“Why can’t she…just leave me…alone?” Sophia stumbled into the room and fell on her bed in a great, blue satin heap.
Jonathan shut the door and began to pace. How can I punish that insufferable little swine? Think, think!
I ought to break his legs!
Sophia continued to whimper on the bed. The music from downstairs filtered up through the floor and stairway.
Think!
Agitatedly, he strode to the window and leaned on the sill, looking out into the weakening light of evening. Below, by the stable block, a strange sight arrested his attention.
Near the carriages stood a group of people. In their midst was a handful of dancers. They were doing a poor job. One girl was obviously in charge, calling out orders and pushing the others this way and that. Everyone was laughing and jostling one another.
Suddenly, a taller girl looked up and saw Jonathan. Fearfully, she halted in her clumsy dance and gripped the shoulder of the girl in charge, leaning in to tell her something. Continuing, the other girl looked around, smiling until her eyes found Jonathan.
Foote, Jonathan realized.
With undeniable grace and dignity, she curtsied deeply and then stood, gazing at him for a moment.
The taller girl fled from his view. The men around Foote, at this point, had ceased in their rollicking, their questioning faces turned up to Jonathan.
Foote turned to them and curtsied just as deeply. Then she collected a bunch of cups on a tray and traipsed from the stable yard and out of sight.
Ah, the delightfulness of a servant’s impudence, Jonathan mulled.
But wait! What’s this?
A finely dressed man had stumbled into the group. Barking out orders, he was clutching his nose with one hand and gesturing furiously with the other.
Two of the servants flew into action as the rest stared disbelievingly.
“Stop gaping at me, you stupid fools,” Jonathan heard through the window, “or I’ll have you all dismissed!”
Why, it’s Morton! marveled Jonathan, his mouth agape.
“Sophia! Sophia, you must come and see this!” Jonathan urged his sister who was still weeping on her bed. “Morton’s staggering around in the yard, threatening the servants!”
Within seconds, Morton was clambering into an especially grand-looking carriage which took off down the drive.
“Sophia, come look!”
Without waiting for a response, Jonathan ran from the room and down the sweeping staircase two steps at a time.
The doors of the makeshift ballroom were wide open and though the music was still playing, no one was dancing. Instead, all of the guests were gathered in little groups, some exclaiming excitedly, others looking astonished.
Heldmann stood in the center of the room, cupping his right hand in his left, a look on his face which was something between shock and outrage.
“Ich bin,” he began, then started again. “Please forgive...that man have no…mmm… mmm…”
He gave up on trying to convey his meaning and looked around the room. Lifting his hands conciliatorily, he repeated, “Please forgive.”
“No need for that, lad. Well done!” Widcombe laughed, lifting a glass of punch high in the air. “Ah, Clyde! You missed it all! When you ran to hide, Heldmann here defended Sophia’s honor.”
“What?” Jonathan’s face broke into a smile.
The German turned to him and said, “I not…know what he…mmm…say. I see Miss Sophia…make sad…mmm…face and I see man…smile…and I…”
Words failed him again as he mimed a swing of his fist.
“So you smashed his bloody face in, you did, Heldy! Well done!” Hodges said, slapping Heldmann’s back.
Jonathan laughed loudly. “A true Germanic warrior cannot be tamed!”
“I go now…I go.” Heldmann glanced around again at the party guests and started toward the door.
“No, Heldmann. Please don’t leave.”
“No…no.” The German shook his head, his face a wrinkled testimony of remorse. “I go. Thank you for…mmm…dance and food.” He walked from the room, cradling his hand again, his head low.
“Auf wiedersehn, Heldy!” called Widcombe, flopping down on the settee.
Throwing Widcombe a sour look, Jonathan followed the German out to the stable.
“Listen, Heldmann.” Jonathan strode to keep up. “You only did what my friends and I have wanted to do since Morton first opened his mouth years ago. The fellow’s a purebred cur.”
Heldmann was staring at Jonathan’s mouth. “I do not understands.”
Jonathan sighed. “Look…don’t go. Stay.” He motioned back toward the house, smiling affirmatively.
By now, Hardy was there with Heldmann’s gray horse.
“No…tell to Miss Sophia…please forgive. Good bye.” Then he was settling into the saddle and trotting down the drive.
Jonathan sighed again, wishing he had made more effort to converse with Heldmann earlier in the evening.
I suppose I didn’t treat him much better than Morton did. Ugh…to be on that idiot’s level.
The thought turned his stomach. Slowly, he walked back to the house, glancing at the retreating figure of the man who was rounding the corner, slouched on his horse.
The villain and the hero departed within ten minutes of each other. What does this blasted ball have to offer now?
Taking a Chance
~ Lydia
Lydia was smiling happily on her way back to the kitchen. She hadn’t danced in ages and although it had been a poor rendition, it had still been enjoyable.
The tray she carried was much lighter now that it held only an empty pitcher and cups.
Ah! She was struck by an idea as the path to the maze’s entry appeared on her left. But do I have enough time?
Glancing toward the house, she saw that Wells had already disappeared into the kitchen. Placing the tray on top of the woodpile, she hurried off to the left.
If anyone catches me…but who would do so? Everyone’s distracted with the ball.
What if the book is ruined? Should I take it inside and hope no one notices? No one is likely to pull it off the shelf for the next fifty years. Or should I just shove it further under the hedge? Ugh…why did I throw it under there?
Past the basket of leading ribbons she rushed.
I haven’t much time. Will the bulk of it show in my apron pocket? Well, I need to see the state of the book to decide what I’ll do anyway…
Further into the depth of the green corridors she ventured, quickly correcting the few wrong turns she took.
It looks so different at this time of day.
Then, she was thankful to see the fountain at the maze’s center, looming before her.
At last! Just over here…
She rushed to the spot where she had been sitting when she threw the book. Getting down on her hands and knees, she began to feel under the hedge, the prickly leaves scratching her wrists and fingers.
Suddenly, she heard the clearing of a throat and realized she was not alone.
Oh, no! She stopped her searching and waited, wondering, Young lovers who left the ball?
A few seconds passed, before she saw, in the waning evening light, a man emerge from the maze. He was moving toward her.
She was on her feet in an instant.
“Hiding, are ya?” he said, drawing closer. “No use in that. We pro’ly ha’nt much time.”
He was ten feet away before she realized it was the fellow who had been chewing on the hay, watching the servants dance.
“Pardon me?” she said, feeling very small.
His pace didn’t lessen.
Lydia’s heart leapt into her throat as she saw the look on his face and how thick his arms were. Though no one had ever before looked at her exactly like that, she knew she needed to flee, immediately.
Without another thought, she bolted, swinging wide around him.
“
Bitch of a tease, ay?” he growled as she sped past.
Rounding the corner, Lydia nearly collided with Glaser and a pitchfork he was carrying.
She said nothing but continued on, dashing down the confusion of green alleyways. Turn after turn, she made, until she was out of the maze and back at the woodpile where she had left the serving tray. Breathing heavily, she grabbed onto the stable wall to steady herself.
The little red dog, Sassy, who often accompanied Glaser around the garden, came out of the stable and nudged Lydia’s hand with its nose.
With her heart pounding furiously, Lydia eyed the animal and wondered, Where were you a moment ago?
Her legs were weak beneath her, but she was comforted by the sound of many young men joking with each other beyond the stable. It was as if nothing ugly and frightening had just occurred.
Did anyone notice but Glaser? I did nothing to invite the man. What must they think of me?
Then there was Glaser himself, whistling as he strode over to her.
“I didn’t…that is, I wasn’t…” she stuttered, so thankful for the presence of the wiry, aging man.
“You needn’t explain, Foote,” he replied. “I’m familiar with you, and I’m familiar with him. That’s why I grabbed this and kept pace with him when I seen him following after you.”
He leaned the pitchfork back up against the stable wall. “Best you get back inside now. Thanks again for the draught of beer.”
Reassured by his casual response, Lydia lifted the tray and squared her shoulders, though she still felt shaky.
A warm glow of light spilled out of the kitchen door and Lydia headed toward it.
Ploughman looked up from the tub of dirty dishes with wide eyes. “Ah, here you are! The bell just rung! Wells went, but you’d better, too.”
Placing the tray within Ploughman’s reach, Lydia hurried off, her heart still racing.
When she arrived in the makeshift ballroom, she thought it seemed unsettled. Though the musicians were playing a song, no one was dancing. Instead, they stood about in cliques, discussing something in quietly excited tones.
Wells was kneeling near the punch table with a rag, wiping up a spill where shards of glass littered the floorboards nearby.
At Lydia’s entrance, Lady Clyde hurried over to her and asked in an intensely displeased whisper, “Where is Smith?”
“I don’t know, Ma’am. Would you like me to…?” Lydia motioned toward the mess on the floor.
“You’ll do nothing but find Smith,” the Lady hissed then turned her back.
Out of habit, Lydia curtsied and left.
Find Smith?
Unsure where to begin her search, Lydia went up the stairs toward the Family’s bedrooms. Striding down the hall, she rounded the corner and saw the housekeeper herself.
“Smith,” Lydia began, “Lady Clyde insists you go to her immediately.”
The housekeeper did not hide a look of exasperation on her face. She walked over to Lydia, pushed something into her hands and said, “Take this to Miss Sophia in her room at once.”
To Lydia’s surprise, she saw that she was holding the same tray with the mysterious glass bottle from that afternoon.
Smith rushed off as Lydia wondered again what the bottle held. Resisting the urge to uncap it and sniff its contents, she made her way to Miss Sophia’s door and rapped lightly upon it.
“Yes, come in!” said a voice from within.
Lydia entered and stood before Sophia, who was lying on her bed, her face blotchy. At Lydia’s approach, Sophia sat up and affixed her eyes to the bottle, her lips parted.
Never having delivered the elixir before, Lydia paused, unsure of what was expected of her.
Sophia ran a hand over her swollen eyes and directed, “Go on then.”
Placing the tray on the bed, Lydia fumbled with the bottle’s lid and lifted the little cup. When she only filled it half-way, Sophia insisted, “Fill it up. You’ve no idea what it’s like.”
You’ve no idea what it’s like.
The words echoed in Lydia’s mind as she poured a bit more liquid into the cup. Someone had said that to her before.
You’ve no idea…
As soon as the little cup was filled, Sophia took it from Lydia’s hand. The swallowing of this dose was not the slow and savory instance that Lydia had witnessed earlier that day. This time Sophia gulped it down and immediately demanded more.
Though she doubted the wisdom in giving it to her, Lydia complied, feeling powerless.
“Ahh, there it is,” said Sophia after swallowing the second little cupful. She sighed and a stupid smile spread across her face.
My God! Realization crashed into Lydia’s mind. It’s Jack and his gin!
Sophia reclined further on the bed and began to gaze at the wall, announcing dreamily, “You may go.”
Lydia capped the bottle quickly and left the room, more than slightly shaken.
What is this poison? She no longer wanted to sniff the contents. Instead, she envisioned herself walking through the marble hall and out the entryway to pour the liquid onto the gravel drive as she had once poured out Jack’s gin.
Where should I put this? she wondered, wanting nothing more than to be rid of the tray and what it held.
Lydia descended the stairs and encountered Smith exiting the ballroom with a dustpan full of glass and a broom.
“Foote, here, you tend to these,” she said putting the things down on the floor, “and I’ll go lock that up.”
She lifted the tray and its contents out of Lydia’s hands.
Lock it up? thought Lydia.
“Smith?” Lydia relinquished the tray, her eyes meeting Smith’s over the top of it. She motioned with her head toward the mysterious bottle. “What is that?”
She may have imagined it, but Smith’s eyes seemed to linger on her for a moment as she answered. “What, this? Laudanum. Miss Sophia is prone to headaches.”
The two regarded each other for a second longer and then Smith was walking down the hall, the tray held out before her.
Laudanum, is it? Though it’s stored in elegant crystal I know venom when I see it. Dear God, she lamented, not Miss Sophia! It will ruin her.
She bent to pick up the dustpan.
But isn’t she ruined already? With the Lady for a mother, can there be any hope for a person?
No, that’s not right. I can’t assume she’s lost forever just because of her dame. She’s generally kind and seems intelligent…except for this.
But what’s to be done?
Sir Jonathan seems fond of her. And he’s no fool…even though he does regard me as a “dancing bear” to entertain his vainglorious friends. Such conceit!
Still, he could and would likely do something to help her if he knew. But how to tell him?
She thought for a moment longer, then headed toward the kitchen.
And what am I to do with this? She regarded the many sharp shards in the dust pan she held.
Perhaps Glaser can bury it in the garden. I’ll put it in the stable and speak with him about it tomorrow.
But when she got to the stables, the man himself was there, sweeping a bit of hay off the floor.
“Glaser?” Lydia said, side-stepping a pile of manure on the ground.
“Yes, Foote,” he responded, looking up from his work.
She showed him the glass pieces and made her request.
“Ah, yes. I heard there was a bit of a to-do while we were in the maze. Certainly, I’ll tend to that for you.”
Biting her lip, Lydia paused.
“And, Glaser…” she began, glancing around to see if any of the grooms or stable hands was near.
How should I say this? Lydia wondered, the evening air chilling her.
The old man waited expectantly, his eyes resting on her face.
“Um…” she began quietly. “I need to get a message to someone and…I was wondering if you could help me with that as well. You’ve worked here a lo
ng time, so perhaps if you delivered it, it would be…better received.”
The usually easy groom bit the inside of his cheek and shifted on his feet. “Who’re you sending it to?”
Lydia lowered her voice further. “Sir Jonathan.”
A look of confusion registered on the kindly face. “The young sir hasn’t done something…unseemly toward you, has he? He’s always been impish, but I never woulda expected…”
“Pardon?” Lydia’s voice rose to its usual level.
“If he’s…messing with you, you’d better leave it alone. I know it’s hard when he’s part of the Family and you’re supposed to do their bidding, but…” His voice broke off and he looked embarrassed, “…that wouldn’t end well for you, Foote.”
Lydia smiled in spite of the crassness of the implication. “No, Glaser. It’s nothing like that. It has nothing to do with me or him. It’s…” she grew serious again. “It’s something he would want to know. It’s…”
Glaser waited patiently.
“I fear,” Lydia began, her voice dropping down to a whisper again, “that Miss Sophia is growing too attached to laudanum.”
“Whad’ya mean?”
“I…I see the same look on her face when she is waiting for it that I saw on my brother’s when he was yearning for gin. And the effect is the same…a stupification. And that’s not all. There’s a barely contained…ferociousness before she has it…a desperation.”
Glaser’s face took on a stern look and said in his lowered voice, “That all very well may be so, Foote, but neither of us can walk up to Sir Jonathan and say, ‘We servants think your sister’s become a lush’, now can we?”
“No, I…I see what you mean.”
Oh, why does this fall to me to tell? How can it be said?
“Foote,” the old man gazed at her steadily, his voice softening. “It’s good of you, but…” he shook his head slowly and motioned toward the grandiose presence of Whitehall, “there’s them…”
Next he pointed to himself and Lydia,“…and there’s us.”
“And we all can be destroyed by drink!” Lydia’s frustration sharpened her hushed words. “I’ve seen what it can do to a person. If only we had stopped Jack early on…”
“No, no,” the man put his hand up and shook his head. “Now that’s something you mustn’t do. When you think it’s only money that makes them different than us, people like the Lady can sense it…and they don’t like it.”
He’s not going to help me, Lydia realized, hearing the note of finality in his voice. But I have to do something!