A Girl Called Foote

  “Good bye, everyone. Thank you,” Sophia said. Her eyes fell on Elliott. She grabbed him and picked him up, squeezing him affectionately. “Goodbye, dearest.”

  “No kisses, Sophie,” he responded, squirming out of her grasp.

  The servants bowed and curtsied as the young woman climbed up into the carriage.

  Turning, the Lady regarded the front of the great house.

  Readying herself to climb inside the vehicle, she said to the group before her, “Keep things tidy so that there won’t be the usual disorder upon my return.”

  The servants bobbed and bowed their assent.

  “Lady?”

  Lady Clyde turned her eyes to Cook. “Yes?”

  “I fear that Glaser, Smith and myself will not all be able to sit on the perch together.”

  “And why not?” The eyes grew cold.

  “We won’t all fit, Ma’am.”

  The Lady stepped back from the carriage and surveyed the small driver’s seat. Then she looked the three servants up and down.

  Lydia bit her lip fiercely.

  Don’t even smile.

  “Very well,” the Lady said with a sigh. “Smith, you may ride inside the carriage. Cook, you and Glaser may share the perch.” She quickly stepped into the vehicle, followed by Smith.

  Hardy folded the step up and shut the carriage door.

  Lydia dared one quick glance at Cook, who was struggling up into place. The woman was her brightest shade of pink and her eyes were narrowed to slits.

  She could start a fire in the hearth with one glance.

  Poor Glaser, thought Lydia, her amusement suddenly gone. He might fall off the edge! I hope London’s not very far.

  “Goodbye, Sophia! Goodbye, Mama!” called Elliott as the horses began to pull the carriage down the driveway.

  Sophia held back the window’s curtain and waved.

  Once the carriage was out of sight, Hardy began to dance a jig, the gravel shifting under his feet. Ploughman clapped along happily.

  Surprised, Lydia laughed, joined by Elliott.

  “Servants dance?” asked Elliott incredulously.

  “We do when we’re pleased or pickled,” responded Hardy, who was now panting with his efforts.

  “Which are you now?” asked Lydia.

  “Pleased, of course. Let London take care of ‘em. That’s what I says.”

  Mind what you say, thought Lydia. One of the Family is still here among us.

  Ploughman chuckled. “That was the strangest sendoff I ever seen. I wonder why she didn’t want the wagon.”

  “I’m just glad I’m not smashed up against Cook all the way to London,” said Hardy. “Pity Glaser.”

  He shrugged and strutted off to the stable house, whistling.

  “Aye to that!” said Ploughman, still chuckling and heading with ungainly steps into the house. “Aye to that.”

  “What’ll we do first?” asked Elliott, looking up at Lydia.

  Oh, it really will befall me, won’t it?

  She looked into the little boy’s shining face.

  I believe he’s as happy that his mother is gone as the rest of us are! I don’t know why that surprises me. Still, how am I to tend to a child? I’m barely a parlor maid, and now a nanny!

  Yet the shining of Elliott’s eyes above his snub nose warmed Lydia.

  She smiled, recalling what she had planned and stuck her face into his. “Something you’ll like.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s this way,” said Lydia, leading him around the side of the house. Stepping into the kitchen, she retrieved a plate of fatty scraps she had set aside.

  Elliott eyed the greasy morsels. “Ew. What’s that for?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Elliott followed Lydia to the stable yard where she called for Sassy. Emerging from the stable, the dog bounded up to them, her tongue lolling out of her mouth, and began to jump up on Elliott.

  “Sassy, come,” commanded Lydia, leading the others into a stable pen.

  The little dog’s attention was arrested by Lydia, who held the plate of scraps. Her forelegs danced on the front of Lydia’s skirt leaving dusty paw prints.

  “Pick up a piece to treat her with,” said Lydia. “But don’t give it to her until exactly when I say. Understand?”

  Elliott nodded, his little nose wrinkling as he selected one of the congealed blobs.

  “Sassy, sit!” Lydia directed while firmly pushing down on the wriggling dog’s hindquarters with her free hand.

  “Now!” she said the instant the dog’s rear was forced to the ground.

  Elliott dropped the fat and Sassy slurped it up, along with a few bits of hay from the pen floor.

  The three did this again and again, and in less than fifteen minutes, Sassy began to lower her hindquarters herself each time Lydia said, “Sit.”

  Elliott was exuberant.

  “Sit!” he said forcefully. “Sit!”

  “Let’s not confuse her,” insisted Lydia. “When you train a dog, you don’t repeat the command over and over, but only when you have a treat ready. Otherwise they don’t learn to obey the command.”

  “Go get more scraps from the kitchen,” demanded Elliott, looking at the empty plate.

  “No, she’s had enough for the day. We don’t want her to grow weary of it.”

  Sassy, however, looked anything but tired. She jumped around, looking eagerly from one human to the other, giving an occasional yip.

  Lydia sat down in the hay and began to rub the dog behind the ears. Elliott followed her example. It wasn’t long before Sassy had rolled over, exposing her belly.

  One spot Lydia petted resulted in Sassy’s hind leg rhythmically kicking out again and again.

  Elliott giggled.

  “Let me try!” he said, scratching the same spot. His attempts did not elicit as certain of a response from Sassy’s leg, but it bobbed around enough to make him giggle again.

  The sun shining in through the doorway warmed Lydia’s back and head.

  “Look, Master Elliott.” Lydia took one of the relaxed dog’s front paws and gently spread out its toes. The relaxed canine was still.

  Elliott carefully pinched the fleshy webs between.

  “And feel this here.” Lydia placed his little index finger in the various furry hollows of the foot pads. “Aren’t dogs marvelous creatures?”

  How many fatty bits fell from my fingers into eager mouths at Hillcrest? How many dog bellies did I scratch there?

  “I like her mouth,” said Elliott as he began to stroke Sassy’s whiskered muzzle.

  The pink tongue flashed out of the mouth to lick the boy’s hand.

  Lydia closed her eyes and tilted her face up into the sunlight. Ahh…Cook, Smith and the Lady are getting further away by the moment. How positively lovely…

  …but it’s nearly time for the midday meal.

  “Come on, Elliott. Let’s go wash our hands of this stinking pup,” she said, rising from the ground and brushing off her skirt.

  Suddenly, Sassy was on her feet, barking. Turning, Lydia saw a boy, a few years older than Elliott standing on the footstep by the kitchen door. His face looked wary at the dog’s approach.

  “Please, Miss,” he said, waving a square of paper. “Is this Whitehall? I’ve a letter.”

  A letter! In an instant, Lydia was across the yard.

  “Sassy, hush!” she scolded. “To whom is it addressed? Sassy, go!” She pointed at the stables and ushered the boy inside the kitchen.

  “Mr. Cotter says, ‘Run this o’er to Whitehall, down toward Kentford way.’ I knocked on the front door but there’s no answer so I come around the side. Is this Whitehall? I’ve been looking all morning.”

  “Yes, yes, but whose name is on the envelope?” Lydia longed to snatch it out of the boy’s hand.

  Why am I excited? It’s likely for one of the Family.

  “I don’t rightly know, Miss. Mr. Cotter said Whitehall and that’s it.”
The boy clutched the letter to his chest and stuck out his other hand, palm up. “That’ll be two pence.”

  Ah, he probably can’t read, Lydia realized, truly examining the boy before her for the first time. He had removed his cap upon entrance of the kitchen. His damp straw-colored hair was flattened and plastered over his ears, and little beads of perspiration dotted his upper lip. Standing ramrod straight, his chin jutted out obstinately and he wouldn’t look in Lydia’s eyes.

  Who knows how many roads and drives he wandered looking for Whitehall? And on foot!

  “Would you like a cup of well water?” Lydia asked.

  “Uhh…” The resolved look in the boy’s eyes wavered, but he clutched the paper more tightly. “Mr. Cotter says I mustn’t ever hand a letter over until the post is paid.”

  “I’m not trying to bribe you!” Lydia laughed which resulted in the sullen look returning to the boy’s face.

  Ugh, a humorless young fellow. Very well…

  “Please, sit down.” Lydia motioned toward the table and filled a glass with water before placing it in his reach. Walking to a shelf, she delved into the petty cash jar and recorded in the log:

  Post – 2 p. - Foote

  Returning to the table, she placed the money before him, and held out her hand.

  Tucking the pence into his pocket, the boy almost smiled as he slid the letter across the table.

  It wasn’t an envelope, but a single sheet of paper, folded and tucked into itself. Regarding the address, Lydia sucked in her breath, surprised.

  It is for me!

  On what appeared to be the front was written in very neat, careful writing:

  Foote at Wite Hall

  Plym Bridg

  Bevilshur

  Lydia recognized the printing immediately.

  It’s from Wells!

  Oh dear, I used the laundry money to pay for my own letter. Too late now…

  “I can wait whilst you write back if you’d like, Miss,” the boy said, having gulped down the water.

  Lydia said nothing, lost in the unfolding of the sheet. The inside had an even stranger appearance than the outside. It was one of Wells’ practice sheets, covered in rows of words like ‘peas’ and ‘turnips’ over and over. Though it looked as if Wells had initially covered every square inch of writable surface in practice, she had turned the paper sideways and written in whatever empty spots that were left. It took Lydia many minutes to navigate the whole thing and read:

  Dere Foote. I did not rede yer leter. I did not hav a penny for the poste but wen the boy wuz at the door and sed ther was a leter I new it was frum yoo. I am ever so shamed that I was dismist. I thot Cook had washt the peeches. I never chekt them beefor wen Cook giv them to me to take into the parler. Mum cride and cride wen I showd up on the doorstepp. But I bin abel to serv in a big farm hous nere by. Thay dint ask for refrinnsis. Also I am teeching my sybleens to rede and rite. Thank yoo for teeching me. Ther ar too new babys sints I left home yeres ugo. A therd wun dyed too wynters back. I do not no if yoo will git to rede this leter sints the poste costs munny, but I hope yoo at leest see it and no it is from me. I am riting it and hopeing thet the poste will take it sints it is goeing to a rich hows thet mite pay the postidg. Yoo are a gud frend Foote. I miss yoo evry day. Beetryss Wellintin.

  After reading it over a second time, Lydia put the letter down, her heart pounding rapidly.

  Wells was dismissed? Peaches? What peaches?

  “Will you be writing back now, Miss?” the boy asked.

  “No,” Lydia murmured. “No, thank you. You may go.”

  Disappointed, the boy pulled his cap back on and walked out the door.

  But Smith said…Lydia thought, folding and unfolding the letter in her hands. The Lady must have told her to lie to us!

  But why?

  Because the Lady is part of a Great Family and members of Great Families don’t have to tell the truth to ‘lesser’ members of society.

  “Pony?” Elliott spoke from the doorway.

  Turning, Lydia saw his silhouette, the bright sunlight behind him making his facial features dark and indiscernible, but the lines of his figure were in sharp contrast. He looked small, his posture slightly uncertain and his hair mussed with bits of hay sticking in it.

  “Yes, Master Elliott,” Lydia responded, her throat thick with emotion and confusion.

  “What are we going to do now?” He walked into the kitchen and sat beside her, grabbing one of her hands with both of his. His guileless eyes looked at her expectantly.

  The anger she felt dissipated as she examined his amber-colored eyes.

  It’s not his fault he was born to such a woman.

  Lydia let her hand rest in his and replied, “I need to prepare the noonday meal.”

  “What can I do?” he asked, wrinkling his nose.

  “You?” Lydia sighed and looked around the kitchen. “You can…wash your hands and shell the peas.”

  As he made his way to the basin, she retrieved a bowl of pea pods from the counter and placed it on the table. Elliott was delighted as she showed him how to crack one end of the pod, pry it open and run his thumb down the center, releasing all of the little green orbs into a second bowl.

  Once the meal was ready, there was the question of where Elliott would eat. Hardy, Ploughman and Lydia would, of course, dine in the servants’ hall, but Elliott couldn’t be expected to eat all alone in the Family’s dining room.

  Certainly the Lady would disapprove of her youngest son rubbing elbows with us at our rough wooden table, Lydia thought. But what is an acceptable alternative?

  She prayed uneasily that the Lady would never hear of it as she set a folded towel on the bench to boost the small boy higher.

  “I like it in here,” commented Elliott as he looked around at the three servants, eating a simple meal of bread, cheese and apples. “This is much nicer than that old dining room. The table cloth always gets in the way.”

  The servants exchanged quiet smiles with one another.

  Bedtime presented the most vexing problem of all. Lydia took Elliott to his bedroom where she helped him clean his teeth and wash his face and behind his ears. She then instructed him to change into his nightclothes while she stepped out into the hall. Standing in the dismal silence of the empty hallway, she realized how isolated the little boy would be in this wing of the house.

  Bidding him ‘good night’ here would seem cruel. If he calls out in the middle of the night, I won’t hear him. What if he needs a drink of water? And I certainly can’t leave him with a lit candle!

  “Pony! I’m done!” he called.

  Oh, Lady, if you didn’t despise me before, you certainly would now!

  Lydia went into the room and said, “Get your pillow and your favorite blanket.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re going on an adventure.”

  “But I’m all ready for bed.”

  “Yes, I know. Come.” Lydia grabbed one of his small hands and led Elliott through the darkened hallways and rooms, downstairs and upstairs to her own small attic room.

  “Ploughman, I fear you will have to give up your bed to Master Elliott, and you and I will share the larger one,” said Lydia.

  Ploughman, who was already situated for the night, looked confused but the wrinkles in her forehead smoothed as she listened to Lydia’s explanation.

  “I likely wouldn’t want to sleep alone over there, either,” she said, climbing out of the bed. “There you are, Master Elliott.”

  “This is great fun!” he said as he took her place.

  “Great fun, eh, Foote?” asked the older woman, smiling as they situated themselves in the other bed.

  The light had been extinguished for many moments when Ploughman whispered to Lydia, “I’ve never before slept in a room with a man, great or small. Even when I was a child, the brothers slept in a different room than the sisters.”

  Lydia chuckled. “I believe we are safe with this ‘man’.” br />
  “As do I, Foote.” The older woman chuckled as she rolled over and was soon breathing evenly.

  Extracting a Tooth

  ~ Lydia

  Over the next few days, Lydia decided not to mention to anyone else that Wells had actually been dismissed. The poor girl was ashamed of it and there was no point in telling Ploughman or Hardy anyway.

  Regarding Elliott, she found that the main problem she faced while tending to him was keeping him busy. Eventually she learned ways to distract him long enough to get her work done. He knew some letters, so she began teaching him the others and how to sound out and write words. Soon he was sitting at the kitchen table while she prepared the simple meals, writing out sentences with such ease that Wells would have been jealous.

  Another of Lydia’s ploys was to tell Elliott that they would play hide-and-seek. He would scamper off to some mysterious location and she would go to find him, but only once she had finished sweeping or dusting a room.

  He kept working with the dog, as well. After a while, Sassy, who had mastered sitting on command, was learning to lift her paw when told and to retrieve a stick. Other than his occasional venture out in the garden to play by himself or a visit to the laundress’ home to play with her seven-year-old son, Elliott was Lydia’s constant companion. He followed her from room to room, asking all sorts of questions and sharing with her the abundance of the workings of his brain. Thus quickly, the strangeness of Elliott’s presence at the servants’ table and in the attic room wore off.

  Early one morning, as Lydia lay in bed drifting toward consciousness, she heard him say, “My tooth hurts.”

  She was awake in an instant.

  “What do you mean, Master Elliott?” she asked, her voice craggy from hours of disuse.

  “It hurt yesterday and the day before when I was eating, and now it hurts so much that it woke me up.”

  Lydia felt her heart sink, and she patted the little boy’s back.

  Why now of all times when neither his mother nor even Smith is here?

  Later that morning, she took Elliott out into the sunshine and looked into his widely opened mouth. Peering in, she saw a dark spot deep in the crevice of a back molar.

  “What do you see?” asked Elliott.

  No use in frightening him, she thought and replied, “A whole lot of teeth and a wiggly pink tongue.”

  Remembering her own experience of having a tooth removed, she worried for the boy. Returning to the house, she sat down and wrote out a letter informing the Lady and asking what should be done.