by Anya Seton
Celia accepted her dismissal in silence. She had earned a few pence besides her keep, and as though the alderman’s attack were the key, overwhelming desire rushed through an opened door. She packed her few possessions in a cloth bundle, and set out for Kent.
The village of Ightham swarmed with visitors. It was Lammas quarter day, when rents were due. Farmers, cottagers and shepherds were clustered before the George and Dragon.
The neighborhood rustics munched on white, Lammas Day loaves. A troupe of tumblers was performing on the village green. Warm August sun drew luscious scents from the barrows of cherries and apricots set out for sale.
Nobody noticed Celia, who was dressed in the simple costume she had adapted from Ursula’s clothes and her own before she left Cowdray. She wore a laced bodice, cut-off skirts, a kerchief on her head. Her bare feet were dusty and not yet toughened. She had discarded her leather shoes, to be saved for some occasion she could not yet imagine. They were in her pack. Around her neck she wore a tiny pouch which contained her wedding ring. She went into the George amongst the lowlier customers, and asked for ale and a bit of bread. The barmaid said, “Take wot ye like, chuck—a ha’penny fur the ale, but the Lammas bread’s free. They allus send loaves from the Mote.”
“Ah-h,” said Celia, “you mean from the Allens at Ightham Mote?”
The barmaid nodded. “Sir Christopher keeps up the old ways, I’ll say that fur ’em, though there’s rumors they don’t conform to our new Queen Bess. Wot be ye a-doin’ i’ these parts? Come for the hop pickin’?”
Celia was grateful to find simple friendliness—so unlike London. She smiled at the apple-cheeked Kentish maid, and her smile, long unused, felt rusty, but the dimple appeared next her mouth. The barmaid stared. “Why, chuck,” she said, “ye’d be fair as a blossom was ye not so thin. H’ant ye some brave lad to care fur ’ee? Ye don’t look a worker.”
“No lad,” said Celia, “and I am a worker. I’ll pick hops if I must, but I’d like something steady. Any posts you know of around here?”
“I’ll think on’t,” said the barmaid. “Me name’s Nancy. Wait i’ the kitchen whilst I carry the trays outdoors. Folk be clamoring.” She went out to the garden where trestle tables were set to accommodate the holiday-makers.
Celia crouched on a stool by the hearth. She drank her ale and ate a loaf of the fine white Lammas bread. These relieved the dizzy fatigue. She found a clout and dipped it in the kettle, then washed a cut on her sore foot. She waited.
Nancy did not forget her, and came back after a short while. “I’ve heard o’ somep’n,” she said. “There was stableboys at one table, they come from the Mote. Maught be a post there—scullery maid. M’lady Allen ’as just thrown out the last one, give her a sound bearing, too. Found she’d a big belly and couldn’t name the father. Very strict is m’lady, harsh they say, when she’s in her cups which be often.”
Celia held herself very still. “Is’t a large household at the Mote?” she asked. “Is’t heavy work?”
“As to that I’m not sartain,” said Nancy.
“I mean . . .” Celia said carefully, “are there many to wait on? Grown children . . . the steward . . . a chaplain, for instance?”
“Of childern, only the heir, little Charles—the steward’s a wee rabbit of a man, Will Larkin, he’d no be hard on ye, and aye—’tis said they’ve a new chaplain ’oo tutors Master Charles, but we’ve not seen him in the village.”
“I’d like to get the job,” said Celia. “Good Nancy, how shall I apply?”
“Why, ’tis easy.” Nancy gave a happy grin. “Master Larkin’s out there now on the green, watching the tumblers. I saw him. He’ll soon be here for his pot. Ye can arsk him then.”
“I’ve no references,” said Celia, and to Nancy’s expression of startled dismay, she gave a vague lot of reasons. She came from Sussex, but had not there been a servant; she had been married and widowed in Lincolnshire. The King’s Head episode she touched on lightly.
“Aye,” said Nancy nodding. “Barmaid’s first lesson is keep temper, ye don’ have to go a-bangin’ at their cods!” She exploded into hearty laughter. “I’ve wanted to gi’e one or two the knee m’self, but ’twon’t do. Look now, chuck—what’s your name, by the bye?”
“Cissy . . .” said Celia after a moment. “Cissy Boone.”
“Well, Cissy, ye speak ladylike, I b’lieve—unless’n it’s Sussex speech. Ye can write maybe? Write ye’re own reference.”
“I must try,” said Celia slowly.
“Pen and ink i’ the parlor,” said Nancy. “I mun get on wi’ the work.”
Celia went to the empty parlor and tried. She finally achieved the best note she could: Cissy Boone is a trusty servente. Lyved fore year with me in Lines I commende hir. Ladye Hutchinson.
Nancy, who had not even learned the alphabet, was delighted with this effort when Celia read it to her.
The rest was simple. Steward Larkin was no scholar himself, and the note impressed him. So did Celia whom he saw through a blur of cataracts. He was also quite deaf, and did not notice the manner of speech which puzzled Nancy. Lady Allen had ordered him to hire a scullery maid, on trial, and a mason and a chimney sweep, the last sweep having died most foully of a great sore on his privy parts. After engaging Celia, Larkin acquired the other two servants during the Lammas celebrations and herded them all into his cart.
The distance between Ightham Village and the Mote was about two miles and took the sluggish oxen an hour to cover, but Celia was so relieved to be off her bruised feet, and now so nervous about her decision, that she wished the time far longer.
The road ran through hopfields, nearly ready for picking, between oast houses and lush orchards. There were some gleaners in the hay fields despite the holiday, for heavy purple cloud banks to the east signaled rain. The cart rumbled downhill and came suddenly on the Mote snugly nestled in a hollow.
To Celia, after Cowdray, Ightham Mote seemed small and unimpressive. A typical old-fashioned fortified manor house, of which she had seen dozens. The encircling moat was also evidence of an earlier age. She looked again, and suddenly the Mote seemed not old-fashioned but sinister, like a beast crouching in its lair. Celia shifted her gaze to the range of windows facing her and saw a woman’s face glimmering from a corner of the upper story—a white face, subtly luminous.
“Who’s that?” Celia said involuntarily. “She looks frenzied.”
The steward turned and said, “Eh . . .? What say, m’dear?”
“That!” cried Celia, pointing. “That woman, she’s flapping something out of the window—something like swaddling bands!”
“Oh, her,” said the steward. “That’ll be Isabel. She ‘walks’ sometimes. Around dusk. I can’t see her. They say she mourns a babe was killed i’ those nurseries, back when the deHauts lived here, mebbe two hunnerd year agone.”
Celia said, “Jesu . . .” in a long shocked tone. She looked again, but the face had disappeared.
“Lot o’ ghosts at Ightham,” said the steward cheerfully. “Only thing I don’t like m’self is the ‘cold room.’” He pointed to the chamber in the entrance tower above the portal. “I go in there and find m’self shivering and shaking in a trice.”
“What happened there?” said Celia, then had to repeat the question louder.
“Damme if I know,” said the steward. “Murder, no doubt. These old places’ve seen a lot o’ murders. Don’t do to dwell on ’em.”
He gave the ox-herd an order and the cart lumbered to the cluster of buildings—stables, brewery, dairy and forge—across the lawn from the manor. Here they all scrambled down. Larkin consigned the mason and sweep to the blacksmith, but knew that he must present the new scullery maid to Lady Allen herself. She was very particular about the house servants.
Celia’s heart beat fast enough to suffocate her as she accompanied the steward across the bridge over the moat, then through the tower to the courtyard.
There was still light enough to see
that the courtyard was small and paved by cobblestones, which hurt her feet even through the shoes she had donned in the cart.
“If they’re i’ the Hall,” Larkin said, “ye’ll have to wait. Milady don’t like disturbings at her food, an’ don’t ’ee dare set foot outside servants’ quarters ever.”
“Aye, sir . . .” said Celia faintly. She stood on the doorstep, her kerchiefed head bowed, her body tingling with the sense of Stephen’s nearness.
It so happened that Emma was in good humor tonight. They had broached the March beer and found it excellent. Her husband was his usual absent-minded amiable self, and little Charles had made them all smile with his comical rendition of a counting song which Brother Stephen had taught him. Charles was blossoming under the new chaplain’s instructions. So, though not aware of it, was Emma. She looked forward to Mass and confessions now, pleasure augmented by knowledge that despite the Queen they maintained the old religion. That Mass was again forbidden increased her ardor. She was, moreover, gratified by an invitation from the new Lord Cobham to ride over to Cobham Hall for dinner the next month. It had been disappointing that even after Christopher’s knighthood they had received little recognition from the upper class.
She accepted the steward’s report affably. “Good, good. D’ye hear, husband? Larkin’s bagged three servants today at Ightham.”
Sir Christopher nodded and echoed his wife. “Good. Well done. I’ll see the mason myself i’ the morning. Chimneypiece wants mending in the upstairs parlor, and be he skilled, I might build a new oast house by Wilmot Hill.”
“Then, there’s the cupboard I want in the Hall,” Emma said. “For the safe we sadly need—that’ll come first. Where’s the new wench?” She turned to Larkin. “I’ll see her in the buttery.”
Celia was as silent as she dared be during the interview.
Emma glanced at die reference, and found it convincing. She noted it was signed by a “ladyship.” Celia’s thin, downcast face certainly did not remind her of the beautiful girl in scarlet and yellow at Queen Mary’s procession. Celia’s “Yes, m’lady” and “No, m’lady” sounded merely well trained.
“So that’s settle,” Emma said. “All found and a shilling every quarter day. Attend Mass each morning.” She looked sharply at Celia. “You said you were raised a Catholic?”
“Aye, m’lady.”
“That’s a miracle in itself, coming from Lincolnshire,” said Emma with her tight smile. “And no fooling about wi’ the men!” she added, though she thought with satisfaction that this scrawny, sparkless bit of womanhood was not likely to be tempting. “Ye can bed i’ the far attic wi’ the other maids, an’ I don’t expect to see you again until my birthday.”
“Aye, m’lady,” said Celia.
Before her dismissal she raised her eyes once towards her new mistress. Lady Allen at forty-three was still handsome in a stout, full-blown way. Her heavy face was scarlet on the cheekbones—by the buttery rushlight one did not see the tiny broken veins. Her black hair gleamed like a rook’s back under a green velvet cap. Her slanted dark eyes, glittery as jet under thick lids, might be considered attractive. I was a fool to be afraid of her, Celia thought. I believe she’s stupid, for all she’s so overbearing.
That night Celia ate a snack with her fellow servants at Ightham Mote, and slept dreamlessly in the maids’ attic. She had arrived where she wanted to be. Stephen was somewhere under the same roof, and her love for him, so long pent, flooded her in warm luxurious waters.
During the next two days she obeyed orders exactly, and did not venture from the servants’ wing except for Mass. There was a great deal to do—hauling water in buckets from the moat, washing a constant litter of pots, mugs, tankards, dishes and spoons on the cramped stone counter. She also ran errands to the larder and buttery for Tom the cook, a portly middle-aged Londoner who grumbled about the dampness from the moat, the faulty kitchen flue, or the quality of the meat he was required to roast.
The indoor staff was small, because Emma was a penny pincher. She made do with three maids and one servitor to wait on table. His name was Dickon Coxe, and he was the son of the Allens’ principal hopgrower. Dickon had thought to better himself by working in the manor house, but since he was also made to serve as butler, and valet to Sir Christopher, he felt himself ill-used.
It became clear to Celia, after two days of hard work, that the Mote was badly run. Emma Allen took but spasmodic interest in housekeeping, yet nonetheless fiercely criticized anything which discommoded her. If she had a fancy for pigeon pie, she expected it to appear for supper, even though nobody had been told to raid the dovecote. She kept the pantry keys dangling at her girdle, but neglected to unlock the pantry, though the dishes she ordered through the steward called for spices and sugar.
She slept most of the morning, to arise bleary-eyed barely in time for the ten-thirty Mass. The staff went to a six o’clock Mass.
The services were held in what was still called the “new” chapel, though it had been built forty years before by a Richard Clement, one of the Mote’s numerous owners. The “old” chapel, which had served the early manor lords for four centuries, had been deconsecrated and become a passageway and storeroom.
The new chapel, which Celia entered with great trepidation, glowed with the richness of linen-fold paneling and carved gothic pews. The wood, despite many coats of beeswax, was still a pale beige which only time would darken. The Flemish glass windows held pictures of saints.
Celia had tied her kerchief so as almost to hide her face, and sidled into the back pew between a dairymaid and the new mason. The sight of Stephen at the altar, magnificent in a green and gold chasuble, cut her breath. She felt that her love was so tangible that he must notice her, though he never looked her way. She stayed huddled in her seat like several others who had not been shriven lately and therefore might not take Communion.
At the conclusion of Mass Stephen vanished into the priest’s room behind the altar. Celia returned to the servants’ quarters and the great jumble of pots and skillets waiting to be cleaned.
“’Tis man’s work, that,” said Dickon passing the scullery on the way to the buttery to fetch Sir Christopher’s morning ale. “Had I time, Cissy, I’d gi’e ye a hand. Ye seem overdelicate.”
“I’ll make do . . .” said Celia, though her back ached from lifting iron pots, and her hands were raw from the scouring sand.
“We used to have a scullion,” said Dickon, “but she found maids come cheaper. I’ll tell ’ee something. If ye’ve a need, don’t ask steward, he’s scared o’ his own shadow, let alone m’lady’s. Try Sir Christopher, can ye ever find him alone. She listens to him, at times.”
“Thank you, Dickon,” Celia said quietly, “I’ll make do.” She thought that Dickon—a small man with sleek russet hair, a long nose and pointed chin—looked rather like a fox, and instinct told her not to trust him. He might feel kindly towards a pretty kitchen wench just then, but anything he did would be to Dickon’s interest. He confirmed this with a sudden sly leer.
“There be ways to get on in this house, if ye’re clever.”
“Aye?” said Celia, reaching for another pewter dish.
“Wen ye’re sent to pantry or larder there’ll be a bit o’ sugar loaf or nutmegs ye can slip i’ a pouch under yere skirts. Then get ’em to me, I can sell ’em in Ightham, we’ll split profit.”
“I see,” said Celia.
“Oh, ye won’t get catched,” continued Dickon. “Tom Cook he don’t notice, an’ m’lady’s so fuddled wi’ drink mostly she’d never know, only mind her temper if ye cross her straight. She near broke the back o’ that scullery maid we had last. And a month agone she killed one o’ the hound pups.”
“Killed a puppy . . .” whispered Celia staring at Dickon. “Whatever for?”
“’Cause she stumbled over it on her way to bed. She wrung its neck. Aye, she’s a devil w’en the fit takes her.”
Celia shivered. She thought of Taggle with an ache of yearn
ing, but nothing could sway her now.
“How does the new chaplain?” she asked, sluicing dirty water down the drain hole.
Dickon shrugged. “She dotes on him. Sits next him at table, touches his arm whilst they talk, and then ’tis ‘Oh, Brother Stephen, d’ye think this? Or that?’” Dickon put on a high falsetto, “‘Pray, sir, don’t eat so dainty, ye fast overmuch.’ And in truth he does. I ne’er met a monk before—this ’un wears a hair shirt under his habit. I saw it w’en she sent a message to his room. Horrid itchy it must be too, all a-bristle wi’ clipped horse tail.”
“Oh,” said Celia. She had no doubt what the hair shirt penance was for, and the thought made her angry. Why must he repudiate the happiest moment of his life, and hers. Why must he punish himself for it—as he had punished her by desertion. Could a loving God, or His Loving Mother require this of humans? The Bible reported Christ as saying that a father would not give his son a stone when asked for bread. And I’ll not accept a stone now, Celia thought. I’ll fight for the new life inside me as I didn’t for my own. She compressed her lips, and mopped the last of the dishes.
A bell jangled on the board set high in the passage outside the scullery. Celia glanced up. “That’ll be for you, Dickon?”
“Nay,” he answered. “’Tis for Master Charles’s nursery maid, Alice, and be she dandling about wi’ Cook again she’s a stupid wench. Soon or late, she’ll find out.”
Celia laughed thinly. “I believe you’re afraid of Lady Allen!”
Dickon jerked his head. “’Tis best to do her bidding. She talks poor-mouth, but she’ve a store o’ gold nobles in a strongbox, an’ I aim to get some for me own.”
“How can you?” asked Celia.
“Fur keeping me mouth shut about the papist practices here. County sheriff’d be interested to hear we’ve Mass in Latin, crucifix and candles, wi’ a black monk for chaplain to boot.”
