Marchwood Hall

Chapter 1

"That's the last of it packed away, my lady. Will there be anything else?"

"No, thank you Mrs Blake, that is everything. An easy task this year." Catherine Crawford let out a sigh as she looked around the empty foyer of her Harley Street town house. It looked pale and bare without the sparse sprinkling of green foliage and delicate twinkling lights that had so recently bedecked the hall.

Christmas 1918 had been a sombre affair in the Crawford house. Still in full mourning for the late Doctor George Crawford, the family had allowed itself but a few frivolities in keeping with the season, but few amongst the small household had been keen for the lavish celebrations they would usually indulge in. Packing away the few decorations that had been hung, once Epiphany finally rolled around, was a surprisingly easy task for Mrs Blake, the housekeeper, and the small staff of housemaids and footmen, when once it might have taken the entire day.

Catherine wasn't sure Christmas would ever hold the same magic and joy it once had. Her husband was dead, her only son crippled in the war, and the world still quaked in fear from the threat of the Spanish flu that had taken so many lives on top of those the war had already claimed – her husband's included. The house, though far from as large as her childhood home had been, felt hollow and empty, and not at all like home any more. She'd hoped the pleasant decorations might cheer the place up, and perhaps it had for a short time, but the festive season was over and it was time to let reality seep back in to all of their lives, and the reality was as grey as the sky outside on that January morning.

"Has Thomas come down this morning?" Catherine asked Mrs Blake.

"Yes Ma'am. Nash saw him down into the study an hour or so ago."

"Lovely, thank you Mrs Blake. You can return to your usual duties now. Oh, and would you be so kind as to have Mrs Ryan send up a tray, I should like to take tea with my son."

"Of course, Ma'am." Mrs Blake nodded respectfully at her mistress and gestured for the two housemaids, Esther and Mary, to follow as she headed for the stairs down to the kitchen and servants hall. They scurried after her quickly, bobbing a curtsey on their way out of the door, but ever in a hurry not to invoke the sharp tongue of the housekeeper.

Catherine found a small smile crept to her lips as she observed the ladies leave the room. A full household staff had been something her dear husband just never managed to get used to. Born into the upper-middle class, George's family had employed a cook and a housemaid, and that was seen as sufficient enough to see them through their daily lives; he had never known the experience of a full staff of servants until he had married Catherine. The wonders of a butler, footmen, and the Valet especially had baffled him for some time, but he was typically amiable and courteous, taking the whole experience in his stride if it was what pleased his beloved wife.

Lady Catherine Smythewick had been her formal title. The last born of four children, and a girl to boot, Catherine had held no claim to her families land or titles - those honours would be bestowed upon her brother – so, in a decision most rare amongst the English upper class, had made the decision to marry for love, and her dear Dr George Crawford became the object of such affection.

He would never have been her families first choice for a husband. She might not have been able to inherit land and titles, but she could marry into it and her sons could inherit, that was the way of things. George, however, could always win over even the toughest of critics, with his amiable personality and ready wit. For their fourth child, Catherine's family had been more lenient, but had set her up in marriage with a substantial dowry, enough to buy them their lavish, town house in the prime location for a doctor living in London, and employ their full staff.