1862: a Blandy housekeeper
Mallard House
Well, it is the talk of the servants’ hall—though what talk it can be when there’s no one left to tell it, I can’t imagine. Mr. Alban has gone and done what no gentleman of his family has done before: taken not one of the Blandy servants with him to his new house. Not the footmen, not even the second lad, and certainly not me. It is a break with every tradition of this place, and, if you ask me, rather inconvenient for everyone involved.
I suppose he means to start fresh, new house, new staff, and no one about to remember him as a barefoot child hiding under the orangery steps. That’s modern gentlemen all over—like to think a fresh coat of paint can cover a whole history. Still, I can’t deny it gives the rest of us little to talk about, now that no one’s gone along to bring back a whispered word or two about how he runs things. Miss Clara says he intends to do everything “in the London fashion”. I daresay that means fancy lamps and unreasonable hours.
Cook says if he expects good service without any gossip, he has another think coming. “The whole of society”, she says, “runs on scandal—from the pantry upward”. I reminded her it’s not for us to speculate on gentry habits, which only made her laugh harder.
They say the new place is vast—forty bedrooms, and ceilings high enough to make a sweep dizzy. No doubt he’ll fill it with actors, poets, and the like, all eating lobster at dawn and sleeping till tea time. Perhaps it’s for the best we’re not there; one could hardly sweep properly around such people. Still, I wouldn’t object to hearing how it all turns out. As it stands, we’re left only the dust of an empty hall and no fresh stories to polish the silver by.
For a housekeeper, silence is the one thing worse than gossip—it means the world has gone somewhere without you.
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