An Unfortunate Situation - Chapter One

Chapter One

September 1908 - Violet

I am standing in front of the mistress in the drawing room, with a racing heart and sweaty palms, while she sips her tea. I can sense that within the next few minutes, I am going to be dismissed, sent away from Compton Hall in disgrace.

‘Sit down, Violet,’ she says.

I perch on the edge of the opposite sofa, thankful for the barrier of the low table between us. I put my hands underneath my thighs for a moment, but withdraw them quickly and place them on my lap. My right hand clings onto my left thumb, as I learned to do in school when Sister Beatrice would walk slowly between the small wooden desks and rap any child sharply on the knuckles if they were judged to be fidgeting.

Mrs Compton raises her eyes from her cup and stares into the fire. The black hearth that I had scrubbed on my hands and knees at six o’clock this morning gleams like polished obsidian and the fire is perfectly lit. Not too many logs have been used. I know that the mistress doesn’t like the room to be too hot during the day, September being such an unpredictable month.

‘Something has come to my attention,’ she says. She hasn’t yet looked me in the eyes and continues to examine the dancing flames in the grate. I follow her gaze and wait for her to continue. ‘I understand that you are in an unfortunate situation…’

We are interrupted by the intrusion of Mr Compton. I shouldn’t call it an intrusion; in all fairness, this is his house. But he is so seldom around that when he is, it feels alien. When he is at home, he moves about the house in a cloud of cigar smoke, which follows him to his study, where he shuts himself in for long periods of time. Often he is alone, but sometimes male visitors in black suits and bowler hats accompany him. Raised voices can be heard through the door and whichever maid delivers their refreshments, does so cautiously and with anticipation.

I jump up as soon as he appears, as though my legs are burnt by the rich velvet fabric of the sofa.

‘Where are we up to?’ barks Mr Compton.

He reaches the fireplace in a few long strides and stands with his back to it. The cigar smoke swirls behind him before it finally catches him up. He blows it away and Mrs Compton coughs gently. He rolls his eyes and waves his hand in front of him until the smoke dissipates. I watch as a slurry of ash falls from his cigar and lands on the rug. It isn’t my rug. What do I care if it’s ruined? But the careless act, the act of a privileged man who has never had to count his pennies, or watch his tired wife beating the dust from the rug, annoys me and I concentrate hard to keep a neutral countenance.

‘We haven’t yet started,’ says Mrs Compton. ‘Sit down, Violet, please.’ She finally looks at me.

I look over to Mr Compton, who is examining the burning end of his cigar, concentrating on blowing onto it to fuel the ember. As he shows no objection, I sit down again and wait for my employers to decide my fate.

‘I was just explaining to Violet that we are aware of her unfortunate situation,’ says Mrs Compton.

Mr Compton doesn’t look at me but nods and takes another puff of his cigar. ‘Has the girl seen a doctor yet?’

‘I don’t know, dear, I haven’t had the chance to ask her yet,’ answers Mrs Compton. ‘Well?’

‘No, ma’am,’ I reply. I can feel a blush rising from my neck into my cheeks. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I certainly wasn’t expecting the conversation to begin in such a personal manner.

‘So you might be wrong then?’ asks Mr Compton. He lifts his chin and peers down his nose at me as he awaits the reply, willing me to defy him. But defy him I must.

‘No, sir, there’s no mistake.’ I have missed four of my monthlies, but I keep this private information to myself.

‘I would call it a huge mistake,’ he bellows. ‘And are you sure that the baby is Ernest’s?’

I have heard Mr Compton’s loud voice many times reverberating through the walls of the house but I have never personally been on the receiving end, and the shock of his accusation brings tears to my eyes. I assure him that the baby may be a mistake, in that it was unintended, but there is no mistake as to the father. It most definitely belongs to his son. I want to tell him that Ernest is happy, that he loves me, and that I love him, but I bite my tongue.

Mr Compton storms over to the window and looks out onto the garden. He straightens the long curtain and I wait for another outburst in which he tells me that my work is shoddy. He has been known to walk into a room that has just been cleaned and run his fingers along the woodwork and the mantelpiece, searching for dust.

‘Darling, I’m sure you have better things to do,’ says Mrs Compton. ‘Why don’t you finish your work in your study and I shall speak to Violet. I’ll ring for Cook to bring you some tea and cake, shall I?’

Mr Compton hovers on the edge of acquiescence before he finally agrees and leaves the room.

‘Now then,’ says Mrs Compton. ‘Shall we begin again?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I manage to say between sobs that have suddenly overtaken my capacity to speak.

‘Now, now, Violet,’ says Mrs Compton. ‘You must dry your eyes.’

I take out a clean handkerchief from my pocket and wipe my eyes and my nose. I take deep breaths and ready myself, for by now I am pretty sure that Mr and Mrs Compton are not going to welcome me into the bosom of their family as their future daughter-in-law. I wait for Mrs Compton to dismiss me and wonder whether it would be impertinent to ask her for a reference. I look towards the window and thank the Lord that the threatening clouds haven’t yet dropped any rain. I might be able to make it to the train station before the storm which is inevitably coming.

‘Violet, we need to have a serious conversation,’ says Mrs Compton.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ I reply.

Since that evening in early Spring when Philip caught me and Ernest in the downstairs kitchen together, I have been anxiously waiting for this moment. Philip had seen Ernest’s lips on my neck and his hands on my breasts as he pushed me up against the wall. He may have been forgiven for thinking that Master Compton was taking advantage of a young housemaid - as I’m sure in some houses such instances are not unknown - were it not for the giggle that escaped my lips and the fact that my fingers were wrapped around Ernest’s hair as I pulled him closer towards me.

I didn’t hear the kitchen door open, but I heard Philip’s sharp intake of breath and I heard him slam the door shut behind him. I pushed Ernest away and rushed across the kitchen to open it, to call out to Philip, to plead with him for his discretion. But all I saw was the retreating back of the chauffeur as he scuttled down the narrow corridor, his tailcoat swishing angrily, a lamp held aloft in front of him.

‘Father must be home,’ said Ernest calmly, peering over my shoulder.

I turned and looked up at his face and couldn’t see any traces of concern. But then again, he wouldn’t be the one who would be punished for fraternising with one of the servants. He wouldn’t be the one who would be dismissed from the house with no reference. I burst into tears, closed the kitchen door, and sank in despair onto one of the wooden dining chairs around the old kitchen table.

‘Don’t cry,’ said Ernest, sitting down next to me and stroking my hand. ‘You’re not worried, are you? Philip won’t say anything. I’ll have a word with him and make sure of it.’

I couldn’t speak for a moment. The thought of Ernest taking Philip to one side and pleading for his silence was abhorrent. Philip’s allegiance was to Mr Compton and he alone. Everyone knew that. I snatched my hand away, lifted my apron to my face, and wiped my eyes. ‘You shouldn’t be down here,’ I said. ‘Your father will be looking for you.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Ernest. ‘He will be drunk and he will fall into his bed within a few minutes.’

‘That’s where I need to be,’ I said. ‘I have to be up early and it’s almost midnight already.’

‘Then I shall accompany you,’ Ernest whispered.

His words were followed by a gentle kiss on my hand. I rose to my feet and we tiptoed up the servants’ stairs together, hand in hand, and silently into my bedroom at the top of the house.

Neither of us had much sleep that night, but as he curled around me in my tiny single bed, I must have drifted off to sleep at some point because I remember waking to the sound of the cockerel; a sound which ordinarily I would have cursed for waking me too early, but for which sound that day I was extremely grateful. I nudged Ernest awake and urged him to dress quickly and go back to his own room before anyone saw him.

I remember that I went about that day in a daze, daydreaming of what might be, had I been born into a different family; had I been destined to be a lady, instead of a lady’s maid, or had Ernest been destined to be a gentleman’s valet, instead of a gentleman. I dreamed that Ernest would tell his parents of our blossoming romance and that his parents, being the modern liberal thinkers that they were, would tell him that they could not have chosen anyone better for him. Mr Compton in an avuncular manner would say that I was intelligent and kind and pretty, and I would make the perfect wife for his young son. My years in service would not count against me, Mrs Compton would add. Quite the contrary, in fact; my skills would no doubt be useful, as I could teach my own servants how things should be done. My experience would be invaluable to the running of a household.

In reality, I know it will never be so and I constantly tell myself that, despite my intelligence and good education, I need to look for my husband elsewhere. Ernest isn’t the one for me and wishing will never make it so. I need to choose someone else. Philip will make someone a fine husband one day. Being a chauffeur is a good job. He isn’t much older than me and he isn’t bad looking. He can be surly and grumpy, but we all have our faults. Arthur, the butcher’s apprentice, who delivers fresh meat twice a week, wouldn’t be a bad choice for me either. He has had an eye on me for a long time. I can tell by the way he winks at me and lingers by the door if I happen to be in the kitchen at the time of the deliveries. Cook had to shoo him away last week, telling him that he would be missed very soon by his boss if he didn’t get a move on and she had lunch to make.

‘Get out of the road, lad,’ she had said, wafting her tea towel at him until he retreated out of the kitchen and into the yard.

But I don’t want Philip or Arthur. I want Ernest.

The morning after that first night, I should have told myself that it was a once-in-a-lifetime circumstance and I should forget that it had ever happened. I had been foolish and reckless and should never have allowed a man to spend the night in my bed.  I should have told myself that Ernest would undoubtedly forget it and he would move on to his next conquest, as sure as eggs are eggs. But that choice wasn’t mine to make, it seemed. Ernest made sure that I didn’t forget it, by seeking me out the next night after dinner and kissing me again, this time in the yard by the kitchen door. And the night after that, and the night after that.

As I sit here now, I wonder how much Mrs Compton knows about what has happened between me and her son. She knows that I am carrying his child – I told Ernest a few days ago – but does she know that we are in love?  He must have told her. He must have explained that when I told him the news, he was overjoyed.

Mrs Compton had sent me to Skipton to collect a pair of her shoes from the cobblers that day, and I was prepared to walk, it being a beautiful and dry Autumn day, but Ernest had offered to drive me, telling his mother about some non-existent errand that he also had in the town. She was distracted by her letter writing and didn’t pay either of us too much notice. If she had, she would have seen the conspiratorial wink he gave me and my uncontrollable blushes.

Once I had collected the mistress’s shoes, Ernest persuaded me to take a walk with him in the Castle Woods, and for an hour or so, I forgot that our relationship was doomed, so wrapped up was I in the moment. We held hands and I pretended that this could last forever. When finally I had to face the truth, I stopped under an old oak tree and told him that I had some important news to tell him. The leaves on the trees were the colour of dying embers. The late afternoon sun struggled bravely through the canopy but, despite its efforts, it failed to warm me and I shivered as I leaned against the trunk, despite the fact that I was wearing my overcoat.

‘There’s no easy way to break this news,’ I said. ‘So, I’ll just come out and say it.’

‘What is it?’ said Ernest. ‘You’re not leaving Compton Hall, are you?’

‘I’m having a baby.’ I blurted out the words like a bomb and waited for the explosion. I touched my expanding tummy. ‘Surely you must have noticed?’

Ernest stepped away initially. He turned his back on me and held his face in his hands. Then he sprinted back to me and swung me around in his arms, so high that my feet lifted off the ground. He laughed into my ear and told me that he loved me and that everything was going to be fine. He promised that he would speak to his parents. They would be over the moon, he said. ‘There’s nothing more important than family,’ he said.

I hoped he was right, but am I being naive by thinking that a relationship between a working-class housemaid - albeit an educated one - the daughter of a factory worker, would ever be accepted by upper-class people such as the Comptons? Yes, maybe. Probably. But optimism combined with young love is an extremely strong force.

Now, as I try to decipher the look on Mrs Compton’s face, my optimism is shrinking. I am struggling to decide whether she is angry, disappointed, and appalled, or whether she is in fact over the moon. She does not have the look of an ecstatic expectant grandmother. The chasm between us could not be greater. My plain black dress is littered with dust after a morning’s work, my clogs are scuffed, my fingernails need a scrub, and the skin on my hands is dry and chapped. Mrs Compton in her high-necked blouse, decorated with delicate embroidered lace the colour of whipped cream, and her elegant cloud-grey skirt which skims black leather boots is spotlessly clean.  

‘Ernest told me and his father that you think the baby might be due in February, is that correct?’ she says. I nod. ‘It will be here before we know it. And are you well? Or are you sickly?’

‘I’m quite well, thank you, ma’am. Although I tire easily.’

‘Yes, that’s to be expected,’ she says. ‘Do your parents know of your condition?’

‘No, ma’am, although I expect they will do before long.’

‘No, no,’ says Mrs Compton with a sudden shake of her head and a wag of her index finger. ‘They do not need to know.’

‘I don’t understand, ma’am.’

Mrs Compton puts her cup and saucer onto the table and shuffles forward in her chair. For a moment, I think that she is going to grasp my hand, but she doesn’t. I still can’t fathom what she’s thinking. She smiles at me but her eyes are as cold as flint.

‘I would like to discuss something with you, Violet,’ she says. ‘We have a plan and I think you will agree that it is something that will benefit both of us.’

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright© Caroline Blake 2024

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First published October 2024