Theft of Life Read Free

between there and her own chamber at the top of the house.
    Now, despite all of Mrs Martin’s best efforts on this Saturday morning, the general bad temper and confusion had made its way down into the servants’ hall. William, Mrs Westerman’s senior footman who had travelled with her, should have been helping to serve breakfast, but instead he was having a rather tense interview with Mrs Westerman’s maid, Dido, in one corner of the kitchen. He hadn’t been home last night, and he and the maid were sweethearts. Not so sweet this morning though. Mrs Martin would never have allowed similar relations between the servants under her authority, but these two served Mrs Westerman, so she could do nothing but hope they would not quarrel too loudly. The cook’s boy, in trying to eavesdrop, had left the sausages to burn, which led to a great deal of smoke and raised voices. Cook was trying to pack a hamper while asking everyone in earshot if they wanted kippers this morning upstairs and whether the children liked raisin-bread, and Mrs Westerman’s coachman was arguing with the groom about their mistress’s abilities as a judge of horseflesh. Into the middle of this turmoil Philip, senior footman at Berkeley Square and Mrs Martin’s right hand, came charging into the room, his face red and coffee spilled over the front of his waistcoat.
    ‘Philip, what on earth have you done?’ Mrs Martin felt her voice had come uncomfortably close to a wail.
    ‘Those damned children! Young Master Westerman always gets My Lord playing the goat,’ Philip said, pulling off his jacket and throwing it over the back of a wooden chair. Mrs Westerman’s coachman and groom turned slowly towards him and glowered. Any suggestion of an insult to young Stephen was an insult to them. Philip didn’t notice.
    ‘Simon, go and fetch a clean waistcoat from my room.’ He began to undo his buttons as the kitchen boy scampered out and up the backstairs, thudding all the way, and Mrs Martin took over the watch on the next batch of sausages. ‘Master Stephen teased My Lord into chasing him round the table while I was serving Mr Graves his coffee, then I swear Master Eustache just put out his foot to trip him as he came by. He goes falling into me and the pot goes flying.’ The groom and coachman turned back to their discussion. They felt no obligation to defend Master Eustache.
    ‘Onto Mr Graves too?’ Mrs Martin asked.
    ‘Oh yes. He shouted at them to sit still and went up to change.’
    Mr Graves’s valet sprang to his feet. ‘You should have told me at once!’
    ‘I’m telling you now, aren’t I?’ Philip said. ‘Where is that damn boy with my waistcoat?’
    Mrs Martin took a deep breath. ‘And the table linens?’
    ‘Covered in coffee.’ The boy came back, waistcoat over his arm and red in the face. Philip grabbed it from him.
    ‘I shall take up fresh linen,’ Mrs Martin said. ‘William, perhaps you could go and serve. Philip, stay here until you have recovered your temper. Dido, is your mistress come down yet?’
    ‘She is dressed and will be down as soon as she has finished reading her sister’s letter.’ There was a collective groan.
    ‘Enough!’ Mrs Martin said. ‘Do the work you are paid for. Behave as if you work in the chophouse and you may go and earn your living there. Cook, if those sausages burn too, I shall take their purchase price from your wages.’ She found the key to the linen cupboard on the ring at her waist and strode out of the room.
    By the time Mrs Martin reached it, the Breakfast Room was surprisingly quiet. Master Eustache was reading a book, but as Mrs Martin deftly removed and replaced the soiled cloth at the head of the table she thought she saw him look across at Lord Sussex from under his long dark eyelashes and grin. Jonathan, who would one day control a fortune to make him the envy of kings, was slightly flushed and staring hard at the table in front of him. He was a sensitive boy, eager to please,