Blindingham Hall, December 25th 1860

Christmas is ruined!

Cook has refused to keep vittles in the ice-house for some time. She claims the entrance is haunted – by what, I do not know – and says that the journey back up through the herb walk is too much for her legs at her age. She has taken to storing cheeses and uncooked meats wrapped in muslin or some such fabric and hung on string inside in barrels of cold water. I am no specialist in the culinary field but even I know that dangling poultry in standing water for a week is more likely to spoil than preserve.

Were I the sort of person to be satisfied by a diet of only vegetables, I suppose Cook’s laziness would affect me less. But I love a cooked fowl, today of all days.

I am reduced to sending the Boy over to the Cornbenches to ask if they have any meat to spare – not one of them looks as though they benefit from the goodness that a side of beef provides, but they keep chickens and if there is one left alive this morning I must hope they take pity on me. I do not wish them to invite me to join their festive supper – I can think of nothing less joyful, short of sticking my head in the sewing basket.

I will address the issue of Cook’s laziness when the New Year celebrations are over. She does make a good pudding but I fancy there are others in the village who can soak fruit and ward off demons whilst going about their duties.

Finding staff is tiresome. Local people are increasingly disinclined to devote themselves to servitude, I find. Quite how they expect to make their livings I do not know. I have decided to speak to the school master at his earliest convenience to see how he is filling the children’s heads.