A Noble Cause

I - Wulworth Place

One: Wulworth Place

At six in the morning, as usual, all servants at Wulworth Place woke up, starting a never-ending choreography of running the errands necessary to keep the house going, which an outsider's eye might deem perfect. It was the 24th of May of the year of Our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven.

The ballet went, when executed perfectly, as follows: the ones responsible for the cleaning were quickly ready to go to the halls and rooms, drawing curtains that revealed a gloomy and foggy morning, one like many London had seen, and dusting off every object possible. Margaret Sulley rather liked to wake up to a clean house and demanded her servants do so, one of her few demands.

Margaret was an old woman of seventy-four, a widow since the passing of her husband a few months earlier. Lady Sulley, as her husband was Lord Sulley, a peer at the House of Lords, had inherited Wulworth Place not from her husband, but from her father, Henry Wulworth. She was the only child of Henry and Charlotte Wulworth, so the name died with her when she married Adam Sulley; nevertheless, houses don't respect names, so she got sole ownership of the place upon her mother's death, one year earlier, at the respectable age of ninety-eight.

Whereas up in the halls Her Ladyship and two guests who had come for her birthday were still asleep, down in the kitchen, the cooks, all under Frances Laroche's, a red-headed, broad-shouldered Irish woman — albeit one could easily disagree on the latter — whose cooking skills were beyond supreme, watch, were eagerly preparing the first meal of the day, running after eggs, milk and other ingredients that they might use, all of which were freshly delivered every morning at Wulworth Place.

It was not unusual to hear Mrs Laroche complain about a flaw or two that she spotted and the 24th was one of these days, as she kept reminding the entire staff that "the milk boy was late again". Indeed he was, by an ever so alarming five minutes. Once again, the perfection in the synchrony may only be noted by an outsider's eyes.

Getting in the way of Laroche's complaints, Matthew Gay, the chimney sweeper, emerged in the kitchen announcing his coming and asking for Carl Janson, the butler, who would, again, be the one to tell him which chimney he had to clean; or rather, to remind him of it. Matthew's age had been affecting his memory, but even so, no one could sweep a chimney as well and as effortlessly as he did and London is well known for its sweepers.

"No, I do not know where Mr Janson is," Mrs Laroche answered, after making an inhumane sound upon noticing it was not the milk boy who entered. "Perhaps you should knock on his door; he might have overslept again, the old man."

Matthew thanked Mrs Laroche with a vigorous nod that almost caused his beret to fall but stood there watching the woman cutting parsley with an interest that could be matched to that of a cat for a rat. Well, in this case, it is more likely to be that of a rat for a cat, in some sort of unhealthy relationship where the interest is developed by the weaker part in full awareness of whatever peril said relation reserves for them and not the other way, which is far more common. Though, come to think of it, "common" is hardly a word used when it comes to describing the staff at Wulworth Place.

"Have you any news on where the milk boy is?" Mrs Laroche asked, pointing the knife to Matthew, who shook his head. "Then get your arse out of my kitchen and let me work, will ya, Mr Gay?!"

"Yes, ma'am. I-I am sorry ma'am. Morning, ma'am."

Olivia Preston, a cook assistant, giggled at his embarrassment and Laroche turned to her, shaking her head in confusion.

"What's wrong with the fellow today?"

"He's always been like that, Mrs Laroche. Especially when he's close to you."