A Girl Called Foote

  She pressed her lips together and dropped her eyes to the ground, thinking.

  As Glaser’s calloused hand was lightly patting her shoulder, an idea struck her.

  Did Sir Jonathan ever find that poem I hid in his drawing book? I could hide another. But if I did, and he found it whilst Miss Sophia was nearby…what then?

  She fretted as she barely heard the old man say, “You’re a good young woman, Foote, but you gotta think of yourself.”

  “Thank you, Glaser,” she murmured, turning and heading back to the kitchen.

  And what if his mother got ahold of it? I’d be dismissed and shamed, for certain.

  Still, I can’t stand by and do nothing.

  But I must be extremely careful…

 

  Finding Another Mysterious Message

  ~ Jonathan

  Jonathan reached for his sketch book on the cherry wood table. Flipping it open as he headed to leave the parlor, a piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor.

  Am I losing pages? He stooped to retrieve the unfamiliar leaf. It was folded in half and its paper was thinner than that of the book’s leaves. Hello, where did you come from?

  He felt his heart flip over.

  Another of Foote’s offerings? What have you for me this time, clever girl?

  He smiled and shook his head. Unfolding the paper, he saw written in a clear, neat hand:

  I fear the message that is mine

  May wrath in you incite

  And yet the dangers I foresee

  Compel me now to write

  The girl you love has grown too fond

  Of poisoned cups to drink ~

  The grip of this reliance has

  Forced me my pen to ink

  Regard her closely now yourself ~

  Confirm my words or don’t ~

  The observation of your eyes

  Will prove them or it won’t

  Jonathan stood, bewildered, and read the first stanza again.

  She fears angering me, but decided to write this anyway…

  Though he read the second stanza twice, he couldn’t decipher it.

  The girl I love? I love no girl.

  I am to watch this unknown girl to see if she is reliant on poison?

  Suddenly, he grimaced incredulously, his face warming.

  Could she mean herself? Oh, dear…does she presume that paper apple was a token of adoration?

  Hmm… such unchecked romanticism...

  It’s like the plot to one of those ridiculous novels that Amelia reads.

  ‘A servant girl is convinced of her employer’s ardent love for her, but is later tragically made aware of her misunderstanding and opts for a chalice of poison’.

  Or could she…?

  His mind began to dwell on the notion from a different angle and he shifted uneasily on his feet.

  No. She’s never seemed flirtatious in the least…

  His mental image of Foote as a discerning parlor maid transfigured. Suddenly, he envisioned the young woman gazing intently at him from under heavy eyelids, her hair falling down around her face, a little smile playing on her lips.

  The confused slurry of excitement and fear evoked by this image sloshed about in the pit of his stomach.

  Well, that won’t do, he thought, his face growing even warmer as the vision lingered.

  Oh, don’t be stupid!

  He strode over to the fireplace, crumpling the paper as he went. Just as he was to toss it on the few flames licking up from the logs, he thought better of it. After smoothing the paper, he folded it and pushed it into the pocket of his vest.

  Like a cherished article, tucked away, someone watching me might suppose, he thought, wanting to assure the imagined observer otherwise.

  Still, this requires more thought.

  Ah, Foote! What are you aiming at?

  There was a rap on the door, startling Jonathan from his thoughts.

  Smith entered, looking around the room.

  “Sir Jonathan,” she said when her cold eyes found him by the fireplace. Her perfunctory curtsy was slight. “Your mother says dinner is served and that guests will be present this evening.”

  “Thank you, Smith,” Jonathan responded with a nod, hoping his face was not as pink as it felt. Flashing the woman a winning smile, he wondered if she thought her palpable disdain for him went unrecognized.

  She barely curtsied again and left.

  Unexpected guests? That means Foote will likely be in and out several times while serving.

  The possible awkwardness resulting from this did not escape him as he felt the crinkle of the poem’s paper in his vest pocket.

  Very well, in all my interactions with her, I must resolve to be polite yet disinterested.

  ***

  Moments later, Jonathan was seated at the dinner table, thankful that his attention might now be effectively diverted. Once the introductions were made, he gladly examined the two strangers who sat at the table with him and his family.

  Sir Buffant was short, round and wore the finest of clothes. In his clear, almost feminine voice, he immediately began to praise the situation of Whitehall within its grounds, the density of its surrounding woods, even the stones of the staircase he had ascended to the front door.

  Lady Clyde beamed and motioned toward Jonathan.

  “Perhaps after we dine, my son will give you a guided tour of the house and grounds, daylight permitting.”

  When did I inherit that duty? Jonathan smiled affably at the man, hoping the sun would drop like a stone.

  Sir Buffant’s mother, seated next to him, was a quiet wisp of a woman, also finely dressed. With a hint of a smile on her face, she watched her son’s every movement, obviously smitten with the fruit of her womb.

  Sophia sat, resting her eyes on the table, silently emptying the bowl of soup before her, one scant spoonful at a time.

  Elliott was notably absent.

  Gobbling up fried eggs and toast under the disdainful eye of Cook, no doubt, thought Jonathan, recalling his own childhood meals when his presence in the dining room had not been wanted.

  Buffant led the conversation, pausing regularly to admit forkfuls of roast chicken and cream-dripping cauliflower into his mouth.

  Many times, Foote came and went, placing dishes on the table and filling glasses. Regretfully, Jonathan recalled how impossible it was to not look at someone when one was determined not to do so. Twice he felt his eyes flit to her face. Both times she was inscrutable, her face stony.

  Perhaps she regrets slipping me that note, already realizing its pointlessness.

  Toward the end of the meal, Foote leaned past him to clear his plate. Jonathan heard a little exhalation of her breath, feeling the warmth of it on his cheek. Then she was on the other side of him, retrieving another plate, her back to him. He noted how slender and pale her neck looked as it disappeared into the dark collar of her serving uniform. Jonathan cleared his throat and tried again to focus on what Buffant was saying about the prior week’s weather in Yarmouth.

  It was a relief to Jonathan when the meal ended and his mother suggested they move their visit to the parlor. Foote’s service was not likely to be needed much for that.

  Walking down the hall, Jonathan found himself behind Buffant.

  What does this fellow’s tailor think when he has to stretch his measuring tape around that vast midsection? He must hold one end, ball up the rest and toss it across to his assistant on the other side of the room.

  Jonathan tried to catch Sophia’s eye, wanting to share his amusement with the simple lift of his eyebrow. His attempt went unnoticed.

  Looking uneasy, Sophia clasped her hands before her as she walked, gazing decidedly at the carpet until, and after, the entire party was seated in the parlor.

  Buffant’s mother perched on the edge of her chair, attentive to each of her son’s lively words, smiling appreciatively.
r />   Without Foote hovering nearby, Jonathan was able to realize that just as Buffant’s appearance was remarkable, his mannerisms were equally intriguing. His bushy eyebrows seemed to bounce on his forehead as he energetically retold the story of his most recent fox hunt.

  He rides a horse? marveled Jonathan. How could he possibly perch on something so narrow?

  Sir Buffant sat very uprightly on the silk brocaded chair across from Lady Clyde, his hands resting on his knees which were pressed tightly together. His poise reminded Jonathan of lessons he had heard Sophia’s governess delivering on the importance of sitting tall.

  Perhaps he knew Miss Gloriana as well.

  And what brings him here this evening? Jonathan sat wondering when the ginger-haired servant came in carrying a bowl of peaches. She set it on a table near Buffant, curtsied and quietly departed.

  Sir Buffant rummaged through the offerings and settled on a particularly rosy one. Lifting it, he suddenly stopped and stared at the fruit in his hand. He smiled and said, “Hmm…it seems Whitehall’s birds don’t care much for peaches.”

  With that, he put the peach down on the table and selected another from the bowl. The rejected fruit rolled over, revealing a crusty blob of bird excrement stuck onto the fuzzy peel.

  Jonathan watched as his mother’s forced smile disappeared and the color drained from her face. Slowly, her hand reached out to grab the offending fruit. Wrapping it in a serving cloth, she set it aside as her eyes flitted between her guests and the door.

  Meanwhile, Sir Buffant sank his teeth into the juicy flesh of his second choice, holding a linen under his chin to catch the drippings.

  “My best dog, Teaser, she brought the fox back, but when she dropped it in front of me, it shot off back into the hedges and the hunt started all over again!” Sir Buffant, paused here to take the last few bites of his fruit, then dropped the pit into the appropriate bowl. He chose another. “Mmm…it is a good year for peaches.”

  Dabbing his chin in an almost ladylike fashion, he looked in Sophia’s direction and smiled, his eyebrows bobbing about. Sophia squirmed in her seat, looking unequivocally miserable.

  Good lord, what is that about? wondered Jonathan. The smile had not been leering, but it was too direct to be regarded as mere friendliness.

  Suddenly, looking between his mother and Sir Buffant, Jonathan knew.

  He’s here to see Sophia…and Sophia knows it!

  He assessed the fellow again, trying to keep his lip from curling in distaste.

  The Lady can’t be serious! Wed Sophia to this planetary being? He’s not as old as Spalding, but he still must be twice her age!

  Perhaps Sophia has been right all this time about the Lady’s marital scheming. No wonder she looks as if she’d like to sink into the ground.

  A silence descended upon the group, broken only by Buffant’s occasional slurping of peach juice.

  “Whist, anyone?” Lady Clyde asked as the second denuded pit was dropped into the bowl, her mouth turning up at the corners and her eyebrows raised.

  Oh so cheerfully, thought Jonathan.

  Buffant’s mother came alive at the suggestion.

  “My father always said I enjoyed card games much more than any woman ought!” she said, speaking a full sentence for possibly the first time that evening.

  Certain that Sophia, who had remained unmoved at the suggestion of cards, wanted nothing to do with the game, Jonathan went with the three others to the card table.

  Perhaps this will distract the man from paying any attention at all to poor Sophe.

  After the first round, Lady Clyde said in her friendliest voice, “A touch of music would improve this party. Sophia, dear, would you please delight us all at the piano forte?”

  Ah, so that was her plan. Thus now begins the exhibiting of Sophia, thought Jonathan ruefully.

  “Oh, Mama, I…I really don’t think…” began Sophia tremulously.

  “Not at all, darling. Don’t be shy about your talents,” Lady Clyde insisted. Her mouth was a hard line as she stared at her daughter over the fan of her cards.

  Silently, yet slowly, Sophia rose from her chair and made her way to the awaiting piano bench.

  There was a rustling of sheet music and the first few notes were struck. The quiet of the room amplified the timidity of Sophia’s playing. Then she hit a sour note.

  “Let’s carry on then, shall we? Whose turn is it to deal?” asked Jonathan, wanting to fill the room with any noise possible. He cleared his throat and pulled his chair forward, loudly scraping it across the floor. “Who, I wonder, will win the first trick this time!”

  His mother smiled at him girlishly and tapped her finger to her closed lips.

  Yes, I know you want it quiet, he thought. But that is not what Sophia wants.

  Jonathan continued to chatter cheerfully to the card players until the song was over. He then saw her rise from the instrument and reach for the bell-pull.

  “Another, dear.” Lady Clyde called. “The sonata by Schubert will do nicely.”

  “Or would you prefer to take my place at cards, Sophia?” Jonathan offered, unsure if she would consider that a preferred occupation over stumbling through a bit of sheet music.

  “Sophia is playing the piano forte for us. Of course she doesn’t want to play cards,” said Lady Clyde, her thin veneer of pleasantry slipping.

  Sophia said nothing in response to either of them and continued to stand next to the bell-pull.

  “Ah ha! Mama, you’ve done it again!” Sir Buffant exclaimed as his mother giggled and picked up the final trick of the round.

  At that moment, Foote entered the room and was met at the door by Sophia. Curious, Jonathan watched the two young women speak quietly to one another.

  Buffant shuffled the cards and began to deal them around the table.

  “Smith has the key. Hurry, Foote,” Sophia said as the maid departed.

  Smith has the key? For what?

  “The sonata, dearest!” Lady Clyde called to her daughter as she laid the queen of hearts on top of Buffant’s king of diamonds.

  Sophia returned to the piano forte and played a few timorous notes. She floundered through the first and second pages as the card game progressed. Reaching to turn the page, her sleeve bumped some of them and several loose leaves drifted to the floor in all directions.

  “And now it is my turn to deal,” declared the pleased Mama Buffant. Pulling all the cards on the table toward her, she stacked them and began to shuffle them expertly as Jonathan rose and went to his sister’s aid. At his approach, he could see that her hands were quivering as she collected the pages from the floor.

  It was then that Foote returned, carrying a small tray upon which were a decorative bottle and a little cup. Putting the tray down on a nearby table, she filled the cup and handed it to Sophia who dropped the carefully collected sheet music to receive it.

  Foote was a mere two feet from him and Jonathan could feel her eyes on him. He wondered what he would see in them if he turned to her—a look of shy apology or a hint of alluring invitation. What he actually saw when he glanced at her made him flinch.

  She was glaring at him furiously. Her eyes bore into him unreservedly and below her flaring nostrils, her mouth was a hard, thin line. She looked as if she might reach out and slap him across the face.

  Oblivious to Jonathan’s present shock, Sophia handed the now empty cup back to Foote demanding, “More.”

  Foote whose back was to everyone in the room but the two siblings, took the cup but did not move to fill it.

  “Well?” said Sophia, impatiently.

  What is going on? Jonathan glanced from his sister to the maid and back again.

  The pause proved unacceptable for Sophia, who seized the bottle and cup from Foote’s hands and poured herself a second dose. Foote continued to glower at Jonathan as Sophia returned the items to her.

  Visibly calmed, Sophia lazily pushed Jonathan’s hands out of the way, and began to play the so
ng again.

  Once Foote had returned everything to the tray, she looked again at him, tilted her head toward the glass bottle and exaggeratedly mouthed the word, “Poison.”

  She swept out of the room as Sophia played on. This time the song was played no better than it had been previously, but she smiled slightly throughout, as if she knew a secret.

  It was with a wrench of his stomach that Jonathan realized he had just been let in on one.

  A horrible one.

  The girl I love has grown too fond of poisoned cups to drink.

  And it was the maid who perceived it all.

 

  Dismissing Wells

  ~ Smith

  Another guest visit evaluation, thought Smith, making the familiar trek toward the Lady’s parlor. Why she wanted to impress that ridiculous fellow, I’ll never know.

  She rapped sharply on the door.

  “You may enter,” came the barely audible response.

  Once she was in the room, Smith could see at once that all was not well.

  Ugh…what went wrong this time?

  The Lady’s mouth was pulled together more sourly than usual and her eyes danced around as if she wasn’t sure where to look. Instead of reclining on her favorite settee, she was seated behind the writing desk.

  She’s feeling pious, which means I ought to appear repentant though I have no idea what for.

  Smith stood before her, head slightly bowed, hands folded together. “Lady Clyde?”

  What ax is about to fall and how close to me will it land?

  “Sit,” the Lady commanded.

  Ugh, it’s that bad, is it? Smith wondered, lowering herself into the especially short chair placed before the desk.

  “Sir Buffant nearly sank his teeth into a mess of bird droppings.” Lady Clyde announced, her steely eyes finally settling on Smith.

  “Lady?”

  Lady Clyde’s voice took on the tone that irritated Smith the most, one of forced patience with a sharp undertone. “The peaches, Smith. The peaches offered to our guest in a fine silver bowl as he sat upon one of our silk brocade chairs. They were covered in bird droppings.”

  Her eyes bore into Smith’s, and she began to nod her head. “It was the ginger-haired girl, Wells, who brought them in. This cannot be.”

  “Yes, Lady Clyde,” Smith murmured.

  “This cannot be,” Lady Clyde repeated, turning to the window.