Shall I Stay or Shall I go? Mrs Finnegan Has a Big Decision to Make

We are ONLY 28 days into a New Year and change of prodigious proportions is afoot.

But first let us be CLEAR that now is the time to draw a curtain over the past. There will be no more discussion about the nature of my recent malady, but I can assure you that I was not suffering from Ague, Dropsy, Gripe or Quincy. Such minor indispositions would not have kept me from my labours. Mine was infinitely more INTERESTING, but it is a subject I will not return to (except by popular request) because mischief is brewing at The Regency Town House. No! It has come to full frothy fermentation and its name is….

CUBBAGE

Remember the butler?

My dears, I wish I could forget.

I guessed something was UP when I received the following message on my sickbed:

No need to hurry back. The House is running like a windmill on a very windy day. Your personal effects have been removed from the housekeeper’s room for safe keeping.

I sent our maid Sissy to discover what “safekeeping” meant. It emerged that the safest place was in a heap by the basement coal store. To say that said store was accessed on a daily basis would be like saying the Pope sometimes goes to church. Not a waking hour would go by without a maid or footman opening the door and showering my precious belongings with a fine film of black dust.

That was bad enough, but more was to follow.

You may be interested to know that the mistress and I recently had a very fruitful discussion about the housekeeper’s room.

What! Why discuss it at all? Who brought the subject up? No answer was given.

Ladies and Gentlemen, you know already that I am famous for my TACT and discretion so when I was at last able to return to my RIGHTFUL place within The Regency Town House I decided to shun conflict and instead cultivate this man. We could become allies, if not friends, I reasoned and to that end I sent him the following message shortly after the New Year.

Mr Cubbage, have you any thoughts on the cook serving rice pudding in the servants hall five days in a row, without the merest suggestion of jam after day two?

It is surely excellent preparation for the day you lose every tooth in your head, a time which must be fast approaching.

I picked myself up from a near-fainting situation.

Sir, I saw you pull a face when desert was served, you cannot deny it!

Madam, if my face looked in any way discombobulated, it was because my face had to face your face across the table.

And in such a manner war was DECLARED.

Up until yesterday only annoying skirmishes of the call-that-clean variety were inflicted, although I scored heavily when I spied Cubbage DEVOURING a beef and pickle sandwich while the cook searched in vain for the remains of the Sunday joint.

Last week he was brazen. He entered the housekeeper’s room (MY room) without knocking, rousing me from a deep contemplation of this month’s accounts. With a measuring stick in hand, he mumbled to the empty air that this would do nicely or something to that affect. I am not ENTIRELY certain as it was hard to draw myself away from my contemplative studies.

But yesterday was the day the butler’s nefarious plotting was exposed in all its villainy. The Mistress called me to the drawing room.

Having a MARRIED housekeeper was uncommon, she told me. We both knew that.
Having a housekeeper in possession of a husband and a home to which she retired to EVERY evening was as rare as hen’s teeth. I nodded. But having a housekeeper with husband, home and a commodious and well-appointed room in The House of Her Employment for her sole use was unheard of even in the wildest forests of the imagination. It was almost as if I were a guest, she hissed. I could hear Cubbage in every word.

Something has to go, she told me in DREAD tones. I must choose between my home or my position as Housekeeper in the finest house in West Brighton.

Is NOW the time to hang up my apron and retire gracefully to the elegant rented rooms I share with my husband, Master Peregrine, riding master (already resolutely retired). And let Mr Cubbage RULE the roost

Should I (could I?) leave dear Peregrine for six days aweek? I am told told I can return home Sunday evening after the household has gone to bed.

What will poor Peregrine say?

What would you do if you were in my sturdy, brown leather shoes? Please let me know…

Although beset by my own troubles, I have not forgotten yours.

We are now in the influenza season and, even if you escape its debilitating effects, you will surely succumb to shaking coughs and bone-rattling chills in the next few weeks. Here is an excellent recipe to see you through the winter and I also provide a more economical alternative. You see, I forget no one. Pray, do not forget me, dear reader.

Take the same quantity of lemon juice, sweet almond oil, syrup of squills and VIRGIN honey and mix well in a decent sized marble mortar. Warm it over a good fire, stirring constantly. Strain it and decant it into a clean bottle with a stopper. Your symptoms will ease if you sip it throughout the day, except for sneezing. It doesn’t do much for that.

By the the by, syrup of squills is an expectorant made from the bulbs of the sea squill flower or Urginea Maritima. It is POSSIBLE you won’t find that in your kitchen dresser.

Virgin honey is the most pure form of honey, as the name suggests. It comes from a single comb that has only been used ONCE. Other kinds will do, I suppose.

A CHEAPER and quicker recipe is to boil a large spoonful of honey in a pint of water to which lemon juice has been added. Add rum after the boil, and simmer gently. (Ignore the recipes that say rum is optional. It isn’t.) Clear off the SCUM that appears on the top and sip by the spoonful. No HARM will come from drinking larger quantities, it especially efficacious at bedtime.

These recipes will make you feel better, even if they don’t impose a cure. I, alas, will probably NEVER feel better…

Perhaps you would like to read more of Mrs Finnegan? Fortunately, she has produced a most excellent collection of her letters to worried readers, combined with revelations about her private life for the first time made public, all of it in the most tasteful manner.

After selling out over Christmas, yes! truly! it can be purchased from the finest shops in Brighton AND worldwide using this handy link https://mybook.to/Mrs_Finnegans_Guide

All proceeds go towards maintaining The Regency Town House and will be SQAUNDERED on lime plaster, electricity bills and other fripperies.