Diary of Betsy Shaw (Sequel to Diary of Margery Blake) Second book in the 'diaries' series

Diary of Betsy Shaw

By

P.J. Roscoe

(sequel to Diary of Margery Blake)

2nd May 1860

Early yesterday morning, my daughter, Alice was born. Her arrival felt so fitting being the first day of spring, a new beginning, for a new decade. Her coming brings back so many memories that I had attempted to forget, but always knew, deep in my heart, it was always pointless to even attempt it. How could I ever forget, Margery?

Perhaps this is not the best place to begin my diary, but the birth of my daughter, has pushed an idea that had been on my mind for some time. I had mentioned this so many times to my husband, but was either persuaded not to waste time on such a thing, or what usually occurred, was that any time I might have had to begin such an undertaking, was swiftly taken away; life as a maid, even a ladies maid, hasn’t transformed my life into a sedentary one, and besides, my husband was always against finding the time for such ‘silliness’ as Henry called it. Putting my thoughts and describing my life in a diary seemed 'odd' to him and a waste of time.

However, I found today, I was restless, and now, during the dark night while Alice slumbers peacefully in her cradle, I have found myself moving silently around our home, unable to find rest, looking for pen and paper to put my thoughts out into the world and allow myself some semblance of peace, perhaps?

The pen was a wedding gift. A fine instrument given to me by my last employer, a Mrs Richardson, of whom I was her lady’s maid for almost five years. A beautiful thing, I have kept it locked away in a draw, unsure what to do with it. Henry found the present amusing, but he was at least gracious to her face.

And so, a little about Henry Shaw. He was and remains a gardener. He worked for the Blake family for two years before... Well, I’ll come to that. He found a job working for the Richardson family living on the outskirts of London, and very soon, became head gardener as they realised his gift for landscaping, turning their dull four acre ‘garden’ into a place of paths enclosed on either side with colourful borders and sweet-smelling fragrances. Trees of every kind found in Britain, grew slowly, but strongly and it was easy to imagine how the oak avenue would look in the distant future. A central water feature could be found at the end of this walk and it encouraged the family to entertain and show off their new play ground. Henry got a name for himself and although he remains working for the Richardson's when needed, he now has a handful of gardeners to help him with other masterpieces that families from all over London are hiring him to create. Henry is slowly moving up in the world.

I had known Henry for years before we began courting. I, as a house maid, gave him no attention other than a civil, ‘good morning’ if I ran into him, which wasn’t very often. I heard so many rumours of misconduct with women of low decency that I had no mind to give him my attention. I was no fool to kiss any man who flattered me and Henry never paid me such attentions anyway. He worked in the gardens of the Blake manor, and I so infrequently went there, it could be months before I would set eyes on him.

It was only after Margery, when I found the diary and had the courage to read it, that I saw his name mentioned and my interest was ignited. Not in any romantic notion, you understand, but I was interested in what ‘she’ saw in him. I was fascinated that she mentioned, kindness, chivalry, concern, and she was touched by all this from a relative stranger.

Of course, any kindness would have been welcome, married to that...That... Monster!

I thought we shared everything. She had asked me to be her ‘friend’ and I had responded willingly, for I loved her beyond measure and mourn her even now. Henry and I never speak her name, but when I did finally tell him of her mentioning him in her diary, he was moved to tears.

After reading the diary, I made more frequent visits to the garden, to try to catch a glimpse of this man whom she had thought of enough to write about.

‘I will not forget his kindness towards me. I will however, I think, feel regret that I am not in any position in life to act on any feelings that he might stir within me. He is a handsome man, but more importantly to me, he is a kind man. His gaze shows genuine concern for my well-being and his actions in helping me today will never be forgotten. Although this day is a foul day, as all celebrate my engagement to Captain John, my thoughts linger on Henry’s smile, the briefest look of something I couldn’t quite fathom before it was abruptly shielded and it is this that I shall remember, not the kiss on my hand from that moustached arrogant brute, or the uncaring actions of my parents who paid my feelings no heed when they accepted the engagement. Henry, you are my hero.’

At first, Henry was elusive. I barely caught a glimpse of this busy man who seemed forever in the thick of the bushes or up trees cutting back branches. I spied him briefly following the funeral procession, cap in hand as were all the male staff, but still I gave him barely any consideration as I was deep in my own grief.

It was a few days following Margery's funeral that I was called into Lady Blake's room and told there was no position as ladies maid for me anymore, but should I wish to remain, the cook needed an assistant. And that was that. She dismissed me from her room with barely a wave of her hand, and I made the hard choice to remain. I had nowhere else to go. I accepted the lower position of cook’s assistant and found myself sent out into the garden fairly frequently for herbs or flowers and Henry became a face I saw and smiled at. His smile back I took no meaning from it, remembering his reputation, but as the weeks went by I found that I was eager to get to the gardens on any pretext, just to say ‘good morning’.

When he was dismissed by Sir Blake, none of the staff was surprised. The man was inconsolable for a long time following the death of his daughter, but then he became vicious. No servant was safe from his abuse and Henry was only the first to feel his wrath. Driven by grief and suspicion, he dismissed Henry over a falsehood too outrageous to contemplate between himself and Margery, and of course, having found and read her diary, I knew the truth, but Sir Blake would hear none of it, and Henry left. Henry told be much later, that a small package arrived in his quarters as he was packing his belongings. No note, just a letter of decent reference and a month’s wages. Was this Lady Constance Blake? She had withdrawn to her rooms and very rarely left the house following the death of Margery. Her maid could do nothing for her and eventually left to another position. As far as I am aware, Lady Blake never acquired another, before her own death, I believe of a broken heart last year.

Two months later, I received a letter from Henry explaining his new position at the Richardson house and knew a ladies maid was required. Mrs Martins, was weary of the abuse and tension within the house, as were all the servants at that point, and many were searching discreetly for new positions. It was she who advised me to try for the ladies maid position and begin a new life away from the house that possessed so many memories.

I listened to her advice, met the Richardson family, and left the Blake residence two weeks later.

I believe Mrs Blake was sad to see me leave. She held onto my hand a little longer when we shook hands and she handed me my wages, reference and a small, gold chain belonging to, Margery. Of Sir Blake, I had nothing. Mrs Martins left three weeks after myself and headed up to Edinburgh to be with a young lady called, Annabelle and her aunt, who had set up a dress making business and were so successful, that they required a cook and housekeeper. I was happy for them all to be together again. But I will not dwell on that time in history. The horror’s that all endured, especially Annabelle, is something best left alone now. The perpetrator is dead and may he rot in hell.

For a few years, my life settled down into a nice routine. Mrs Richardson was not unkind. A woman of forty-six, her two daughters married, her son away at college, she was an easy woman to be a ladies maid to and at times, her companion. I believe she missed her daughters who lived some distance from London and myself being around their ages, I think she found me a breath of fresh air and I welcomed it.

We spent many hours in the gardens once Henry had finished his creation and over time, Henry would find moments to speak with me. I considered him no more than a friend. A man from a shared past, but Mrs Richardson, a cunning fox, saw through this charade and began to encourage the meetings, asking Henry to join us and talk about the flowers, his plans for the changing seasons, and pull me into the conversation. After a while, Henry’s look towards me changed, and I found that I did not mind.

I will not go through the lengthy courtship and subsequent marriage, but needless to say, I was very happy and in love, surprisingly! Mrs Richardson was sad to see me leave once I knew of my pregnancy, as ladies maids were not allowed to be married in this society, let alone pregnant! A rule Mrs Richardson had scoffed at, and despite the obvious disapproving looks from her social circle, she kept me as her ladies maid for as long as possible. When I had to leave, I knew she was as sorry for it as I, but kept it to herself as well as she could, after all, it had been her interfering that had brought us together; she couldn’t whine about it now!

And so, onto our daughter, Alice. Our darling, precious, Alice. Her full name, is, Alice, Margery Shaw. How could I not name her after the woman who broke all of the rules and became friends with a maid, a housekeeper, a dressmaker, a butler and, a whore. A woman who showed me true courage, and true love. Six years may have passed since that fateful day, but sometimes, I wake, hearing the screams of her labour, the sobbing of her mother, begging her to live and to forgive her, and the friend, Maggie, holding Margery’s stillborn daughter, Heather Louise Harrison, as they realise her daughter and friend, cannot be saved.

Sometimes I can close my eyes and hear her voice speaking to me as we did when alone in her bedroom, or walking in the park with Annabelle or Maggie. Her innocence ripped away, she endured so much and yet, Margery will always be remembered as one of the most courageous women I have ever known. In fact, all three of those I have mentioned have the right to be within that crowd. When together, if only for the briefest of moments, we were free to speak our mind and we did, and we laughed and it was wonderful.

I have mentioned Annabelle and her success in life, so I must do Maggie the same courtesy. Margaret Amy Walsh, or ‘Maggie’ as she was also known, was a prostitute, and though I detested her at the beginning as I considered her arrival and subsequent living in as Margery’s friend an outrage to common decency, I cannot deny that as the months went by, I began to mellow to her company and after the terrible event, I kept in contact until such time as we lost her.