Home for Christmas by Lizzie Lane Page A

Quartermaster.’
    ‘Ow, that’s good,’ said Sarah, crossing her slim ankles after sinking into a chair. ‘I’ve been up since four this morning and don’t mind telling you my feet are due for a holiday. I can’t remember them aching like this last Christmas.’
    ‘Too many Christmases, Mrs Stacey,’ said Quartermaster with a laugh.
    He’d been cleaning the silver, his hands suitably coated in white cotton gloves. He refused to entrust this task to any of the house maids whose job it strictly was. He’d taken these off in order to drink his tea.
    Suddenly he sighed.
    ‘I wonder where we shall be next Christmas,’ he said, his face drooping with sudden sadness.
    When Sarah’s eyes met his, she knew immediately that the pair of them were thinking the same thoughts. The lives of domestic servants were inextricably tied up with the people they worked for. That’s the way it had always been, and that’s the way it would remain. They were like the furniture in the house and could be used or discarded at will.
    ‘Here. I hope,’ she said quietly. ‘Though I have to say, the master is not well. Not well, at all.’
    Pondering her words, Quartermaster studied the process of turning his cup around in its saucer, for no reason other than he was worried, not so much for himself. He was old and had saved what little he could for his retirement. He hoped to move in with his sister who lived not far from Sarah’s mother in the East End of London. His savings weren’t excessive, but enough to save him from the workhouse.
    However, Sarah wouldn’t be so lucky. Sarah would be dismissed from her position as cook when the master died, his widow would see to that.
    With a view to brightening their mood, he said, ‘Doctor Miller seems to have done better for him than the others he’s had.’
    ‘Yes. There’s that,’ said Sarah though she only half believed it.
    It was true Sir Avis had been a little better since being treated by the new doctor, but Sir Avis had been at death’s door prior to Doctor Miller’s arrival. His sunken cheeks and his strangled breath still woke her in the middle of the night. (Not that she could admit to Quartermaster so overtly that on occasion she still shared the master’s bed, though not since he’d been ill. Even so, she still regularly looked in on him to see if he was all right.)
    ‘I don’t know what I shall do when he’s gone,’ Sarah whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. ‘Live with my mother if I can’t get another position.’
    She looked down into her cup as though she might really see her future there. But it won’t be, she told herself. The future was not readable.
    Quartermaster reached across and patted her hand. ‘Be brave, lass. Be brave. With a bit of luck the master will live a few more years. With a bit more luck her ladyship might reach the pearly gates before he does – or t’other place,’ he added with a wishful grin. ‘Fact is we’ll all benefit if young Mr Robert inherits.’
    Sarah smiled warmly and thanked the butler for his kind optimism. ‘I was only fourteen years old when I came here, two years younger than Agnes,’ she said, her eyes downcast as she considered the passing of the years and all that had happened.
    Quartermaster nodded. ‘She’s like you in looks, but like her father in attitude. Just as when he was young … I’m sorry … I shouldn’t ’ave been so bold …’ he stammered, suddenly aware he’d crossed an unspoken threshold. He knew of Sarah’s history. He also knew his master, his old colonel, so very well.
    Now it was Sarah’s turn to reach across and pat his hand. ‘I know my secret’s safe with you – if it ever was a secret. Now,’ she said, getting to her feet and smoothing down her apron, ‘I’d better get back on the treadmill. I’ve a Christmas spread to organise, the like of which this old place has never seen before!’
    Agnes looked out from behind the curtains in the breakfast room and held