My Dear Verena,—It is too long since I wrote to you. The reason is that the trouble about maids has been so constant and distressing. I am sure that there could not be a house where more consideration is shown, but we cannot get any to stay. I don’t understand it in the least. I have even offered to buy a gramophone for the kitchen, but it is useless. I brought myself to this step very reluctantly, because some of the records with what I believe is called “patter” in them are so vulgar, and too many of the songs too. Our last cook stayed only four days and vanished in the night. She seemed such a nice woman, but you never can tell, they are so deceitful. When we came down in the morning there was a note on the kitchen table and no breakfast. She had actually got out of the window after we had gone to bed.
I now have one coming from the North with an excellent character but she wants £45 a year. Isn’t it monstrous? The housemaid has been here for three weeks, but I wake several times every night and fancy I hear her making off. Life would be hardly worth living, under such circumstances, but for our friends.
I hope your news is good. My own constant ailment does not show any improvement and if only I could feel any confidence about the house I should go to Buxton. I heard from a visitor at the Vicarage yesterday of another case of spinal trouble which seems very like your own. That too was the result of a fall. It was many years ago and the poor sufferer is still helpless; but we all hope better things for you.—Your sincerely loving friend,
Louisa
P.S.—My brother Claude has had another stroke.