A Girl Called Foote

  Just then, an especially strong gust of wind bore down on her, snatching the mob-cap from her head, the flimsy pins holding it in place proving ineffective. She laughed as she watched it fly like a crazed pigeon released from its cage high up into the air, over the woods and out of sight.

  Smith will be enraged if she ever learns that that is gone!

  Still laughing, she turned so the wind would blow her hair out of her eyes, and was startled to see she was not alone.

  There, looking tall and stark beside the little doorway, stood Jonathan, his hat in his hands.

  Delighted to see him, Lydia smiled broadly.

  “Sir Jonathan!” she called above the gale. “Why have you never brought me here before? This is positively glorious!”

  His eyes never wavered from her face as her hands motioned generously to the landscape around them.

  In that moment, she knew she had a choice to make.

  Making it, she allowed her eyes to bore playfully into his.

  I know your thoughts, sir.

  Knowing they could speak for her, she felt buoyed up by the fierce truths her eyes could convey.

  And your feelings are not unrequited.

  If you’d been born a few degrees lower or I’d been born a few higher, we’d have known long ago and there would have been no hindrance whatsoever.

  At balls, I could watch you grow jealous as I danced with others, forcing you to dance with me yourself.

  Lydia’s mouth relaxed into a little smile that was just as eloquent, her eyes still intently gazing into Jonathan’s.

  You could chase me through the maze and kiss me in every corner.

  Lydia tilted her head coquettishly.

  Jonathan’s lips parted, and Lydia noticed for the first time how somber he looked.

  Why so serious, sir? Last night, looking at your drawings alongside my writings, you said we work well together. I understood what you really meant.

  He said nothing, though his eyes looked apologetic.

  Isn’t that what you meant?

  Suddenly, she felt the sickening stirrings of uncertainty in her gut.

  Peering at his almost worried looking face, she felt the smile slip from her lips.

  Am I mistaken?

  Jonathan? Jonathan! She felt his name bubbling up within her. Do you, even now, think me beneath you?

  The thought was a blow to her stomach as her eyes continued to speak, peering into his own.

  A hollowness gaped within her as she dropped her gaze.

  Of course. Of course!

  Gripping the solid railing before her, Lydia pulled herself around and looked out again at the expansive view, now swirling below her like the deep waters of a rough sea.

  He’s a baronet!

  And I…am a parlor maid.

  We are who we are who we are…

  She sighed deeply, shakily, defying the tears that threatened to fill her eyes.

  I mustn’t shame myself further.

  She slowly counted to five.

  Turning back toward him, she said in as casual a voice as she could feign, “This view of the Clyde estate is truly impressive. Now if you will please excuse me, Sir Jonathan, I’ve spent enough leisure time upon your roof. I have many duties I ought to see to.”

  She curtsied heavily before moving toward him and the little door. Her face, rigid as stone, burned.

  A jolt passed through her as his fingers splayed outwardly, brushing her hand as she moved past.

  “Lydia?” he breathed her name softly.

  She paused in the doorway, gazing down into the gloom of the narrow stairwell.

  It means nothing, you stupid, stupid girl.

  “Sir?” she asked with forced cheerfulness.

  She turned her head toward him, unable to look into his eyes.

  His mouth slightly parted and gaped for a moment, though it formed no words.

  The silence persisted.

  He saw all of your presumptuous, ludicrous thoughts. You’ve frightened him.

  “I’ve dinner to see to,” Lydia murmured before stepping through the doorway.

  I’ve ruined everything.

  I cannot stay here.

  I won’t.

 

  Mulling, Regretting, Aching

  ~ Jonathan

  “Why didn’t Pony come with us?” Elliott asked. He had asked the same question at the beginning of their walk, but Jonathan hadn’t bothered to answer him then.

  “Hmm?” murmured Jonathan as he stood on an embankment.

  Harris’ plan is extreme, but seemingly unavoidable…

  Elliott, leaning against a tall, crooked tree near him asked again, “Why didn’t Pony come, too?”

  “Uh…she has things she needs to do, Elliott. She takes her duties very seriously.”

  “Nothing’s as fun without her,” Elliott said, breaking a twig off the tree and pulling it to pieces.

  “I whole-heartedly agree, dear brother.”

  “Is this what you wanted to see?” the little boy asked, staring out at the lush green hollow, clearly unimpressed.

  “Yes,” Jonathan replied. “It was a lake when I was your age.”

  “A lake?” Elliott questioned. “How does a lake just disappear?”

  “It was drained.”

  After it took our father and elder brother.

  Suddenly, he turned to Elliott and smiled. That is, his mouth smiled, but he knew the gesture didn’t reach his eyes.

  Uncharacteristically, Elliott approached Jonathan and grabbed his hand. Jonathan didn’t resist, enveloping the small hand in his own.

  Together they turned back toward the house, walking in silence for many minutes.

  They were nearly back to the house and Jonathan felt Elliott tugging him toward the kitchen door.

  Lydia’s in there, thought Jonathan, and gently he resisted, maneuvering them toward the front entryway instead.

  The memory of her on the roof, laughing and stunningly beautiful as her cap flew off into the distance filled his mind.

  And what have I to offer her? He sighed, and felt Elliott’s hand tighten around his fingers. A few amusing drawings and some stories of successful pranks?

  Just as they rounded the corner, a wagon rolled into the side yard, slowing by the garden fence.

  Jonathan stiffened and dropped Elliott’s hand, turning to watch the familiar figure on its driver’s seat.

  “The idiot farmer,” he muttered, his jaw tense.

  “Who?” Elliott asked.

  Jonathan gave no answer while he watched the stocky man secure the brake and jump from the seat.

  Apparently unaware that he was being observed, the farmer approached the kitchen door on his booted feet and knocked, the sound of his thick knuckles on the wood thudding across the yard.

  Jonathan heard the distinctive squeak of the kitchen door opening and saw the man hesitate for only a moment before disappearing inside.

  He felt frozen in place, his upper lip curled and slightly quivering as he stared at the spot where the man had just been.

  “What’s he doing here?” Elliott queried, then bolted for the kitchen.

  Jonathan followed with long strides, his arms rigid.

  The sight that greeted him inside was mundane, surprisingly so. The man was seated at the servants’ table, his hat beside him on the bench, enthusiastically digging into a bowl of porridge with a spoon.

  Standing beside the stove was Lydia, motionless, her eyes riveted on a sheet of paper clutched in her hand.

  “Who are you?” Elliott was asking the man.

  Instead of answering, the man ducked his head at Jonathan and called out too loudly, “Good morrow, sir. I brung Miss Liddy a letter and she offered me some breakfast.”

  Jonathan nodded stiffly back at the fellow. “Enjoy it. You are welcome here.”

  He kept back the bitter bark of laughter that nearly followed the dishonest words as he turned to watch Lydia. She seeme
d to be reading through the letter a second time.

  Finally, she folded it and returned it to its envelope, but stared at the ground for a moment longer. Then, without lifting her eyes, she said quietly, “Are you able to wait a few moments, Paul? There’s more porridge on the stove.”

  The man lifted his bowl cheerfully in agreement.

  Turning to Jonathan, she asked. “May I speak with you, sir?”

  “Of course,” Jonathan replied in an unnatural tone and motioned toward the door. “Shall we go to the study?”

  Elliott followed them both out of the kitchen.

  Oh, what to do with him? Jonathan asked himself, as they walked down the hall.

  At the study’s door, Jonathan opened it and said, “I’ll be back in a moment. Come, Elliott, I’ve something to show you.”

  Taking the staircase two steps at a time, Jonathan was up it in a few seconds with Elliott trailing behind.

  Once inside his own bedroom, Jonathan reached up to the highest shelf in his closet, pushed many things aside and retrieved a red box which he placed on the ground before his little brother.

  “What is it?” Elliott asked.

  “Some things that are very important to me. You may play with them, but you must be very careful and you mustn’t leave my room with them,” Jonathan said, lifting the lid.

  Inside were rows of toy soldiers, wound round with strips of wool.

  Elliott pulled one out and held it up before digging back into the box.

  “There are even horses!” he said, delighted, but Jonathan was already out the door, shutting it behind him as he left.

 

  Paying the Wage

  ~ Jonathan

  What was in that letter? Jonathan wondered for the hundredth time in five minutes. He was back at the study door in a few seconds and pushed through it.

  Lydia was sitting uprightly in a chair before the desk.

  Silently, Jonathan moved to the desk chair and sat, wondering how long it would be before either of them spoke.

  She stared at her hands in her lap. There was no sign of the letter.

  What’s happened?

  Finally, Lydia took a deep breath and announced. “I’m afraid I must leave Whitehall.”

  “Leave?” Jonathan felt a lead weight in his gut.

  “Yes. My mother needs me at home.”

  “Has some misfortune occurred? Can’t…” Jonathan nearly said ‘that fool brother of yours’ but caught himself. “…can’t Jack tend to it?”

  “Apparently he disappeared several weeks ago.”

  “I…I can send Hardy. He’ll see to whatever her needs are.”

  Lydia looked at him and laughed a little. “Hardy? Thank you, but I hardly think that’s necessary when I can just go myself.”

  “But…”

  She’s going…I’ve nothing to entice her to stay!

  “When will you go?” Jonathan asked, the words sticking in his throat.

  “At once, escorted by Farmer Midwinter.”

  Jonathan cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, hating the man, hating his muck-caked boots, hating the hat he wore upon his head, and hating, most of all, the man’s broad shoulders and swaggering gait.

  “I hate to leave without my replacement present,” Lydia continued. “I ought to train her, whoever she may be…”

  She stopped, her eyes flitting around the long-neglected room.

  Jonathan looked, too, his eyes taking in the dust-covered furniture, the firewood dumped in a careless heap on the rug by the fireplace.

  A sound drew his eyes back to her face. It was laughter, bubbling out of her as she continued to glance around the room.

  “Clearly,” she said, “she will need rigorous training in order to maintain the high standards that I have set.”

  Jonathan stared at her smiling face.

  Come, Man. Take it bravely. Don’t let her final memory be of you sniveling and pouting.

  Jonathan forced a laugh, knowing it probably sounded as hollow as it felt.

  “Well, no one was ever meant to keep an entire house, play governess and cook all at once. You’ve done admirably considering everything. And that brings me to the next issue at hand. How much is your wage?”

  “Fifteen pounds, three shillings for the year, but I’ve only been here for eleven months so thirteen pounds, two shillings will do.”

  He retrieved the pouch of coins received for the sale of the horses from the desk drawer. There was still a good amount in it after the payments to Smith and the butcher. Attempting to keep a steady hand, he opened it and began to stack coins into little piles on the desktop.

  Let’s see, twenty shillings per pound…here’s a crown. That’s five shillings…What’s a florin again? Two shillings? Is this right? Don’t start over again as she’s watching! What idiot can’t count out fifteen pounds, three shillings?

  All the coins blurred into a mass of jangling metal. He grabbed at what might have been the required amount, but was likely much more and pushed the clinking pile across the desk to her.

  She made no move to pick it up.

  “What will you do?” he asked. Besides spend the next several hours riding alongside the farmer?

  Lydia thought for a few seconds. “I will go home and milk cows…churn butter…sell eggs in town…tend the garden. Each Sunday after church I’ll walk to Mr. Farington’s house and borrow a book or two.” She stared at her empty hands and sighed.

  Say something, you idiot. You may never see her again.

  “Well, I must thank you for not only all of your hard work, but also for your…”

  Damn, why couldn’t I have practiced this? What am I thanking her for?

  “…for your…companionship. It has been…very enjoyable.”

  The most enjoyable of my life.

  “It has been for me, as well,” she responded.

  Their eyes met.

  “And of course, thank you for the employment,” she said and smiled, motioning to the room around them. “I hope that if I ever request a recommendation for another placement that you will be willing to lie profusely about my effectiveness as a parlor maid.”

  “You will always have…” he broke off. He had nearly said that she would always have a place to work at Whitehall, but knew that was not something he could offer, nor was it what he wanted to offer.

  But what can I offer?

  Nothing…

  He began again. “You will always have the highest of recommendations from me. The care you have given to Elliott has been invaluable, and…and…”

  He trailed off again, uncertain how to continue.

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “Sir Jonathan?”

  “Yes, Lydia?” he answered, refusing to match the formality of her words with his own.

  “I must confess something to you.”

  Jonathan’s breath caught in his throat. “Wha…what is it?”

  “I’m afraid I ruined a book from your library.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I left it outside, in the maze, and I’ve been too afraid to retrieve it for fear of seeing the state it’s in. It’s been through rain and even snow.” She smiled apologetically and pushed a few coins from the pile towards him on the desk. “I think that ought to be enough to cover it and the letter I paid for with the laundry money.”

  “No, please,” said Jonathan. “Take your money. You have more than earned it. The book is nothing.”

  Seeing that she made no move to retrieve the proffered coins, Jonathan stood, walked around the desk and clumsily picked up all of them himself. Kneeling beside her, he lifted her hand and pressed the money into it. Knowing he was violating innumerable rules of propriety, he held her warm, soft hand closed around the coinage as some of it slipped out onto her lap.

  She didn’t flinch at the contact, but stared at their joined hands.

  He watched, immobile, as a single tear slid down her cheek, feeling
a tiny splash as it fell onto his wrist.

  Lydia began to pick up the stray coins with her free hand, and stood, disengaging herself from Jonathan’s hold.

  “Please excuse me,” she murmured, dropping the money into an apron pocket, and then she was gone, her footsteps sounding down the hall.

 

  Fleeing Without the Apple

  ~ Lydia

  Still feeling the touch of Jonathan’s hand, Lydia’s one goal was to get to her room without bursting into sobs.

  He meant nothing by it, she insisted to herself. You’ve seen him with his sister. He is gentle and kind to sensitive females.

  Breathe, she told herself.

  She was relieved he hadn’t pressed her for answers as to why she was needed back at Hillcrest. The few excuses she had quickly formulated would not have seemed sound after much questioning.

  Lydia had prayed for a way to leave Whitehall, and two days later, Paul Midwinter rode in on his wagon with a letter, the contents of which she alone knew. She hadn’t lied to Jonathan. Her mother had written that weeks ago, Jack had declared his intention to go to Tortmouth to join the Royal Navy, and that he hadn’t been heard from since. Still, she doubted her presence back at Hillcrest was the necessary thing that she had implied.

  Moving past the parlor, she suddenly stopped, halted by the memory of something within it.

  Entering, she shut the door behind her, and ascended the bookshelf’s ladder to seek the little paper apple, the initial sight of which had angered her so many months earlier.

  Every book, she saw, was covered with dust.

  Oh, my beauties, I have neglected you far too long, and now I’ll never tend to you again, thought Lydia as she climbed. Reaching the top, she pulled some books off the shelf to begin her search.

  Nothing.

  Surely it’s here.