A Girl Called Foote

  “Which way?” the American asked, placing his hands under its base.

  “Toward me, about two feet,” Jonathan responded.

  Once the small party had ascended the staircase and emerged on the roof, Mr. Caspar spun around, staring in every direction.

  “I must have it!” he declared, exultant laughter bursting out of him as he raised his arms up into the air.

  Elliott was mortified by the man’s exuberance, but this lessened into minor embarrassment when he heard Jonathan chuckling beside him.

  “We can return to the study and sign the papers this instant,” Harris, who had been nearly silent until this point, said.

  At this, Caspar stuck his hand out to Jonathan, who readily accepted it. Suddenly, Elliott saw that the large hand was being offered to him as well. Reaching out, he gripped Caspar’s hand and was rattled by the most vigorous handshake of his entire life.

  ***

  That evening, Jonathan sighed as he popped open the toasting frame above Elliott’s plate and dropped a fresh rarebit onto it.

  “And with just a few strokes of a pen, our birthright is sold,” he said as Elliott burned his fingertips on the toast’s perfectly golden surface. “Now, dear brother, we must go and find our future.”

  Elliott didn’t understand these statements, but had recently grown weary of asking about everything he didn’t comprehend. He found that even when his questions were answered, he still felt confused much of the time.

  Lifting the rarebit to his lips, he crunched into it, thankful for the familiar tanginess of the hot, salty cheese.

 

  Lamenting a Loss of Solitude

  ~ Hardy

  Ugh!

  Having run through the stable for decades, even in the dark, Hardy was not used to his knee crashing into anything while doing so. Yet, this was the second time in a day that he wondered what bruising would result from his clumsiness. Now the stalls were housing only two horses while the other pens were overloaded with furniture and boxes.

  Things had changed so much over the last few months. They could hardly feel more different.

  Some changes were likely for the better.

  I’m supposin’ the new owner’ll pay on time and in full, Hardy thought, rubbing his knee, then ventured forth in the gloom trying to avoid any other obstacles. That’ll be good!

  When Sir Jonathan told him that Whitehall was to be sold, Hardy had worried for his own future. He had stopped expecting full payment from Lady Clyde a few years earlier. Having heard stories over pints at the Weary Lass from other grooms, he was thankful that he had a place to sleep, food to eat and an easy job to fill his days. He’d never wanted to risk his preferable situation with a complaint over short pay.

  But I wonder how long before I understand a word that Caspar fella says. They say it’s English he speaks, but tha’s not what I hear.

  His shoulder collided with something else.

  Argh! Still, the mess down here is nothing to the change upstairs! he thought, wondering how long before he had his living space all to himself again.

  Somehow Mr. Caspar had offered Sir Jonathan and Master Elliott a place in the carriage house until they found a home to purchase and move into.

  “Stay as long as you want!” the mustachioed man had declared. Hardy had stood by smiling, but thinking crossly about the noise of a little boy filling his personal quarters.

  At least at night they bunk in Glaser’s old room, so’s there’s no complainin’ about me snorin’.

  Still, I want me chair back, thought Hardy, recalling how Master Elliott would often hang from the sturdy arms of the seat nearest the fireplace.

  Finally past the clutter and at the base of the staircase to his quarters above, Hardy began to hurry up the steps.

  Halfway there, the sound of Sir Jonathan’s voice reached his ears.

  “So Harris may have finally found the place.” The words drifted down the passageway. “His inquiries turned up a farm in Coddingshire that sounds suitable. We are poorer than we’ve ever thought possible, but there is still enough for that.”

  Who’s he talking to?

  “Oh, and rest assured that your dowry will remain untouched…in case Buffant or Spalding should reappear.”

  A familiar sound--Miss Sophia’s laughter--rang out, halting Hardy’s ascension.

  Damn! And now the girl’s up there as well? I suppose the Lady’s pouring ‘em tea outta me kettle at the table.

  Turning on his heel, Hardy headed back down the stairs.

  If there’s no peace above stairs, I might as well pack up more boxes…get ‘em outta here sooner once they do find a place…

  In moments, he was in Whitehall’s library, climbing the little ladder to reach the top shelves. What looked like a hundred crates were on the floor below, some already filled to capacity. Hardy had been told that though most of the furniture would be left behind for Caspar’s use, every single book in the house was to be packed.

  Hardy wondered why it was his job to put things into boxes since he worked for Caspar now, but the irritation had lessened when Sir Jonathan, and even little Elliott, had joined him in the library earlier that day to fill boxes.

  Sir Jonathan’s turned out a’right. He’s not a blowing show horse like his father. ‘S’a shame he’s lost Whitehall.

  Filling his right arm with a load from the top shelf, Hardy descended the flimsy ladder, gripping its side and wondering when a rung would snap under his heavy feet. On the floor, he dropped the books into the nearest box.

  Hmm…wha’s that? he wondered as a sliver of red peeking out from the pages of a book caught his eye.

  Had he been literate, Hardy would have noted that the book containing the mystery was Robinson Crusoe.

  Pinching the little puzzlement between his calloused thumb and index finger, the man pulled and found himself holding an apple-shaped piece of paper. Though severely bent by the way it was stuck in the book’s pages, it was a lovely representation, rosy with a narrow green leaf jutting out of the top. Even Hardy, who rarely noticed the aesthetic value of anything beyond the golden brown of a well-roasted potato or the swell of a plump woman’s bosom, was vaguely charmed by its appearance.

  Flipping it over, he saw that someone had written something on the back, but the inscrutable lines didn’t hold his attention, so he regarded the front again for a moment. He nearly slipped it into his pocket, thinking he would ask the Clydes if it meant anything to any of them.

  But the memory of the invasion of his living space irked him again.

  Ahh…

  Crumpling the little drawing in his fist, he tossed it into the nearby fireplace, which was cold and dusty from disuse.

  It’s pro’ly nothin’.

 

  Fretting Over a New Address

  ~ Lydia

  Hillcrest Farm

  Lydia smiled as she watched the graying postman head down the drive to the main road. In his saddlebag was a letter, headed to Whitehall, and in her hand, she held one from there.

  Mama will not mind if I pause in the baking to read this, she knew, heading for the kitchen.

  At first, the letters exchanged had been thin, but within a couple of weeks, they were fat and arriving two or more times per week. Now Lydia was always listening for the sound of the postman’s horse trotting into the yard, hoping for a delivery.

  Each letter that she received contained two pennies, pressed into blobs of wax, stuck to a page. Lydia would place them on the windowsill in the kitchen where they would lay until the next letter arrived, and postage needed to be paid.

  When the stack of fresh paper in the farmhouse’s desk had been depleted, Lydia had taken an old newspaper and written her response to Jonathan between the text lines of the articles. Since then, every letter that he had sent included two clean sheets of paper.

  Eventually, Elliott began to add a few sentences to the end of each of Jonathan’s letters, telling Lydia of Sassy’s latest exploit
or the snake he found in the woodpile. Lydia was pleased with the progress she saw in his writing, and she always wrote a few lines directed to him in her letters.

  It had been nearly a year since the confusing drawing and limerick from Whitehall had arrived. When Lydia responded to that, she had carefully worded a light-hearted reply, wanting to leave a pleasant final impression in Sir Jonathan’s mind.

  But almost immediately, a second letter from Jonathan, equally entertaining, but devoid of mystifying poetry and unsettling drawings, had arrived. As Lydia read it over again and again, many droll responses formed in her mind, and she felt especially clever as she wrote out her reply. Shortly afterward, a third letter arrived and they hadn’t stopped since. For the first two months, she wrote back thinking, I won’t respond so quickly next time. I should wean myself of this.

  Her face still grew warm when she recalled the ridiculous thoughts that had run through her mind during those last few wonderfully horrible days at Whitehall. She had never spoken of them to her mother, hoping that they would cease to exist if she pretended she’d never thought them.

  Sometimes while she sat at the table reading a letter, Lydia sensed that Sally’s gaze was lingering on her. When this happened, Lydia would laugh lightly about an anecdote in the text and hand the page to her mother, wanting Sally to see that the letters contained no proclamations of undying love, nor promises of futures intertwined.

  Sir Jonathan and I are friends, thought Lydia, emphasizing the ‘sir’ in her mind as she settled down into a chair. Unusual friends who live very different lives…who appreciate each other…but that is all. Besides, his letters give me something to look forward to. Something beyond books from Mr. Farington, or an especially beautiful sunset. And there’s no risk of making a fool of myself because I am here in my place, and he is there in his.

  With a gentle tug, Lydia tore through the wax seal and pulled the newly-arrived letter from the envelope.

  This one’s much shorter than usual, she thought, disappointed as she began to read.

  Dear Miss Lydia-- I’m writing to ask that you send future correspondence to a new address:

  Sir Jonathan Clyde, Bart.

  formerly Warren Farm

  Peaslough, Coddingshire

  Elliott and I are to be living there for now. I apologize for the brevity of this letter, but we are in the midst of much upheaval due to the move. I shall write more very soon—Jonathan

  The Great Family has acquired another property? And it’s here in Coddingshire?

  Her heart began to thump. Where is Peaslough? I’ve never heard of it, so perhaps it’s not too close. But still! What if he were to…?

  Lydia fretted, poring over the lines again, hoping to see evidence that she was safe, safe in merely exchanging letters, safe from feeling unsettled and foolish when he looked at her.

  She found no assurance in the letter. Pushing it back into the envelope, she hoped fervently that its writer would remain in Peaslough, wherever that was.

  Finding Peaslough

  ~ Heldmann

  The Open Road

  Heldmann thought that by now he would be accustomed to feeling lost in the English countryside, but it still filled him with a sense of dread when he realized he had no idea where he was, nor how to get to where he hoped to be.

  Herr Clyde had invited him to visit his new home on a farm near a village called Peaslough. Looking again at the letter he held, Heldmann saw it was located south of a town called Huppingdon. Huppingdon he had found, but Peaslough had thus far evaded him.

  Even the energetic trot of Heinz beneath him had slowed to a lethargic clopping as the unmarked road stretched out under their feet.

  Right around noon, as Heldmann stood by a large wooden signpost at a crossroad, he took one of the last swigs of water from his bottle. As he was trying, fruitlessly, to make out any words on the sun-blistered sign, a cart appeared down the road. Urging Heinz to a trot, Heldmann soon found himself riding alongside the chicken-filled vehicle, which was driven by a grumpy looking, hunch-shouldered man.

  Having prepared his tongue for the dexterity required to ask the question, Heldmann stated, slowly and clearly, “Please forgive…where is Peaslough?”

  The cart driver’s face crumpled as he hunched further into himself, never looking up from the donkey’s backside in front of him. In a sudden burst of energy, he whacked the donkey’s rump with the long, swishy stick he held, and remained silent.

  Ugh…the chicken-man is above speaking with a foreigner, thought Heldmann, wheeling Heinz around. In a moment he was back at the crossroad, squinting at the sign.

  It was then that a modest, one-horse chaise rounded the corner and slowed next to the sign as well. A young woman driving it passed the reins to her other hand as she shaded her eyes and looked up at the sign.

  Ought I to ask her? Heldmann wondered, frustrated at the barely civil reception he anticipated from the young woman. Certainly she finds herself finer than the chicken-cart man.

  “Please forgive,” Heldmann began almost sullenly. “Where is Peaslough…do you knows?”

  Turning her gaze from the sign to the German, the woman gasped and declared, “Herr Heldmann!”

  The shock he felt at hearing his name spoken by the stranger left him dumbfounded.

  “Pl…please forgive?” he stuttered, studying what little he could see of her face, which was mostly obscured within her riding bonnet.

  “It’s Sophia Clyde!” she said, pulling the bonnet down to hang by its ties around her neck as she began to chatter in English. Taking in the honey-colored locks now framing her face, Heldmann was too startled to even attempt to follow the words she was saying.

  After several sentences, Miss Sophia seemed to sense his complete perplexedness.

  “So sorry,” she said with a laugh. Clearing her throat, she started to speak again, this time in a halting, oddly-pronounced jangle of German words.

  It was one of the most beautiful sounds Heldmann had ever heard.

  She was good to see him, but surprising, and she was to visit brother at farm where he purchase. The journey is new, but Jonathan says easy very.

  Heldmann swallowed hard as the somewhat understandable information spilled out.

  She is traveling to see Herr Clyde as well?

  “You go…mmm, to see…brother?”

  She smiled happily, nodding.

  “I go!” His own face broke into a grin. “We goes…together?”

  “Ja,” she accepted his invitation.

  Thus, Heldmann restarted his search for the new Clyde residence with a sense of joyous levity that he had not felt since arriving in England.

  ***

  It was nearing dinnertime when the German and the baronet’s sister found the farm which they sought.

  Herr Clyde hurried out of the house, a stout farmhouse made of stone and timber, calling out something indiscernible. His joy at seeing them was apparent as he urged them inside with a wave of the hand and a broad smile.

  The little brother was there, sitting at the table, shelling peas. He hurried to embrace his sister at their reunion, and then solemnly extended his hand to Heldmann.

  During a meal of cheese on toast and peas, the three Clydes conversed happily, occasionally turning to Heldmann in attempts to include him. After the meal was finished and the four of them had tidied the kitchen, Herr Clyde walked the two newcomers around the house and grounds, pointing out various sites. There were several bedrooms, and Herr Clyde indicated to Heldmann which one he would sleep in that night.

  Heldmann regarded everything with interest, now and then murmuring, “Ja, ist gut.”

  Still, in the solitude of his own brain, Heldmann thought things within the house were odd. He wasn’t surprised that Herr Clyde had moved to this property from the ostentatious place where he had lived before. That was perfectly understandable.

  Who would want to live in a cavernous, cold, enormous building when a comfortable farmhouse such a
s this exists? Clearly this is preferable, and much easier to keep clean, he thought, recalling the layers of dust he had seen on everything during his second visit to Whitehall.

  No, the man’s removal from there didn’t confound Heldmann. It was how things had been arranged in this new house that confused him.

  First, there were the paintings. On the wall, in the farmhouse’s one parlor, hung four portraits. Their frames were overly-large and crammed together on the wall space.

  Miss Sophia laughed merrily at the sight as the group paused before them.

  Studying the faces, Heldmann recognized strains of resemblance running through the features of all four.

  Ancestors, he determined.

  Their glaring presence in the cozy room seemed a little overwhelming, but Heldmann dismissed it as the way Englishmen honored their forefathers.

  But then there were the bookshelves.

  In nearly every room, even the kitchen, there were whole walls laden with shelves, which held rows and rows of books of various colors and sizes. The smell of newly cut wood, though pleasant, hung heavily in the air, making Heldmann wonder if all of the shelves had just been constructed. The vast number of them throughout the rooms certainly looked incongruous with the original plan for the house.

  Why so many? Heldmann wondered. Ah well, these English…they are certainly odd in more ways than one.

  Once they were outside on the farmland itself, Heldman felt more at ease. Herr Clyde led them to the barn, a solid structure, built of stone, and similar in shape to the house.

  This, Heldmann thought, patting a wall almost affectionately, this will stand for generations. My father would be proud to own such a barn.

  Miss Sophia stepped delicately around, lifting the hem of her skirt a few inches, examining the dirt floor beneath her. Heldmann looked away, determined not to be caught staring at her ankle.

  She had little reason to be so careful. No animals except for two horses were stabled there, though Heldmann heard Herr Clyde say ‘cows’ and ‘pigs’ as he motioned to different pens, so he supposed there were plans to stock the farm.