Mrs Finnegan: Why I have been Silent for So Long

I cannot keep it to myself any longer.

And yet I am reluctant to say a word. You will understand why by and by, but first let us dwell on some thing pleasant and ordinary. And USEFUL.
A simple recipe for a cheap face cream perhaps?

Place 1/4 lb of best lard in a basin. Fill the basin with boiling water and leave it to grow cold. All the lard will have floated to the top so drain off the water and add more boiling water. When it is quite cold drain it once again.
Repeat.
Three times is enough. Put the remaining lard in a clean bowl or tub.
Apply.

It PLEASES me to think of you boiling lard. it is such a good activity for a chill February afternoon.

It pleases me even more to think of your lines and wrinkles softening because of me.
But you must do some of the work yourself. Strong light in the morning injures aging skin so you should ALSO ensure that the head of your bed is not facing the window. Of course, if you can afford heavy curtains that are AT LEAST twice the width of the window you already have satisfactory protection.
There are some faces, however, that cannot be helped, no matter how thick the curtains or how much lard is applied.

Ah me, I suppose I must tell.
You remember the BOOK I was writing?
Of course, you remember! I expect you have been saving up for it, putting a little aside each week in case the publishers felt they should bring out a luxury calf-skin, gilt-lettered edition. (I vetoed that idea before it was suggested it. I am a plain, homespun woman and cloth is surely good enough to bind my words.)
I toiled long and hard at the manuscript.

There were evenings when my quill moved with the rapidity of a fox chasing grouse, darting across the page with such energy that sentence after sentence fell like feathers across the pristine white.

Other times the ink flowed with the soft rhythm of an ancient river making its gentle way to the sea.
But some nights were hellish.
The words would not come. And when they did it was as if they had been spat out by a mangle.
Thus must genius suffer.
And then, eventually, it was finished. There can be no sweeter words than THE END when penned by a tortured writer-housekeeper.
What bliss it was. I drifted off to bed in happy delirium.
Next morning the manuscript was gone.
You remember Sissy? Dear faithful, golden-voiced, bright-eyed, wise-beyond-her-years Sissy?

I first hired her as a 9d day serving girl and she has been with me ever since she SAVED me from being arrested. (For new readers and those with a bad memory you can discover what happened HERE.) She has grown into a remarkable girl, loved by all her know her.

That morning was cold with icicles on the inside of the windows. Sissy rose early and made a roaring fire in the rooms I share with my husband Master Peregrine.

Need I say more? The wood was damp. She needed a fire starter. In my excitement at completing my Magnum Opas the previous evening I may have SCATTERED pages on the floor. My elbow MAY have swept it off my desk. I MAY have thought no matter, I will put it in order on the morrow.

Gone.
All 827 pages turned to ashes.

I hid my feelings from Sissy.

And have been remarkably calm ever since.

But what to do?

ABANDON my dreams? (And yours, dear reader. I FEEL your disappointment)

Or start again.

I shall leave the judgement in your hands. Master Peregrine says stop fretting, resign myself to FATE and don’t upset Sissy who makes the best hot chocolate in Brighton.
FRETTING? I do not fret.
I am KNOWN for my lack of fret, but I am, in my own quiet way, an artist.

I say no more.

For the moment.

Do not by shy in coming forward. I YEARN for your advice.
I await your verdict.

Do NOT miss the next revelation.
Just click HERE and you’ll get a gentle nudge on the morning it is published. Not too early. The Regency Town House footman doesn’t go out until the streets are well-aired.

Mrs Finnegan is housekeeper at The Regency Town House in Brunswick Square, West Brighton and the year is 1830 something as you very well know. She is famous for her ERUDITION, her serenity in adversity and her pickles.