The Millingtons had bought two town houses, then had the interior wall between them torn down to make the house twice the size. It was a lavish thing to do—something only a rich tea merchant could afford—but it was also something Sarah felt grateful for.
Servants always worked and slept in basements, of course, and the lower floors of other town houses were so small that only the housekeeper had a room with a lock. The other servants had to make do, sleeping in the small kitchen or the even smaller scullery, usually without beds. But with twice the basement space, Betsy got a room of her own, and Sarah slept in the second scullery. While a room with a door, like she had at Rosemount, would have been welcome, she was grateful to have a space to herself at Ivy House.
Sarah had been so deep in thought about Ivy House, the servants’ quarters, the parks, and simply thinking of London in such vivid detail that her attention had drifted from the view out the window. When she blinked and focused her eyes through the glass again, she found none of the signs of city life she’d hoped for. She let the curtain fall back into place and sighed as she sat back on the bench.
Again, Mrs. Roach looked up at her from over the top of her spectacles. “Why are we sighing?” she asked in a tone implying that Sarah had released not an audible breath but a speech containing a litany of complaints. But Sarah wasn’t about to be cowed by the older woman; she knew Mrs. Roach had a softer inside than she let on. Sarah hadn’t seen it often, but it had appeared enough times over the five years she’d worked for the Millingtons for there to be proof of its existence. Yet complaining about how the journey had been hard on Sarah’s much younger body would seem disrespectful to Mrs. Roach, who didn’t utter a word of complaint despite her aging body and rheumatism.
Sarah didn’t know how to answer the simple question, because the other reason she was sighing was from missing Jacob and anticipating a reunion with him after almost a year.
Jacob.
Just thinking his name sent a thrill up her back. She felt the corners of her mouth curve, and before Mrs. Roach could interrogate her about it, she bit her lower lip to stop the smile. When she felt certain she could keep herself from smiling—an act that required a level of acting skill known to few—she shrugged. “I’m eager to arrive, is all.”
“I’ll second that,” Mrs. Roach said, turning a ledger page and peering through her glasses at the writing. “My bones are getting too old for traveling in such a contraption.”
Sarah lifted an eyebrow in surprise. She’d never once heard Mrs. Roach say an untoward word about her circumstances, not so much as the slightest implication of a complaint, and certainly not about the satisfactory—or unsatisfactory—nature of anything the Millingtons provided.
Mrs. Roach made a notation with a pencil. “It’s been a long time since a young woman of marriageable age in this household spent a Season in London. The last was Mrs. Millington herself.”
“Have you been with her that long?” Sarah asked, suddenly intrigued at the idea that Mrs. Roach might have been in the service of Mrs. Millington since before she’d wed. How long had Mrs. Roach worked for that family, and had she left their employ to follow their youngest daughter and her husband?
She had so many questions, but none appropriate for a maid to be asking.
“I’ve seen many young women find a husband during my years of service,” Mrs. Roach went on. Her mouth relaxed, and the normally thin line might have even curved slightly. “Not all of them have been those who attended balls and had large dowries to attract a man.” Another look at Sarah, equally pointed as before, but this time with a glint of amusement in her eye.
Now this was a wholly unexpected turn in the conversation. Was Mrs. Roach toying with her?
Mrs. Roach never toys with anyone about anything, Sarah reminded herself. She’d long wanted to make a better life for herself, but that meant book learning so she could perhaps become a teacher or governess, something other than a housemaid. A better life would also require the Millingtons to write her a letter recommending her to future employers.
In her heart of hearts, however, Sarah couldn’t imagine herself twenty years hence as a governess. Not that she didn’t believe in herself. Had she been born to privilege and money, she would have received an excellent education—one, ironically, she wouldn’t need to better her life because she would have had a dowry and marriage prospects. A wealthy young woman used her education to read books and quote scholars as a way to impress men during her own Season.
Which, she realized with a start, would likely have been this very summer. Girls her age would be attending the balls, looking for a husband to care for them over the course of their lives. Girls like Sarah, however, would be serving their families, hoping to keep their positions and be taken care of somehow, in some way, for a few years yet. In her nightly prayers, Sarah often expressed gratitude for finding employment with a kind family, even if Mrs. Millington had a temper. Rumors flew rampant about maids and even governesses who’d lost their position because of a forward husband pushing his will on her or being blamed for wrongdoing they were innocent of.
There was no telling what her future held, of course, but in the quiet corners of her heart, Sarah had long wished—nay, hoped—that someday, she and Jacob, the sole male servant who lived at Ivy House all year long, would marry.
He was the main reason Sarah felt jittery at the thought of her upcoming summer in London. He was the reason she looked for signs of the city approaching. He was the handsome boy she’d known for five years, who grew handsomer every year. He was the one she’d exchanged letters with throughout the year. And he was the one who, last Season, had almost kissed her in the scullery in a rare moment when they’d been alone.
Mrs. Roach had long since returned to her ledger and had even turned the page, but her words still burned through Sarah. She looked askance at Betsy and watched her chest rising and falling, hoping that with each breath, the snoring would remain at a high volume, because that would mean she was deeply asleep and wouldn’t hear what Sarah was about to ask. Her insides felt like jelly as she leaned forward.
“Mrs. Roach?” The name came out as little more than an awkward croak.
“Mm?” the housekeeper looked up and startled when she saw Sarah’s face so close to hers. She removed her spectacles and waited for Sarah to continue.
She wasn’t sure she could. After one more look over her shoulder at Betsy, she girded up her courage. She spoke just loud enough to be heard over the creaking wheels, clop of hooves, and snoring cook. “Do you mean that you’ve seen servant girls who have found husbands of their own during the Season?”
The thin line curved again. This time it was most definitely a smile. “That is precisely what I mean.” Mrs. Roach settled the spectacles in place again, lifted the ledger, and added, “You’re of an age. I thought the information might be useful to you this year.”
Sarah sat back, astonished into silence. Mrs. Roach’s smile remained. Now Sarah bit her lip, not to hide her smile, but out of a new sense of excitement. Mrs. Roach didn’t know about Sarah’s hopes for going to school, and she couldn’t possibly know about how Sarah felt about Jacob, yet the housekeeper hadn’t assumed that Sarah’s future consisted of decades in service.
Please be right, Sarah prayed silently as she raised her fingers to her lips and smiled so broadly that her cheeks hurt. Please be the summer he kisses me.
Chapter Two
Little Ellie had her arms tight around Jacob’s neck as he carried her back to the orphanage after a brief excursion together. It hadn’t been long—only thirty minutes—and the outing didn’t end with treat like a penny candy, something he did for her as often as he could. But this week, Jacob didn’t have the money, nor could he spare more than half an hour with her, not when he had Mrs. Millington and the children arriving at Ivy House today.
Her husband had left for a business meeting early that morning and wouldn’t return until after dark. He had been in town for nearly a week
and, as always, proved himself to be easy to serve. He preferred to dine simply when alone, and on days he left the town house for business meetings or social engagements, he often had sustenance provided for him, leaving the servants free to enjoy a simple cold supper of apples, bread, and cheese, or, in the winter, some warmed-up soup.
His wife, on the other hand, expected—nay, required—the servants of Ivy House to greet her the moment her carriage rolled to a stop on the street. Every day of every Season, she demanded far more attention, from meals to clothing to chores and visits. The children were growing, which likely would increase the burden on the servants. Keeping energetic wee ones occupied—and quiet—upstairs until their parents wished them to be trotted out for guests required great efforts of everyone, not only the governess. Of course, Miss Leavey would take great pains to ensure that they weren’t underfoot as best she could.
Mary, the regular cook at Ivy House, had been preparing food since morning—her last day for three months that she’d be the captain of the kitchen as Betsy would take over tomorrow.
Jacob and Mrs. Jones, the housekeeper for Ivy House when the family wasn’t in residence, had together made sure the place was dusted, swept, warmed, and otherwise in order. This was for both Mrs. Millington’s sake, as well as Mrs. Roach’s. Mrs. Jones would not have another housekeeper coming in and finding fault with the way she managed Ivy House during three seasons of the year. Mrs. Jones didn’t stay in the city during the summer; she stayed with her sister’s family in the country, which was just as well. Two housekeepers under the same roof wouldn’t bode well for anyone.
Jacob hugged Ellie tighter as he crossed an intersection, hurrying across the slanted street to avoid buggies and other vehicles. Not for the first time, he wondered why the Millingtons didn’t hire another male servant for the summer. He did the jobs of butler, under-butler, footman, and any other office more proper for a male servant to perform than a female one. And while he was grateful for the position, with the extra work he did during the warmer months, perhaps he deserved a higher wage.
Granted, during more than half the year, he didn’t wear so many hats, and he had many days to himself to borrow and read books, visit his favorite pubs for singing and camaraderie, and spend time with Ellie. Seeing as Mr. Millington’s business trips were often separated by weeks, Jacob had quite a good life. He had a roof over his head, a fire to keep him warm, and food in his belly.
In the five years he’d held this position, he hadn’t felt any manner of discontent, not even with his wages, until the last few months. Ellie squeezed her little arms around his neck as hard as she could, her eyes squinching with the effort before she planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek.
“I love you, Jacob!” she cried and hugged him once more. When his step slowed, she released her grip and twisted to look where they were headed. She must have recognized the pale-yellow door with the diamond-shaped, bronze handle in the center because she quickly turned her back to it and buried her face into his neck. “Please don’t take me back. Not yet. That was too short.”
“I know, love.” Jacob patted her back, trying to mask his own emotions. The sadness of leaving Ellie behind always lurked in the shadows, ready to pounce at any moment. If he had only himself to think of, he wouldn’t have been so concerned with his wages, but all that had changed in January when Oona died and Ellie was sent here—to Cloverfield Orphanage. “I want to spend as much time with you as I can. You know how much I enjoy our afternoons together, but I haven’t much time today.”
He could try to explain that he was cutting the visit short for her sake, but she wouldn’t understand the complicated realities of employment and how his wages supported her. No matter how she pleaded with her sad, little eyes and pushed out lip, he would stay firm. He had Ellie’s welfare to think of over that of anyone else, himself included.
Including Sarah, he thought grimly as he set Ellie onto the cobbled sidewalk before the door.
“But we didn’t buy penny candy,” Ellie protested. She planted her chubby little fist on one hip and tilted her chin up to look at Jacob. He did a remarkable job, if he said so himself, of hiding his amusement. “And Jacob, we always get penny candy.”
“Not always, love,” Jacob said, attempting to hide the wistfulness he felt. “We haven’t the time to stop for any today.”
“But—”
“I’ll make it up to you another day. Promise.”
With her fist still on her hip, Ellie stuck out her lower lip and tilted her head in challenge. “How?”
“The family is coming to town for the Season.” He didn’t need to say which family. “And that means—”
“The fancy cook’s cranberry tarts!” Ellie’s mouth rounded into a big O. “Will you bring me some?”
“Of course I will.”
“They’re even better than penny candy,” Ellie said, hopping up and down.
Jacob laughed, from both her excitement and his own relief that she wouldn’t be leaving his side in tears. “I’ll bring as many as I can fit in my pockets.”
“How many is that?” Ellie’s eyes were bright as she held her arms out like a fisherman bragging about the length of a prized catch. “This many?”
“Hmm,” Jacob said, pretending to study the breadth of her reach and ponder her question. “Maybe not quite so many as that. A pile of tarts bigger than your head would be awfully hard to eat all at once. They wouldn’t fit inside ya!” He tickled her ribs.
She giggled wildly, and when she caught her breath, she held her hands over her middle, forming a circle. “Then it must be as many as can fit here,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“As you wish,” Jacob said with a slight bow.
“A smaller pile would be easier to hide from the others anyway,” Ellie added as she turned to the door.
A familiar ache tugged at Jacob’s heart. Every visit to Ellie revealed a part of orphanage life he hadn’t known about before, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his own flesh and blood living such a life—of his sister’s child accepting such a life as normal. Of Ellie having no chance for school or a future beyond that of a factory worker or, if she happened to be lucky, a servant in a middle-class household.
He tried to cover a sigh as they went through the yellow door. Ellie rushed inside ahead of him to the base of the stairs, where her pace slowed; her legs were barely long enough to reach from one step to the next. She kept her balance with one hand on the wall, her tongue sticking out with concentration as she climbed.
Jacob followed her up. He didn’t urge her to hurry or swoop her into his arms again to carry her to the second floor. He took the steps slowly as he mulled over what the next weeks would hold now that the Millingtons were back in town, and therefore how much less often he’d be able to slip away undetected to visit Ellie.
As it was, he’d have to run back to the town house. He checked the clock on the wall ahead and shook his head worriedly. Their brief visit to the public park had taken longer than intended. No matter how fast he ran, he might not return in time.
When Mrs. Millington arrived, all of the servants were expected to be awaiting her, lining the steps to the door and dressed in clean, pressed uniforms. As the sole full-time male servant of the town house, his absence would most certainly be noticed. If he arrived in time, an unshaven face would be almost as bad as not appearing at all. Either way, displeasing the missus could mean harsh consequences.
Travel always wore out Mrs. Millington, and after her arrival from the country house, she often flew into a fatigue-induced rage, during which she might insult everyone in sight, make odd demands, or threaten to dismiss someone. Three years ago, she’d done more than threaten; Bertha, the scullery maid, had been dismissed quite suddenly upon the missus’s arrival—as far as anyone could tell, due entirely to a stained apron. If they were lucky, the lady of the house would skip the irritable rage and instead collapse on her bed for a nap to sleep off one of her headaches.
He c
ould hope as much, but he couldn’t assume that his position would be safe if he wasn’t at his station, properly dressed, in time for the carriage to pull up. Not so long ago, Jacob might have been foolhardy enough to flirt with danger by being a few minutes late. But that had been before his modest monthly pay supported more than himself. He’d seen Mrs. Millington dismiss servants before; she never did so with the promise of a letter of recommendation. Such a deliberate act of omission all but guaranteed that the former servants would never find a position equal to the one they’d been cut off from—if they found any position at all.
He simply could not take such chances, not with Ellie relying on him.
He took her chubby, little hand in his—a feeling he was most grateful for, as it testified to the fact that she had enough to eat. It was a sign that he’d done right by allowing her to be sent to the orphanage—not that he’d had much choice in the matter. If he’d tried to care for her on his own, he would have needed to find work elsewhere, and they’d have likely ended up destitute and living on the streets.
He followed Ellie into a large room where Miss Gibbon supervised the orphans as they worked in silence on some craft or another. When they walked through the door, Ellie held his hand even tighter and turned to him, her face uplifted in pleading.
“Don’t go, not yet,” she said, her forehead drawn, creating little wrinkles that made Jacob’s heart melt. “I hate practicing my stitches. I’m so poor at them, and Miss Gibbon insists we girls practice on samplers, over and over again until we get our stitches perfectly even.” She looked over the room with a forlorn expression before turning back to Jacob. “It’s awful.” The last was added in a tone hinting that embroidering samplers came close to the misery of the lion’s den.
Once more, Jacob prevented a smile from showing his amusement. He dropped to one knee. “I really must go now.”
Summer Holiday Page 17
