Two days later there was a knock at the kitchen door. Opening it, Lydia saw the same post boy who had delivered Wells’ letter. Supposing whatever the boy held was from the Lady, Lydia did not hesitate this time to dip into the laundry money to pay him. The letter simply stated,
Take him to Plimbridge to see our physician, Chadwick--Lady Clyde
The next morning, as she set a bowl of porridge in front of him, Lydia saw that tears were running down his face.
“Master Elliott, why are you crying?” she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder.
“I’m not crying!” the boy wailed. “It’s just that…I can’t eat. My tooth hurts all the time.” He pushed the bowl away from him and put his head down on the table.
“Why don’t you go rest on the bed for now, Elliott? I’ll see if I can get someone to fix that tooth today.”
The weepy child shuffled off to the attic room.
Lydia turned to Hardy who was eating his own bowl of porridge.
“Looks like a horrible trip into Plimbridge to see Chadwick today, Hardy. When can you take us?”
“Soon as I gets the horse suited up.”
Less than an hour later, the three of them were in the wagon, bundled against a brisk autumnal wind, plodding into the village.
“Who’s going to fix it?” asked Elliott as the horse slowly pulled the wagon toward Plimbridge.
“The physician,” replied Lydia.
“What’s he going to do?”
Hardy coughed slightly and shook the reins.
“I don’t know.”
Well, I don’t, Lydia told herself. I don’t know if he’s going to pull it or fill it with gold.
“Will it hurt?”
“I don’t think so, Elliott.”
Liar!
Soon they were pulling up in front of the physician’s office. Lydia left Hardy and Elliott behind as she went in.
Inside, Lydia found Mr. Chadwick and explained the situation, adding, “I’d like to keep him unaware of what is happening for as long as possible. He is a very determined little boy and it could take hours to complete if he’s not compliant.”
“Of course,” replied the physician. “I have little tricks I use on children. I see you brought a man with you. I’ll need him to hold the boy’s legs when it comes down to it. What form of payment will you make?”
Money? Of course! Ugh, I hadn’t even considered that!
“Oh, I had supposed that Lady Clyde would pay you when she returns from London. She left me with money only for the laundry bills and such. Is that alright?” She suddenly felt foolish, as if she was asking a ridiculous favor.
Certainly he extends credit!
Chadwick’s lip curled up in a sardonic smile and the formerly intuitive looking eyes narrowed.
“She left you no money? That’s hardly surprising.” He looked as if he were about to refuse, but then glanced out the window. Elliott was slumped miserably on the wagon seat, his left hand cradling his jaw.
“Well…bring him in. I’ll write it on her tab.” He said the last word as if it were amusing in a shameful way.
Unsure how to respond, Lydia nodded and went outside to usher Elliott inside.
Soon, Lydia was inviting Elliott to sit in the comfortable reclining chair and look at the lovely lamp hanging from the ceiling. As Elliott got situated, Lydia went back outside to Hardy and informed him of his job in the matter.
“But don’t pin his legs until Chadwick signals you or he may panic.”
“I want no parta that! I jus’ drive the wagon.”
“Hardy, get your cowardly carcass in there. Think of the little boy!”
Hardy grumbled as he secured the horse to a post and followed Lydia inside.
Chadwick lit the lamp above the chair and said to Elliott, “Open your mouth, please.”
Hardy stood at the foot of the chair, looking miserable. Lydia had positioned herself next to Elliott’s side, feeling just as Hardy looked, but trying to appear cheerful.
“A little wider,” instructed the physician, aiming the light.
Lydia pretended to see into Elliott’s mouth.
“I count 24 teeth. How many do you see, Mr. Chadwick?” she asked.
“Hm, yes,” murmured Chadwick as he narrowed his eyes.
“How will you fix it?” Elliott asked, then resumed his wide-mouthed pose.
“Hmm…” repeated Chadwick as he rummaged through his instrument drawer. He pulled out a tooth key and hammer-like tool.
So it is to come out. Lydia cringed inwardly.
She would never forget the last time she saw tools similar to these. Her jaw ached at the recollection.
Chadwick unscrewed the key’s handle from the shaft.
“Restrain the limbs, please,” he said, looking pointedly at Hardy, who was at the foot of the table, and Lydia, who was trembling beside it.
“What are you doing?” asked Elliott as Hardy’s large rough hands pinned down his ankles, and Lydia grabbed his arms. “Let go of me! Pony?”
“You must open your mouth so that I may help you,” said Chadwick again.
As Elliott did, the physician slipped in a tightly wound wad of treated wool, propping the jaws wide.
The little pink tongue began to bob around frantically and the boy’s arms strained against Lydia’s weight. A muffled howl of protest rose out of his throat.
Wrapping his arm around the boy’s head, Chadwick steadied it and tapped soundly on the tooth as Elliott’s protest turned to rage.
Lydia watched as the tooth grew visibly looser in its socket, and blood began to ooze up to the gum line. Feeling light-headed, she squeezed her eyes shut and focused on maintaining control over Elliott’s arms which were threatening to fly loose.
When she looked again, Chadwick had expertly fitted the key’s band around the tooth and reattached the handle. Giving the key a terrific wrench brought the tooth out as Elliott’s lusty muffled screams filled the small room.
Lydia was amazed at the strength such young muscles could exert. Once the tooth was out, she let go of his arms.
Elliott flailed wildly. His right fist flung out and collided squarely with Lydia’s eye. It throbbed within her head as she squeezed it tightly shut.
Hardy was still bearing down on the little master’s ankles.
Cupping her watering eye, Lydia saw with her functioning eye that Chadwick was calmly examining the tooth’s root.
“Excellent,” he said over the boy’s wails. “The root is completely intact so I needn’t root around for shards.”
He dropped the tooth on a tray and began to clean his tools.
Still covering her eye, Lydia said, “It’s over, Master Elliott. Now that horrible tooth won’t hurt you anymore.”
Elliott’s cries turned to whimpers.
After a moment as Lydia’s vision returned, she picked the tooth up from the tray and held it out to the now sniveling boy. “See how long the root is? Would you like to keep it?”
Quiet now, though his dripping lower lip continued to quiver, he nodded.
Lydia dropped the bloody offender, bits of tissue still adhering to it, into the boy’s palm. Within moments he was smiling, flipping it over and over in examination, though his free hand was plastered to the side of his face, cradling his cheek.
And what were the ‘tricks’ you employ when working with children, sir? Lydia wondered, looking at the physician. I didn’t seem to notice them. Nevertheless, it is over with…
“Thank you,” Lydia said, pulling Elliott from the chair.
“Hmm, yes,” Chadwick replied. “I’ll be sending Lady Clyde the bill.”
***
That evening, at dinner, Lydia caught Ploughman and Hardy looking at her.
“What is it?” she asked.
Elliott, who had wanted to sit at the table with them while he chewed a piece of gauze, wrinkled his nose and asked, “What’s the matter with your eye?”
“Oh, it’s better now. I c
an see perfectly fine again.”
“No, I mean, why is it purple?”
“What?”
Hardy and Ploughman began to shake with repressed laughter.
“Aye, Foote. You gotta real blacker there,” chortled Hardy.
Lydia rushed to the small looking glass near the door. Staring back at her were her eyes, one normal in every way and the other ringed with an angry bluish smear.
Ugh…
“Well, Master Elliott,” she said returning to the table with a sigh. “You have succeeded in giving me my very first black eye.”
Elliott gasped, “I did that?”
Lydia explained how as Elliott began to chew harder on the gauze. Glancing at Ploughman and Hardy who were chuckling, he smiled and then began to giggle.
“Thank you all so much,” said Lydia with mock-irritation.
Suddenly a look of pain crossed Ploughman’s face.
“More stomach pains?” asked Lydia.
She’s hardly touched her food.
“Ugh,” Ploughman groaned, rubbing a hand over her abdomen. A strange look flitted across her face as she continued to feel her belly.
Lydia considered questioning her further but decided against it.
“Maybe you need a soft egg like Elliott instead of this chunky stew.”
“Nah, I’m not hungry.” Ploughman rose from the table and slowly trudged off to the kitchen, still palpating her stomach.
Watching her leave, Lydia was struck by how altered the older woman was. It was rare now that she even saw Ploughman walk across a room. The woman was usually sitting on a stool somewhere, quietly working with her hands. Seeing her backside in retreat, Lydia realized that the woman’s figure had shrunk dramatically, looking aged and frail.
***
That night, Lydia instructed Elliott to wait outside the attic room for a moment. Entering, she asked Ploughman, “Why were you groping your stomach like that at dinner?”
With care, the older woman stretched herself out on the bed, motioned to a place on her body and said, “Feel this.”
Unaccustomed to exploring another’s abdomen, Lydia gingerly reached out to the spot indicated. Her hesitation dissipated as her fingers discerned a large, firm ball under the flesh.
Ploughman’s aging body was draped with extra skin and had little muscle. Under these saggy layers, Lydia felt around in the uniform softness, finding the borders of a solid mass, just below where Lydia imagined Ploughman’s navel to be.
“What is that?” Ploughman asked, her eyes worried.
“I don’t know,” Lydia replied, wondering if Chadwick could tell them.
Yet, if there’s no money for Elliott’s tooth to be pulled, there certainly is no money to have an elderly servant’s abdomen probed.
“It must be why I have all them stomach pains.”
Lydia nodded, unsure of what else to say.
There was a little knock on the door and Elliott said, “Pony? It’s dark out here. I’m scared.”
Consulting the Apothecary
~ Lydia
The following day, Ploughman rose from bed as usual, though sluggishly, and descended the stairs to the kitchen where she stayed all day. She parked herself on her little stool in the corner and sorted beans and kneaded dough, all even more slowly than usual.
Lydia again noticed that she ate very little.
A few days passed similarly until one morning, as sunlight spilled in through the attic window, Ploughman declared, “I’m so sorry, Foote, but I can’t quite face the stairs yet. I’ll be down in a while.”
“Alright. Come when you can,” said Lydia, though she thought, Ugh, here I am, the only capable servant caring for an enormous house, tending to an active little boy and making sure we’re all fed.
I had hoped that she would at least be able to make the porridge while I’m out in the garden. With Glaser gone, the plot is a shamble. Hardy is hardly any help at all! All those cabbages and carrots are going to be wasted on rabbits if I don’t get them in soon.
One glance, however, at the elderly woman, struck Lydia with guilt. She looked as if she had aged 15 years in a week’s time. Her ashen face was lined with pain and her mouth hung open as if she didn’t have the energy to keep it closed. Her every movement was accompanied by little groans.
She looks as if she’s dying.
Lydia said, “You stay in bed as long as you need to.”
“Thank you, Foote. You’ve always been so kind to me.”
The emotion in these words made Lydia uneasy. “Yes, well, don’t get used to it. When I’m in charge here, I’ll make Cook seem like an angel of mercy.”
Ploughman chuckled as Lydia exited the room.
Arriving in the kitchen, Lydia announced, “Hardy, you must ride into Plimbridge and ask Chadwick to come and have a look at Ploughman.”
Hardy looked up from his bowl of porridge. “Chadwick don’t look at servants.”
“Doesn’t look at servants?” Lydia balked. “Is a desperately ill woman to be ignored?”
Hardy continued, “It’s Archbold, the apothecary, she needs.”
“Well, whoever it is, he needs to come today.” Lydia wrung her hands, recalling the plate of untouched eggs she had just brought down from Ploughman’s bedside.
***
Before the midday meal, the man called Archbold stood at the foot of Ploughman’s bed. He was a sturdy fellow with a red nose and little, deeply set eyes.
“I can’t do nothin’ if you won’t let me have a look.” He stared malevolently at Ploughman who was clutching the bedclothes about her.
“You’re not touching me.”
“Ploughman, please.” Lydia was near despair. “I’m right here and he simply wants to feel around that lump to see what can be done.”
“Ain’t a man who ever touched me there.”
Archbold and Ploughman glared steadily at each other.
With an exasperated sigh, the apothecary pulled a little vial out of a leather sack which hung from his shoulder. Holding it out to Lydia, he said, “Give her a draught of this three times a day.”
Lydia looked at the bottle. Its content was a greenish brown liquid with mossy looking dregs settled at the bottom.
“No, Foote. I won’t drink it!” Ploughman said decidedly from the bed.
Who knows what’s in that witch’s brew? Lydia tried not to wrinkle her nose at Archbold’s concoction. I wouldn’t want to drink it either.
“No, thank you, sir. I fear it would be wasted on her since she insists she won’t take it.”
With a grunt of disgust, the man dropped the bottle back into his bag and stomped from the room, mumbling about a complete waste of his time. Lydia turned to follow him out, but Ploughman called after her.
“Please, Foote,” she pleaded. “If I don’t get well from just lying down, then I’ll just die here, but no more men like that. Please.”
“You won’t get well unless you eat. You’ve eaten nothing for days. You’re melting away to skin and bones. Can’t I please fix you some porridge?”
The invalid said nothing, but big tears welled up in her eyes, and her lower lip began to quiver.
“What is it?” Lydia asked in the gentle voice she used when speaking with an upset Elliott.
Ploughman shook her head obstinately as an unpleasant odor reached Lydia’s nostrils.
Blast! She’s wet the bed!
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I couldn’t hold it no longer.” The woman wept like a disappointed toddler.
It couldn’t be helped, Lydia told herself. She was struggling to use the chamber pot long before she became ill, and she can’t even get out of bed now.
Lydia knew these thoughts were true, but the logic did nothing to eliminate the stench, nor the frustration she felt knowing she was the only person capable of cleaning up the mess.
And how am I to clean it up?
“Don’t cry, Ploughman. It’s alright.”
Alright? What’s alright?
The woman is obviously dying. Her body is ceasing to function in the most rudimentary of ways and she hasn’t eaten for days.
With tears in her own eyes, Lydia sat down on the other bed and reached for Ploughman’s hand.
“Please don’t cry, Joan.”
The shaking shoulders stilled and the old woman sniffed. “It’s been ages since anyone called me that. I’m so sorry, Foote. I didn’t mean to.”
“Shhh…”
The skin on the wrinkled hand Lydia held was paper thin and dotted with liver spots, so different from how it must have been when others had called the woman ‘Joan’. This thought startled Lydia into a realization.
But how does one ask that question? she wondered nervously.
“Joan…” she began. “Is there anyone I ought to send for…to come and see you?”
Ploughman met Lydia’s eyes. A solemn understanding passed between them. Calmed, the old woman breathed in deeply, her eyelashes still damp with tears.
“I think the only one left is my brother, Joash, unless he’s gone, too. I suppose you could write to Rountree House at Sullsby in Cambridgeshire. That’s where he was, last I heard. I’ve a penny in my stocking to pay for the post.” Joan motioned toward the socks hanging from a peg near her bed.
Lydia stood and retrieved a coin from its hiding place. A few others jingled in the toe.
“Joash Ploughman at Rountree House in Sullsby, Cambridgeshire?” she asked from the door.
“Tha’s right,” Joan nodded, her eyes meeting Lydia’s once again in an honest and troubled recognition before she departed.
‘…the only one left…unless he’s gone, too.’ The words ran through Lydia’s mind as her young legs quickly descended the stairs, a lump rising in her throat.
A few pennies in the toe of a well-darned sock, and one possible relative. That’s all there is to show for a dear woman’s entire life.
Leaving Heath
~ Jonathan
Heath School
The hands resting on the desktop before Jonathan didn’t look like they belonged to an easy living collegiate. The fingers had none of the expected length and tapering, but were heavy and sausage-like. Though the flesh was not rough and thick with manual labor, neither was it smooth and pale like that of a fine gentleman.