Street market was busy so close to Christmas, although at least the crush provided a bit of warmth on such a raw, bitter day. Ella’s brown wool coat, on permanent loan from Mrs Sugden, the housekeeper, fitted well enough but it was thin and barely held the cold at bay. She was glad of her red knitted scarf – a bright flash of colour – and another loan, this time from Doris, from one of the maids. When Ella Bancroft had first arrived at Grange House, the two women had been puzzled by what they perceived as her lack of appropriate clothing.
‘A shawl will never do!’ Mrs Sugden had exclaimed the previous November when Ella, wrapped in the shawls that had seen her through the Yorkshire winters back in Northwaite, was set to leave the house with her shopping list and basket. ‘You’ll be nithered. And you’re in the town now. You need to wear something that’s a credit to the household. You’d best borrow this.’
She’d pulled the brown coat from the cupboard in the passageway. ‘I won’t miss it. I’ve another I prefer.’
Ella had slipped it on: it fitted her quite well. She thought it was probably some time since Mrs Sugden had worn it as it was putting it kindly to say that the housekeeper was a good deal broader than Ella, who was slender and taller than average. She’d judged it best not to comment, however, and instead expressed her gratitude, although privately she felt that the thin wool wouldn’t do the same job of keeping out the cold as her thick woollen shawls. And so it proved but, nevertheless, she felt almost elegant when she ventured out in the coat, which was a feeling quite new to her. Stevens, the butler, had said admiringly, ‘That red scarf of Doris’s puts the roses in your cheeks,’ making Ella blush and thus further increasing her rosiness.
She wished she had a pair of gloves. The wind was biting and her numb fingers struggled to grasp the coins as she made her purchases. Tucking the last paper bag into her basket, she smiled at the stallholder who was stamping his feet and blowing on his fingers in an effort to keep the chill at bay. With her errands completed, it wouldn’t be long until she was out of the cold and back in the kitchen at Grange House. Groceries arrived there in a regular weekly delivery, one of the many things that Ella had marvelled at in the York household. The grocery boys carried great boxes of meat and vegetables into the scullery and, if more supplies were needed during the week, one of the delivery boys would be sent round on a bicycle, with his front basket loaded up and his apron flapping as he pedalled. But sometimes Mrs Sugden took it into her head that they needed a nice bit of samphire to go with the fish for that night’s dinner, and old Mr Grimshaw’s stall in the market was bound to have some, or she’d heard that there were some particularly fine quail’s eggs to be had that day. Ella was both entranced and unnerved by her errands, puzzled that a bright-green weed would be deemed suitable to serve at the table, or that such a creature as a quail existed.
‘Ella!’ This time the call was louder, more forceful, stopping her in her tracks. She turned again, scanning the crowd. As her eyes skimmed over the good citizens of York, intent on last-minute Christmas purchases, they were arrested by an almost-familiar figure.
‘Albert?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Albert Spencer?’ He stood before her: out of breath, wiry, dark-haired and little changed in appearance from the young man she’d last seen several years before.
‘You know your way around!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve had a hard job keeping up with you in this crowd. Is it always like this?’
Ella glanced about her and smiled. ‘Yes. Always busy with those in search of a bargain or two, particularly so at Christmas. You’re not familiar with the market then?’ She looked enquiringly at Albert, trying to get over her astonishment at seeing him after so long.
‘No, no, I was here by chance.’ Albert sounded hurried. ‘But I’m glad I was. I wasn’t sure it was you at first, but then when I followed you I knew I was right. You move just like Alice!’
Hearing her sister’s name gave Ella a jolt and she glanced quickly at Albert.
Oblivious to the effect he’d had on her, he carried on. ‘What are you doing here? It’s so long since I’ve seen anyone from home! I’m aching for news. It’s too cold to stand around here though. Is there somewhere we can talk?’
Ella hesitated. Mrs Sugden would scold her if she was late back, but she wanted to hear Albert’s news, even if she wasn’t keen to share hers with him. He had a confident air, which was that of a grown man now, far removed from the mill boy she had walked to work with seven or more years ago. The cut of his clothes marked him out as prosperous; not like her employer Mr Ward, of course, but not dissimilar to some of the tradesmen who came to the house to discuss plans for the houses that her employer was building on the edge of the city. Ella was becoming practised at pinpointing who belonged to which level of society, even though such things had been a complete mystery to her when she first arrived in York. Back in Northwaite where she had grown up there had been those that worked at the mill, those that owned the mill, and the overlookers in between. A few other figures, such as the parson and the doctor, occupied a level above the overlooker and below the mill owner, Mr Weatherall, and his family, but there was little to consider beyond that.
Here in York there were landed gentry right up at the top of the ladder, those who didn’t seem to work on a daily basis but whose affairs regularly called them away from home, to Leeds or to London. Then there were those who had a standing and an education, such as doctors and clergy; after that came business people, tradespeople, shopkeepers and a whole layer of workers below who kept the wheels in motion.
The hierarchy ‘below stairs’ in the grand residences such as Grange House was a little world in itself, from the butler right down to the scullery maid. It had taken Ella a while to sort all this out for herself. She’d only managed it by careful observation and listening to the nuances of conversations: the way in which Mrs Sugden referred to those under her jurisdiction, and those above stairs. Although Ella worked as both a house parlourmaid and a lady’s maid these days, her role was relatively clearly defined compared to her previous role in Mr Ottershaw’s house back in Nortonstall, just two miles from where she had been born and brought up. Ella shuddered at the memory. As the only maid that he could afford, she had been expected to cover all the household duties of cooking and cleaning, as well as minding the children. The length and hardship of her days had almost made her nostalgic for her time working at the mill.
Albert had noticed her shudder. ‘You’re cold,’ he said and, taking her arm, he guided her through the grand, gilded doors of the tearoom that stood a little way from the edge of the market. Ella hesitated, trying to pull back, but it was too late; they were inside in the warmth and being ushered to a table. She’d passed this place many times whilst on her errands and had gazed through the huge plate-glass windows, wondering what it must feel like to sit at one of the round tables draped with a starched white cloth, having time to sit and chat over coffee served in monogrammed china cups.
Her cheeks flamed, partly from the sudden warmth but more out of embarrassment. Her coat, which she had thought so smart, felt distinctly dowdy and unfashionable in here. She could see some of the ladies at adjacent tables eyeing her up and down, noting her attire, her basket, her lack of a proper hat and gloves, the way her unruly reddish-blonde hair was escaping from the pins holding it in place. They commented to each other, turning away then glancing back, laughing behind their hands.
Albert was oblivious to this. He ordered coffee for both of them before turning his attention to Ella. ‘You’ve barely said a word,’ he said.
Ella tried to overcome her discomfort, and her worry about being scolded by Mrs Sugden over her tardiness. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just a bit overwhelmed. I’ve never been in here before.’
She chanced a look around, trying to imprint her surroundings on her memory. High ceilings, the grey light of winter filtering through the stained glass which edged the windows, the inside lit by gas lamps and filled with the buzz of chatter and laughter, the clink of china and wonderful aromas of coffee, sugar and chocolate. Ella felt her stomach rumble. Breakfast had been a long while ago.
Albert must have read her mind. As the coffee pot was delivered to the table, he murmured something to the waiter, and a plate of tiny pastries swiftly followed.