Ella’s Journey: The perfect wartime romance to fall in love with this summer. Lynne Francis
you were a maid-of-all-work over near Leeds?’
‘Not so close to Leeds,’ Ella replied, sewing steadily as she took up the hem of a nightgown, back from the laundry and in need of repair. ‘Out in the country, in Nortonstall. Yes, I worked for a family with four small children and you’re right, it was hard work. But I’m not sure this isn’t harder…’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ Mrs Dawson said. ‘It’s your first day and there’s a lot to learn in a big house like this. And we’re short-handed at present. We need a new kitchen or scullery maid then you’ll be above stairs, I’ll be bound. Doris and Rosa are run off their feet up there. So much for this being a labour-saving house. Mrs Ward was convinced we could manage here with fewer servants, not like the last place in Micklegate.’ Mrs Dawson paused and looked at her critically. ‘It looks as though a breath of wind could blow you away. Here, have another piece of cake; you need feeding up a bit if you’re to have enough strength for the work upstairs.’
She pushed a plate of sponge cake towards Ella and patted her own hips ruefully. ‘The curse of the cook – too much sampling of our own food. Who would trust a thin cook, though?’ and she chuckled to herself as she strained the custard into a large bowl, the rim patterned with a trellis of roses.
That night, as Ella fell into bed, she barely had a moment to reflect on all the tasks she had accomplished during the day, and all the amazing sights she had seen, before her eyes closed and she was seized by sleep.
It took very little time before Ella stopped feeling like the awkward new girl. Familiar with most of the duties expected from her, after her years spent at the Ottershaws’, she was also quick to master anything new. As Mrs Sugden had foretold, she soon found herself drafted in as an upstairs maid in the afternoons, initially to help out when the family had visitors for afternoon tea. She wore the smarter dress, with apron, cap and cuffs, for these occasions. Mrs Ward had nodded approvingly the first time she appeared in it. A glamorous woman, taller than her husband, she kept herself at a distance from her staff. Ella had been introduced to her formally, shortly after arrival, when Mrs Ward had looked her up and down and asked Mrs Sugden whether she was the one whose mother had written. Answered in the affirmative, she had thanked Ella for coming to her husband’s aid when his car broke down, then had turned and walked away to signify that their conversation was over.
‘I hear from Mrs Sugden that you are doing well,’ she said now, as Ella paused with the tea tray to let her precede her into the sitting room. ‘I expect we will find plenty of employment for you above stairs.’
So it was to prove. Ella frequently helped out on lunch service, which, taking place as it did under the fierce gaze of Mr Stevens, she initially found terrifying. An affable man at the servants’ table, he adopted a very different persona in his role of butler above stairs, where he had status as the key servant in the household. His manner and demeanour, the result of years of experience, led Ella to believe that he was much older than she was, although it became apparent in time that there was barely a ten-year age difference. Aware of his sharp scrutiny, Ella found her hands shaking so much that the serving spoon rattled against the tureen as she went around the table with the vegetables. Some of the serving dishes were so heavy that she longed to rest them just for an instant on the table while a guest deliberated over-long as to whether or not they would take the soup, or dithered over which vegetables to have. Whenever she glanced up, though, she would find Mr Stevens’s eyes upon her and she would straighten up and try to remain composed while her shoulders and arms burned with the effort.
One of her favourite roles in the household was spending time with John, the Wards’ youngest son, who was a frequent visitor to the kitchen. Only that morning he had appeared, a large book clutched to his chest, and settled himself at the kitchen table.
He was silent for a little while, deeply absorbed as he turned the pages, before he said: ‘What sort of bird is this? Where can I see one?’
Ella had paused, broom in hand. ‘What do you mean, Master John?’
John stabbed his finger at the page of his book. ‘This one. Look.’
Ella peered over John’s shoulder at the illustration of a small black-and-white bird, with a preposterous brightly striped beak. It looked ridiculous, quite unlike anything she’d ever seen in the Yorkshire woods and fields of her childhood, or in the back gardens of these houses in York for that matter. She was thankful for the illustration though; the words beneath were a meaningless jumble to her.
‘You’d best ask your governess,’ Ella said. ‘I’ve no book learning. Miss Gilbert is the one to help you.’ She was brisk, sweeping the crumbs from beneath his feet as they dangled from the kitchen chair, but she felt very sorry for him. She ruffled John’s hair, poured more milk into his glass and cut him another piece of cake. She knew Mrs Dawson wouldn’t begrudge it. ‘Such a shame,’ she’d confided in Ella, her arms dusted with flour almost up to the elbows as she set about rolling the pastry for an apple tart, ‘barely seven years old, and small for his age, and they’re talking about sending him to boarding school. Why have the child if you can’t be bothered with him, I ask you?’ She’d sniffed and wielded the rolling pin more vehemently.
‘Now, don’t go letting all this cake spoil your appetite for your tea or I’ll be in no end of trouble,’ Ella warned. ‘Why don’t you put your books away now and run around outside for a bit? Look – the sun’s shining and you could put your coat and scarf on and take your ball?’
Ella knew it was unlikely. John was a solitary boy, an afterthought, his sisters older than him and too pre-occupied with their own affairs to spare the time to entertain him. He spent more time with the servants than with anyone else in the house.
John sought out Ella whenever he could. She became used to the door of the kitchen creaking slowly open in the afternoon and John poking his head shyly around it. If he couldn’t see Ella, usually to be found sewing or folding laundry, he would ask Doris or Mrs Dawson where ‘Lella’ was. He seemed determined to use this baby name for her, no matter how many times he was corrected, so eventually everyone let him be. Nor did he pay much heed to his governess, who would appear in the kitchen within five minutes of his arrival, looking cross and requesting that ‘Master John should leave the women to their work and come back upstairs at once.’
Each time, Mrs Dawson would say comfortably, ‘He’s not bothering us, Miss. Why don’t you let him be, sit yourself down and have a cup of tea?’ Each time, Miss Gilbert would demur and haul John, protesting bitterly, up the stairs. Ella found it upsetting to watch and felt a sense of guilt, as if she had somehow encouraged his presence in the kitchen. Finally, when he appeared for the fourth time within a week, she had the wit to speak before the cook. She poured tea from the big brown pot into one of the fine china cups, pressing the cup and saucer into Miss Gilbert’s hands.
‘Why don’t you take this upstairs and enjoy some peace and quiet in your room?’ Ella suggested. ‘I can bring John up to you in half an hour or so. We’ll use the back stairs. It can be our little secret.’ She turned to John. ‘Does that sound all right?’
Miss Gilbert needed little further persuasion. The dignity of her position as governess, a cut above the serving staff, was maintained and she was happy enough to hand John over to the care of someone else for a while. Although she was an excellent governess, she was less successful in keeping a small boy, who longed for a playmate, entertained at this stage of the day.
So it became an established routine that John would be found in the kitchen, gravely folding sheets with Ella or, when the weather was fine, out in the garden collecting vegetables for dinner. Ella made a point of keeping him out of sight of the house windows as much as possible, unsure of whether Mr and Mrs Ward would approve of him fraternising with the servants. If Ella was called away to answer a call from the youngest daughter, Grace, or to deliver a tea tray, John would talk politely to Mrs Dawson, his eyes always on the door, waiting for Ella to return.
‘I