Fallow Downs

The cold winter breeze nipped my fingers as I bustled through the busy marketplace. How I wished mother had sent me mittens in her last mail, instead of a new petticoat. Currently lost in my own thoughts, I felt something hard knock my shoulder forcefully, at causing me to drop the basket of vegetables I had nestled on the crook of my arm.

“Stupid wench girl”, I heard a low voice mutter, but with the sea of people flowing past, it could have been anyone.

Scrabbling on my hands and knees, I struggled to salvage my purchases –before any became damaged and cook boiled my head!- then hurried along, trying to push my way, once again, through the market street.

By the time I arrived at the back door, I was dishevelled and out of breath. I distinctly heard the sharp click of Mrs. Clements heels, so hurried myself out of my shawl and made a beeline for the kitchen.

“Good heavens girl, what on earth has happened to you?” I was met by cooks concerned, yet stern face as she ushered the basket of vegetables from my grasp.

“Market”, “dropped” “ran” were the only coherent things I could force out of my burning throat as I struggled to catch my breath.

Cook gave me a sympathetic look, as if to say “Whatever shall we do with you my dear girl?” but abruptly stopped as the sharp click, click filled the kitchen.

“Ah, I see the vegetables have finally arrived. What in God’s name were you doing at that market, girl?” The voice was shrill, nasal and cross. Mrs. Clements.

Don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Clements is good at what she does, housekeeping, I mean. She and Mr. Reeves manage Fallow Downs like one of those new-fangled steam trains.  I have only been in service for a year or so, so I have no right to be so rude about her. Some of the things the other help say are enough to make you turn crimson upon hearing. I try not to get too involved though. Who knows what sort of trouble it might land me in.

I looked up at the tall, bony woman briefly. She held her hand on her hip, rather impatiently, and the glare she was sending me felt as if I could burn to a crisp, right on this very spot. Luckily, a shrill ringing broke out through the kitchen, and Mrs. Clements took that as her cue to turn on her heel and march out of the room. It was only when I felt cook’s firm hand on my shoulder, that I realised I still hadn’t moved from this particular spot. With one last glance at cook, I scurried my mouse-like self off to the servants’ quarters, hopefully with enough time to make myself presentable for the dinner service.

Feeling tired already, I sat on my bed –if you could even call it one- and undid my hair from the tight ribbon. Working in a place such as Fallow Downs, one gets in to a routine, so readying for dinner becomes such a monotonous task.

Not like the mistresses upstairs. Sometimes I linger outside the doorway just to hear the girlish laughter and stories as the ladies’ maids help them ready for some important event. With exquisite gowns and make up, getting ready must be such excitement. But little servant maids should not get carried away in their own heads. Snapping back to reality, I checked myself briefly in the dusty mirror, before hurrying off to the dining room, most likely to light the fireplace.