The Parting Glass

by Gina Marie Guadagnino

  We rested the horses at an inn while the ladies dined. Grace, Mr. Vandeman, and I took our places at the end of a bare wooden table in the back of the courtyard, and the innkeeper’s daughter brought us mugs of small beer, followed by a platter piled high with bread, cheeses, and cold meats: jellied tongue, sausages, and cured pork. She left it in the center of the table with a pot of mustard and a jar of gooseberry jam. Mr. Vandeman tucked in while Grace stared at the heap in bewilderment. There were neither plates nor utensils, save a knife stuck in one of the cheeses. Dismayed, she picked at a slice of bread, eyeing Mr. Vandeman’s show of good appetite with mild distaste.

  The groom in question suddenly seemed to realize he was the sole member of our trio enjoying the repast and looked up at us on the other side of the table. “Tuck in, if you’re minded to eat,” he said, gesturing with the knife he had excavated from the cheese. “It’ll be three or four hours yet before we reach the Park, see.”

  I eyed the half-chewed mass of bread and meat in his hand before reaching for a slice, daubing the bread with mustard, wrapping the results around a sausage, and taking as delicate a bite as could be managed. Grace’s eyebrows shot into her bonnet.

  “Here, Miss Porter, allow me,” Mr. Vandeman said, placing his makeshift sandwich directly onto the bare table and brushing his hand off on his trousers. He smeared some jam onto a slice of bread, speared a piece of tongue with the knife, and deposited it on the bread, bits of jelly still clinging to it. He wiped the knife off on a clean slice of bread and then proceeded to shave a few bits of cheese off one of the hunks. These he sprinkled atop the tongue and covered it over with the second piece of bread before presenting it to Grace with a marked show of gallantry that was utterly lost upon the poor woman in her horror of the comestibles being offered to her. She inclined her head graciously and took the proffered sandwich, taking a small bite and smiling fixedly as she chewed under Mr. Vandeman’s eye. Satisfied that his efforts were appreciated, Mr. Vandeman retrieved his abandoned refreshment from the table and resumed cramming it in his mouth.

  I suppressed a smile as I chewed my own meal, wondering where on earth Grace Porter went on her nights off. I, certainly, was used to such fare, though I might ape at gentility for Grace’s benefit. But this, as every other aspect of the façade I employed in the Waldens’ house, was as cultivated and studied as the accent I put on whenever I opened my mouth. Grace, though. She was the genuine article. She never stayed out on Thursday nights, I knew, but returned punctually at eleven to her own room below the attic. I tried to picture her tapping her feet at a music hall, or raising a pint in a pub, and the image nearly choked me laughing.

  Covering my amusement, I turned to Mr. Vandeman. “I suppose you will be glad to return to Salisbury Park again?” I inquired.

  He smiled, pleased to be addressed. “I am at that. Mr. Gregory, that’s the head groom there, see? He taught me all I know, but it’s a bold man that would think to fill Ignatius Gregory’s shoes.” He chuckled. “It’ll be fine to see the old man. He’s been like a father to me, see, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t suffer a bit of the sin of pride coming back now, head groom in my own right.”

  “Well,” I said warmly. “I must say, I think it seems likely that we might have more frequent occasion to make this journey, and it is well we have so familiar a driver as yourself to take us.”

  I kicked Grace gently under the table, and she chimed in, “Oh, indeed!” before pausing to consider the food in her hand. “This is . . . not unpleasant fare. My thanks, Mr. Vandeman.”

  The remainder of our repast passed pleasantly enough as I plied Mr. Vandeman with questions about Salisbury Park and received, for my pains, such details about the property and household as minded me that an estate on Long Island was probably run no differently than an estate in Donegal after all. When the innkeeper’s daughter returned to tell us that the ladies were ready to continue their journey and inquire if the horses were sufficiently rested, I felt satisfied that I should be able to acquit myself credibly in Mr. Dawson’s home.

  As Grace and I settled onto our seat, Grace leaned over and said, “Do you know, Miss Ballard, I do believe I find Mr. Vandeman to be quite a civil sort of man. Yes, quite civil indeed.”

  “Tell me, Miss Porter,” I asked. “Where do you go on your nights off?” And the remainder of the trip was filled with an enlightening portrait of the Episcopal Ladies’ Missionary Society.

  We turned off the main road two hours before sunset, making our way up the drive, overhung with trees, to Salisbury Park. The stately redbrick manor house appeared at last from behind the trees, and I took in the sight with mingled appreciation and apprehension. Should Charlotte Walden secure a proposal from Elijah Dawson, I thought, this was my first sight of my new home.

  I never met a housekeeper who wasn’t imposing—no woman rises to such a state in the world without that quality—but Mrs. Crenshaw wore the dignity of her office more subtly than most. She greeted Grace and me cordially, escorting us to the room we were to share, giving quiet direction to a chambermaid we passed in the winding corridor. Her voice never rose above a murmur, nor needed it to, for her staff listened attentively and obeyed her in an instant. The butler, it transpired, was Mr. Crenshaw, and between this equally taciturn specimen and his wife there seemed genuine affection. Much later that night, in the blessing over the meal, I saw him squeeze her hand, and she allowed herself a small smile. It was a shock, after the stony but civil relations of Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Buckley, and, back at Ballyboyle, Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Noonan had seemed to be two halves of the same stern beast.

  As I dressed Charlotte for the evening in a brocade silk of celestial blue, it was clear I felt more nerves than did my mistress. Charlotte sat motionless, still as her own reflection in the mirror, as I twined up her hair in a neat braided coil atop her head. I fixed her pearls about her neck and held out the earbobs to her. She stared at the pair of pearls resting in my hand, her eyes unmoving for so long I cleared my throat nervously. She plucked each pearl from my palm, moving deliberately, and fastened them to each ear. I extended my arm and helped her to rise, and she smiled wanly at me. I smiled back, bobbing a curtsy, and left her to prepare to meet Geraldine Dawson.

  I was not to meet Mrs. Dawson during our visit to her home, although I did catch sight of her that evening as I left Charlotte’s room. She was a small woman, straight-backed, who wore her age with dignity. Her crisp, white curls fell from a black lace cap to lie against her papery cheeks. Her black moiré dress had the tiered gigot sleeves that had grown so popular when the English princess wore them, which I though very modish, though she wore the style so gracefully that one might think it had been the vogue her whole life. Her only ornament was a large cameo. I gave her a little curtsy before scuttling from her view.

  Down in the hall, Mrs. Crenshaw introduced me to a bland-faced man who transpired to be Mr. Lindeman, Mr. Dawson’s valet. Mr. Lindeman might have been anywhere between forty and sixty, and was possessed of a soft voice and a bright eye. Crisp of trouser break, spotless of cuffs, he was possessed of those qualities that spoke of a confirmed bachelorhood, which put me greatly at ease. I knew, of course, in many households, that between a lady’s maid and the master’s valet there were “expectations,” and reflected that it was good fortune to be thrown in with one who was as ill-disposed to women as I was to men. I exchanged a few pleasantries with him, recalling how I’d wondered about the subservient creature responsible for Mr. Dawson’s cravats, and regretfully excused myself from the conversation as Grace plucked at my sleeve. If all went as planned, I would have time enough to get to know Mr. Lindeman in the years ahead.

  There is much one can glean about the temperament of the master in the observation of his servants. Though Mr. Dawson spent much of his time at his Great Jones Street address, his influence and that of his grandmother were clear in their choice of staff. Unlike the eclectic jumble of voices in the Waldens’ kitchen—drawling southern accents an
d brown skin mingling with clipped British English and the squashed vowels of those born in New York, the servants of Salisbury Park reminded me of Ballyboyle. Here, not only were the distinctive Long Island accents uniform, but the same prominent nose or blond curls might be seen on multiple members of the same family, all living and working under one roof. Estate life here, as in Ireland, appeared to be a multigenerational affair, and I filed this knowledge away to discuss with Charlotte later. If she were to become the mistress of Salisbury Park, she must understand the traditions and hierarchies in order to command her domestics’ respect.

  It seemed an age I sat with Grace in the servants’ hall, the young maids watching the footmen play at cards, and I wondered, looking at the wistful, attentive faces of the maids, how different my life might have been if I had ever been the sort inclined to fancy one of the footmen over one of the chambermaids. What must it be like to wear one’s want and need so baldly on one’s face, advertising one’s intentions for all to see—indeed, hoping for them to be seen, and recognized, and returned. I was too used to schooling my features to blush or become otherwise moved by such a thought, but I spared a moment to wonder if Charlotte, too, was schooling her features in a different way. Smiling when she would rather not. Forcing a light she did not feel into her eyes. Advertising that interest, that desire, which every human creature hopes one day to see in eyes riveted to his or herself, though she felt it not. That first night, when she rang for me, I undressed her in a silence tinged with mutual relief.

  It was not until I was unpinning her hair that her eye caught mine in the mirror, and my heart near broke at the sadness I read there. Wetting my lips nervously, I strove to divert her.

  “I say, Miss Charlotte,” I began, attempting to keep my tone light. “If I’m to judge the cookery of Salisbury Park by that jugged hare, I shall have to let out both of our gowns by this time next year.” She was silent after this observation, and I tried again. “Why, Porter had two portions, and she eats like a bird, it was that rich. No offense meant to Mrs. Freedman’s cooking, of course,” I added when she did not respond. “Of course, we do not have game as often,” I ended weakly.

  “There is always a game course at Salisbury Park,” said Charlotte bitterly. “Mr. Dawson insists upon it, and provisions the table himself whenever he may.”

  “Indeed, miss?”

  “And there are always tea roses, white ones, in memory of Mr. Dawson’s father and brothers,” she said, almost angrily.

  “What a nice tradition,” I said, still lightly.

  “And when I am Mrs. Dawson,” she said, her voice shaking, “I shall take my place at the table, wearing the blue gown he insists upon, and become another tradition in this place—another windup figure in this clockwork house!” Tears had begun leaking from the corners of her eyes, and I moved to put my hand on her shoulder, but she batted me away.

  “My role is already written for me,” she said, after a moment. “All I have to do is parrot back the lines he expects me to speak and my place is secure.” She shuddered, straightening her back and dashing her tears away. “Forgive me, Ballard, for my momentary weakness. I made my choice when I drank that tea. Let us speak no more of this.”

  I murmured my assent and helped her into the canopied bed. Later, when I lay awake staring at the ceiling, I wondered if she, too, was gazing up at the hangings on her bed, too fretful for sleep to take her.

  * * *

  Salisbury Park boasted a maze, in which Grace and I distracted ourselves as the visit drew on. Grace was unusually silent as we took the turnings, our arms linked in an unaccustomed show of camaraderie, for we were both consumed by a sense of tense anticipation to which neither of us felt able to give voice. Instead, we ambled through the shrubberies, taking each dead end or through way in stride, neither heartened nor discouraged as we made our way. It was a warm day, and shady in the maze, with melodies of birdsong ringing pleasantly, though all felicity went unappreciated by either of us.

  In the afternoon, oppressed by the tension of Grace’s company, I inquired as to the direction of the stables, hoping that, as usual, the familiar sights and scents there would soothe me. It had been an age since I had seen the inside of a stable larger than the Waldens’ small outbuilding in the mews, and, knowing from Charlotte’s apathetic chatter that Mr. Dawson was an accomplished horseman, I looked forward to visiting a stable like the one back at Ballyboyle.

  I made my way across the back courtyard and let myself into the stables. The wide central aisle was paved in fieldstone, a layer of fresh straw spread over top. On either side were the neat rows of stalls, over which a few of the horses were peering, made curious by the sound of my unfamiliar bootheels. There were three Thoroughbreds, Mr. Dawson’s hunters, I assumed: two bays, one of them dark, and a gray yearling. The names on their boxes were Diligence, Dignity, and Divinity. I snorted, and Dignity, the dark bay, snorted back. Johnny had always said you could tell a great deal about a man by how he names his horses. They craned their long necks at me, young Divinity tossing his mane at my unfamiliar scent.

  I passed by four Cleveland bays so perfectly matched I could barely tell them apart. Placid, as carriage horses often are, they paid me little attention as I passed their stalls. At the end of the row were the Waldens’ Friesians, Onyx and Obsidian, who came nickering eagerly as I approached. I rubbed their long noses before offering them some of the sugar lumps I had pilfered from the morning’s tea tray.

  The aisle opened into the paddock behind the stable. As I busied myself with the Friesians, from the corner of my eye I could see three figures approaching the stable entrance, talking amongst themselves.

  “You’ve done well, the both of you,” Mr. Dawson was saying in much warmer tones than I’d had occasion to hear him use in the parlor or ballroom. “I am pleased to see she is not too high-spirited, but I trust, Ignatius, if she were, it is nothing she could not be broken of?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Dawson,” came a voice tinged with gravel. “With training, she’ll be a lamb, though she’ll still step lively enough. She shows a pretty leg.”

  “So with wives as with horses,” Mr. Dawson said, and I heard the sound of laughter. “Well, I shall leave you to it. Have her ready to be presented tomorrow morning.”

  He did not wait for a response, but watching from under my lashes, I saw him move toward the entrance to the stables, and pressed myself further in the direction of Obsidian’s stall. There was nowhere out of his line of sight, however, and, as he crossed under the shadow of the lintel and spied me, he gave a curt nod. I curtsied back, but he neither slowed his gait nor paid me further heed as he made his way down the aisle back to the big house. I waited until he had gone before making my way out in the opposite direction.

  Mr. Vandeman and a steel-haired man I presumed to be the much-vaunted Mr. Gregory were leaning against the stable wall, observing the paddock, as I approached. A lad of fifteen or sixteen was leading round a lanky yearling filly, her copper coat curried bright as a new penny. I stood transfixed. The little horse was daintier than any beast I’d seen, with a graceful, curving neck and straight, narrow shanks. Her tail perked, and her eyes were bright and alert as she high-stepped into the paddock. Her coat was the same color as Charlotte’s hair.

  “Beautiful animal,” I said, and Mr. Vandeman turned, smiling warmly.

  “Ah, Miss Ballard!” he said. “Permit me to introduce you to Mr. Gregory. Miss Ballard is Miss Walden’s maid.”

  “Ah, pleasure, pleasure,” Mr. Gregory said gruffly, taking my proffered hand into his callused one. He was in his shirtsleeves, wearing braces and a tweed cap, and I was reminded so acutely of my da that my heart constricted. He grinned, cocking his head toward the little horse. “Pretty creature, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed,” I said, genuinely impressed. “I’ve never seen such a delicately built animal before. What breed is she, please?”

  Mr. Gregory smiled broadly. “Ah, know something about horseflesh, do you?”
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br />   “Some,” I said. “But her . . .” I trailed off. The horse was beautiful.

  “Pure Arabian,” Mr. Gregory said proudly. “And a fair bit of work it took to find her, bloodlines and that coloring and what all. What do you make of her, missy? Think she’s fit to be a lady’s palfrey?”

  “She’s perfect,” I breathed, aching to run my hands along her coppery flanks. “Oh, might I?”

  Mr. Gregory nodded assent, and in a trice the boy had led her over as I beckoned and whickered to the lovely creature in the most appealing tones I could muster. She pranced to where I stood, tossing her mane, and before I could lament not having brought a treat, Mr. Gregory was offering me a carrot for her. She even ate daintily—Angelica’s eager nibblings seemed grotesque by comparison—and she nuzzled my palm sweetly when she was done. Every part of her was pure velvet, and the sweet, grassy scent of her minded me so strongly of sitting on the paddock fences next to Seanin that I began to come over quite misty. It was everything to pet and make much of this little horse, and I would have quite willingly launched myself atop her back and galloped off, as Da had let me so many times in my youth. It was a wrench to remain on the other side of the fence, petting her decorously and doing no more.

  “She’s a gift,” Mr. Vandeman explained, as the silence deepened. “For Miss Walden.”