’ I told John. I was brisk with him as I felt bad about the way we had behaved to Monsieur Alphonse. He had come to us as a stranger and we had not welcomed him in. It was time to offer him a friendly hand. ‘Tell the little chap, if he has the fare, he can get the stagecoach from the turnpike road. We’ll find a way to get him there.’
    â€˜There must be a chaise or a cart going to the turnpike road soon. Stands to reason. Someone from round here