"I am writing to you for advice and consolation, for I am at my wits' end. How I wish I were a clever housekeeper, like you, and how I envy the Orlingburys for having secured you to live with them. I should so like to run over for a chat, but you are such a busy woman, I do not know when I should find you at home without disturbing you in your work, and it would be too bad to make you talk business on your only holiday—Saturday. Do tell me, Marion—in the strictest confidence—are you afraid of your servant? I am of mine—horribly! Oh, dear me! When I first married I thought I was going to do wonders; to do such a lot of cooking, and to manage and contrive so cleverly. Let me explain a few of my troubles.
"To begin with, I have a cook who was recommended to me as 'a perfect treasure,' but I do not find her any sort of a treasure, and I am happy to say she is now leaving. She has a terribly superior manner, and resents it very much if I go into the kitchen at all. On days when I have attempted to do any cooking she is frigid beyond words. She is not a good cook herself—I could put up with a great deal if she were that—and the only things we have that are nice at all are curries and fricassees made in the stewing jar after your fashion. I heard about the jar about a month ago from a mutual friend—your Aunt Anne.
"Cook makes the most abominable pastry and cannot roast at all; our poor little joints of meat are shrivelled up and hard, so she has really no need to give herself such airs. With regard to the roasting I really am most perplexed, and hope you will be able to advise me. I have by me a standard cookery book, which assures me most positively that a joint should be put in a hot oven to make a casing to keep in the juices, and then it is to be cooked more slowly. This, I know, has been done, but the result is far from satisfactory, and I wonder if the oven is too hot.
"Only last night a beautiful little piece of loin of mutton was served nearly black and as hard as a brick. I was so distressed for poor Arthur's sake. It does so worry me to think of his coming home hungry from his office to such a dinner. He was most amiable over it and only smiled, telling me not to worry, I would soon learn. But the question is, how long will he keep on smiling if he often has bad dinners? One must look these matters in the face, must one not?
"I do not want to vex him too often; in fact, I do not want to vex him at all, but what can I do? And then his mother is coming to stay in a week or two, and although she is kindness herself, and very fond of me, I feel quite sure that she will feel a profound pity for her unfortunate son if she sees a black joint on the table.
"Her pastry—I mean cook's, of course—is so bad, that a week ago I plucked up my courage. Venturing into the kitchen, I tried my hand at making some. I rubbed seven ounces of dripping into a pound of flour that had first been mixed with a teaspoonful of baking powder—that was right, was it not? Then I mixed it with water to a dough and rolled it out. It kept sticking to the board, and I got very nervous, for I felt the cold, unsympathetic glance of the cook was upon me. But I persevered and made it up into a pie and baked it; but every time I went to the oven to take a peep—about every three minutes—the dripping was running out as fast as it could. Surely pastry is very wasteful. What is the use of putting it in if it only runs out again? And to eat, it was hard beyond words! And to see cook's scornful smile when, on the following day, she asked politely if I wished the remains sent up to table.
"Now, as I tell you, she is leaving shortly. I have heard of a girl who might do. She makes good soups, cooks vegetables well, roasts and boils fairly well, and she is very clean. I know she is a nice girl, and not at all inclined to be refractory, if I could only make up my mind as to the best way of starting. As I tell you, my mother-in-law is coming to stay soon. Marion, do advise me.
"Your perplexed friend,
"Madge Holden."
Marion read all this very carefully and thought it over. Then she answered Mrs. Holden's letter.
"My dear Madge,—I shall be only too pleased if I can help you, but you must not overrate my powers, as I think you are inclined to do. To begin with, I have had opportunities of learning housekeeping such as few have. You see, we all have to help at home, and mother is such a good manager; it would be odd if I had not picked up some of her household knowledge. You ask if I am afraid of my servant. If you could see her, I think your own question would amuse you. She is only fourteen, and she knew absolutely nothing when she came to us; by dint of great exertions, I am gradually teaching her to dish up our dinners and to wait at table. She can also turn out a room (with assistance) and wash up, but as she has learnt this under me, it would be odd if I felt afraid of her. If I had a real cook and housemaid like you, I might perhaps tremble in my shoes, but really I think there is no need. I am glad you find the stewing jar useful. If your cook cannot even roast a small joint of meat without spoiling it, she has nothing to be very conceited about.