A Girl Called Foote

  “Foote,” Jonathan began in the slow clear way he had adopted while trying to communicate with the German, “is a servant.”

  “A servant?” It was clear Heldmann was not familiar with the word.

  “Yes, she’s a maid. She cooks and… umm…cleans things.” Jonathan lifted a polished stone from the table next to him and mimed dusting underneath and around it.

  Heldmann looked about dubiously. Even in the dim light, one could see the thick layer of dust on everything within the room. Bits of bark and broken twigs littered the carpet in front of the fireplace. Chair cushions were shifted awkwardly in their places.

  Jonathan fumbled for an explanation. “Well, she hasn’t been cleaning lately. There’s been far too much to do with feeding us and caring for another of our maids who just died. She’s had much more than her share to tend to with the…” Jonathan stopped, seeing that Heldmann was understanding nothing. He began again, slowly. “She is a…servant…to my family.”

  Heldmann nodded, his face serious. “I thinks she is…wise and…kindness and…”

  As Heldmann’s cumbersome praise spilled out, Jonathan shifted uncomfortably on the settee.

  What do you know of her? You’ve only just met her.

  “May I…mmm…writes missives…to Foote?”

  You want to exchange letters with her? To what end? Jonathan wondered if the anger he felt growing inside him was apparent on his face.

  Stuff it. He means no harm. He’s asking politely.

  No.

  “Well, Heldmann,” Jonathan paused, taking a deep breath. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes boring into those of the enquiring man. “It might not look good for Foote if she was to receive letters from a guest of my family. People might begin to say things about her that are not true and it might be difficult for her to…”

  There was confusion in the eyes of the German.

  Ugh, he has no idea what I’m saying. Jonathan shook his head firmly and said slowly, “No. Please forgive.”

  His mouth bent into a smile that he did not feel as he shrugged his shoulders.

  Heldmann smiled slightly in return and nodded his head. “I…I understands.”

  An uncomfortable silence fell in the room.

  Why should I dislike the notion so? He’s a decent fellow. His interest in her could actually be to her benefit.

  But with a mind like hers…to be wasted on this big, stuttering blonde?

  Yet, isn’t her mind presently being wasted as she slaves away in Whitehall’s kitchen and parlors? If he has regard for her, it’s for her to decide how to respond…

  Jonathan sat with that thought for a moment as Heldmann cast another shadow on the wall.

  He nearly opened his mouth to retract his quashing of the plan to exchange letters, but something held him back.

  No. As I told him, it wouldn’t be appropriate. In her position, she might feel compelled to respond in a way that is contrary to her true feelings. Hmm…yes, I hardly know the man…and as her employer, I need to protect her from improper advances.

  Yes. That is right.

  Feigning a jaw splitting yawn, Jonathan announced, “It is late. Shall I show you to your room?”

  He stood and motioned toward the door, a strange tightness in his chest. “Come along, Elliott.”

  “But he hasn’t shown me how to make the butterfly!”

  “Another time, perhaps.” Jonathan put out the light in the Carcel lamp and lifted a lit taper in its silver holder to illuminate their steps to the bedrooms.

  “But he’s leaving tomorrow!”

  “Quiet, Elliott!” Jonathan snapped, a little too sharply. “This way, please, Heldmann.”

 

  Seeking, Finding

  ~ Lydia

  “But you promised!” whined the little boy.

  “I said that if I finished with the potatoes then I would, but I haven’t yet.” Lydia didn’t bother trying to hide her irritation.

  I have a job to do, not that that’s something you will ever understand.

  “Write three more sentences and maybe we’ll finish at the same time.”

  The pencil Elliott had been using remained on the table as he folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t do it.”

  The door opened and in stepped Sir Jonathan. Saying nothing, he walked over to the table and sat down near Elliott, his long legs jutting out into the walkway.

  Oh, good, thought Lydia, focusing again on peeling the potatoes on the plate before her. Maybe he will entertain Elliott now.

  Glancing his way, Lydia saw that he looked thoughtful, distracted. Her spot at the counter allowed her to observe him inconspicuously. She took advantage of the moment by examining him more attentively than usual, feeling that she rarely got to look at him as carefully as she wanted to.

  He was tall and lanky, though not in a scarecrow-like way like so many youths. His dark hair hung almost shaggily into his eyes when he leaned forward. His eyes were grayish blue and he had a very nice nose, well-shaped and masculine without being too large. His chin was the least favorable of his features, being a little weak.

  He would do well to grow a beard, thought Lydia. On second thought, no he wouldn’t. She smiled at the idea of Jonathan with a face hairier than Herr Heldmann’s.

  “Hmph!” Elliott rearranged his folded arms demonstratively, tossing his head.

  “Well, what ruinous occurrence has marred your day, Sir Surly?” Jonathan asked, turning to his brother.

  “Pony says I must write out three more sentences before we play hide-and-seek. I’ve already written out seven. The paper will hardly hold more.” He pushed the sheet across the table to Jonathan, who picked it up and examined it.

  “Nicely done, Elliott. When did you learn how to write like this?”

  “I’ve been having lessons ever since Mama and Sophia left.”

  “This is your doing, I presume?” Jonathan asked, turning to Lydia.

  “It was Hardy’s,” Lydia joked, happy to see amusement in his eyes in response.

  I had to do something to keep him occupied, thought Lydia. Besides, a boy his age ought to have some schooling. When was the Lady planning on educating him, I wonder?

  “Show me another,” Jonathan said to Elliott. “Write about how you smashed a German warrior in the face with a snowball.”

  The boy smiled smugly, picking up his pencil and asked, “How do you spell ‘warrior’?”

  His brother answered him and then coached him through two more sentences.

  Nicely done, yourself, sir, thought Lydia as she finished dicing the last potato and dropping it into the baking dish. She placed the lid over the top and pushed the whole thing into the hot oven.

  “And now, I am finished as well,” she announced.

  “Wunderbar!” Elliott exclaimed, jumping up from the table.

  Herr Heldmann has left his mark.

  Lydia exchanged a quick smile with Jonathan.

  “You’re the seeker, Pony! Count to one hundred, and don’t listen to my footsteps!” he called over his shoulder as he fled the kitchen.

  Left alone with Jonathan, Lydia felt uneasy as she always did in those rare moments when Elliott was not nearby. This wasn’t helped by the sense of foolishness she felt at playing such a childish game.

  “What are the rules?” Jonathan asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Are there places I’m not allowed to hide?”

  “Oh, you’re going to play, as well?” she asked, laughing. The idea thrilled her, though it increased her uneasiness.

  At least we’ll both be foolish.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, I’ve told him he can’t hide in any of the bedrooms except his own, and of course the servants’ quarter is off-limits.”

  “Very well, and where is ‘safe’?”

  “Right here where I shall count.” She motioned to the table.

  “Very good.” He walked to the door, saying good-natu
redly, “Count to one hundred, and don’t listen to my footsteps.”

  Lydia sat on the bench, too distracted to count.

  This all seems quite inappropriate between employee and employer…but no one is here besides us to notice. We haven’t seen much of Hardy these past few days, even at mealtimes.

  And now Herr Heldmann is gone.

  Herr Heldmann…Lydia thought. That was a failed strategy.

  Though she had readied herself the previous evening to be the Coquette of Whitehall to the German guest, when it had come time to serve dinner, she found herself at the little mirror in the kitchen pinning her mob-cap back into place.

  Could there be a clearer bid for attention than suddenly appearing without one’s ugly headpiece? she had chided herself. Besides, Sir Jonathan would see right through my fraudulent flirtation. It would be better to die in an attic than suffer that humiliation.

  So Lydia had determined to simply be herself as she served the meal to her employer and his guest. Jonathan had insisted she join them at the dining table, so she had asked the German a few questions about himself, being patient with his slow answers.

  He was a farmer, she had learned, pleased with her adroit perception, and he had come to England to learn about Herefords. She had recognized the cattle breed as one her own father had spoken of with appreciation.

  And so the conversation had laboriously progressed as the soup, rolls and roast chicken had been consumed. She had realized as it went on that Herr Heldmann was a good man, but the thought of him falling in love with her would have been laughable had she not felt so embarrassed about her earlier intentions to make exactly that occur.

  As of this morning, he is departed, along with my ridiculous ploy, thought Lydia, feeling her cheeks burn though she was alone with her thoughts.

  And now, no one is here but me and Sir Jonathan…and little Elliott. The thought echoed through her mind, filling her again with a sense of anxious intrigue.

  She had noticed in small ways how lax she had grown in her interactions with Jonathan. Still, she had difficulty looking him in the eye. It felt too bold and improper, but she joked frequently, her eyes turned elsewhere. Words fell out of her mouth that she wouldn’t have considered saying in the recent past. His apparent enjoyment of these quips encouraged her to continue doing so. She often wondered how she would behave differently once the Lady and her entourage had returned. A sense of dread always accompanied that thought.

  When she felt sufficient time had passed, she rose from the bench. Going through the door to the dining room, she called out, “Ready or not, I’m coming for you!”

  She usually knew where to find Elliott. He was partial to a few particular spots, all rather obvious and not difficult for a young boy to squeeze himself into. Thinking she had heard him rush up the stairs, she headed toward the staircase.

  But where is Jonathan? she thought, anxiously scanning the upstairs hallway. There were many doors to rooms she could search, all concealing so many possibilities. Suddenly, as she padded cautiously down the hall, she noticed something that she had seen a hundred times, but never really thought through.

  Just feet away from ‘those Clyde fellows’, blocked behind a small writing desk, was a narrow door. It could be mistaken for wall paneling since its design closely matched that of the walls on either side of it, but upon close examination, Lydia distinguished hinges and a door knob.

  What is that? A closet? Certainly he’s not in there, Lydia thought.

  Suddenly, there was a thump in the parlor to her left. Though still curious about the little narrow door, she moved past it to push the parlor door wide open. It was a room she had dusted and aired many times, though not recently. The hearth was familiar to her knees, where she had knelt to light fires. She had perused the shelves that held a selection of books, which was paltry compared to what the library offered. Still, she saw the room in an entirely new way.

  Is he in here? she wondered, holding her breath.

  What if he is? It’s a stupid game.

  She stepped across the red and gold rug, every creak of the floorboards amplified.

  One of them is in here. I know I heard something. But where?

  Her heart pounded in her chest as she surveyed the possible hiding places.

  Jonathan couldn’t possibly fit in there, she thought, observing a trunk she had swept around many times. She nearly giggled at the thought of his knees up around his ears if he were to contort himself inside it and lower its lid.

  But Elliott would fit.

  Stepping forward, she eased the lid up, determined to steady herself should the young boy jump out.

  It was empty.

  Hmmm…where else? Her heart still beating forcefully, she pivoted on her heel and screamed.

  There, a foot before her, was Jonathan, his frame leaning toward and towering over her.

  Lydia’s hand flew to her mouth, and she felt embarrassed at her visceral reaction.

  A slow smile spread across the young man’s face, obviously pleased at his clandestine approach.

  She felt quite small before him, remembering the stance of his body the day she’d nearly broken a window and he thought she’d been hurt. She recalled how safe she felt when she’d realized his concern for her. The memory warmed her now, and she smiled genuinely up at him.

  “Where were you hiding?” Lydia asked, seeing how his hair had fallen into his face.

  Crafty fellow.

  He said nothing, and instead just stared at her, his mischievous smile never wavering.

  Feeling emboldened, Lydia realized something. Quickly reaching out, she touched his shoulder and pronounced, “You’re out.”

  A look of pleased surprise crossed the young man’s face and he lifted his eyebrows, saying, “Yes, I suppose you got me.”

  Suddenly, from another room came the sound of a crash and a cry of dismay.

  Dashing from the parlor, Jonathan and Lydia hurried to the source which was easy to determine due to the sound of tears being fervidly shed. Following Jonathan as he threw the door open, Lydia saw Elliott blubbering, tears streaming down his face. He stood with his hands thrown out, jagged shards of porcelain littering the ground at his feet.

  “I…I didn’t mean to…” the little boy wailed.

  Lydia recognized the fragments as pieces of the large blue vase that she had always considered ill-placed. Each time she had dusted the end table under it, she had used both hands while moving the vase out of the way.

  “I…I was under the table, and…and…”

  “Are you hurt?” Jonathan asked, pulling Elliott’s hands outward to examine them.

  “No, but…” the boy blubbered on.

  “Elliott,” Jonathan said soothingly. “Get ahold of yourself.”

  Lydia knelt and began to place the smaller shards into the fractured belly of the vase.

  “But…but…” the boy hiccupped, his upper lip slick with mucus.

  “But nothing,” Jonathan assured him. “It’s clear you didn’t mean to. Now stop leaking all over the place and let’s clean this mess up.”

  The two boys, one of them sniffing, knelt beside Lydia and began to follow her example.

  “Careful,” Jonathan said. “The edges are awfully sharp.”

  Lydia wasn’t sure to whom he was speaking.

 

  Falling Asleep on the Settee

  ~ Elliott

  A cheerful blaze burned in the fireplace and the night sky was dark outside the windows. Elliott’s eyelids were getting heavy, but he resisted the urge to let them fall shut.

  He was on the settee, between Pony and Jonathan, with the open sketchbook resting on his lap. The fire didn’t cast much light on the book, but Elliott was content to sit in the dimness as the two grown-ups leaned towards him, turning the pages, and talking about the various drawings on them.

  “That’s a new one.” Elliott pointed at the image of a young man who was seated on a rock.

 
Pony leaned in further, angling the book most effectively in the firelight. Peals of laughter, unlike any sound Elliott had ever heard her make, bubbled out of her. He, too, began to laugh, and examined the drawing more carefully.

  The fellow had his left shoe off and was staring at his bare foot, which stuck awkwardly up in the air. He looked dismayed as he regarded a prominent bump bulging out from just under his big toe.

  “That’s Widdy, isn’t it?” Elliott asked, glancing at his brother.

  “Yes, it is,” Jonathan, who was looking at Pony, replied with a broad smile.

  The maid’s laughter had devolved into barely contained giggles.

  “He grew a prodigious wart on his foot this last autumn and I thought I would do well to commemorate it. Though I’ve drawn him looking mortified, he was actually rather proud of the thing. I’ve never seen such a large wart.”

  “But look at the foot’s width! And all the hair sprouting out of the biggest toe!” Pony said, still snickering.

  “Oh, that’s all factual!” Jonathan clarified. “Yes, Widdy’s feet are nothing to be trifled with. I always hope to portray people somewhat accurately, though the more I look at this one…”

  He turned back several pages to a sketch of an old man. “…the less pleased I am with it.”

  In the scant light, it looked to Elliott as if the man was being offered a set of teeth on a platter by a maid.

  “I fear I failed to capture…” Jonathan paused. “That is, I don’t think either subject is properly depicted.”

  “I’ve never seen this one before.” Elliott said before yawning, though Jonathan, who was still looking at Pony, didn’t seem to hear him.

  “This was the first time you dazzled me with your verbiage,” Jonathan continued. “‘The ancient beaux who choose to woo must all remember as they chew…’”

  Pony said, “I’m glad it pleased you.”

  “It astonished me, truly.”

  Elliott rubbed his eyes as he slowly flipped a few pages to see if there were any other unfamiliar drawings.

  “And then there was the other…” Jonathan said, then cleared his throat.

  “Pardon me?” Pony asked.

  Jonathan glanced at Elliott. “The, uh…other poem. I never thanked you properly…or at all, really…”

  Why are they speaking of poems? Pictures are so much better. Elliott turned another page, and drowsily slumped further down into the furniture.

  “It was…vital,” Jonathan proceeded. “I felt quite stupid when I realized what was going on…and ever so thankful that you had discerned it all.”