“Nevermind.” Lydia shook her head. “It’s easy once you know how, but it’s a bit difficult to explain.”
“You said you learned when you were little!” Wells retorted with surprising fierceness. “I’m thirteen and I’m not stupid. I could learn!”
“I wasn’t implying you were stupid!”
Over the next twenty minutes, Lydia introduced Wells to ‘A’ and ‘B’, their cases and their various sounds. She instructed her on how to trace them on the blanket laying over her lap and identify them in the book.
It was Lydia who suggested they stop and go to sleep.
Once the rush dip had been snuffed out and the girls were settled under the covers, Wells spoke a final time.
“Foote?”
“Hm?”
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” responded Lydia. As she said it, she knew that there would be many more reading lessons for Wells in the days to come.
I guess I won’t be using that rush light to read my own books, she thought, but the idea was not as disappointing as she would have thought. Perhaps before I’m done at Whitehall she’ll be reading avidly and then there will be someone with whom I can have intelligent conversations.
Purloining Butter
~ Lydia
Her reflection in the silver serving tray wasn’t clear, but Lydia could make out that her hair was coming loose from under her mob-cap.
These must be the stupidest hats ever tailored.
She set the tray down on the table and stuffed her straying locks back under the flimsy fabric.
She began to stack the dirty plates onto the tray when she noticed the lid was off of the butter dish.
Inside was a huge soft golden mound. Lydia’s eyes flitted around the table and rested on an untouched roll on the bread platter.
Glancing at both closed doors, Lydia reached for the roll and a knife. The butter was the perfect consistency, soft enough to spread on thick, but not so molten that it would drip down the sides and all over her hands.
Her teeth sank into the roll and she began to chew, savoring the slick sensation of its generous layer of butter.
Mmmmm…
Taking another bite, she resumed her task of clearing the table with her free hand when she came across a book. Bound in brown leather and with no title embossed on the front cover, it had been pushed under the overflowing floral centerpiece. It didn’t appear to be a novel. It was far too large for that.
What secrets do you contain and which beauties do you offer, dear one?
Here was a temptation even greater than soft butter and bread. Pausing only to wipe her fingertips with a linen left crumpled on the tabletop, Lydia flipped the volume open. The heavy cover hit the table and rested open at the first page, which read:
The Nonsensical Notions of an Inattentive Pupil
Hmmm…what have we here? A book of poetry written during Geography class, perhaps?
She turned the first page and gasped slightly. Before her was a sketch of what appeared to be Saint George slaying a dragon. However, both the man and the dragon were wrinkled and hunched over with age. Saint George was whacking at the dragon with a cane instead of a sword and the dragon was trying to blow flames out of a puckered, toothless mouth.
Lydia giggled as she turned the page and then another. The entire book was full of drawings. There were a few lovely sketches of normal things like birds and trees, but Lydia leafed quickly past these, pausing instead at the many amusing representations of people that the book held. Lydia recognized the littlest boy of the Great Family whom she had seen that morning throwing a ball on the front lawn. He had been drawn scowling as if he didn’t like having to sit so long for the artist.
Smiling, Lydia turned the page and laughed aloud at the sight of an image of Cook. The surly looking woman drawn on the paper could be no one else.
It was at that instant that the door opened. The eldest son of the Great Family entered quickly, heading straight for where Lydia stood.
The half-eaten roll fell from Lydia’s fingers as she frantically clattered more plates onto the silver tray.
The young man glanced from the open book to Lydia, a bemused smirk on his lips. Shutting it, he lifted the book and hastily departed, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Alone again, Lydia felt her heart racing inside her chest.
How must I have looked, flipping through that while I stuffed my face with a pilfered roll and butter?
Well, he didn’t look angry.
Good thing the roll didn’t fall on the book!
In spite of the fright, Lydia chuckled to herself as she lifted the tray and returned to the kitchen.
“What took you so long?” asked Wells as she stoked the fire. Ploughman sat in her corner and Cook was nowhere to be seen.
Lydia smiled as she placed the heavy tray on the chopping board. “Oh, I was caught with my hand in the apple bin.”
“What?” Wells asked, smiling questioningly.
Ploughman looked up from her pea-shelling.
“There was a big brown book full of wonderful drawings on the table and I was peeking inside it when the eldest son—Sir Jonathan, is it?-- burst in the door and grabbed it from underneath my prying eyes.”
“What?” Wells asked, no longer smiling.
“Oh, he didn’t say anything. He just tucked it under his arm and rushed back out.”
“You oughtn’t do that, Foote.” Wells shook her head slowly, her eyes full of fear.
“No harm was done.”
“You’ll be known as ‘nosy’. No one wants a meddlesome servant. Ploughman, tell her!”
The two girls turned to the older woman, whose hands paused over a bowl.
“Aye.” She shrugged. “I once looked inside one of Sir Jonathan’s books meself and have been tempted to since, but Wells is right. It’s best not to look like you’re rifling through any of the Great Family’s things, even if you mean no harm.”
The backdoor opened and Cook barged in, her apron full of turnips.
“What, Wells? You haven’t got the dishes done yet? They’re not going to wash themselves, and you won’t wash ‘em either if’n you get sacked.”
Lydia stood, regarding Cook, recalling the few details she had had time to appreciate in the drawing of her.
“Foote, haven’t you got a parlor to dust?” Cook asked, dumping the turnips on the counter next to Ploughman. “Save your prattling for mealtimes.”
Lydia turned to go, a little smile playing at her lips.
Wells shot her a parting glance with a faint shake of her head.
Ugh…well, I’m glad I didn’t mention the roll and butter. Wells may have felt compelled to report me to the magistrate.
Was that a witch’s hat he drew on Cook’s head?
Meeting Pony
~ Elliott, age 7
Stay still! You’re too fast!
The little boy’s arm was plunged deeply into the fishbowl and the front of his shirt was soaking wet as he grabbed again and again at the small form of a goldfish.
The large, paneled door opened and in walked a young woman carrying a caddy of cleaning supplies.
“I can’t…” he said to the entrant who rushed over to him with a rag. “I can’t…get him.”
“What are you trying to get him for?” she asked, wiping away the puddle on the table.
“I want to put him in here,” he said, holding up a glass bottle. With a proud smile, he continued, “Then I can take him to the maze. He likes swimming in and out of his little castle, so I know he’d like going through the maze with me.”
“Oh.” The maid looked from the fishbowl to the bottle and shook her head. “Oh, you can’t do that.”
Even the maid is telling me what I can and can’t do!
“And why not?” He crossed his arms, bottle and all, scowling.
“I simply mean that your fish wouldn’t last
long in that bottle. They need more air to water contact or they die. Trust me, my own fish died when I put him in a lidded bowl.”
“You had a fish? Whoever heard of a maid with a goldfish?”
“I haven’t been a servant all my life,” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “In fact, I even had my own pony at one time.”
“Truly?” he asked, his eyes widening. He envisioned the maid cantering across the lawn on Prince’s back, her long legs dangling on either side. He giggled. “You’d look funny on a pony.”
The maid smiled. “I was much smaller then.”
“What’s your name?” asked the boy.
“Uh…I go by ‘Foote’ here,” she replied. “And you, master, what is your name?”
She doesn’t know!
“My name is…Stallion.”
“Really?” Foote bit her lip. “I thought I had heard you referred to as ‘Elliott’. That must have been someone else.”
“I hate ‘Elliott’!” the boy declared passionately. “Sometimes people shorten it to ‘Elly’ and that’s the worst of all. That’s a girl’s name.”
Oh, no! Why did I tell her that? I told Widcombe and now he always calls me ‘Elly’!
“Hmmm, I do understand.” Foote said. “Here, I promise to never call you ‘Elly’.”
Elliott looked at the maid’s face. He liked her eyes. “And I shall call you…’Pony’!”
“Hmmm…” Foote paused. “Alright then. Now, I think it very important for your fish’s good health that he stays here and you go off to the maze without him.”
It’s always so boring alone.
Elliott stomped his foot, but then an idea struck him.
“Say…why don’t you come with me?”
“Oh, thank you very much, but I have work that I need to do.”
Why must grown-ups always be so busy?
“Work? What work?”
“I’ve got to sweep this floor and polish the lamps and dust the…” She turned her head as she swept her arm in the direction of the wall of bookshelves and stood frozen for a moment.
“Have you ever been through the maze?” asked the little boy.
The maid didn’t immediately respond.
What’s she looking at?
He moved between her and the bookshelves, but her eyes looked over his head, flitting around. A small smile was on her lips.
She’s not listening. Why do grown-ups never listen?
“Hmmm?” she asked.
“I said, have you ever been through the maze? It’s wonderful fun, but only if you’re with someone. Jonathan once cut my leading ribbon and I couldn’t find my way out for ages. Now I only go with someone else…not that I’m afraid,” he added.
“Of course not, but still, I must do my work.” She looked at him now, but glanced toward the bookshelves again.
“But why?”
Elliott knew he was whining, and that Jonathan would rebuke him if he had been there.
Foote sighed. “That’s what servants do…Stallion.”
Stallion…
Elliott smiled, forgetting his disappointment.
“I know, I’ll go ask Sophia if she’ll go with me.”
He headed out the door shaking his head. Glancing back once more, he saw that she had walked nearer the bookshelves and was tilting her head as if to read the books’ spines.
Why would anyone want to be a servant?
Returning Teeth
~ Jonathan
And you, sir, what use could the Lady possibly have for you? Jonathan stared at the old man, feeling his mouth twist into a wry smile.
Will Sophe later claim that the Lady wants this fellow as a son-in-law?
He lifted his eyebrows quizzically while turning to his sister, who rolled her eyes heavenward in response. They did nothing to hide this exchange as it was clear the man was incapable of seeing it. Since entering the room on the arm of his manservant moments earlier, he had been led to a chair where he sat, staring out at nothing, his cloudy eyes blank.
When spoken to, the man would turn in the direction of the speaker’s voice and make a vague response with a slightly imbecilic smile.
When the Lady said a ‘Mr. Spalding’ would be coming to Whitehall, I didn’t expect a fellow as reedy and wizened as this! And a ‘Mr.’, hmm? Not a ‘Sir’? This one must be rich indeed if he has no title and still received an invitation to dine.
I suppose I could ask him about his rheumatism.
Suddenly, the newest servant, the one whom Jonathan suspected had been flipping through his drawing book, entered the dining room. She placed a tureen of soup on the table and left.
The scent of the ham-laced pea soup seemed to reach Mr. Spalding’s nostrils as he roused and looked about, as if curious of its source.
Lifting the ladle, Jonathan began to fill bowls and pass them around.
Spalding was no help in this endeavor, unaware of the bowls passing in front of him once his own bowl was set before him. Again and again he dipped his spoon, lifted it mechanically to his lips and proceeded to slurp soup from its hollow.
Lady Clyde cleared her throat.
Ah, yes, Jonathan thought. Let the sparkling dinner conversation commence!
“Mr. Spalding,” said the Lady loudly. “I believe you live in Milsham, is that so?”
“Hmm? Milsham. Yes, Milsham.”
“I hear it’s lovely there in the springtime.”
“Oh yes, lovely, lovely.” Spalding nodded his head, beaming.
Aren’t most places lovely in the springtime? wondered Jonathan, ruefully.
Spalding’s spoon-lifts had slowed and he felt around for his linen which he used to dab his chin.
The silence was broken by the sound of the maid’s footsteps as she brought in a platter of blanched vegetables and sauce.
Settling on an appropriate question, Jonathan asked, “What sort of business are you in, Mr. Spalding?”
“Hmm? What’s that? Oh, business you ask?” He smiled and nodded, holding a julienned carrot to his mouth. “Business is good. Yes, good.”
Jonathan smiled winningly at the man.
I give up.
He glanced at Sophia who appeared to be concentrating especially diligently on her plate.
A moment later, Spalding coughed loudly just as the maid returned with a platter of roast duck.
At least he has the good manners to cover his mouth, allowed Jonathan who immediately noticed a strange look on Spalding’s face.
The old man’s hands began to pat everything within reach, first his lap, then his plate and finally the table around his place setting.
“Do you need something, Mr. Spalding?” Jonathan asked.
Spalding turned towards him, his mouth a strange puckered shape. “Yeth.”
The maid stepped between Mr. Spalding and Jonathan to put the duck on the table. Then she knelt to the ground, retrieved something and pressed it into Spalding’s right hand.
Jonathan saw a flash of gold and white as Spalding’s fingers closed over the item. A look of relief registered on his wrinkled face as he mumbled something indistinguishable.
I say! I believe he coughed his teeth right out of his head!
Jonathan pressed his own linen to his lips, knowing the elderly man would hear the loud laughter that threatened to escape his mouth.
The supposition was confirmed when Spalding shamelessly leaned forward and pushed the object into his mouth.
“They just pop right in,” he said, like any man who is pleased with a contraption. “Ah, is that duck I smell?”
Jonathan looked around the table to see the others’ reactions, but no one had seemed to notice. It was as if they had dismissed the fellow’s presence two courses earlier.
Well, that maid has proven herself less than squeamish, he thought, imagining her furiously wiping her slimy hand on her apron on her trip back to the kitchen.
Chuckling quietly, Jonathan wanted nothing more than to
get ahold of his sketch book and a newly sharpened pencil. Still, he lifted the carving knife and expertly sliced into the roasted golden duck before him.
“Light or dark meat, Mr. Spalding?”
Arguing Over Books
~ Lydia
A rush light burned on the table top. It cast an unsatisfactory amount of light onto the open book in Lydia’s hands and emitted enough smoke to make everyone present slightly uncomfortable.
Wells lay beside her, tracing the letter ‘r’ on the sheet again and again.
Ploughman lay in her own bed, eyes drifting closed to open again a second later.
“Mend the light, please,” requested Lydia, knowing that if she did it herself the greasy residue of the rush would be passed from her fingers to the book’s pages.
Wells moved the rush higher up in the nipper.
“Listen to this,” said Lydia and began to read:
“When maidens such as Hester die
Their place ye may not well supply,
Though ye among a thousand try
With vain endeavor.
A month or more hath she been dead,
Yet cannot I by force be led
To think upon the wormy bed
And her together.”
“What is that?” interrupted Wells, wrinkling her lightly freckled nose.
“One of Charles Lamb’s poems. It’s called ‘Hester’.”
“I knew a Hester once,” interjected Ploughman, her eyes opening briefly.
“I don’t understand it.”
“He’s lamenting, that is…he’s mourning the death of a woman he knew,” Lydia responded, disappointed that Wells didn’t seem to like it.
“Well, I do understand that a woman called Hester died, but what was all that about a ‘wormy bed’?” Wells curled her lip in revulsion. “If you cared for a person at all, why would you talk about them and a ‘wormy bed’?”
“That’s what he’s struggling with. He cared deeply for her and it’s difficult for him to acknowl…to think about how she is now in the ground, feeding the worms.”
“Eeww. I don’t like it. I never noticed that book before,” said Wells, tilting her head to see the cover. “It’s so small. Where were you keeping it?”
“Hmm?” murmured Lydia, who was engrossed in the poem’s next stanza.
“Where’s that book been all this time?”
“On the shelf.”
“What shelf?” Wells asked, glancing around the sparsely furnished room.