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The pithy Miss Appleton, she of the governess tome, had compared her charges to opening blossoms of morality, to be shielded from the scorch of error until they burst into maturity.
Matilda wondered whether she herself had yet to burst forth.
A faint glow slanted through the May greyness, the downstairs shutters parting to reveal a buxom female with apron and lantern, hazy light spilling upon the plants still struggling to leaf.
Thank the heavens, and Matilda stiffly rose from the stone bench, gathered her carpet bag, strode for the steps and confronted the door, praying the housekeeper would allow her entry. Frequently such women guarded the household with hostile contempt for both employer and fellow employees alike.
After a timid knock…then a strident blow, it opened a sliver.
The buxom female scowled with suspicious brow and thinned lips, a rolling pin held aloft.
“What yer want?”
“Er… I am the new governess. I realise the hour is a little discourteous but…”
Matilda trailed off as she was gathered into that buxom bosom perfumed with flour and sugar.
“Yer poor child. Look at yer, as cold as Milling Mike after ten rounds with Big Bill.”
Matilda floundered.
Her parents had never been ones for embracing. They’d been loving without doubt but undemonstrative – a pat on the head for a book well read had been positively melodramatic. Her friend Evelyn oft placed a comforting arm, but Matilda had forever felt peculiar, not knowing where to put her hands, her body stiffening with the close contact.
Such warmth from a stranger should have caused an upset, a taut stiffening of spine and sinew, but after the frigid weather, the fright of Green Park and her cousin’s callous dictates, she wished to bury deep into this motherly bosom and plead for hot tea.
Which doubtless Miss Appleton would tartly decry as unbefitting of a proper governess on her first day.
“I am fine, thank you,” she muttered into white cotton. “Just rather…chilled.”
The woman drew back, and if ever a countenance epitomised homely, it was this one. But not in a plain way. No, she radiated joy and welcome, eyes blue as bilberries.
“Mr H suspected yer might be early. Alert as a bull in Maytime, that boy.”
Matilda opened her mouth, then closed it.
With a tongue chatting nineteen to the dozen, the housekeeper-cum-cook, a Mrs Havistock but call me Betty, bustled her to a kitchen and placed her before the open fire, causing those icy toes to twist and tingle.
“Mr H said he wanted to see yer the moment yer arrived, but them at Billingsgate could hear that belly rumbling so he’ll have to wait.” And Mrs Havistock but call me Betty opened the oven to produce a plate of hot crumpets, followed by a ladle full of chocolate from a pot upon the range.
Never had Matilda been allowed to partake of breakfast in a kitchen before, and although the chair was without a velvet cushion and the table of bare wood, it was perhaps the cosiest location she’d ever had the pleasure to sit in.
Nattering as though they were bosom friends, Mrs Havistock but call me Betty commenced making bread – bemoaning the bitter weather, the coal smoke that stained the washing and how Parliament didn’t give tuppence for common folk like them.
“Now,” she pronounced, pounding dough as though she ought to be in the Boxing Academy instead, “Mr H is sparring upstairs in the practice room but I’ll get flour on the rugs, so it’s one flight up and turn left.” A speculative gaze perused. “Take yer hat off, dearie, and yer pelisse. I’ve had the fires lit since dawn.”
“Oh, but…” Beneath the pelisse was that brash buttercup-yellow day dress – although ’twas true she was toastier than Betty’s buns. “I am awaiting collection of my governess attire,” she fibbed, peeling off her coat to reveal the vividness.
“Dunno why, yer could charm them bees from their hive in that dress.”
“I suppose this colour does rather resemble a pollen-filled flower of spring.”
Betty stared. “Girlie, where have yer been all yer life?”
“12 George Street.”
A shake of head and Matilda was shooed from the kitchen by cumulus clouds of flour.
In the hallway, she dallied, taking stock of the curious layout, as in any normal abode the kitchens were hidden in the basement. A door to the right lured – which as a rule would lead to the drawing room and parlours – but the odd grunt of pain could be heard from beyond, so she supposed it led to the Academy.
