An Appetite for Violets Read online

  ‘It is her book,’ I said in wonder. ‘Is it everything she made?’

  ‘It is more,’ she said, her eyes flashing bright. ‘Her own mother’s art, their housekeeper’s, and friends’. Perhaps a hundred years of women’s stuff, all written clear as day.’

  ‘Hidden away. Of course it would be here.’ I reached and stroked its dusty cover.

  I didn’t truly understand, yet, what it was. As well as Lady Maria’s receipts, I glimpsed Remedies and Physick for Diverse Ailments and parts copied out on many interesting matters: The Art of Dining Genteely, The Right Behaviour of a Gentlewoman, How to Judge a Proposal of Marriage, and many more.

  ‘You have started adding your own receipts? You are not so ill, then?’ I noticed my old cook’s box of scraps standing at her bedside, and felt a spark of hope. If she was not so ill, I was not so great a traitor.

  ‘It is because I am ill I write.’ She sighed. ‘It is time to preserve my work here. You don’t think it too high-handed to add my own stuff, Biddy? A plain old cook like me?’

  I stroked her soft cheek, sprinkled with moles like furry velvet.

  ‘It’s the right thing to do. Your receipts may not be noble, but are the best I ever tasted. But are there violet pastilles?’ Slowly she licked her finger and began to turn the pages. They were all in a jumble, written on whatever day the dish appeared in Lady Maria’s life.

  ‘Violets,’ I insisted, and grappled to turn the pages faster. ‘Ah, there it is,’ I squealed, reading upside-down. It was an old receipt in the elegant hand of Lady Maria herself. ‘How to distill violets, to preserve, to candy and – here, to make violet pastilles.’

  Mrs G gave me the list of items and we found we had all the makings about us. As for the news of my marriage to Jem, that would just have to wait. First I set out rows of tallow flickering along the shelves, till the room glowed like a fire-lit cave. Then I set a flame beneath a trivet, that soon danced as crimson as the devil’s smithy.

  Mrs G had risen from her couch and sat quietly with the book on her lap, tracing the writing with her finger and slowly nodding her white-capped head.

  ‘First, take one pound of gum dragon and steep it in rosewater,’ she began. I found a jar of hard gum and tried my best to rid it of twigs and dust. Next, I made a sugar syrup and added violet essence till it was rich purple. All looked well, we agreed.

  ‘It must be boiled to Candy Height,’ she said.

  Soon the sugar frothed and pulled away from the pan’s sides. It was a rare skill of Mrs Garland’s, this transformation of sugar. In her box of scraps lay all The Six Tests for Sugar, from making syrup to forging hard crack toffee.

  ‘Yet now I would give all my knowledge to have but one sweetmeat,’ she said. ‘I read in this book today of the Manus Christi, a sweetmeat like Jesus’s own hand made of sugar, gold and pearls. No better cure is known for any ailment.’

  Then, remembering the mixture, she called out, ‘Try the test for Thread.’ I lifted a drop of purple syrup on my thumb nail. When I pulled it apart with my forefinger the tiny thread of sugar soon broke.

  She shuffled forward to watch and announced, ‘It is now one “Our Father” till it is done.’ And so we recited the Lord’s Prayer together until at our shared Amen I tried again and the thread stretched a full span from finger to thumb without breaking.

  Rapidly, I added the gum dragon to the syrup. It was too hard. So I began again and fearing the gum dragon was too old, made another mixture with hartsfoot, but that turned brittle. Finally I added lemon juice and kept the mix much cooler. Maybe it was the late hour or maybe it truly was a better confection, but this last mixture had to do.

  Only when it was all pressed into wooden moulds, like rows of violet buttons, did I slump down and stretch my aching legs.

  ‘You have the touch, Biddy,’ my old friend smiled. ‘It steadies me, to think you will stay on here at Mawton when my old bones fail.’

  The heat rose in my face despite the cooling fire. ‘Do not say that. You will soon be banging about again.’

  Her face was as serene as the moon. ‘Next year I’ll ask Mr Pars to give you better wages. With you beside me, I can last another year.’

  There could be no more of this. Tomorrow was Souling Night and my wedding would be announced to everyone. So at last I told her my news, that I would marry Jem, and could not stay.

  My dear friend’s mouth sagged and her blue eyes glazed with bewilderment. Then, when I’d finished, some spark of the old kitchen tyrant awoke. Her chin lifted and she called me a fool.

  ‘A fool?’ I answered. ‘Do I not have a right,’ I said, with my voice suddenly trembling, ‘to have a natural woman’s life?’

  By now she had recovered her strength. ‘You have God-given talents. To marry Jem Burdett would be the saddest fall I ever heard tell of. You would be naught but – oh, poor cottagers at best. Poor cottagers with a brood of wailing babies. You would be right back where you came from.’

  Shame sent anger rushing through my veins.

  ‘A sad fall?’ I mocked. ‘Why, all the maids yearn for Jem. Would you yourself not have married given any chance? Why should I always be alone? Why should I wear myself out for ungrateful masters the whole of my life? At least I will have children to keep me when I’m worked to death.’

  The flush of surprise on her face was as dark as if I’d slapped her with my own hand. I buried my face in my hands and prayed time might turn backwards, that I might eat my cruel words.

  ‘Biddy.’ Her voice was knife-sharp. ‘I cannot bear you by me.’ She stared past me, as if at a terrible vision; with a wave of her marbled arms she dismissed me.

  VI

  The Blue Chamber, Mawton Hall

  Being this day Souling Night, October 1772

  Biddy Leigh, her journal

  * * *

  A Plum Fool

  Take a pint of plums and scald them till tender, strain through a hair sieve leaving the skins. Add to the pulp orange-flower water and five ounces of fine sugar. When cold, mix it with a little cream till it is smooth, then add thick cream, mix it well, and send it to table.

  Given to me, Martha Garland by my granny Anne Garland of Tarvin who had it from her Granny Haggitt before her

  * * *

  Next morning the pastilles were as hard as rocks. I tried one and had to spit it back into my palm. There was no disguising that they were shocking poor copies of the originals. Yet I determined to deliver them myself, for to me the worst humiliation was to be thought a coward.

  ‘Name and business?’ a strange voice said.

  In my temper I almost barged past Lady Carinna’s footman. I snapped my name back at him, wishing only to have the whole ordeal over and done with.

  ‘Your business, Biddy Leigh?’

  I shook my head with impatience. ‘Her Ladyship was after me making some sweets. Yesterday, when you scarpered off and disappeared.’ The footman looked surprised and a little frightened.

  ‘You come here yesterday?’

  I nodded. He was a pretty creature close up: a slender youth with smooth caramel skin, a flat nose, and the sloe-black eyes of a Chinaman.

  ‘I sorry Miss Biddy. I should a’ been here. It first time ever—’

  ‘Oh, don’t fret yourself. I won’t tell on you.’

  ‘You not tell?’

  ‘Course I won’t. I don’t know about you Londoners, but up here we stick together – against them.’ I gestured towards Lady Carinna’s door with a tilt of my head. I could see he was trying to catch my meaning. ‘We’re loyal. Friendly-like,’ I explained. ‘To each other.’ Well, I had used to think that true before I broke Mrs Garland’s heart.

  Finally he got my meaning. ‘That very kind, Miss Biddy. You good woman.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. I’m a banging idiot to tell the truth. Look at these.’

  I held up the dish of sweetmeats and groaned. ‘I was trying me hardest to please Her Ladyship, but they’re nowt like they should be. Don’
t!’ I snapped as he reached out to sample one. ‘You won’t look so fancy with those teeth of yours all broke into splinters.’

  He laughed out loud.

  ‘Aye, you may laugh, for it’s not you who’s going to lose a quarter year’s wages.’

  ‘For making Her Ladyship’s pastilles too hard?’

  Ashamed, I nodded miserably.

  ‘You could have stayed away,’ he said kindly. ‘Perhaps she forget?’

  ‘I could never do that,’ I protested. ‘It would be like I was afeared of her.’

  ‘Or maybe you clever woman. The mistress want everything jus’ such a way, yes sir.’ He shook his head. ‘Listen,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘Miss Jesmire fetch many those same pastilles last night. She give guinea-piece to lady from Bath city. How say I go pinch handful for you? No one see.’

  ‘You would do that?’

  He gave me another grin and a nod of his white-wigged head.

  ‘Like you says, we friend.’

  He knocked at Her Ladyship’s door, and I heard him mumble something about changing the cloths. In a few moments he returned with an armful of linen hiding a dozen plump little gems of violet and sugar. I stuffed the old ones in my pockets and arranged the Bath-bought beauties in their place. I could have kissed that footman. Instead I asked his name and smiled at its aptness.

  ‘Mr Loveday, you are a godsend. I promise I’ll pay you back one day.’

  He hushed me and ushered me inside.

  Today her chamber was an even worse mess. The chamber walls were all hung about with gowns of red, green, yellow, and blue; it looked like a haberdasher’s shop spun by a gale. On the floor were bundles of lace, single shoes, and mismatched gloves. A feather with a broken spine was being chased by that ratty dog. Lady Carinna herself was up and out of bed, sitting at a writing desk, scratching away at the far end of the room. Not dressed, though. A loose morning gown of silk lay open at her white breast. Her copper-coloured hair showed through her powder like beefsteak seeping through a dredge of flour. I tiptoed around the mess and held out the tray of sweets.

  ‘Me Lady.’ I curtseyed.

  ‘Ah, Biddy Leigh.’ Her spirit was up today, glittering behind bright eyes. The thin fingers with their red-bitten quicks stole out of her lace to take a pastille. She chewed it thoughtfully. The recollection that she might have chewed one of those jaw-crackers made my mouth turn dry.

  ‘And last night’s supper was edible too. A passable plum fool. We enjoyed it, didn’t we Bengo, my baby?’ She scooped up the vile dog and clapped its front paws together. It glared at me with the popping eyes of a frog. I bowed my head a little and curtseyed.

  ‘Thank you, Ladyship,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I am sorting my gowns,’ she announced, after staring so long into my face that I wondered if I wore a smudge of oven grease. ‘And it pleases me to be generous to persons I like.’ Her eyes swept over her bounty of costumes. ‘I believe you deserve a reward, Biddy Leigh.’

  ‘Not me, Ladyship,’ I muttered, bobbing low while edging backwards. ‘I only done my duty.’ I had rescued my wages and wished never to see that strange woman again. She twisted sideways in her chair and pointed. ‘Now that dress, the rose silk. What is your estimate of that one?’

  I did not have the eye of a town girl, to know my Française from my Indienne, but I could tell a fine stitch when I saw one. It was a beautiful dress, like a great blossoming bouquet of ruffled silk.

  ‘It is—’ I stopped and swallowed hard. The dark rose taffeta bodice was worked with tiny frills and bows that must have taken a seamstress many weeks of blood-pricking work.

  ‘Try it on.’

  ‘I could not.’ I backed away like it might strike me. She truly was the most peculiar mistress I had ever known.

  ‘I am commanding you. I want to see you in that dress.’

  ‘Me Lady,’ I protested. ‘I cannot—’

  ‘Do it!’ Her face was pinched with annoyance; the dark brows fierce. With eyes cast down I approached the dress and lifted it off its hook. It felt satin-cushioned, and as warm as newly risen dough. The skirts trailed the floor and I prayed I might not damage the precious fabric.

  ‘Over there, girl.’ With a waft of her wrist she directed me into a darker corner where a table stood littered with all the fine items of a lady’s toilet.

  By the time I had heaved off my old woollen bodice I was hot with shame. My shift was brown with sweat and kitchen grease. The skirt I had so proudly stitched from a length of woollen drab now looked coarser than a horse blanket. A cloud of perfume was freed as I stepped into a fine pink petticoat that danced about my legs like whipped froth. As I eased into the narrow bodice it strained at my shoulders. Hard work changes a woman’s body, I knew that. For a moment I glanced up at my mistress and envied her the narrow shoulders and thin arms of those who can barely lift their own soup plates.

  ‘Aha. You look quite changed.’ She was laughing again; leaning back to release a husky chuckle. Then she walked towards me and stared so intently I blushed.

  ‘Look at yourself,’ my mistress commanded, taking my arm and leading me to a great glass on a frame. Have courage, I scolded myself, it is only a dress. I felt like a beggar shamming in a queen’s robes. As I reached the mirror I expected to look as foolish as a gimcrack doll and for my mistress to scoff at me.

  So I was mightily surprised to see my reflection. I saw a fine woman gaze back from the glass. Tall and straight, with chestnut hair freed from her kitchen cap. A pale face with cheeks flushed like pippins fresh from the tree. A lively astonishment shone in eyes the colour of greengage wine. And the gown – why, it suited me better than many a merchant’s wife traipsing in lace along the Chester Rows. I stared at a delightful stranger who was straight, elegant, and pleasing to any eye.

  ‘Will they ever heal?’ Lady Carinna stood frowning beside me. I followed her gaze and lifted my forearms so the lace frills fell back. Bands of puckered flesh ran from fingertip to elbow – some were old silvered scars and others new and scarlet.

  ‘Never,’ I answered, ‘so long as I cook.’

  She was beside me in the mirror, and for a moment we both gazed at our twin reflections. I was half aware that my mistress watched me, but was too entranced by my own reflection to look at her. With red roses in my hair I would be the bonniest bride our village had ever seen. Why, I would make Jem a fine coat from old brocade to match. We would be the finest couple who ever married from Mawton. Afterwards, of course, I would sell it. A gown like that would be worth five whole pounds at a second-hand clothes stall.

  ‘Take it,’ she announced suddenly.

  I could not stop myself arching around in the mirror to see the elegant back falling like a pleated cloak down to the hem. ‘Thank you, mistress,’ I gabbled, ‘for letting me try it. But I cannot take it. It’s too fine for me.’

  Her eyes narrowed in the looking glass.

  ‘Do not be a dunderhead, girl.’ She was walking away. ‘I could not wear it now you have touched it. I’ll think on how you pay me back. Go now. Take it. I must write a letter.’

  I slipped it off as she returned to her desk. My head was addled to think that the dress was mine. As I pulled on my own worsted skirt it prickled like woven thistles. I picked up the scarlet gown in a great fat bundle that felt as heavy as a child.

  ‘Thank you, Me Lady,’ I repeated, frog-throated with gratitude. She waved me away without even lifting her head from her papers, so rapidly did she scribble. I would never have guessed that what inspired her was the scene she had just witnessed in her looking glass. For while I had stared starry-eyed into that mirror and seen me and Jem kissing at the church gate in all our finery, my mistress had seen an entirely different future for her pathetically grateful under-cook.

  * * *

  It’s said that dead souls walk on All Souls’ Night, bringing mischief to the world. That the Souling sets spirits free to play cruel tricks, bringing portents in mirrors, and messages glimpsed in moo
nlit wells. But that night no ghostly message came to me. Yet as for mischief coming my way, Lord, there was plenty of that brewing.

  The servants’ hall was stuffed with that many revellers we could scarcely carry the food through them. A fiddle and pipe were screeching out songs and Old Ned warbled along, tankard sloshing in his hand. The young folk were whooping and dancing, with Teg cackling in their midst, her bubbies bouncing. I only half watched, for my new gown burned in my head like a rick-fire. By rights, my lady’s cast-offs were Jesmire’s, and I had only Lady Carinna’s word that I had got it honestly. If someone found it and she gave back-word, I might be hanged.

  Our steward Mr Pars arrived; the crowd made a path for him and touched their caps, though he paid no heed to them at all. He stood apart, eating venison pie with pickle and cheese. A pettifogger some called him, and tonight he looked especially sour, his grizzled head hanging low and his jowls sagging. One parlour maid said she’d heard the new mistress hollering at him behind the door, but that sounded like hogwash to me. But anyone could see he were troubled. He was chewing as if his supper were sawdust, with his gaze on some other distant scene that would not leave him be.

  Jem meanwhile was lurching with his cronies, swigging back pots of ale. I had a sudden pang of misgiving as I watched him. The addlehead had been drinking all day long. He can at least stand, I sighed inwardly. I must be patient and let the ale drop to his boots.

  Once me and Sukey had cleared the few scraps of food left over, I could at last watch the Souling play. Our coachman George Stapleforth was King George in a red-crossed tabard. It was a treat to see him pricked on the end of a wooden sword. The Quack Doctor was trying to raise dead King George with his potion when I noticed Mr Loveday standing all alone by the side of the stage. No one had befriended him; all day the lads had found sport hollering ‘Hey, Tarbrush!’ and ‘Chimney Chops!’ as he went about his business. I swore I would return his kindness in some way, even if it meant some bouncing from the others.