Together for Christmas (17 page)

Hilda stood, quaking in her shoes. Fear and excitement rushed through her veins. There were thirty visitors together with their staff to accommodate. The past week had been a whirlwind of
activity. The rooms on the top floor had been opened, their bathrooms scrubbed, fires lit and their wardrobes and carpets, rugs, cushions and ornaments all cleaned. After this, she had laundered
the bedclothes, taken down the curtains, brushed, ironed and re-hung them. Hilda had hardly been able to keep up with the gruelling schedule. Now, she couldn’t believe her luck. She was going
to see Lord Guy again!

‘I expect no mistakes, Hilda. Make certain you pay attention to Mrs Harris and, for goodness’ sake, don’t drop anything.’

Hilda nodded eagerly. The memory of her meeting with the young lord on the servants’ staircase made her shiver. Gracie had almost fainted when Hilda had told her what had happened. She
said she had never known Lord Guy, or any of the family, to use that particular door.

‘Are you paying attention, Hilda?’ Mrs Burns’ sharp tone brought Hilda back to the moment.

‘Yes, Mrs Burns.’

‘Go along to Mrs Harris. I’ve already told her you are to be helping in the dining room tonight.’

Hilda did as she was told. The thought of being part of the elaborate plans for the weekend made her go weak at the knees. She was still shaking as she hurried to the kitchen, where Mrs Harris,
red-faced and sweating, stood at the range. She saw Hilda and shouted, ‘I’ve just spoken with Lady Bertha and there’s a change of plan. Oysters and caviar as first decided, but
not the lobster with French dressing as I had in mind to serve. Instead, Violet has persuaded Lady Bertha to settle for common-place sirloin steak.’ Mrs Harris sniffed with disdain.
‘Fortunately, we still have the soup and foul on the menu, with poached salmon, cutlets of lamb and veal escalope to follow, all as I had originally suggested. My hot strawberry
soufflé, peach melba and banana flambé have also been confirmed.’ Mrs Harris tossed her head as though she had triumphed over the wishes of Violet. ‘Now, find Gracie and
we’ll prepare the fish soup, pâté and glazes. Hurry, girl! Hurry!’

Hilda rushed through the passage to the scullery, where Gracie was preparing the vegetables. ‘Gracie, we’ve to help Mrs Harris with the soup!’

The water was running from the single tap over the sink. Gracie’s red hands were full of peeled potatoes. ‘I can’t. I’ve got the beans to do yet and the parsley and
mint.’

‘Leave them. Mrs Harris is in a real tizz.’

Gracie knew this was a danger sign and quickly wiped her hands on her dirty apron. She pushed her thin hair up under her cap, muttering under her breath. Together they ran back to the
kitchen.

‘The strainer, Gracie, at once!’ Mrs Harris commanded.

Gracie took a large white cloth from the drawer. She pushed two ends into Hilda’s hands and took the opposite corners. Once placed over the empty bowl on the table, the cook began to pour
the thick liquid from the saucepan.

‘Hold it still and pull tight,’ Mrs Harris ordered. When the saucepan was empty, the cook seized a wooden spoon and began to mash what remained.

It was a long, hard process in the hot kitchen. Sweating, and still thinking about Lord Guy, Hilda held the cloth tightly. The steam and stink of mashed vegetables and fish made her stomach
turn, but all this would be worth the effort for one more glance of his handsome face.

All about her, Hilda could hear the rush of feet, the boiling of pans on the range, the shouts of the kitchen staff as they followed their orders; in the distance, Mr Leighton, with one footman
disabled, was roaring at Billy and Joseph, the two stable boys who had been brought in as reserves for the evening. Hilda felt the excitement grow inside her. She couldn’t wait until tonight,
when she would look into Lord Guy’s dark gaze. He would recognize her and somehow let her know that she had been in his thoughts since the moment they first met.

‘Mr Leighton will be lucky if he can turn them two sow’s ears into silk purses by tonight.’ Mrs Harris, referring to the stable boys, gave the mashed contents of the cloth one
last pounding.

Hilda looked at Gracie through the clouds of steam and stifled a giggle. Gracie was as red as a beetroot, holding on to the cloth for dear life. A clatter came from the long passage and voices
were raised. Hilda knew Mr Leighton was preparing the ancestral silverware, which he kept locked in the safe. Candelabras, jugs, plates and tureens had been placed out in his quarters for
polishing; the dinner tonight was to be of the highest standard.

Hilda smiled to herself through the steam. Almost everything in her life was as she imagined it would be. The disputes between Mrs Harris and Violet were more frequent. Their clear dislike of
one another was evident to one and all. The cook always had the upper hand; Hilda had been told that by Mrs Bell who knew only too well of rivalries below stairs. To add to this, Hilda had noticed
that Violet had become ill-tempered and wore a sullen expression. Tonight, Hilda would look her very best. At least, as best as she could in this dour uniform. She would try to catch Lady
Bertha’s attention and Lord Guy would watch her every move, too. Even the beautiful women he entertained would pale in contrast to Hilda’s youth and freshness.

Lord Guy had told her he would see her again, hadn’t he? He had almost made a promise. Hilda knew she was attractive to men. John and James flirted with her. When she and Gracie went into
the village, they had no shortage of admirers. Though Gracie always shrank from attention, Hilda loved it. She knew how to hold herself in an upright fashion, sway her hips and accentuate the curve
of her breasts. Hadn’t Lord Guy held on to her longer than was necessary on the staircase? In one glance he had taken in her beauty.

‘Right, off to the scullery, you two, and bring me the vegetables,’ Mrs Harris boomed, thrusting the filthy straining cloth into Gracie’s hands.

Hilda and Gracie nodded and dashed out of the kitchen together. Hilda’s plans were working out already. Christmas was going to be wonderful this year!

It was Monday of Christmas week. Flora’s busy day was almost at an end. The strong smell of disinfectant was thick in the air. Flora had cleaned the grubby chairs and
floorboards after the doctor had gone upstairs to his rooms.

Flora took off her apron and washed her hands. She was about to turn down the gas lights when a heavy knock came at the front door.

‘Good evening, Flora.’ The man was dressed in a long blue overcoat. His shoulders were broad, but hunched against the cold. He wore a large brimmed hat and was leaning heavily on a
cane. He took off his hat.

‘Michael!’

‘I hope I’m not too late?’

‘I . . . well, no . . .’ she stammered. Realizing he was waiting for her to open the door, she stepped back.

‘I’ve no excuse I’m afraid,’ he began as he stepped forward. A gust of cold night air swept in with him. ‘I gave what you said a great deal of thought.
But—’ He swayed, only just managing to steady himself. Flora caught his arm and guided him towards a chair. He sunk down with a sigh and grimaced. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are you in pain?’ she asked softly.

‘I try to tell myself I’m not,’ he muttered, ‘but my leg says otherwise.’ He laughed emptily. ‘You should throw me out! A complaint in the first moment of
seeing you.’

She smiled. ‘I’m glad you decided to come.’

‘Are you?’ He lowered his head. ‘I don’t deserve your consideration.’ Raising his eyes, he added, ‘Our chance meeting inspired me. Your words encouraged me.
But at the last moment, I lost my nerve.’

‘Dr Tapper is a very special doctor.’

His eyes held hers. ‘I do believe you, Flora.’

She pushed back her tangled hair. What did she look like after the busy day? She felt his eyes on her. Did he really come here because of what she had said about the doctor?

‘After our meeting at the market, I felt more alive than I have done in months. You gave me hope again. Hope that I’d almost lost.’ He adjusted his position on the chair so
that he didn’t lean quite so heavily on his cane. ‘I thought a great deal about what you said. About the doctor and your friends, Hilda and Will, and the orphanage. Your life must have
presented you with many challenges. And yet you overcame them. I was humbled.’ His voice grew rough and he glanced away. ‘In battle a soldier is faced with his mortality. He sees life
extinguished in a second. One day it might be his life that’s taken.’ Slowly, he returned his gaze to Flora. ‘But death is not the worst. To become wounded is almost shaming. To
abandon one’s men . . .’

‘But you didn’t abandon them! You were wounded and could have died.’

‘Sometimes, I wish—’ He stopped as a shadow fell across them.

‘Good evening.’ Dr Tapper stood at the door.

‘This is Lieutenant Appleby.’ Flora wondered if the doctor had overheard their conversation. He had a very sympathetic expression on his face.

‘I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.’ The young man struggled to his feet and took the doctor’s hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Flora.’

‘Have you indeed . . .’

‘I hoped you would see me, but it’s very late.’

Dr Tapper patted his pockets as Flora often saw him do. She knew he was considering Michael carefully. At last, he gave a short nod. ‘You’d better come into my room.’

Flora watched the two men walk together across the floor, one elderly and bent, the other young and disabled. She knew that if anyone could perform miracles, it was Dr Tapper. But as the door
closed and she went back to sit in her small room, the time passed very slowly.

Almost an hour had passed and Flora was restless. Was this good news or bad, she wondered? Was there hope for the young soldier or would it be as both Michael and the doctor
had feared: another damning verdict to add to the others.

Just then the doctor’s door opened. ‘Flora, would you join us?’ the doctor said, leading the way into his room. ‘Please, stand over here by our patient.’ Dr Tapper
indicated the couch on which Michael lay, propped up by a pillow. He was wearing just his undergarments: a white flannel button-up vest and pants. His left leg was stretched out on the couch, his
right one bent at the knee, his bare foot on the floor.

Flora had helped many patients undress in readiness for an examination. She had seen arms, legs, chests and even the more private parts of the male anatomy. But now a great heat washed up from
her neck and filled her face.

‘As I’ve explained, I don’t wish to raise any hopes,’ the doctor began to say. ‘The treatment I’m about to propose can be uncomfortable in the extreme but has
been proven to work in some cases, such as with our former patient Mr Cowper. With Lieutenant Appleby’s wound, we must bear in mind that surgery has already been performed – twice.
Post-operative procedures are controversial and yet I think nothing can be lost here. That is, other than the degree of pain it will involve.’ He raised an eyebrow in Michael’s
direction.

‘I’m willing to try,’ Michael said at once.

The doctor patted his pockets, then bent over and placed his hand lightly on Michael’s bandaged thigh. ‘Your leg muscle has been weakened here and here. Though the original sites
where the bullet entered and exited have partially healed, the nerves are damaged. It’s stimulation of these nerves that we must attend to. I believe that with a regime of massage and
exercise, we may be able to address the problem. In the years after the African wars, I had some experience as a young doctor of what was then quite controversial physiotherapeutic
techniques.’ He hesitated, raising his shoulders slightly. ‘Time, effort and patience will be needed, I’m afraid.’

Flora couldn’t help herself and looked into Michael’s eyes. She felt as if she was drowning in their green depths. Had hope come back into them?

‘For this to work I shall need your cooperation, Flora. Over a period of weeks and months, I hope to train you to use these methods. And between us we shall try our very best to effect a
satisfactory result.’

Flora was surprised when the doctor urged her closer to their patient.

‘There is no time like the present.’ Dr Tapper took off his jacket and hung it on the peg. ‘Watch carefully, Flora, as I position our patient comfortably and support his thigh
with one hand – like so.’ The doctor demonstrated. Flora heard Michael try to hide a groan.

‘I’m very sorry,’ the doctor said, pausing in his actions. ‘If the degree of pain becomes too much, you must tell me.’

Michael nodded, waving aside his suggestion.

The doctor continued. ‘Lifting the leg with my other hand, I raise it as far as possible towards the head, then once we have some natural movement, rotate the leg in hold, fix the knee,
and lastly support the ankle. All this to be performed with the minimum of discomfort to Lieutenant Appleby. After a few weeks we shall introduce stretch exercises, followed by massage.’ The
doctor demonstrated several more times. Then turning to Flora, he said, ‘Now I should like you to try.’

Flora felt very anxious as the doctor took her hands and showed her how to grasp and support the young officer’s leg. She was keenly aware of Michael’s gaze as her fingers played on
his skin and moved a little tremblingly over his limb. Telling herself he was just another patient, she soon found she was performing the movements with ease and was able to follow the
doctor’s guidance.

It was only when Michael bravely stifled his gasps of pain that she fumbled. She didn’t want to hurt him. But she knew she had to distance herself and act professionally. Just as she would
with any other patient who came under the care of her employer.

It was the last night of the long weekend of Adelphi Hall’s grand Christmas house-party. Hilda had never been more exhausted. But nor had she ever been more excited.

Each night, forming a line with the other maids, she had carried the many dishes from the kitchen to the dining-room sideboards. This had been done in the manner of ‘service à la
russe’. Mr Leighton, John the footman and Maxwell, Lord Guy’s valet, had then taken each dish and served accordingly. Hilda had overheard cross words between Mr Leighton and Mrs Harris.
The cook preferred the traditional French style of carving the meats on the table and allowing the dinner guests to help themselves. But Mr Leighton’s word was law. Hilda had also learned
from Gracie that it was Violet who had persuaded her mistress to go Russian. Not that it seemed to matter to the fashionable young women who sat at the dining table, Hilda noted with amusement.
They discreetly pecked at the courses served to them, and hardly ate a bean! Dressed in their beautiful silk-satin crêpe gowns and bird-of-paradise plumage, the very epitome of fashion, they
had no desire to fight with their tightly laced corsets. Instead, they ate sparingly, trying to fool everyone by exposing a few inches of tantalising white breast above their V-shaped necklines.
Hilda loved the new fashions. They were so exotic!