JANE

Dinner Party

Adjusting my apron nervously, I hovered in the kitchen ready to take the appetisers out to Master Ward and his new wife, along with an assortment of guests. I could smell in the air a divine aroma of veal, kidney pie, stuffed peppers, roast potatoes and apple sauce, steamed vegetables, warm bread and bubbling gravy, all culminating into a scent so pleasant I filled my lungs with it. Undoubtedly, there would be leftovers, and I had been informed that the staff were to dine on them once Master Ward and his guests had had their fill, and on the condition that he did not require the chef to save any offcuts of meat for his lunch the following day. I hoped the guests weren't hungry, for I was starving and the bustling kitchen had only increased my appetite.

Indeed, I was not accustomed to such an exquisite array of delicacies; my humble life as a servant girl in the north of England had been interrupted by my mother's passing six months ago, requiring me to journey south in an attempt to seek out more generously paying work. I had now lived two decades, an everlasting reminder of the demise of my childhood as well as my duty, as I had promised my mother before consumption wrapped It's purple fingers around her neck one last time and squeezed the last ounce of life that was left in her poor, withered body; to make something of myself. She had insisted I continue working to keep my head above water until I find a man who could claim me, marry me and have me bear his children, with the eldest of which eventually inheriting any meagre property my husband had to his name. What else was I to do, except promise my bed-ridden mother on the cusp of death itself, that I would do nothing but honour her wishes? So, in an attempt to do just that, I moved south six months later, where I would find myself in the employment of Master Ward.

Master Ward, an extremely wealthy, middle-aged member of the aristocracy, had inherited Branwell Estate at the young age of twenty-five, a beautiful grange consisting of Branwell House itself, the servant's quarters, the stables, the greenhouses, the orchard, the parish, and acres upon acres of garden and forest, along with a small lake. Mr Ward had recently been widowed, and this evening marked the arrival of his newly wedded wife, and her first night in her new home. I had been employed, as Mr Aird had seen it fit that the place ran more smoothly under the care of a greater assembly of servants, so I, like Mrs Ward, was new to the ways of Branwell House. My usual duties were to involve general housekeeping and waitressing. My first night, however, had thrust me into the jaws of a full-scale dinner party, with each guest expectantly waiting to receive their first course.

Each waitress carried four dishes, two of which were balanced precariously on the forearms. I looked around nervously, before deciding upon taking just two dishes. Perhaps I would attempt a higher number when there wouldn't be so many guests to witness me spilling salmon canapés all over Master Ward's Persian rugs.

I followed the waiting staff through to the dining room. I noticed Mr Ward right away, seated firmly at the head of the candle-lit oak table. And there, to his left, sat his newly-wedded wife.

She was the most beautiful woman in the room. She would, I was sure of it, be the most beautiful woman in every room in which she found herself. I surveyed her at a glance, from under my eyelashes, as I moved to serve the expectant guests. She looked not a day past twenty-two, for indeed, twenty-two she was. Her skin was a porcelain white, and the elevations of her cheekbones, collarbone and narrow shoulders were highlighted effortlessly by the candlelight. Her shiny black hair, pulled back to the nape of her thin neck, contrasted her piercingly blue eyes. She sat upright, yet seemed shrunken and fearful. Her aura was that of one who had once been full of vigour and zeal, yet the constrictions of her inevitable position as wife to a seasoned widower such as Master Ward had compressed her into the one thing she had always tried to avoid becoming: a lady. Was I the only one who saw her soul aflame in her eyes? The intelligence, the calculation, the wit, as the corner of her mouth was pulled into a forced smile directed towards her husband who was pompously paying his compliments to the chef for creating such a remarkable feast?

I kept my eyes down, and set two plates down in front of the guests opposite her. I couldn't help but glance gingerly up at her for a moment, when our eyes locked. Her gaze had the most profound effect on me, my chest tightened whilst I felt myself blush. Did she just smile at me? I looked away awkwardly, tucking a strand of curly hair behind my ear and bustling briskly back out to the kitchen, where I attempted to regain my composure.