“I’ve seen the effects of such substances.” Pony resettled herself in the corner of the settee. “I didn’t want it to…ruin anyone.”
“Well, thank you for telling me. It would crush me if she...”
The unfinished sentence hung in the silence of the room.
Why must there always be boring talking?
Elliott’s eyelids lowered.
“Will you take that off him?” Pony asked, quietly.
Elliott felt that the heavy book was lifted off his legs, and Pony pulled him toward her, guiding his head to rest on her knee. He sighed involuntarily as her hand began to stroke his hair away from his face. His eyes were narrow slits, watching the glow of firelight shift across the walls.
“After my father died, my brother turned to gin. His descent was rapid and distinct.”
“So you lost both of them at the same time. I’m so sorry.” Jonathan’s voice, like Pony’s, had grown quiet. “I had the same experience when I was twelve, though the fluid I lost mine to was water. How old were you when your father passed?”
“Nearly sixteen,” Pony replied. “We think it was his heart…”
Elliott breathed heavily, feeling the warmth of Pony’s hand as it continued to caress the side of his face, and he allowed his eyes to fully shut.
Witnessing Happiness, Then Plotting to Destroy It
~ Smith
The parlor door swung open before her silently, and Smith was happily startled by what she beheld.
Better and better, she thought as she stood in the doorway. The filth in the entryway was delightful, but this sight is the most welcome of all.
Before her eyes, Sir Jonathan and Foote were slumped on separate ends of the settee, their legs lax in slumber. Master Elliott was between them, curled up in a ball, his head resting in Foote’s lap.
You all look so comfortable…and happy together.
It was the little boy’s eyes that opened slowly as Smith cleared her throat. He rubbed them and squinted at her, his hair sticking up in all directions.
“What is she doing here?” he asked, his voice peevish.
Smith willed herself not to smile as the two others awoke simultaneously and realization dawned on their faces.
Foote looked startled, and frightened.
Good, thought Smith.
Jonathan, on the other hand, yawned loudly, then stretched his far-reaching limbs as he smiled up at the woman. “Hullo, Smith. Are you only just arrived? And where is the rest of your party?”
“I am the only one returned from London, sir.”
Much to your benefit! Oh, if your mother were to catch sight of this! I rather wish she was here.
Sir Jonathan finished his stretching. “Well, welcome back. I hope your journey was comfortable and free of any unwanted adventure.”
Ever the smug gentleman. Your words are right, but your manner is as smarmy as always.
“It was fine, sir. May I request the favor of an audience alone with you?” She stated the words deliberately as she eyed Foote who had stood up from the settee and was smoothing her skirt.
“Of course. Let’s just venture into the study down the hall.” Sir Jonathan stood, rubbing a hand over his belly. “I’m feeling a bit peckish. Might I have some porridge, Foote?”
The maid barely nodded and disappeared out the door, never looking up from the floor.
At Foote’s heels, Elliott asked again, “Why’s she here?”
He was promptly shushed by the maid.
Smith suppressed a laugh. That’s right, young woman. Your indolence is at an end. It’s back to being an actual servant. Oh, if the Lady could see this!
She hoped to look as stern as possible as she followed the young man out of the room.
The study door opened with a creak. Jonathan stepped in and sat at the disorderly desk, motioning for Smith to sit in an upright chair before him.
“Foote has been keeping house, I see,” she said, looking around with haughty pleasure.
“Yes. Yes, she has.” He nodded, his smile never wavering.
“You all looked like a very happy family just now…comfortably sleeping on the sofa. Are those your intentions, Sir Jonathan, to set up house with a servant?” She trusted that the glint in her eye looked dangerous.
“My intentions are my own, Smith. Now for what did you want the pleasure of my company?” He crossed his legs comfortably and hooked his hands around his knee.
You think yourself untouchable, don’t you? Let’s see you smile at what I’m about to say.
“Yes, I will get to the matter quickly.” She cleared her throat with the air of someone who has been rehearsing a carefully planned speech.
“Though I have served this family faithfully for upwards of twenty years, I have been paid only half of my full wage for the last three years. At first, I chose to encourage myself with the fact that I had a secure position in a great and distinguished household, certain that I would be reimbursed fully at some point, but…last week, when my wages were again due to me, your mother informed me that I would have to wait until you, as the handler of estate affairs, would give me my due. Sick to death of not being paid for my tireless and excellent work, I boarded the night coach from London last night and have returned here to collect my things and go. Imagine my delight when I came upon you, not at Heath as all had supposed, but here at Whitehall, keeping house with a servant girl.
“Thus, my plans have changed. I will require of you ten full years of payment and a letter of excellent reference so that I may seek employment from a household that will actually pay its servants.”
She stared brazenly into the young man’s eyes, an action she had never before taken.
There was a flicker of something indistinguishable in his face, though he continued to smile tranquilly. Interpreting this as a precursor to refusal, Smith continued.
“If you do not meet my demands, then I shall go back to your mother and tell her of your truancy from school and your presence here with the young and vulnerable Foote…and, I will tell the servants of all the other Great Families. It won’t be long before everyone in your social circle is aware of your questionable behavior…and your poor taste.”
At this, Jonathan’s smile faded. He lifted his eyebrows and swallowed, seeming to think for a moment.
“Is that all?” he finally asked, solemnly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. “Is there anything else you want?”
He doesn’t believe me!
“I will make good on all I have promised.” Smith set her shoulders straight and her chin high.
“I have no doubt of that, Smith. I have always known you to be thorough and diligent. Thank you for making your terms so clear. It makes this whole regrettable situation much more manageable.”
He sighed and looked around the desk. “However, I will need a little time to put things in order. Please leave me to it. I imagine you have some packing to do upstairs?”
That was even easier than I expected.
“Yes. Very good, Sir,” she replied, her apparent victory soothing her back into civility as she rose from her chair.
“Oh, Smith?” Jonathan called just before she exited the room.
“Sir?”
“What is your yearly wage? I want to make sure I get the figures correct.”
Smith suppressed the victorious smile that threatened to split her face in two and replied, “Forty-one pounds, two shillings.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan removed the quill from its stand as Smith walked out the door.
To be free at last from all the Clydes!
She inhaled deeply as she felt herself floating down the hall.
***
An hour later, Smith descended the stairs from her servant’s room for the final time with her belongings. Both Clydes and Foote were in the servants’ hall, eating porridge.
“Ah, here you are, Smith,” said Jonathan, r
ising and wiping his mouth with his hand. From the table, he picked up a drawstring purse and a fat envelope.
“These are for you,” he said cheerfully, handing the items over to her.
The bag felt splendidly heavy in her hand.
No need to count that, she thought.
“I’ve included several copies of the reference letter so that you can send it out to multiple prospects at once. Also, I have asked Hardy to drive you into Plimbridge where you can board the coach and begin your search for the new life you desire.”
His easy acquiescence to her plan softened her heart toward him, just slightly. “Thank you very much, sir.”
If he wants to save face in front of Foote, I will allow it.
“Would you like some breakfast before you go?”
“No, thank you.” The weight of the bag in her hand drove all thoughts of hunger from her mind. She placed it, along with the envelope, into her trunk and shut the lid securely.
“Very well. I’ll summon Hardy for you.”
Moments later, Sir Jonathan stood by the wagon as Hardy lifted Smith’s trunk into it.
Smith felt nearly regal as she climbed onto the wagon seat, smiling slightly in spite of all recent occurrences.
“Smith, thank you for your many years of service.” Jonathan said, bowing his head.
“You’re welcome, sir,” she said, dipping her head in return.
Hardy clicked to the horse and the cart rolled forward.
***
At last, thought Smith, after settling herself down behind the closed door of her room at an inn in Wexhall.
In times past, she would have climbed on the next coach to Spearside immediately to get there before nightfall, or possibly taken a place at the Jug and Platter on the other side of the Plim, but not this morning.
Today, she allowed herself the luxury of a private room at the Silver Swan. She sighed contentedly as she opened her trunk and retrieved the heavy purse. Hoping the jingle of coins would not alert anyone who happened to be near of her good fortune, she loosened the drawstrings and poured the hoard out onto the blue bedspread.
But…but where are all the crowns? she thought, surprised at the sight of so many pennies and shillings.
A frantic precursor totaling of the money proved that she’d been given far less than the ten years of salary she had demanded. In fact, it looked to be little more than the amount owed to her for her last three years of service.
That conniving devil! If he doesn’t expect me to do just as I threatened, he will be painfully surprised!
A thought jarred her.
And what of the reference letter?
Snatching the thick envelope from her trunk, she tore at it and hastily unfolded the papers within. With shaking hands, she read:
To Whom it May Concern--
Dorothea Smith has served at my home, Whitehall near Plimbridge, for more than twenty years. She did an excellent job of keeping the house stocked and functioning and overseeing the other servants. She is a tough old hen who managed to endure many difficulties in her unprivileged life. Recently, she has aspired to be an extortionist, though she has failed miserably since no one feels bullied by her ridiculous threats. Consider Old Smithy-Pot for employment if you have no other applicants and you’d like to hear all the stories of what happened at Whitehall though you’ll never know if they are true or simply born out of her own embittered and pathetic mind.
Sincerely—Sir Jonathan Charles Clyde, Bart.
Cleaning Up the Place
~ The Hosteler
The Silver Swan
The screams he heard emanating from inside the Blue Room that morning were the loudest noises the innkeeper had ever heard on the premises of the Silver Swan, including in the yard and stables. Once he had rammed through the door and determined that the woman inside was neither under attack nor bleeding profusely, he quickly slammed shut the lid of her trunk, and carried it downstairs, calling over his shoulder, “You won’t be staying here, Ma’am. Try across the river at the Jug and Platter.”
Visiting the Butcher
~ Jonathan
Jonathan had spent all morning mulling over how to share every detail of his response to Smith with Foote, but the entire business had included so many slights to Foote that he wasn’t sure which parts he ought to exclude. He feared any exclusions would dim the light of his obvious ingenuity. Now he sat alone in the parlor, gazing out the window, thinking.
Is it possible that Foote would be offended by the insults of such a woman?
Why would she? Would any servant balk at the idea of their employer falling in love with them as Smith suggested? Isn’t that the happiest story of all for any maid…a besotted, rich employer liberating them from a life of servitude?
Still, this is no story in a book. She might feel toyed with at the mention of such notions.
But…
He bit his lip.
What if I were to fall in love with her?
And she with me?
“Jonathan, here you are!” Elliott burst in through the door and hurried over to tug on his brother’s arm. “You must come and see the most wonderful thing! I can’t believe I forgot to show you until now.”
But how would I know her affection was genuine and not merely for the contents of my coffers?
“What is it?”
“It’s a surprise,” insisted the exuberant little boy, pulling him down the hall and into the kitchen. “Pony! Let’s show Jonathan!”
The servant girl’s back was to them as she was washing another load of dishes.
Jonathan silently appreciated the revealed nape of her neck just above her collar, a few strands of hair dangling down around it. Her sleeves were pushed up above her elbows, baring her firm, slender forearms.
“Show him what?” she asked, rinsing a cup.
Elliott ran to her and whispered excitedly in her ear, his little feet dancing underneath him.
Foote assumed the overly animated expression that friendly people often have when interacting with a child. Her eyes were large and her mouth hung delicately lax as if she was enraptured with the secret being shared with her.
“But I want to be the one to show him,” finished Elliott loudly.
“Fine, fine. Do you remember everything I taught you? You must be firm and don’t keep repeat…”
“Shh…” Elliott’s eyes swung over to Jonathan suspiciously. “I remember everything. Where are the treats?”
“Foote’s making treats, is she?” asked Jonathan, curiously.
“Not for you!” said Elliott, giggling. “You wouldn’t like these.”
Foote dried her hands on her apron and glanced around the kitchen. Biting her lip she said, “Treats? Treats...Let me see…”
She found a few crusts of bread, dipped them in the cold, congealed drippings of a roasting pan and put them all on a plate.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t like those,” Jonathan told Elliott who was dancing around by the door.
“Come on!” Elliott sprinted outside.
The recent snow had been followed by two surprisingly warm days, melting and drying up most evidence of the previous weather.
“Sassy! Sassy!” Elliott cried.
Immediately, the little reddish dog was jumping around his feet, yipping happily. However, she abandoned this when Lydia approached with the plate.
“I’ll take that,” said Elliott gravely as he took it from Lydia. He pointed at the porch step. “You two, stay there.”
Jonathan sat, smiling to himself about Elliott’s sober demeanor.
The step was wide enough for him and Foote to sit side by side, but the girl lingered.
“You as well, Pony.”
“Say ‘please’, Elliott,” spoke Jonathan. “You’re being a bit saucy.”
“Please sit,” the boy corrected himself.
Foote complied.
Sassy, hearing the co
mmand, had also lowered her hindquarters to the ground, which caused the three people to laugh aloud.
“Excellent!” Jonathan laughed, clapping his hands.
Elliott rewarded her with a bit of bread crust. The dog swallowed it whole and jumped around the boy.
“That’s not all! Watch this!” Elliott cleared his throat and clearly stated, “Pleased to meet you, Sassy.”
The dog’s left paw flew up and Elliott grabbed it in mock greeting.
“Very good!” said Jonathan, applauding again.
“Oh, but there’s more.” Elliott furrowed his brow, squinting into the sunshine. “Where’s that good stick?” He looked around the yard.
Off he ran, plate in hand, the excited dog bounding along beside him.
Grossly aware of the hip just inches from his own, Jonathan stared off into the distance at his brother’s figure as it roamed around the grounds.
Wondering where Foote was looking at this moment, Jonathan asked, “You taught him this?”
“We always had a dog or two at Hillcrest,” replied the girl.
“Hillcrest?”
“The farm where I grew up.”
Jonathan steadied his voice. “Is that nearby?”
“It’s near Shinford in Coddingshire.”
Shinford. Shinford? That sounds familiar.
“I can’t find it, Pony!” called Elliott who was down by the rock wall.
“Go get a bit of kindling from the woodpile,” offered Foote. “But be wary of spiders.”
“Why does he call you ‘Pony’?”
“Oh, it’s rather silly, really,” began Lydia. “I told him that I once had a pony and he was quite struck by the idea of a parlor maid on a pony.”
Jonathan chuckled, immediately wanting to draw the girl atop a pony, feather duster in hand.
“So how long have the Footes inhabited Hillcrest?” Jonathan asked.
“Actually, the Footes have never inhabited Hillcrest, as that is not our name.”
“What can you mean?”
“My surname is Smythe, like the housekeeper’s, but with a ‘y’ and ‘e’. Upon my arrival here, your mother deemed it appropriate to rename me.”
Jonathan sat silently for a moment.
Just as she tried to change my name so many years ago. Of course, this poor girl was incapable of defying the action.
“And she stuck you with ‘Foote’? I am terribly sorry. What is your name then?” he asked.