A Girl Called Foote

  These were the hands that most of Heath’s students watched with wary expectation at some point or another during their educational years. On more than one occasion, these hands had gripped and swung the ‘Cane of Pain’, expertly cracking the wooden instrument across Jonathan’s posterior.

  They belonged to Headmaster Grimes.

  The head of Headmaster Grimes loomed above the hands. It was not as familiar to Jonathan since it was the hands that Jonathan had grown accustomed to staring at during his many spells of sitting across from the man in his study, hearing a lecture detailing his sins, and awaiting the corporal punishment dealt by the weighty hands themselves.

  Still, it was there, with its ever-receding hairline and its stubbly double chin. What hair it still possessed was thin and gray. In fact, his eyebrows seemed to boast of more substance than did his scalp. Below these ferocious hedges were positioned the blue eyes which had pierced into the souls of innumerable ill-behaving youths.

  Upon entering the headmaster’s office, Jonathan noted that the pipe, which was usually tightly gripped between the man’s teeth, was resting on the desktop. This unsettled Jonathan even more. Even the canings he had suffered through had been dealt whilst the smoking apparatus jutted out of the man’s face. In fact, Jonathan was convinced that he would forever feel a burning on his backside at a mere whiff of Harrow’s Amber Flake hanging in the air.

  What sort of a visit is this? he wondered.

  “Clyde,” Grimes began and cleared his throat. “You are certainly wondering why I summoned you here first thing this morning.”

  “I thought, perhaps, that you had missed me, sir.” Jonathan regretted his attempt at a joke even as it rolled off his tongue.

  Yet Grimes smiled. It was not only beatings and lectures that came from the man. On more than one occasion, he had smiled easily at one of Jonathan’s quips or even chuckled, which he did now.

  Jonathan looked up.

  “No, that I did not.” The smile faded and he cleared his throat again, looking Jonathan in the eye. His eyes did not possess the fire of anger and frustration that Jonathan had seen many times. Instead, they had a troubled look.

  “Clyde, did you bring me anything?”

  “Sir?” Jonathan floundered.

  “I was told you would play courier for your mother.”

  What could you possibly want from her? Jonathan slowly shook his head, confounded, and said nothing in the pause that followed.

  “I see. Hmm…” The man lifted a paper from his desk and glanced at it. “Clyde, I fear you must grow up today and now. You see, for the last three years, we here at Heath have been requesting from your mother the payment of your tuition. Each year, she has made only partial payments. In her last correspondence, she said she would be sending the money from the past years and this year’s entire tuition with you at the beginning of this term.”

  Why would she do that? wondered Jonathan.

  “Are you certain your mother sent you nothing that she intended for you to pass on to me?” The dreaded eyes peered deeply into Jonathan’s own.

  He thinks I’m holding it back for myself!

  “I only have a couple of guineas to pay for my supplemental food and drink, sir.”

  “So you’re telling me that Lady Clyde did not send 25 pounds along with you this term?”

  In spite of the discomfort he felt, Jonathan laughed out loud. “I assure you, she did not.”

  A thought flitted into his mind, Perhaps Grimes is trying to get money out of me for his own personal use.

  However, this notion did not root itself as Grimes continued.

  “The partial payments along with the promises of a formerly reliable patron were enough to keep you here. It is not unusual for us to do so with various families, but with no end in sight for the credit we have extended, I fear all that has changed. I’m sorry to tell you that without payment, you can no longer attend school here at Heath.”

  What?

  Though Jonathan heard the words, he sat stupidly in the chair, staring at the headmaster’s mouth. The loose, wet lips surrounded by a blackish stubble now formed another sentence.

  “You will be required to leave on the morrow.”

  Jonathan flinched.

  “I’m sure there’s been some mistake. Are you certain it wasn’t lost somehow or…or that she even received your letters requesting payment?”

  Nodding his head, Grimes picked up an envelope from the top of a stack and pushed it across the desk.

  Pulling the letter out of it, Jonathan saw his mother’s fine handwriting carefully scripted across the page. Skimming it quickly, he was bewildered to see that her words confirmed what Grimes had said. The date in the upper right corner proved the letter to be more than a year old.

  Jonathan felt as if he had been punched in the gut.

  “I’m sorry that circumstances are not otherwise,” said Grimes, his hands folding together. “You’re welcome to return should the funds accompany you.”

  Slowly, Jonathan rose from his chair, placing the letter back on the desk.

  Grimes also rose and stuck his brawny right hand out to Jonathan.

  Reeling, it took the young man a second to realize that Grimes intended for him to shake it.

  From instrument of retribution to instrument of grace, thought Jonathan, clutching the meaty appendage.

  He turned to go, quietly. At the door he paused, glanced back at his former headmaster and said, “Sorry I was such an ass.”

  The still-standing Grimes smiled and retrieved his pipe from his desktop.

  “I wish you well, Clyde,” he said, placing the pipe between his teeth.

  Jonathan slipped out the door and trod down the still hallway.

  Why would she not pay? It’s not that she forgot. She took time to write letters about it.

  Jonathan made his way out of the building and across the campus. Having just eaten their breakfast, most of the boys were down at the field, playing an early morning game of cricket. He went there, but did not join the cheering crowd. Instead, he circled the field, his hands in his pockets.

  Who else knows of this?

  He glanced at the raucous group of boys who were presently hollering at the batter and the bowler. No knowing glances were thrown his way. A couple of teachers were present, just as rapt on the sport as the students.

  “Oi! He’s out of the crease, he is!” protested a voice.

  “Hit his stumps! Hit his stumps!” hollered another.

  There was the crack of the bat and the cork and leather ball sailed through the air.

  No one’s thinking of me at all. Thank God.

  In the past, Jonathan had known of other students being dismissed for mysterious reasons, but it was something that he himself never expected to suffer.

  They’ll all wonder why I’m packing my things. What will I say?

  Suddenly, Jonathan halted in his pacing.

  I won’t wait until tomorrow. I’ll go now. I’ll go straight to London and ask the Lady what this is all about. She won’t be able to fob me off in a letter if I’m standing right there before her.

  He nearly jogged to his room.

  But what of Hodges and Widdy? It wouldn’t be right to just leave and not say anything.

  Opening the saddlebag in his closet, he saw a packet of gingerbread slices he had brought from Whitehall weeks earlier, nearly forgotten. The rich odor filled the room though the paper was secured tightly with twine.

  He pulled the packet out and crossed the room to Widcombe’s bed. Lifting the pillow, he shoved the package underneath and smoothed the bedclothes over all.

  I hope it’s not green with mold when he opens it, thought Jonathan, grinning. Sometimes the bread would keep for weeks and other times it wouldn’t.

  What can I leave for Hodges?

  He thought for a moment, then grabbed his sketch book and a pencil before sitting on the bed. Beneath his skilled hand, an image of Widcombe clutchin
g hefty slabs of something in both hands formed. The character’s cheeks were full to capacity, and crumbs clung to his lips and chin as he appeared to be chewing vigorously. Beside him Jonathan drew Hodges, slight in comparison, his hands waving in the air. Over Hodges’ head, he wrote:

  Mind the mold, Widdy! You know what it did to your bowels last time!

  That’s certain to amuse him, he thought as he tore it carefully from the book.

  He crossed the room and placed the paper under the pillow on Hodges’s bed, the corner peeking out enough to declare its presence.

  With his goodbyes said, Jonathan stuffed his remaining belongings into his bag, donned his riding coat and stood in the doorway. This was not the dormitory chamber he had always lived in, but he’d spent enough time in it to want to gaze at it for a moment before leaving.

  And now what am I to do with myself? he thought, hoisting his heavy bag and heading outside.

  On several occasions, he had pondered what his life would be like once he finished school, but never bothered to settle on anything because the future seemed so distant. Suddenly, it was here. Upon his father and elder brother’s deaths, Jonathan had inherited the baronetcy, but that clarified only his place in society, not what his daily occupation ought to be.

  And what is the value in a mere title?

  In fact, to him, titles seemed pretentious, reminding him vaguely of the dormer windows of Whitehall which had fascinated him all those years ago. Fascinated him, that is, until he learned they served no real purpose.

  Truly, what does it matter that I am ‘Sir Jonathan Charles Clyde, Bart.’? Nothing at all! Well, at least I escaped being called ‘Sir William Walter Clyde the Fifth, Bart.’ as the Lady wished.

  Jonathan shook his head, aggravated anew by his mother’s vanity.

  He was thankful that he had been born to a baronet and not a duke or an earl. Years earlier, the eldest son of a duke had bragged to his fellow Heath attendants that he would someday have a place in Parliament. Jonathan was unsure what this honor entailed, but he suspected it involved long hours of arguing with other men while wearing an ill-fitting wig.

  If that had been my fate, who knows what the Lady would have tried to wheedle me into? Not that I would have let her…

  Jonathan sighed as he resituated the bag on his shoulder.

  Well, surely the money will make its way here and I’ll be back soon. I suppose if the Lady can’t be bothered to pay my tuition then I could delve into the estate and do it myself. Or do I need to be twenty-one first? I wonder if she’ll answer that question…or if she even knows the answer herself!

  Heavy clouds had blown in since the cricket game, blocking the sun. A cold wind blew. Jonathan secured his coat snuggly across his chest, pulled his hat down low over his ears, and headed to the stables.

  Wait.

  Jonathan paused next to Achilles’ pen.

  I’ve never gone to London straight from school. Would I know the way?

  Vexatious memories of leaving Heath and getting lost on the open roads filled his mind.

  I don’t want to go through that again. No. Instead, I’ll head home, spend the night there and in the morning I’ll head to London. Yes, I know the way from there.

  He climbed into the saddle and dug his heels into Achilles’ sides.

  To Whitehall…

 

  Hearing, Thinking, Feeling

  ~ Ploughman

  There was the humming again. It would sound for a few seconds and then cease, only to begin again, unsteadily, then steadily, then stop.

  But it was the pain that dragged Ploughman’s mind to the surface as if emerging from a pool of thick murky water. The dull ache radiated from her belly up to her chest and simultaneously down to her groin.

  Ah, still here, she thought, suddenly aware of the lumpy pillow under her very heavy head.

  With her eyes closed, Ploughman heard, over the raspy sound of her own breathing, the hum sharpen into words, Foote’s words.

  “Ah, Joan. Joan…”

  There were tears in the young woman’s voice.

  “I fear you can’t hear me…I should have spoken sooner. You’re a good woman, Joan. I know you were bullied by Cook and Smith, but you didn’t let it sour you. Your sweet nature never faltered.”

  There was a slight pressure on the ailing woman’s hand and then, Ploughman didn’t know how, but Foote managed to pick the weighty thing up, and cradle it gently in her own.

  “These hands,” the voice said. “They’ve worked hard…so hard at cleaning up the filth of others…and polishing their vain treasures. You made their lives so much easier, so much better, and yet…here you are in a stuffy, smelly attic, slipping away.”

  Ah, Foote, the words formed slowly in Ploughman’s haze, but you have been so kind to me.

  The pain pulsated, insistent of its dominance.

  “And where are they?” the voice continued, its edge growing hard. “Where are they? Those thoughtless fools! Off in London in their second house! Or off at a fine school where they’re tended by others like you …others like us.”

  The voice broke and there was a stifled sob followed by a sniffle.

  Don’t cry, Foote. There’s pride in working hard, knowing you done a good job o’ something.

  “But I know, Joan…although another is dusting their shelves and washing their spoons, I know that you are irreplaceable. I know that you deserve a comfortable bed in a well-aired room…a hot cup of tea with as much sugar and milk as you like.”

  Pleased and surprised, the elder woman’s chest tightened. Since she was small, any time another seemed appreciative of her, an overwhelming sense of shy gladness would envelop her, constricting her breath. Even now in her prone, immobile state, she felt the warmly familiar sensation wash over her. She felt she was smiling, a gesture done without thought so many thousand times before, but she knew it had not reached her lips. Her tongue, leaden in her mouth, was cumbersome beyond all use to speak any words of thanks. All of this emotion and effort translated into a faint moan from her throat.

  In the same instant, the ache in her abdomen grew sharper and the moan thickened into a groan that pushed past her unwieldy lips to escape.

  The hand enfolding her own tightened.

  “Joan?”

  Oh! Pain…

  Ploughman’s eyes fluttered lightly for an instant and the right one remained open, a narrow slit.

  Ah, there you are, Foote.

  “Would you like some water?” the young woman asked, leaning in, her face lined with worry. She reached for something out of sight as Ploughman realized how completely dry her mouth was.

  Her eye, unable to do otherwise, drifted shut again as the sensation of a damp rag cooled the corner of her mouth. Laboriously, she barely parted her lips and felt wetness drip in, the small amount pooling at the base of her throat. The liquid seemed to give her strength and she was able to swallow it.

  She tried to moan her thanks, but pain seized her around the waist and twisted.

  “Ughhh…” a strangled noise gurgled out of her, swelling as the pangs throbbed into a steady burning.

  Pain! Pain!

  Agony contorted her insides, spawning a guttural howl that split her in two as it exited her throat. Above her head, it hung, coiling eerily in the air.

  It was followed by another.

 

  Explaining an Empty Stable

  ~ Hardy

  A hash of bacon and mash tonight at the Weary Lass, thought Hardy, jingling the few coins in his trouser pocket as he rounded the corner of the stable block. A pint of ale and all will be…

  Sir Jonathan!

  The heir himself stood several yards away, holding the reins of his favorite horse and staring into the stable pens. All but one, which held Stag, were empty.

  Better say something.

  “Oi, Sir Jonathan. I weren’t expecting to see you this day.”

  The young man turned, looking baffled.


  “Hardy, where are Hunter and Speed?”

  “Uhh, sold, sir…along with Rosefinch and Lynx, as I was told....”

  “Sold?” The incredulous look on the baronet’s face would have made Hardy laugh had he not known better.

  What? ‘E don’t know? Ahh, why must I be the one to tell ‘im? Blast you, Lady!

  “Afore she left for London, Lady Clyde tol’ me to sell ‘em. Wait for a good buyer, she said, an’ I did.” The man stuck his chin out instinctively.

  Let ‘im argue wi’ that! I thought the plan was madness when I heard it, but no one asked me!

  “She told you to sell the horses?” Sir Jonathan asked again, his eyes wide.

  “Aye, sir, and one of the carriages as well. Tha’s what she tol’ me to do and I was to send ‘er the money but now that you’re ‘ere, I’ll give it to you. The man came for ‘em just this morning. I believe I gotta good price for ‘em. The money’s in my room.”

  Don’t dismiss me, sir. I just does what the bloody mistress says. Hardy ran up the flight of stairs in the stable house and returned soon with a small bag, which he handed to the young man.

  As if in a daze, the young man handed Achilles’s reins over to Hardy and started for the front door, the little bag dangling from his hand.

  Suddenly, he turned and called out, “For God’s sake, Hardy, don’t sell Achilles!”

  Hardy wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh at that or not, so he simply raised his hand in acknowledgement and led the horse away.

 

 

  Finding Foote with a File

  ~ Jonathan

  Still confounded by the explanation for the nearly empty stable, Jonathan pushed the front door open where his attention was arrested by the filthiness of the entryway.

  What’s all this then?

  Several sets of footprints, small and large, tracked across the floor, some leading to the large staircase and others making paths down the halls.

  Have we been overrun by fetid dwarves?

  “Hello!” he called.

  There was no response from any quarter.

  Certainly there will be someone in or near the kitchen, he thought, heading that way. Upon entering it, he tilted his head at the strange sight that greeted him. On the floor next to the oven was a mattress with two blankets balled up on top of it.

  Someone’s sleeping in the kitchen?

  Looking around, he saw newly dirtied bowls on the table, scrapings of porridge still wet in their hollows.