A Girl Called Foote

  Elliott reemerged from the maze, the red ball clutched in his hand, a pout on his face. “Now don’t do that again!”

  “Alright, I won’t,” Jonathan said, standing. He tucked the poem into his pocket. “Not today anyway. Throw it here.”

  Elliott’s face lit up with a smile as he tossed the ball toward his brother.

  But why would she suppose the old chap was a suitor? Ah well, it’s an astonishing bit of poetry regardless.

  Jonathan tossed the ball back and thoughtlessly reached to feel the paper crinkle in his pocket as if to make certain it did exist. He shook his head in appreciation.

  What a clever, clever girl.

  Choosing an ‘E’

  ~ Lydia

  “Tiny, keep them tiny,” Lydia said, watching Wells scratch out letters with the crudely sharpened pencil. “This paper is precious stuff.”

  Wells beamed, proud of her few little letters.

  To Lydia, they looked like the writing of a very young child, but she was pleased that Wells was so happy. Her contentment soured, though, as she recalled for the thousandth time flinging Persuasion under the hedge.

  How can I possibly get that back? What if it rains? Or is ruined by dew! Would the shrubbery protect it? She bit her lip.

  Next Sunday afternoon will probably be my first chance to go find it. But what if the boys are there again, or what if Wells follows me? She’ll never let me hear the end of it if she finds out what I did!

  “And how do I write your name?” Wells asked, offering the pencil.

  “Hmm…oh, yes.” Lydia took it and clearly wrote her name while Wells watched from over her shoulder.

  “That says ‘Foote’?” Wells asked, looking confused.

  “No, ‘Lydia’.”

  “Oh, well I’d rather practice ‘Foote’. If I start thinking of you as that,” she pointed at the paper, “I may accidentally call you that and get into trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Lydia laughed. “What trouble?”

  “Well, if the Lady wants you to be called ‘Foote‘, then I’m not the one to argue with her.”

  “Very well,” said Lydia, mildly annoyed and wrote ‘FOOTE’ on the paper. It was the first time she had written the name in reference to herself. Even the shape of the letters on the paper irked her.

  “F-oo-t,” Wells sounded it out slowly, pointing at each letter. “I didn’t think it would have an ‘e’ at the end.”

  “Well, the word for this thing,” Lydia lifted and wiggled her right foot, “doesn’t, but I suppose I want to spell it a little differently if it’s to signify me.” She hadn’t thought about this when she wrote it out, but it made sense to her as she spoke.

  Wells didn’t question it, but took the pencil from Lydia and began to carefully copy each letter.

  “Now,” Wells said, offering the pencil over with a smile. “Write ‘egg’ and ‘salt’.”

  “Such fascinating words!” Lydia teased as she obliged her.

  A shy smile came over Wells’ face. “Don’t laugh at me! I just thought I ought to learn words to help me read recipes. Do you think that someday I could…“

  Wells broke off, looking sly.

  “You could what?” Lydia asked, never having seen Wells look this mischievous.

  “Do you think I could ever be a head cook?”

  “Of course you could.” Lydia said, wondering why such a thought could make Wells smile.

  Come now, Wellsy, that’s not much of a goal to aim for.

  “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  “Why not?”

  “The Lady wouldn’t like it.”

  “I’ll be sure not to mention it next time she invites me to tea.”

  Wells rolled her eyes as Lydia continued, “Wells, I hardly think the Lady would care even if she did hear of it. Besides, servants can have ambitions.”

  Even ambitions as base as becoming a head cook.

  “Oh, no.” Wells shook her ginger head emphatically. “She wouldn’t like it. Smith says the Lady wants her staff to know their place and if she thinks one of them has forgotten it, then out they go.”

  The memory of Smith’s face as she whispered threats over a missing mob-cap in the hallway popped into Lydia’s mind. Her upper lip involuntarily curled.

  “That wouldn’t be the end of the world. You could find a place elsewhere.”

  “No,” Wells shook her head again. “If you get dismissed, the Lady won’t give you a good reference and then you can’t find a place anywhere.”

  Oh, please. Lydia narrowed her eyes. “Why are you so fearful?”

  “Fearful? Who was it that went down to the kitchen in the dark to relight the dip the other night? It wasn’t you!” Wells insisted.

  Lydia sighed at the recollection. “I didn’t accuse you of being afraid of everything, but you’re constantly thinking about being dismissed or upsetting the Lady.”

  “I’m just careful.” Wells stared at the wall. “I can’t go home.”

  “What would be so bad about that?”

  “My family needs the money I earn.”

  “How many siblings do you have?”

  “How many what?”

  “Sisters and brothers.”

  “Well, there were five at home when I left and three in service at Great Homes. There are probably a couple more now.”

  “You don’t even know?”

  “How would I? I’ve not been home since I came.”

  “You’ve never visited home?”

  Wells shook her head.

  “How does your family get your wages?”

  “I think Smith arranged for them to be sent to my mother.”

  “Don’t you want to visit home?”

  Wells shrugged. “I do miss some of the wee ones, but there was never enough food. I always gave away half my portion to one of my sisters or brothers because I felt sorry for them, but then I felt mad about it later. Here there’s always plenty to eat.”

  A new thought occurred to Lydia. “Maybe when you’re done here you can go home and cook them all a big meal like the ones you’ve learned to cook here.”

  “Done here? What can you mean?”

  “When you leave here.”

  “Why would I leave here?” There was apprehension in Wells’ voice.

  “I mean when you grow older and can strike out on your own or get married and have a family.”

  Wells snickered. “Don’t be stupid! I won’t be having a family!”

  “What? Why not?”

  “There’s no family for me! Once you’re in service, that’s your life. Surely you know that!”

  What?

  Wells turned her attention back to the paper and began to scratch at its surface with the pencil, seemingly unaware that her declaration had hit Lydia like a kick in the stomach.

  This is my life? No! I’m a farmer’s daughter.

  Lydia stopped breathing as the possibility of Wells’ words sank in.

  On the contrary, I was a farmer’s daughter, but now I’m nothing more than a parlor maid. My father is dead and my brother’s a drunkard. But…I won’t forever dust shelves here at Whitehall, will I?

  Lydia stared at her work-worn hands atop the bed cover, her stomach churning.

  Will I?

  No. Of course not!

  “Now, write ‘peas’ if you please,” requested Wells, handing Lydia the paper and pencil.

  Lydia resumed breathing as she slowly scratched out the word.

  “I’m done for the night,” she said, handing it back and lying down. “Snuff out the rush dip when you’re done.”

  Impressing Young Men

  ~ Jonathan

 

  “It’s my turn to read. Give them here,” said Jonathan, clutching his second glass of wine. As the papers were passed around the circle, he asked, “Hodges, when do you go to London?”

  “Next week and for a whole month.”

  Sophia’s face fell. “Then you will miss our ball???
?

  “Certainly not. I’ll make a special trip back for it.”

  “Well, I hope a whole new set shows up while you’re there. Our recent trip was quite dull. Upon my soul, Widdy, another misspelling?” exclaimed Jonathan, squinting at the half sheet of paper in his hand. “There’s no ‘e’ in ‘truly’! How were you accepted into Heath? Simply jingle a bag of crowns in the headmaster’s earshot and he opens the front door for donkeys, I suppose.”

  Widcombe laughed, reaching for another handful of walnuts. “We’re nearly out of nuts, here.”

  Jonathan reached for the bell-pull. “Alright, I’ll read through this muddled mess if I can decipher it. It’ll be an act of God with Widdy’s spelling.”

  “And Amelia’s terrible scrawl is no help either,” joked Widcombe.

  “Robert!” Amelia cried, throwing a walnut at her brother’s head.

  “We all have clearly seen that your handwriting is atrocious,” he insisted.

  “It would be a great misfortune,” Jonathan spoke, “if you did not possess in great abundance those other qualities which are truly important to an accomplished young lady. Everyone is allowed their faults.”

  Jonathan grew uneasy as Amelia’s face darkened a couple of shades, though he didn’t know if it was from Robert’s clear insult or from his own ridiculously unfounded compliment.

  I ought to be more careful what I say to her.

  “Let’s see here.” Jonathan redirected his attention to the paper. “It reads, or I think it reads, ‘Lawrence Hodges will marry a milkmaid, sire 12 children...”

  Here Jonathan paused to raise his eyebrows at Hodges, who was sticking his chest out and gazing smugly around the circle of friends. Jonathan laughed and continued, “…make his living as a reddleman, die a slow and painful death on a sugar plantation in Philadelphia and he will be truly missed by no one.’ I say, playing this game with the lot of you is rather boring. Couldn’t you have at least married him off to a Portuguese princess? And there is no sugar grown in Philadelphia!”

  “I thought my bit about him being a reddleman was clever,” piped Sophia. “He’ll be a bright shade of red, working in all that ruddle.”

  The salon’s door opened and in came Foote.

  “You rang, sir?”

  “Uh, yes, Widcombe, has inhaled all the nuts, possibly along with a shoe or two and I’m wondering if there are any left in the house at all,” said Jonathan.

  “I will see. If there aren’t, shall I bring something else?” the maid asked.

  “Yes, yes, whatever scraps you might throw to a pig.”

  He watched the girl as she left, her neat, upright figure briskly walking out the door.

  “I suppose it’s my turn to have my future determined,” said Sophia to the group who immediately focused on the blank slips in their hands. “But include no regimental leaders in my future. That joke has run its course.”

  Foote’s departure still fresh in his mind, Jonathan’s attention was arrested by the two young women before him.

  Amelia and Sophia sat on chairs that had been pulled in close for the game.

  His sister’s honey-colored hair hung in thick locks. She hadn’t bothered to curl them that morning, a process which Jonathan knew required more than one person and could take hours when done properly.

  Amelia, on the other hand, looked as if she had awoken at dawn to groom and preen. Various locks of her hair were curled, twisted and pinned, arranged with such precision and somehow glued into place that Jonathan wondered if she slept at night or simply sat at her toilette table preparing for the next day. Cosmetics, of course, were off limits to a virtuous young woman, but more than once Jonathan had noticed Amelia furtively pinching her cheeks and pressing her lips together, to bring out the color he supposed.

  She’d always been like this. When they were much younger and Jonathan was visiting at the Widcombes’ estate, Amelia had sat on the ground under an oak smoothing and resmoothing her skirt and silken sash, watching the boys throw a ball around. Once it was time to go in for the noonday meal, she had risen and walked all the way to the dining room completely unaware that her backside was covered in dirt. Prancing like a show-pony and twirling her parasol, she’d left a trail of clods behind her. Jonathan smiled now at the recollection.

  Unfortunately, it was in this instant that Amelia glanced at him. Clearly interpreting his scrutinizing gaze as one of appreciation, she tilted her head at him and smiled back.

  Good God, thought Jonathan, pushing his mouth into anything other than a smile and focusing on the pencil in his hand. He always knew that some had expected him to take an interest in Amelia by this point in time. The idea had its merits, the foremost being that she was the sister of one of his closest friends. Also, she was neither dull nor churlish in temperament, two characteristics Jonathan disliked in anyone.

  But to draw her close and call her “wife”? Ugh…

  Jonathan nearly shivered at the thought, imagining his hand cut and bleeding from the sharp edges of her carefully arranged hair.

  She might be pretty if she didn’t clothe herself in those ridiculous fashions. Perhaps she will catch Hodges and bear his twelve children.

  He looked around at his group of friends who were dully staring at the bits of paper in their hands. Clearing his throat, he offered, “Let’s not bore Sophia with our tedious prophecies. Shall we play a different game? One that doesn’t require so much wit?”

  “You fancy yourself so brilliant, Jonathan,” interjected Sophia.

  “I have found that people of brilliance are only accused of arrogance by those who lack the intelligence to understand them,” he declared, winking at his sister.

  Amelia laughed jollily while Sophia rolled her eyes.

  Again the door opened and Foote entered, carrying a large bowl of strawberries. She placed it on the table in the midst of the friends.

  “Oh, those are lovely!” breathed Amelia as they all reached for the fruit.

  “Thank you,” said Sophia to Foote who was turning to go.

  “Now there’s a clever girl,” said Jonathan, pointing at Foote’s retreating figure.

  “Yes, we are all amazed at her ability to carry a bowl of ripened fruit,” quipped Hodges, reaching for his second berry.

  “No, really. Foote!” Jonathan called.

  Foote turned, her hand on the door. “Yes, sir?”

  “Say something clever!” he commanded.

  “Sir?” the girl asked, her narrow brows lifting in question.

  “Don’t make a fool of me! Come now. You have on more than one occasion surprised me with your wit.”

  A look crossed the girl’s face, something akin to mischief. “Certainly, sir, even a bear is well-trained and pampered before he is called upon to entertain the masses. You’ve not even offered me an apple for my performance.”

  A slight gasp escaped Amelia. Sophia cleared her throat.

  Delighted, Jonathan looked around at his circle of astonished friends. “There! You see?”

  Reaching into the bowl, he retrieved the largest remaining berry and held it out to the girl. “I’m afraid a strawberry will have to be the reward for cleverness as I have no apples.”

  But the berry remained in his outstretched hand and the look on Foote’s face changed as if she was suddenly a different person.

  “Is there anything else that you need?”

  “No,” Sophia spoke. “Thank you, Foote. You may go.”

  “She’s not really a maid, is she?” asked Amelia as the door shut again. “I’ve never seen her here before. Is this one of your jokes, Jonathan, dressing up your cousin as a maid?”

  “She’s unlike any of our servants,” stated Widcombe, grabbing the rejected strawberry from Jonathan’s hand.

  “You oughtn’t tease her like that, Jonathan,” warned Sophia. “Or even speak to her so familiarly. You know Mama would not approve.”

  “At what point did you think I began to care what she approves
of?”

  “I was actually thinking of Foote’s sake.” Sophia replied. “It would not go well for her here if Mama began to dislike her.”

  “The Lady doesn’t seem to know that Foote exists,” her brother replied.

  “It is only the servants she notices that she dislikes,” responded his sister.

  Hmm, there is a bit of truth to that, thought Jonathan.

  “Enough talk about servants,” demanded Hodges, throwing a stem at Jonathan. “Get the cards. I’ll beat you at Whist.”

 

  Scorning an Apple

  ~ Lydia

  Once again, Lydia stood gazing in awe at the giant bookshelf before her. Anytime she entered the library, even though it was always to clean it, she was struck by the impressive sight. The shelves stretched to the ceiling, laden with countless colorful spines all pushed together to form a collective wall of literature.

  This room even smells differently than the others, like wood…and glue, perhaps.

  Lydia sighed contentedly and reached for a rag.

  Would anyone notice if I didn’t dust those top shelves? I’ve been here over three months and I’ve never seen anyone else so much as open one of these books.

  It was her love for the volumes themselves that compelled Lydia to climb to the top of the ladder. A bright splash of red caught her attention.

  What’s this?

  There, on one of the shelves lay a drawing of an apple. It was on paper that had been cut to fit the apple’s shape. Mostly red, it also had tones of yellow in its flesh. A bright green leaf sprouted from the little brown stem. It was lovely and fit perfectly in the palm of Lydia’s hand.

  Flipping it over, she saw written in a cramped hand,

  Is this a proper reward for a dancing bear?

  She grunted disgustedly and dropped the paper onto the shelf.

  Arrogant fool.

  “Say something clever,” he commanded. And so I did! Only to see them all shocked into silence as though this maid’s uniform relegates me to idiocy.

  She shuddered at the memory of their faces all turned toward her as her words had hung in the air, their mouths open, their eyes wide, all except for Sir Jonathan who grinned at her unabashedly.

  The only other time that so many people had gawked at her like that was one wintery morning when she had slipped on an icy step while exiting church. All the parishioners in the churchyard had turned to see her tumbled, wincing and gasping in pain.