Sunday, September 22, 1901

         I finally have the answers I need.  I wrote to my cousin Heather to see if Mary and I can come and visit her over the Hogmany festival at the end of this year.   She is delighted, she says, and says I will be in time to help them celebrate the first birthday of their little Jimmy, although Mary and I will have to sleep in the kitchen box bed.  I am used to that, sure enough!

          I still have the precious money Mr. Markam used to slip me from time to time, as well as the five pound note Angus gave me when last we were together – “Just in case you need it for an emergency,” he told me, almost as if he knew I would need to be taking care of myself. 

         To make things even better Madam told me today she would be visiting her brother in Australia and leaving directly after Harvest Thanksgiving, an extended trip that will take her at least six months.  She expects me to look after the house and garden while she is away.  Well, I will, at least until my ship to Canada sails in the spring, whether she is home or not. 

         I am hoping, hoping that Heather will give my Mary a home until I can send for her, for the only alternative is my own mother, and I do not have the courage to face my parents and risk being turned away as a fallen women.  They would never believe or understand my highland marriage to a dead soldier.

Sunday, August 25, 1901

         On Friday I was able to finally able to get the news I needed to get away.  Madam wanted me to post a special delivery parcel to her brother in Australia, and sent me across town to the Post Office.  It is right next door to the steamship agent’s office.  It was a long walk, but with Mary in her pram it went smoothly enough. 

         I found they are looking for domestic servants just like me to serve in the colonies.  The poster I saw advertised “high wages, good homes, and healthy climate.”  The agent I spoke with told me the high wages would come along after I had worked off my passage and period of indentureship, which would last three years.  After that I would be on my own and free to offer my services at the going market rates.  He suggested Canada as the most likely colony.  Servants are much in demand there, and pay good wages for domestic help.  He gave me the forms I would need to fill out, and told me I would be wise to wait until spring, when the weather warmed, for the Canadian climate is much colder than ours.  

         Then he spied the baby carriage waiting outside the office, and told me the bad news.  I would not be allowed to take any dependents to Canada.  I would have to make arrangements to have someone care for Mary until my indentured period is over, and then send for her. 

         So there you have it –good news on one hand, terrible news on the other.  How can I part with my baby for three years?  Who will take care of her for me?

Sunday, July 23, 1901

         Sometimes I am very grateful for the really nice people there are in this world.  Yesterday when I was in the market Mr. Cameron the greengrocer took me aside and showed me the little pram he had tucked away behind his stall.  In it were some baby things and blankets, things Mrs. Cameron kept in the attic from her children. 

         Mrs. Adams makes me keep the pram in the little shed behind her house, but that’s all right.  It means when I go out to do my errands I can easily take the baby with me and still have room in the pram for our supplies. 

         I have been thinking of a plan.  As soon as my year is up I will apply to go to Canada as an indentured servant.  The one steamship agent has an office at the other end of the village, so I will have to be very clever.  I’ll wait for Madam to send me on an errand near there, pop in and find out what I have to do to get away from this place where everyone looks down on me as an unmarried mother.  Well, not everyone – Mr. and Mrs. Cameron were kind to me.  They have made my life easier!

Sunday, July 7, 1901

         It is harder than it was before – a half-day a month away from my duties, although there is nowhere for me to go with my wee Mary, except to walk to the nearby park and feed the pigeons.  She is getting heavier and heavier, and a load to carry, let me tell you! 

         We spend most of my free time together in our little room.  I tell her stories and sing to her, and she smiles and laughs at me.  Her little stock of nightshirts and nappies are easily washed and dried in this warm weather, but I shudder to think what I will do to keep her warm in winter.  I have no material to sew for her, nor any blankets other than the things we brought with us when we left the sisters.  I must continue to nurse her as long as I can, at least until I can feed her some of the oatmeal porridge I prepare every day. 

         When I am sent to the market in the morning for the daily provisions I carry Mary in a sort of sling, so as to free my hands for carrying the food.  Several of the merchants, especially the greengrocer, have grown fond of her, and always treat us kindly.  The baker told me yesterday I would not be able to carry her much longer.  “I have something you can use at the house,” he told me,“ Our children are grown.  I’ll see if it’s still in the attic tonight.”  

         It warmed my heart that some people are kind to us.  Most of Mrs.Adam’s friends act as if I don’t even exist, or if they do, talk about me as if I was deaf, just as Mrs. Markam did.  I will not be a skivvy again if I can help it, and my daughter never will be.

Sunday, May 12, 1901

Sunday, May 12, 1901

         It has been almost a full year since I last had my hands on my beloved diary.  I will try to keep it up from now on.  First I will try to tell the story of the last year. 

         Father Campbell was right – the nuns were very strict, but kind at the same time.  They kept us in two dormitories, all thirty of us, fifteen to a room.  I was too miserable at first to mix with the other girls.  Nobody talked much, we were all in our own sad states.  It seemed everyone was in a different stage – some girls seemed ready to give birth, the rest of us some ways off.  The nuns gave us all the material we needed to sew clothes, nappies and blankets, whether we intended to keep our babies or not.  When those were finished we were put to work sewing clothes for the children in the orphanage.

          I told the receiving sister I was engaged to my soldier, and we would marry as soon as he returned.  Most of the girls planned to give up their babies to be adopted or raised in the orphanage attached to the home.  I would never do that, even if Angus never returned. 

The sewing kept us very busy, from morning to night, except for the hour we were required to go out and walk around the grounds.

We also had to say our rosaries three times a day and go to Mass every morning.  We got very tired of hearing the priest go on about how we had sinned and had to pay, pay, pay.  If that wasn’t enough we had to listen to the screams of the girls in the infirmary who were giving birth. 

         The nuns also sent us out into service to households willing to take fallen women, who would work for room and board only.  At the end of the year we would be out on our own.  The nuns warned the few of us who were keeping our babies we would be hard to place, but there were some charitable souls who might take us.

         There was one girl, Annie, who I made friends with.  She planned to give her baby up and go to Australia as an indentured servant where no one would know about her past.   Shortly before mine was to be born the sister in charge of placement let me know a place was waiting for me right in Motherwell, a Catholic widow who needed a housekeeper/cook.  She would allow me to bring my baby with me, and we could live at her home.  She gave me a card with the name and address on it, to go to as soon as I recovered from giving birth.  That was when I had an idea.  I knew where my cousin Heather’s intended lived in Thurso, and so I wrote a letter to Heather.  I told her where I would be working, and pleaded with her to send my diary to my employer’s address.  I had no fear my new mistress would get her hands on it, for I would be answering the door.  Annie agreed to mail the letter to Heather. 

         One of my duties was to clean the office of the sister in charge of the infirmary, so I had no trouble finding paper, envelope and stamp in her desk.  As soon as the letter was written and sealed my labour pains started.  I only had time to slip it to Annie before going into deliver my baby.

         The birth was surprisingly quick, maybe because I’ve worked so hard all my life.  I named my daughter Mary, and was praised by the sisters for naming her after the Queen of Heaven.  To tell you the truth I am so tired of their pious claptrap I am ready to renounce any loyalty to the Church.  I will never be a good Catholic again.  To tell you the truth I named my daughter Mary after my mother, who will never see her grandchild, in all probability.

         Now I am settled in at Mrs. Adams, who is kind enough to me, allowing me to use her second-hand tea leaves to make my tea with, but makes no allowances for my baby.  She hates the smell of wet laundry, and so I have to dry Mary’s wet nappies on a rung in the little room we share in the attic.  Sometimes I must drape them on my back to dry them.  She is a good wee thing, seldom cries, and is easily comforted to go to sleep after feeding.

         I was so happy to get a letter from Heather, along with the diary delivered to me soon after we arrived at Mrs. Adams.  She is now married to her lad and living happily in Thurso.  She told me she would always help me whenever I had need.  With her letter Heather told me the sad news that Angus was confirmed dead in battle, shortly after I left Abbott House.  Now I am a widow, at least in the eyes of God.  My daughter will never know her father.  Will my sad state ever end?

Monday, July 30, 1900

          I am writing this in a great hurry, for Heather will come by the Still Room and carry it away.  I have wrapped it in a bundle of table linen ready for her to pick up and somehow get it up to her room.  I don’t know how; I simply must trust her to make it happen.  I will hide the key in a tiny secret compartment Da built into our boxes when he made them so many years ago. 

         Tomorrow I will slip out and start my new life.  I am grateful for all the kindnesses Martha and the others have shown me, and I am grateful my condition has not been noticed.  What lies in store for me, I wonder?

Sunday, July 22, 1900

         Angus is missing in action and feared dead.  I overheard Mrs. Burns telling Cook he had been in a great battle as part of the British Offensive, and his beautiful white horse was seen running from the battle, with no rider – his beautiful white horse who carried us into the woods where we jumped over the stream and married in the eyes of God.  I used to carry apples for him when we met.

         I will not sleep tonight.  I will pray for Angus all through the night. 

Sunday, July 8, 1900

         It took all the courage I have to make an appointment to see the priest.  First I had to confess.  I was so surprised to see that dour old Father McMahan wasn’t there.  In his place was a very young priest, who was replacing the regular priest who was away on mission.  His name is Father Campbell, and he was very kind to me.  He did say I had committed a very great sin against God and the Church, but he would help me.  He told me to give my notice at Abbott House, and he would write to the Mother Superior at the home for unwed mothers.  Oddly enough, it is located in Motherwell, in the Clyde Valley not very far from Glasgow.  “The sisters are strict,” he said, “and you will not be allowed to communicate with anyone outside of the Home.  The sisters will provide you with everything you need.  Not only that, if you choose to keep the child, they will send you into employment with one of their supporters, for one year.  After that it will be up to you to provide for yourself.”

         I told Mrs. Burns I would be leaving at the end of July, that I was needed at home.  It did make me very sad to see my parents, probably for the last time in a very long while.  I had to keep my secret.  Before I leave Abbot House I will lock up my diary and ask Heather to keep it safe for me.  I daren’t put it in my kist box to take with me to Motherwell.  Who knows what the sisters might do with it?  

Sunday, june 24, 1900

         There is no doubt now, I am going to have Angus’ child.  I cannot go home to my parents.  I heard my Da go on about one of the village lasses back in Wick, how she had brought shame and sorrow to her family, and her father was quite right to disown her. 

         I finally told Heather today.  She was shocked, but understanding.  “I would go to the priest,” she said, “They are used to dealing with such things, and he will tell you where to go.  There are places run by the nuns for sheltering unmarried mothers.  For heaven’s sake do not tell them about your highland marriage!  They believe that’s a heathen custom and will turn you away.  But do it soon, before you start to show."  I looked down at my stomach then, relieved to see it was still flat. 

         I am so grateful to Heather for her advice.  She is a year older than me, and sensible.  She is leaving Abbott House in September to marry her village lad.  By then I’ll be away, somewhere.  I will go to the priest my next full day, make confession and throw myself on the mercy of the Church.  I am not a faithful Catholic, nor a regular at Mass these days, but I will do what I have to do to bring this child safely into the world.  After all, this baby will also be the child of Angus Abbott, and I cannot wait until he returns from South Africa so we can be married in the Church, and we three can be a real family.

Sunday, May 27, 1900

         I could barely eat the nice tea Mam had prepared for me last Sunday, I was off my food completely.  She kept looking at me strangely, and asked me how I was feeling.  I told her I was just tired, it had been a hard week.  I am still so sad, but I daren’t tell anyone, least of all my parents, that I was married in the highland way – they would have me off to the priest and confess my ‘sins’.  The odd thing is, we didn’t sin in the eyes of God, I know this in my heart.  But I have nothing to prove it, no paper, no nothing, but his bible – and it doesn’t even have his name on the flyleaf. 

         Now I fear the worst that could happen to a girl like me.  I should have had my monthlies this last week, and I have never been late before.  Could it be?  Whatever shall I do?

Sunday, May 6, 1900

         He is gone, and I am the saddest girl in Scotland.  I didn’t even see him leave on his fine white horse, off to join his regiment and then off to South Africa.

         Next week I will go up to Wick and see my parents, for the first time in a long while.  Maybe a visit with them will cheer me up, even for a little while.

         There is not even happy news in the papers.  I read that over in Canada a great fire in a lumber yard near Ottawa, the capital city, has left 17 000 people homeless – imagine!  I also read that an anarchist tried to kill the Prince of Wales while he was traveling in Europe.

         I am very tired tonight – time to catch up on some sleep!

Sunday, April 29, 1900

         Angus stopped by the Still Room on Tuesday to ask Martha for some flea powder to dose the dogs with.  While she was rummaging through the storeroom he slipped another note into my apron pocket.  I did not dare say a word.  He wanted me to bring my bible and meet him in the tea shop right after sent his family on their way after church.  This week has lasted forever!

         I knew why he wanted the bible.  However, I could not summon the courage either to go to mass or confession.  I know in my heart our love is right, but I know the priest would take a different view. 

         We went deep into the woods on this beautiful sunny day, and stopped in a little copse. Birds seemed to be singing in every tree. “Now Jeannie,” Angus told me, “We will marry in the highland way.”  We both swore our love on the bibles and jumped over the little creek.  Then we exchanged bibles and spent the rest of the afternoon in the little copse before returning back to Thurso, where I met Heather and we went back to Abbott House.  She is so full of her lad and his attention she didn’t even notice my hair was all messy!

         I know Angus is leaving soon, but I don’t want to think about it.  Soon I’ll only have the memory of this time together.

Sunday, April 22, 1900

         Again, it is very late, and all my room-mates are sleeping.  I have my candle and my diary, and I am the happiest girl in Scotland.  Angus loves me, he told me so a dozen times today.

         I met him at usual in the little tea shop  and he took me to a little inn some distance away from Thurso.  He took me in for a wonderful lunch. I couldn’t help but wonder what my Mam would have thought of such a place.   I could not tell you what we ate, it’s all a blur.  When the waiter brought us a bottle of champagne Angus said it was just the thing to finish off such a grand meal.  He coaxed me to drink it, and it tickled my nose.  I have never had such a delicious drink, and had two glasses before I began to feel dizzy and light-headed.  “Poor wee lassie, you need to lay down,” was the last thing I remember. 

         I must have slept for a little while, for when I woke up it was afternoon, and I was laying on a bed.  Angus was laying beside me, and his arms were around me.  “I am in love with you, Jean,” he said, and kissed me.  Then he sang “My love is like a red, red rose, that surely blooms in spring.”

         I was absolutely powerless to move.  He made wonderful love to me.  I knew what it was like between a man and a woman, but it did not know how it could make a body tingle, all the way down to my toes.  It certainly was different from the way I have seen the farm animals in their mating!  I think we made love three times that afternoon.  By the time I returned it was way past tea time, and barely escaped being locked out. 

         What is next for us, I wonder?

Friday, April 20, 1900

         The family has been away for a few days, visiting relatives in Inverness, so the house is very quiet.  We are not needed to do much upstairs, simply make sure everything is fresh and clean when they return tomorrow.  Martha and I gave the Still Room a good cleaning this morning and after our mid-day meal she said we both needed a good rest and sent me off to my room until tea-time in the Servant’s Hall.  Don’t let Mrs. Burn see you go, she told me with a wink.  Mrs. Burns never comes up to the attic where we maids sleep.  I brought the newspaper with me to have a good read.  

         Now here is a phrase I have never seen before – concentration camp.  It seems that in South Africa the British Army have been destroying the Boer farms and forcing thousands of women and children into camps.  Over 20 000 have already died because of  the overcrowding, and poor food supplies.  I don’t understand how the papers can praise the military the way they do.  I hope Angus only has to fight the Boer soldiers, not have anything to do with all those poor women and children!

                  I also read that in New York they now have electric buses!  We have some electricity in Abbott House, but only in the family’s quarters.  I wonder how a bus would run on it?

          I almost wish the family would stay away.  As much as I want to see Angus again I don’t know if I want to know what might happen between we two.

Sunday, April 15, 1900

         What am I going to do?  I can’t tell anybody, I can’t ask advice of anybody.  Not even my cousin Heather.  I would be sacked for sure if anything ever got out. 

         A few days ago I was getting ready to return to the Still Room, late in the afternoon.  I saw Master Angus and his brother coming down the hallway, and just as we had been trained to do I turned myself to the wall, seeking to be invisible.  As they passed I felt him slip something into my apron pocket.  No one else saw, for Angus’ brother was looking in the opposite direction.  I did not dare let on I had noticed anything.  When I returned to the Still Room Agnes was busy, and called me to come and help her at once.  It was not until bedtime I had the opportunity to look in my pocket.

         The girls I share with are always so tired, poor things, they often are asleep as soon as they lay down.  Besides, they know I am a reader, and think I am getting out a book when I reach under the mattress for my diary.  I pull the little curtains that separate our cubicles, light my candle and spend a few minutes with my diary.  It is only on Sundays I have a chance to write in it, but reading a few entries makes me feel closer to my family.

         When I was sure they were all asleep I reached into my apron pocket.  It was an unsigned note.  It read, “I will be in town with my family on Sunday morning.  After church I will tell them I am staying to visit with some old friends.  I would be honoured if you would meet me and spend the afternoon with a lonely soldier.”  He had named a small tea shop tucked away on a back street.

         My head is telling me to ignore the note, forget I ever got it, be sensible.  But my heart wants to go!  Like my soldier, it is lonely.  What would it hurt to have tea with a young man in a chance meeting?

Sunday, April 8, 1900

         The second floor of the Abbott house is not just bedrooms and water closets!  Mrs. Abbott has her own sitting room off her bedroom, and Mr. Abbott has a beautiful library, lined with enough books to keep a person reading forever.  There is also a big room lined with hollow rods heated with steam. Comforters and towels are kept warm there, and we must place them in the bedrooms in the evening, ready for the family.  The children’s nurses collect the nursery supplies early in the evening for their baths.  Sometimes I hear the children laughing.  I love hearing that happy sound.

         Along with making a dozen beds in the morning we must carry the chamber pots down the servant’s stairway and empty them at a spot well away from the house.  The bed linen is changed every week, although we are sometimes told to do it more frequently.  Each room must be dusted and aired, the carpet swept and flowers tended.  If the weather turns bad we must rush about and shut the windows. 

         Yesterday I was finishing the carpet sweeping and I heard someone whistling “Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair” at the door.  I knew without turning around who it was. 

         “Master Angus,” I whispered, keeping my head down and dropping a curtsey, “Is there something you need?’

         “I just wanted to look at your pretty face, Jean,” he said, “Besides, I’m bored and looking for some company.”

         “Sir, I must get back to my duties.  Please excuse me.”  He was gone whistling down the hallway.

         I’ve never thought of myself as pretty.  Seeing no one else about I looked in the big mirror next to the dresser.  Light brown hair to be sure, braided and wound around my head, blue eyes like the rest of my family, nothing special.  I suppose I am tall, more tall than many of the maids here, but he is taller than me.         

Sunday, April 1, 1900

         On Thursday Mrs. Burns the housekeeper summoned me to her sitting room.  I went with shaking knees, you can be sure!  She asked me if I knew how to make up a bed and tidy a bedroom properly. 

         “Yes, ma’am, I did all the bedrooms for my last employer,” I answered. 

         “Good.  I am taking you off the stillroom for the next month while our visitors are here,” she told me, “We will need extra help.  I want you to help the upstairs maids.  You can still do the fetching from the stillroom for anyone who wishes you to.  If there is time in the day you can return to the stillroom and help Martha.”

         Tomorrow the family arrives, and I will get to see some more of this grand house.  Maybe working upstairs will keep me so busy I will be able to keep my mind off a certain handsome face!

Sunday, March 25, 1900

         After that nasty business with Mr. Conner I thought I would never again want anything to do with a man.  Now I can’t get the handsome face of Angus Abbott out of my mind.  Yesterday he rode past the Still Rom window and waved to me.  I didn’t dare wave back, and luckily Martha didn’t see.

         Now what am I thinking?  If any of the family ever found out he was paying any attention to me I would be sacked, no question.  But he only waved at me; I didn’t do anything in return. 

         Heather and I walked into town again this afternoon.   One of the lads hanging about the square caught her eye, and she excused herself to go and have a word with him.  I walked over to the large statue and was surprised to find it is of Sir John Sinclair, and the plaque lists his accomplishments –dry-stone walling across Caithness, crop rotation and “the arrival of sheep to replace people”.  That one puzzles me.  Why should sheep replace people?

         When Heather joined me she was blushing.  Seems the lad has been watching her for a while now, and asked to see her again, perhaps to take tea with him next Sunday.  Well, Heather is certainly old enough to have a beau.  She just turned seventeen.  I suppose I will be old enough soon, too.  I’ll be sixteen in a couple of months.  A lot of girls are married and mothers by then.  

Sunday, March 5, 1900

         I found a copy of the Illustrated London News from Christmas, in the pile of rubbish the housemaids brought down from the family’s bedrooms.  Thinking to simply look it over, I took it into the Still Room to read when I had a minute to spare.

         What struck me were the advertisements for some of the things we make so painstakingly by hand.  Medicines and soaps I could simply go to the chemists and buy, if I had the money. 

         I love the flowery way the preparations are shown.  For instance, Eno’s Fruit Salts.  This is what it promises – There is no doubt that where it has been taken in the earliest stages of a disease it has, in innumerable instances, PREVENTED what would otherwise have been a SERIOUS ILLNESS.  The effect of ‘ENO’S FRUIT SALT’ upon any DISORDERED, SLEEPLESSNESS, AND FEVERISH condition is SIMPLY MARVELLOUS.  It is, in fact, NATURE’S OWN REMEDY and an UNSURPASSED ONE. 

         Bovril ‘makes the weak strong and the strong stronger’.  Neaves’s Food is ‘admirably adapted to the needs of Young Persons’, Carter’s Little Liver Pills will ‘cure all liver ills’, and Pear’s Soap is ‘matchless for the complexion’.

         Martha and I were fascinated by the adverts for the products we work so hard to create.  We were reading them over when there was a rap on the door.  A tall young man wearing a military uniform came in.  “Hello Martha”, he said, “Have you any liniment for a sore muscle?”  Martha dropped a curtsey.  “Master Angus,” she murmured.  Then, to me, “Jean, get the muscle liniment for Master Angus.  When I passed it to him he clicked his heels together and winked at me.  I must have turned thirteen shades of red.  “Jean,” he smiled at me, “Jeannie with the light brown hair.”

Then he was gone.  “Watch yourself, Jean,” Martha warned me, “He’s not for the likes of us.”  Of course I know that, but I can dream.  He’s the handsomest man I ever saw.

sunday, February 12, 1900

         Martha and I have been very busy getting ready for the great family visit next month.  She has been teaching me to prepare creams and lotions for the ladies’ toiletries, tonics and cough medicine for the children, flea powder for all the dogs the family will be bringing as well as the four that already live here, and various herbal preparations for teas.  I have been grinding up rose hips with the mortar and pestle until my arms ache!

         Martha has confided in me that she is hoping to be married by the end of this year.  She has been walking out with one of the footmen, although she won’t tell me his name.  They meet in town once a month at the home of a friend.  “The wedding may be sooner,” she told me with a wink, “If you ken my meaning.”

          I know this is often the highland way, to wait until a wedding is necessary to save a girl from disgrace, but I will only be sixteen this year, and it will be years before I think of getting wed.  There is so much of the world I want to see!

Sunday, january 21, 1900

         We celebrated the New Year in fine style back in Wick.  Mam and Da say things at home are very quiet with us both gone.  They were so happy to have us at home for two whole days.   I felt very proud I was able to turn most of my salary over to my parents.  Henry had much less, being a beginning apprentice, but our parents said they were grateful, and it will help them hire a neighbour’s boy to help Da with the animals.  Mam is looking tired, and this will ease her load.

         Imagine, it is a new century, but nothing really feels very different.  The same old battles in South Africa are carrying on, there are still storms and earthquakes killing people who have done nothing to deserve it.  Everyone is talking about a new wonder medicine that is just now appearing in the chemist shops.  It is called aspirin, and they are saying it will cure just about anything. 

         Things are starting to get very busy at Abbott House, for in just a few weeks we will have a full house.  I pity the poor laundry maids; they must mend, wash and iron linen for goodness knows how many beds!  

Sunday, December 3, 1899

         Heather and I were able to spend most of today in town.  We didn’t do much more than wander the high street and look in the shop windows, but she told me all about the Abbott family.  The oldest daughter is coming out in the spring, while her brother is home on leave.  Her parents are holding a grand ball for her and then her mother will be taking her down to London to introduce her into society.  The younger daughter will never be coming out, Heather said.  She is fourteen, but she will never grow up in her mind, she was born innocent.  Her mother will keep her at home forever.  

         Heather says the younger brother, the one who is to be going to South Africa with his regiment is very handsome, and half the maids are taken with him.  His brother is a stuffy old man of businesss, and he will bring his wife and four children to stay in the spring

         “Then you can be sure of earning your shilling,” said Heather, “We’ll be working ourselves silly then!”

         A kind farmer gave us a lift as far as our gate, and we were home in time for tea in the Servant’s Hall.  

Sunday, November 19, 1899

         Last week I was introduced to a room I’ve never seen before.  It is called the Still Room, and is used to make an enormous number of things – everything from ointments, soaps, and flea powder, cough syrup, furniture polish and too many things for me to remember here!

         The maid in charge of the stillroom needed to get an assistant, because her under-maid was dismissed suddenly.  I don’t know why.  Mrs. Burns suggested me, since I was new in the kitchen and there really are more maids there than are needed.  It seems like an interesting job, but there is a lot to learn, that’s for sure! 

         My superior in the still room is called Agnes, and she is a happy and talkative one.  We are allowed to talk with each other, due to the nature of what we do.  For now I just do what she tells me – fetch the mortar and pestle, scrub the table,  fetch this and that from the herb garden – I like this part best.  I am learning to know how Thyme can be prepared in an ointment for skin problems, Sage can be boiled down to ease a sore throat and Rosemary can be broken up into a powder for cleaning the teeth.

         Today we are collecting the last of the roses to grind the petals into powder for talcum.  Agnes also had me collect the rose hips, some to be made into tea, the rest for a cold medicine.

         I have also had a chance to see my cousin Heather at last.  She was sent by the head parlourmaid to get some lemon oil to polish the furniture with.  We had a chance for a quick hello and make a plan to spend our next Sunday together.  

Sunday, November 5, 1899

         The Abbotts have four grown children, although only the two young ladies live at home.  The eldest son lives in Edinborough with his wife, and the youngest, also a young man, is expected to be sent to South Africa with his regiment.  I heard Mrs. Ross, the head housekeeper telling one of the cooks he is to be coming home for leave in the spring, before he leaves.

         I have heard that with a brand new century starting at the end of the year the family will be going to London for the celebration.  I have also heard we will all be given two whole days to spend Hogmanay with our families.  I am so happy!

Sunday, October 22, 1899

         The weather has been so bad I was not able to get home for my monthly day off, so I have been cooped up inside, just like everyone, except for the family, who have footmen to hold umbrellas over them while they step into their private carriages.  The weather does not decide their doings!

         While I am on about my hard life, let me tell you what is expected of us for the yearly salary of ten pounds:

1.   When being spoken to, we must stand still, keep our hands quiet and always look at the person speaking to us.

2.   We must never let our voice be heard by the ladies and gentlemen of the household, unless they have spoken directly to us with a question which requires a response, at which time we speak as little as possible.

3.   In the presence of our mistress, we must never speak to another servant or person of our own rank, or to a child, unless it is a necessity, and then as little and as quietly as possible.

4.   We must never  talk to the ladies and gentlemen of the household unless it is to deliver a message or ask a question, and then in as few words as possible.

5.    Whenever possible, items that have been dropped, such as spectacles or handkerchiefs and other small items, should be returned to their owners on a salver.

6.    Always respond when we have received an order, and always use the proper address: “Sir”, “Ma’am”,“Miss” or “Mrs” as the case may be.

7.    Never offer our opinion to our employer.

8.    Always “Give room”: that is, if we encounter our betters on the stairs or in the house, we are to make yourself as invisible as possible, turning ourselves to the wall and averting our eyes.

9.   Except in reply to a salutation offered,  we must never say “Good morning” or “Good night” to our employer.

10. If we are required to walk with a lady or gentleman in order                      to carry packages, or for some other reason, we must always  keep a few paces back.

11. We are expected to be punctual to our place at mealtimes.

12. We must not receive relatives, friends or visitors into the  house, not must we introduce any person into the Servant’s Hall without the consent of the Butler or Housekeeper.

13.  We must never have followers; if we are found to be fraternizing with a male we can expect to be immediately dismissed.

14. We must expect any breakages or damages to be deducted from our wages.

I hope no one ever finds this diary – I keep it locked and under my mattress except when I have a few hours away from my duties, and the key on a chain around my neck.  Would I be dismissed for keeping it, I wonder?

Sunday, October 1, 1899

         The trip back to Wick was very hard, for the horse-drawn omnibus took a long time to get home, and I barely had time for tea with my parents when I had to turn around and get back to Abbott House.  It was midnight before I got off to bed, and felt out of sorts for the next few days. 

         One of the good things about working in the kitchen is that often the newspaper comes back on one of the trays.  No one else seems to want to read it, so I am able to go back to finding out what’s going on in the world when I have a minute to spare – not that I get many minutes to spare!

         There has been a horrible hurricane somewhere in the Caribbean.  Over 2,000 people were killed, but many died afterwards from an awful disease called cholera.  The paper said Cholera could become a world-wide problem, and it comes from invisible germs in the water.

Sunday, September 10, 1899

          I see very little of my cousin Heather, who lives and works in another part of this huge house.  There are forty servants in all, although the family has only six members in it.

         The male servants have to get up and light the fires, polish all the shoes and boots the family and their guests leave outside their bedroom doors, clean and trim all thirty-five lamps before the rest of the household begins to stir.  As well, they must haul buckets of hot water upstairs for anyone who wishes to bathe.  Where does the hot water come from?  We must bring in wooden buckets from the outdoor pumps and pour it into the big copper pots kept forever boiling on a stove kept special for that one purpose.  I often wonder what Mam would think of this, she who must cook and boil water over the one central fire that throws smoke in your face if the wind is blowing the wrong way.

         My day off is coming up, at the end of this month. I do hope I can arrange to get home.  I do miss my parents.

Sunday, August 27, 1899

Sunday, August 27, 1899

         Well, life at Abbott House is certainly much grander than at the Markams!  I have been here a month and have yet to meet the laird or his lady.  The kitchen and scullery are all I see, except for the attic room I share with three other maids.  We are fed well, mostly on the fare the family would shun.  Soup twice a day, with cheaper fare such as lobster or ground beef or pork, and lots of boiled vegetables from the garden.  Leftovers are always fed to the pigs, who I know will eat anything!  Breakfast is always porridge, which is my responsibility to cook.  Luckily one of the other servants has to get up earlier than me to light the kitchen fires. 

If there is any porridge left over from breakfast, I have to pour it into a wooden form.  It is left to set, and if anyone gets very hungry between meals, they are allowed to hack off a section of the cold porridge.  I have not yet been that hungry!

         We have about six hundred pots and pans in our kitchen, and hundreds of dishes and pieces of silverware.  We maids must set the breakfast trays, one for each of the family members and their visitors, as well as one for the head housekeeper and one for the butler.  The trays are usually delivered by the personal maids or valets.  Later we have to collect the trays and wash the drinking glasses and silverware.  The scullery maids wash the dishes, and there are many of them.

         As well as we kitchen maids, there is a chef and several helpers, housemaids, parlormaids, valets, footmen, houseboys, gardeners, stablehands and groomers.  The whole staff is headed up by the housekeeper and butler.

         The work is long and hard, but made easier by the friendly relations we all have with each other.

Sunday, July 30, 1899

         Now I will tell you what I know of the Sinclair history.  I want to get it all down before I leave and in the business of my new life forget what I have learned.

         The Sinclairs were originally the St. Clairs, who came from France with William the Conquerer, many centuries agro.  They helped get England away from the Saxons, and were awarded lands in Scotland as a reward.  There were nine of them, and so they scattered over the land, each with his own holdings.  One became the baron of Rosslyn.  Others settled in the lowlands, and some, like our family forefathers, eventually came to the highlands and established Castle Sinclair Girnigoe. 

         Some of the Sinclairs helped take the heart of Robert the Bruce when they went to fight in the Crusades. (I don’t know why they wanted to take his heart there.)  The Earl of Caithness became the laird of the Orkneys, under king James II.

         I also learned many of the old Sinclairs were members of the Knights Templar, and there is a lot of mystery around the Rosslyn Chapel, which the Knights were supposed to have built.  They are also said to have something to do with hiding the Holy Grail.

         Some of the old Sinclairs were not at all nice people.  One of the Earls threw this eldest son into the dungeon and made him die of thirst, but not before he had strangled his brother with his chains.  Another shot one of his fellow officers to death under the Duke of Marlborough, was sentenced to death and fled the country to escape punishment.

         The men were full of stories of the old Sinclairs, but when I looked at them, and my gentle auld Da, I see no trace of the wild and bloodthirsty clansmen they talk about.

Friday, July 16,1899

         Well, tomorrow I must start to pack up my kist box and prepare to leave home for my new job.  My cousin Heather is a parlour maid for an important family near Thurso, and that’s where I will be starting on this coming Monday.  My Da took me for an interview with the housekeeper a couple of weeks ago, and I will become one of a staff of 40, starting as a kitchen maid.  The house is splendid, and I will tell you all about it when I am settled in. 

         I have had a pleasant month at home with Mam and Da, helping with the animals and outdoor chores, a real pleasure in this fine early summer.  I will be sorry to leave my parents, but I will be given one whole day a month to travel home and see them, if I can arrange transport. 

         My Da was so happy to be given a few days work in Caithness, helping to repair some outbuildings near Castle Girnigoe.  Now this is an interesting thing I found out – the Sinclair Castle and the Castle Girnigoe are actually one and the same! 

         Every day I walked over to the worksite with a basket of food my Da’s noontime meal, and had a while to listen to some of the tales the workmen would tell about the Sinclairs – they are all related to us in one form or another, distant cousins mostly, and they all have their tales.  I will write some of them out next time, tonight I am too weary to write any more.

Sunday, July 30, 1899

         At first it was very, very bad.  I had planned to tell Mam and Da that the Markam’s had decided they didn’t need to keep an extra servant on, now that their household was smaller.  I would be getting a good reference so I could get another job, easy. 

         But in the telling everything came back to me and I started to shake.  “He put his hands on me,” I blubbed, “he’s been doing it for weeks and weeks.  Today he tried to . . .tried to . . “  When my parents finally got the story out of me they were in a blether.  My Da grabbed his coat and headed out the door before anyone could stop him. 

         When he came back he told us Mrs. Andrews had told him everything, but begged him not to upset Mr. Markam, who was still convalescing.  He could have another heart attack, she said.  Da knew there was no use going after Mr. Connor.  He would deny everything, and besides, money and position always win, just like Mrs. Andrews said.  We would have to be satisfied with Mr. Markam’s good reference.

Sunday, July 9, 1899

         I learned today that the word no is very powerful.  I was in the scullery doing the washing up when he walked in – Mr. Connor, of course.  He started out being nice and polite by asking me if I wouldn’t be nice to him, with Miss Fiona being indisposed and all.  I truly didn’t know what he meant, so I asked him, “What do you mean, sir?”

         “You little simple fool, this is what I mean,” he said, grabbing me around the waist and trying to force me backward onto the wooden table.  I was so shocked I couldn’t do anything.  Then he started tearing off my apron and pushing my skirt up over my waist.  By then I knew what nice meant, you can be sure!  “No!” I shouted, flinging the hot  soapy towel I was still holding at his face.  That gave me a minute to get out of the scullery.

         I ran straight into Mrs. Andrews, who only had to look at me, and then at Mr. Connor, to realize what was going on.  She put her arm around my shoulders and led me into the kitchen to sit down and collect myself.  I couldn’t stop shaking until I had finished the hot sweet tea she made me drink.  We both saw Mr. Connor stamp out of the kitchen and slam the door behind him.

         “Jean,” she told me, “I don’t think it’s advisable for you to work for the Markam’s any more.  We have to get you away from Mr. Connor, for your own sake.  I can’t tell Mrs. Markam what happened today, she would not believe he did anything out of place.  I will have Mr. Markam write you a good character reference.  He’s always liked you, and will be sorry to see you go.  I’ll tell them you are needed at home, with your brother gone and all. 

         “But what can I tell them at home?” I said, the tears starting again.  I can tell you I felt shamed, as if I had done something terrible.

         “Tell them the truth,” Mrs. Andrews said simply, “You have never given your parents a need to disbelieve you.  Your father is not going to go after Mr. Connor, he’ll know better than that.  Money and position always win.  Finish up in the scullery now, and then go home.  I’ll have the reference sent over to your cottage.  Good luck to you.”

         With that I left the Markam’s, and I will never return.

Sunday, May 18, 1899

         My brother has finally turned fourteen and has left school – not as I did, with sorrow and regret, but with right good cheer, eager to start his new life.  He is so anxious to start his life as an adult he was up at 5:00 and all packed by the time the cart came to take him to his job.  We will not see him again until Hogmanay, his one day of freedom.  I will miss his teasing and our late-night talks as we lay in our box beds.

         At the Markam’s things are getting worse for me.  Mr. Connor never fails to find a way to put his hands on me, always so no one else can see. I think he knows Mrs. Andrews is on to him.  I have a feeling I will be unemployed before long, for I cannot stand much more of him.

Sunday, May 21, 1899

         Finally, Mr. Markam is well enough to host a dinner.  It’s not like the rowdy affairs he had before his heart troubles, but enough to be called a party.  Dr. Burns, Miss Fiona and two of the senior managers of the mills were the guests  - oh, and Mr. Connor of course.

         While I was serving the soup I felt something crawling up underneath my skirt.  I was Mr. Connor’s hand.  He was facing the opposite direction from me, and was talking with one of the managers, but his sneaky hand seemed to have a life of its own.  I moved away quickly, you can be sure!

         I know Mrs. Andrews saw what happened, for she patted me on the back later on, as I was taking my leave for the evening.

Sunday, March 1, 1899

         I hear Mr. Markam is improving day by day and it won’t be long before he comes home.  But he will never be able to put in a long day at work again.  I hear talk that Mr. Connor will take over the day to day running of the woolen mills and Mr. Markam will advise him from home. 

         Fiona and Mr. Connor are all settled in their new home, and sometimes come to the house for tea although usually Madam goes there, as the house is much finer, and closer to the hospital as well. 

         When they do come here Fiona brings the little white poodle she bought in Paria.  It is a dear little thing, although its mistress is rapidly ruining it by treating it as a baby – she puts pink ribbons in its hair and talks baby talk to it sits on her lap during a meal.  She feeds it all kinds of sweets and cream, and then can’t understand why Precious goes into a corner and throws up.  And guess who gets to clean up after it? 

         Honestly, sometimes I think she’s quite simple!  She hardly ever speaks, just stares at her husband with great sheep eyes and plays with Precious.  I think she is in the family way, from her figure – I just hope they find an intelligent nurse for the baby!

Sunday, February 9, 1899

         Robbie Burns Day has come and gone.  Mr. Markam enjoyed showing his guest from America the whole thing, and they had another big dinner party.  By 3 in the afternoon the house was full of kilts, so many tartans I couldn’t count them.  The ladies, of course, wore dark dresses and tartan scarves.

         When everyone was seated the master had the haggis piped in and he addressed it himself, in true Gaelic style.  Much Scotch was drunk, and the chamber pots were put to use again.  I slept overnight in the scullery again.  Mr. Markam left me the newspapers to read, and again slipped me half a crown.  I like him more and more!

         The next morning while I was going about my regular duties the madam received her minister in the drawing room.  She belongs to the Free Church of Scotland, and is, of course, a teetotaler.  He is a tall, thin man who carried a thick bible and has a very dour expression on his face.  I carried in the tea-tray and served them shortbread.  As I dropped a curtsey and started out the door I head him mention to Madam he had not seen me in church, was I new to Wick? 

         “No, she’s a Papist”, Mrs. Marham said, “She is a Sinclair, and that stiff-necked family will never leave their church.  I only took her in because Angus does business with her father, out of pity – he’s lame, you know.  I consider it my Christian duty to offer the girl gainful employment.”  I heard no more, but took my burning ears to the kitchen.

         Cook told me to take the one leftover haggis home to my family.  They enjoyed it so much, and I thought how much my Da would have loved the Robbie Burns celebration.  What would I give to be able to buy him a proper Sinclair kilt!  All he has is an old tartan scarf, a raggedy thing he wears in winter to keep his neck warm.