1850: a Blandy Maid-of-All-Work
Well now, it’s all over at last, thank the Lord. I thought this Centenary business would never finish, but the house is quiet at last—so still you’d think it never knew noise. All them doors shut, the lamps turned down, and me here with sore feet and half a mind left to write before I drop.
I’ve swept and scrubbed near every inch downstairs, stacked the plates, picked up the crumbs, and sent the last tray back to kitchen. What a sight it was today! I never seen such goings‑on. The ladies gliding about like angels out a church window—so many jewels and feathers I scarce dared breathe. Their gowns rustled like rain on the roof, and the smell of their scent hung in the air after they passed—roses and strange sweet things from lands I can’t even name.
And the noise! Laughter, fiddles, clinking glasses, everyone talking at once. We servants worked like an army—Cook shouting, pans banging, every plate that left the kitchen coming back twice as dirty. But, oh, the food! I carried two puddings myself, near shaking with fright in case they split. For all that, it went smooth enough, and Mrs. Hatch said we’d make saints jealous with our labour.
Afterwards, when the great folk were gone to their beds and the hall stopped echoing, Cook softened her tongue and gave us each a bit of what was left. I got a proper slice of pudding, still warm, with a spoon of real cream on top—thick as butter and sweet as anything. It near made me cry, it did. Evelina said it was the best day of her life, and I might agree if my feet didn’t ache so cruel.
Now all’s dark out the windows save the moon on the pond. Tomorrow we start again, shining what’s already shining, but I don’t care. For once, we had a taste of the finery ourselves. And when I close my eyes tonight, I’ll see those grand ladies in their silks and feathers, and me right there among ’em.
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