Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  “It’s me master’s country house. Mister Edward Roffe, he is.”

  Cat could see Emma was looking at her expectantly, as if she should know who that was. She wracked her brain, but couldn’t recall hearing the name. “I’m sorry, but who is he?”

  Emma looked disappointed. “Mister Edward Roffe? Y’never heard of Mister Edward Roffe?”

  Cat shook her head, taking the last of tea. The toast was done as well, and had gone nowhere near filling her empty belly.

  “Is he some sort of lord?”

  “No lord, him. He’s a famous artificer, he is,” Emma said.

  That was a term Cat had heard, though she knew little about it. The Artificers were a new guild or something like that, one that messed about with mechanicals. And weren’t they part of that steam exhibition in the park? The one that exploded and killed all those people?

  “I see,” Cat said. “That sounds … impressive.”

  “Oh, it is!” Emma said. “He’s a great man, he is.”

  “And you say he found me on the street?”

  Emma nodded. “Said you were attacked by some bloke what run off when he come by,” she said. “And you were all beat and not stirrin’ a’tall.” She rose and took the empty tray from Cat’s lap. “An’ that on top o’ the sickness.” She nodded to the bottles. “Been medicine every day and laudanum to keep you still. Whatever happened to put you in such a state?”

  “I … I don’t rightly know,” Cat said, not wanting to let on what her station and situation had been. Though my clothes and the purse-knife surely made it clear. “Is Mister Roffe at home?” she asked. “So that I might thank him?”

  “He’s in the city, but he left instructions.” Emma returned to the bedside. “Do you have people we should send word to?” she asked.

  Cat shook her head.

  “No more’n the Master expected,” Emma said. “He said yer to rest and get yer strength back, and he’ll speak to ye when he returns.” She smiled. “I expect he’ll offer ye a place here, if y’ve none other.”

  “A place?” Cat blinked. That would be an unbelievable outcome. A place in a household would mean a bed and roof, regular meals, it was more than she’d ever hoped for. She wasn’t put off by the thought of work, even the hard work she knew being a servant would be — nearly anything would be better than the hardness of the streets.

  “Nothing grand, mind you,” Emma said. She gestured around the room. “And this ain’t the servants’ quarters, sure. Only put you here so’s there’d be room to tend you.” She pursed her lips. “I tried t’do as much as I could with the sponge, what with the fever sweat and all, but are you feeling up to a bath?”

  Cat glanced at her arms, still streaked with grime but likely cleaner than they’d been in some time. There was little bathing on the streets. The boys would sometimes play in the river on a hot day, but Cat had not for obvious reasons. Being caught out in the rain was about the cleanest she could remember being. She compared what she could see of her skin to Emma’s and flushed with embarrassment. Dirt had never been something to be concerned with before, but if she was to have a chance at a place here she must surely look the part, at least.

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  Emma threw back the bedcovers and held out a hand to assist Cat from the bed. Cat took it and rose, having to close her eyes for a moment while her head swam. Emma put an arm around her waist and waited patiently.

  “Take yer time,” she said. “I were a week abed with the spots once. Takes time to get yerself back again.”

  Cat nodded and raised a hand to her forehead, then ran it over her head in shock. Her scalp was bare, all her hair gone, with hardly even any stubble remaining.

  “My hair!”

  “That were the nits,” Emma said. She shrugged. “Sorry, but it were easiest. Once those get in a house and bedclothes, there’s no stoppin’ ‘em.”

  Cat’s initial shock faded. She’d always kept her hair short anyway, so it was no great loss, but it was still surprising to wake up and find oneself nearly bald. She opened her eyes and nodded when the dizziness subsided and Emma helped her walk to a doorway and into another room.

  “Master’s got his ideas, he does,” Emma said. “Fitted up three rooms special like this.”

  This room had a fireplace shared with the bedroom Cat had been in, and in its center was a large, high-sided, copper bathing tub on a raised platform. A white, linen sheet was draped inside it as a cushion.

  “Just let me get you settled and I’ll see to the water,” Emma said.

  “I’m sorry to be such a bother,” Cat said, worried at the effort it would take to carry enough water to fill that tub. She eased herself into it and leaned back against the linen-covered copper. Her breath was short from just that little walk and her hands were trembling.

  “Cor, girl, no bother.” Emma went to the fireplace and swung a copper pipe from beside it so that the open end was over the bath. “One thing this house has no lack of is hot water.”

  She did something near the hinge of the pipe and water began flowing into the bath. Hot water that made Cat yelp as it splashed over her thighs. Emma did something else and the water cooled a bit. It was still hot, but not unbearably so, and began to fill the tub.

  “The master’s ideas. Copper pipes in all the chimneys,” Emma said. “Pipes in the bread ovens, pipes through the foundry next door, bloody pipes everywheres. Can’t hardly reach into a cloth-closet without you scald yerself on pipes.” She returned to the side of the bath. “Take that shift off, then. I’ll get a cloth and some soap and some clean clothes fer after.”

  Cat hesitated. Wearing only the shift was bad enough, but her weakness had kept her from noticing it before. The necessity of hiding that she was a girl meant that she’d never gone without clothes before, not even when she was with Mother Agnes. It wasn’t modesty so much as habit, but she was still uncomfortable.

  “Come on, now,” Emma said. “I left five little brothers and sisters at home, and I’ve tended y’ these last six days. You’ve nothing I haven’t both seen and wiped clean, so off with it.”

  Cat flushed but pulled the shift over her head. Even that effort exhausted her again and she collapsed back against the tub with her eyes closed and barely enough strength to cover herself with her hands. The copper of the tub was cold against her skin even through the linen sheet, but it heated rapidly as the water filled it.

  The heat of the water stung as it rose up her body, but after that it seemed to sink into her, easing aches she hadn’t even realized she had. It also discovered to her the few scrapes and cuts that hadn’t yet healed and set them stinging, but that felt good to her in an odd way.

  Emma returned with a sponge, several cloths, and two bars of soap.

  “I’ve a stronger soap to get the worst of grime off,” she said, “then a softer one to ease yer skin a bit.”

  Cat saw that the water, midway up her belly, was already dark with grime. She accepted the sponge and a bar of soap, smelling strongly of lye, from Emma, but she soon found that she lacked the strength to work up any sort of lather or to really scrub.

  “Lean back,” Emma said. “Yer weak as a babe.”

  Cat did as instructed. She closed her eyes, first with embarrassment, but then with a certain pleasure as Emma scrubbed her. The heat of the water was luxuriant and the scrubbing, while rough to get at the caked in grime and dirt, was almost pleasant.

  She opened her eyes once when Emma grunted and there came a gurgle of water. Emma had pulled some sort of plug from the bottom of the bath and the water level was sinking.

  “Water’s too filthy to do more than move the dirt around,” Emma said, nodding toward the window. “Drains out under the window there.” She sat back on her heels and crossed her arms on the tub’s edge. “You sit back. We’ll fill ‘er up again when this lot’s gone and ‘ave another go.”

  Cat nodded and leaned back. The air was cool on her skin as the water drained, so
she wrapped her arms about herself and drew her legs up, partly out of embarrassment, despite Emma’s words that she’d seen it all before. While she waited for the fresh water to fill, Cat considered all that Emma had said so far.

  “Is a place here very good?” she asked. Any place would be better than the streets, she suspected, but she’d heard dire stories of how servants were treated in some households. Emma, though, seemed quite happy here.

  “Oh, aye!” The girl rested her cheek on her crossed arms and smiled. “There’s two hot meals a day, and breakfast is more than bread and drippings, mind you, not like some houses. Half a day every Sunday for church and a full Sunday once a month.”

  “What … what sort of work might I be asked to do?”

  “Well, Cook’s gettin’ on a bit, she is. Might could use a hand in the kitchen.” She smiled wider. “Or y’might be put to helping me with the cleanin’. There’s only Cook and me, y’see? Well, there’s the master’s valet and a man-of-all-work, too, but the one only sees to the master and t’other mostly works the grounds.”

  “I see,” Cat said. “So, cooking or cleaning? No … other work?” What Cat really wanted to ask was about the stories she’d heard of how female servants were treated in some households, but couldn’t quite think how to phrase it. The question itself must have been enough, however, for Emma’s brow furrowed and she frowned.

  “Oh,” she said, “no. None of that here. The master’s a grand, kind man, he is. A real gentleman, for all he’s not titled a’tall.” She paused. “Has his ways, o’course, as any might. But more than fair, I’ll say that.”

  The tub had mostly drained, save for a thin layer of mud at the bottom, leaving Cat both astounded and embarrassed at the amount of grime that had been on her. Emma rose and swung the pipe from the chimney back into place. Fresh hot water splashed into the tub.

  “Three years I been here,” Emma continued, “and never a bit o’ that. He don’ come here much even. Spends most of the time at his city house.”

  Cat relaxed. Emma was a pretty enough girl, as she understood such things. Surely if this Mister Edward Roffe were the sort to take advantage of his servants he’d have done so with her.

  “I think the master pines fer his dead wife,” Emma went on. “He’s a widower, you see? Wife and little girl died years ago, and he never took another. Very sad, it is.”

  “Yes, it is,” Cat agreed.

  The tub filled with water and Emma resumed scrubbing. In all, it took three more fillings of the tub before Emma was satisfied that it was the best they could do in one sitting. Cat’s skin stung and felt raw, but a final wash with the milder soap, scented with lavender and chamomile, eased her. The last filling of the tub, almost to the brim, and the subsequent peaceful soaking while Emma saw to fresh bedclothes, eased her even more.

  “I’ve a porridge brought up from the kitchen,” Emma called from the other room, “with cream and honey, since the bread’s sat easy in you.”

  This must be very like Heaven, I think.

  Chapter 6

  For Cat it would always be the next day in that house that was the source of some of her fondest memories.

  After returning to bed for a rest the day before, she’d gone to sleep warm, clean, comfortable, and with a full belly for, perhaps, the first time in her life. Certainly, the first time she could remember. But to wake up from a restful sleep the same, to be met on waking by Emma, who brought a tray of tea and toast for her to break her fast, this time with butter and jam as well as cream and sugar for the tea, and then to dress in clean, albeit plain, clothes … well, it was quite the most wondrous morning Cat had ever dared dream of. The start of a day that only became more wonderful as it went on.

  “It’s only plain stuff,” Emma said as she helped Cat dress. Cat’s experience with clothing being limited to cast-off tunics and trousers, skirts and stays were quite beyond her knowledge. “Cast off bits Cook asked for in the village. The master’s a fine one, but just like a man to run off and think nothing that ye’d have naught to wear a’tall.”

  “I’m grateful for it, Emma,” Cat said, “thank you.”

  “Ye’ve truly never wore the like?” Emma asked as she tied the stays and handed Cat a loose blouse.

  Cat settled the blouse over her shoulders and shook her head.

  “Well, when y’ave yer own, don’t strait-lace it, or you’ll not make it through a day’s work.” She eyed Cat critically. “You’ll do fer now. I’ve no cap or collar fer you, but yer presentable. Master’ll provide a proper kit if yer t’ave a place.”

  “Thank you,” Cat said again. She smoothed her skirts, trying to adjust to the clothing. It wasn’t that the clothes were uncomfortable, just that they were so very different than what she was used to. And so many more of them. Skirts and undergarments — the stays, though not tightly-laced, felt very constricting, though Cat could see how the garment might offer some welcome support through a hard day’s work. And she wasn’t even wearing the whole of it. They’d found no spare shoes or stockings that might fit her, so she was still barefoot.

  “‘Ave you strength to walk downstairs?” Emma asked.

  “I believe so,” Cat said. A bit of food and a night’s rest without sickness had done wonders for her.

  “Cook ‘as a proper breakfast in the kitchen.”

  Cat’s stomach growled, even with the morning’s toast and tea, and she grinned. “It appears I can find the strength for that, at least.”

  Emma grinned back. “Sounds it,” she said. “Follow me, then.”

  They left the bedroom and Cat looked around the rest of the house with interest. Whatever this artifice was, there must be a great deal of coin in it, for the house was huge to Cat’s eyes. She counted twelve doorways before they reached the staircase and the hallway floor was covered in rugs and runners that she thought would fetch a nice sum from a picker. There were even chairs and pieces of furniture in the hall, which made little sense to Cat.

  With all these rooms to choose from, why would they need to sit in the hall?

  “Most of t’house is closed,” Emma said. “Just the master’s room and the one yer in we keep open.” She paused and frowned. “The master dint leave word fer what to do with ye when y’woke. Didn’t say to move y’to servants’ quarters or nothing.” She grinned. “I think if he hasn’t said, then y’should stay where y’are.”

  “Should I?” Cat asked. The last thing she wanted to do was anger her benefactor. She was still wary of his intentions — in her experience no one helped another without something in it for them — but Emma seemed to think he was a kind man.

  Emma nodded. “He ordered y’put there and said not a thing about movin’ ye,” she said. She grasped Cat’s arm and pulled her toward the stairs. “It’ll be a grand lark, now yer better. Y’can play at bein’ a lady, an’ I’ll practice bein’ a lady’s maid.” She nodded. “I’ve ambitions, I do.”

  “Is that good?” Cat asked. “To be a lady’s maid?”

  “It’s the grandest thing t’be, I think,” Emma said.

  “What … what does one do as a lady’s maid?” If Mister Roffe truly did offer her a place, then perhaps Cat, too, could aspire to one day being a lady’s maid. It was certainly a better thing to be than a cutpurse.

  “She helps a lady with her clothes and bath and, well, all manner of things.”

  “And what does a lady do?” Cat asked, never having seen someone she’d call a lady in the markets.

  “Well, I suppose she lazes about and gets dressed and bathed and fed,” Emma said.

  The lady’s role sounds far more what one should aspire to, Cat thought, but aloud, “I’ll see if I can play at that for you then, Emma. Just so you can practice, you understand.”

  “Oh, aye, all fer me, I’m sure,” Emma said grinning. She took Cat’s arm and the two hurried down the stairs. “You just enjoy it while y’can. A’fore that room’s closed up again like the rest of ‘em.”

  Indeed, when they’d d
escended the stairs most of the rooms on the main floor looked closed up to Cat, with furnishings covered by large sheets. To hear Emma tell it, this Mister Roffe only visited the country house a time or two each year, which made Cat wonder why he kept the home at all. She also wondered if Emma might be mistaken about him offering her a place, since the small staff already there seemed to have the limited work well in hand. Unused or not, though, what she saw of the rooms and furnishings spoke of wealth as much as the upstairs did.

  The kitchen and staff areas on the main floor were plainer, but still finer than anything Cat was used to.

  She met Mrs. Singley, the cook, who Emma referred to simply as Cook. As did Skiff, the gardener and groundskeeper.

  “It’s good ter see you up an’ about, lass,” Cook said, sliding a plate in front of Cat. “It’s Cat yer called, is it?”

  Cat stared at the plate in shock. She’d thought the toast with jam and the porridge were fine, but before her was a mound of eggs, sausages, and potatoes, not to mention more bread than she thought she could possibly eat. She blinked back tears, remembering what Emma had said about the meals here. No, it’s not just bread and drippings, is it.

  She shook herself.

  “Yes, it’s Cat, thank you.” She looked up from the plate. “This is for me?”

  Cook gave her a look tinged with sympathy, and Cat might have taken offense if it hadn’t clearly been so kind-hearted.

  “Skiff’s had a good year with the chickens, he has,” she said. “Hardly know what ter do with all the eggs. Between them and the gardens we’ve plenty.” She set similar plates in front of the other two and got one for herself.

  Cat ate her breakfast in silence. The others, perhaps sensing that she was unsure of herself, talked of the coming day’s chores and asked her only a few questions. Cat tried to answer as honestly as she could without coming right out and saying that she’d been raised in the gutter, and they didn’t pry.

  After breakfast, Emma took Cat on a careful walk around the grounds, with frequent stops for Cat to rest, as she was still easily tired.