by Jo Baker
When Sarah came through from clearing the scullery, hands smarting, back aching, arms stiff with overwork, Mrs. Hill was laying the table for the servants’ dinner. She slapped a plate of cold souse down and glared at Sarah, as if to say, Abandon me, and this is what you can expect. You only have yourself to blame. The pickled brawn was greyish pink, jellied, a convenience when cooking was not to be contemplated; Sarah regarded it with loathing.
Mr. Hill sidled in. Beyond him, in the yard, Sarah caught a glimpse of one of the labourers from the next farm along, who tucked in his neckerchief and raised a hand in farewell. Mr. Hill just nodded to him, and shut the door. He wiped his hands on his trousers, tongue exploring a troubling tooth. He sat down. The souse wobbled on the table as Mrs. Hill cut the bread.
Sarah slipped into the pantry, where she gathered up the mustard pot and the stone jar of pickled walnuts, and the black butter and the horseradish, and brought this armful of condiments back to the kitchen table with her, setting them down beside the salt and butter. The feeling was returning to her hands now and her chilblains were a torment; she rubbed at them, the flank of one hand chafing against the other. Mrs. Hill frowned at her and shook her head. Sarah sat on her hands, which was some relief: Mrs. Hill was right, scratching would only make them worse, but it was an agony not to scratch.
Polly ambled in from the yard with a cloud of fresh air, rosy cheeks and an innocent look, as though she had been working as hard as anybody could be reasonably expected to work: she sat at the table and picked up her knife and spoon, and then put them down again when Mr. Hill dipped his grizzled face towards his linked fists. Sarah and Mrs. Hill joined their hands together too, and muttered along with him as he said Grace. When he was done there was a clattering and scrabbling of cutlery. The souse shivered under Mrs. Hill’s knife.
“Is he upstairs then, missus?” Sarah asked.
Mrs. Hill did not even look up. “Hm?”
“The scotchman. Is he still upstairs with the ladies? I thought he’d be done up there by now.”
Mrs. Hill frowned impatiently, slapped a lump of the jelly onto her husband’s plate, another onto Sarah’s. “What?”
“She thinks she saw a scotchman,” Polly said.
“I did see a scotchman.”
“You didn’t. You just wish you did.”
Mr. Hill looked up from his plate; pale eyes flicked from one girl to the other. Silenced, Sarah poked at the pickled brawn; Polly, feeling this to be a victory, shovelled hers up into a grin. Mr. Hill returned his baleful gaze to his plate.
“There’s no one called at the house at all,” Mrs. Hill said. “Not since Mrs. Long this morning.”
“I thought I saw a man. I thought I saw him coming down the lane.”
“Must have been one of the farmhands.”
Mr. Hill scraped the jelly up to his mouth, his jaw swinging back and forth like a cow’s, to make best use of his few teeth. Sarah tried not to notice him; it was a trick to be performed at every meal time: the not-noticing of Mr. Hill. No, she wanted to say; it was not one of the farmhands, it could not have been. She had seen him. And she had heard him, whistling that faint, uncatchable tune. The idea that it could have been one of those rawboned lumpen boys, or one of the shambling old men you’d come upon sitting on stiles, gumming their pipes—she was just not having it.
But she knew better than to protest, in the face of Mr. Hill’s silence, Mrs. Hill’s brittle temper, and Polly’s general contrariness. Mrs. Hill, though, seeing her disappointment, softened; she reached over and tucked a loose strand of Sarah’s hair back inside her cap.
“Eat your dinner up, love.”
Sarah’s smile was small and quickly gone. She cut off a piece of souse, smeared it with mustard, and then horseradish, then blobbed it with black butter, spiked a slice of pickled walnut, and placed the lot cautiously between her lips. She chewed. The stuff was hammy, jellied, with melting bits of brain and stringy shreds of cheeks and scraps of unexpected crunch. She swallowed, and took a swift gulp of her small beer. The one good thing about today was that it would soon be over.
After dinner, she and Polly and Mrs. Hill sat, silent with fatigue, and passed the pot of goose-grease between them. Sarah dug out a whitish lump and softened it between her fingertips. She eased the grease into her raw hands, then flexed and curled her fingers. Though still sore, the skin was made supple again, and did not split.
Mr. Hill, out of kindness to the women, washed up the dinner things ineffectually in the scullery; they could hear the slapping water, the scraping and clattering. Mrs. Hill winced for the china.
Later, Mr. B. would ring the library bell for a slice of cake to go with his Madeira wine, making Mr. Hill start bad-temperedly awake and shamble off to give it to him. An hour or so after that, Mrs. Hill would fetch away his crumby plate and smeared glass, and Sarah would gather the ladies’ supper things from the parlour and carry them down on a chinking tray, and that would be that. On washday, the supper dishes could wait for tomorrow’s water. On a washday, too, Sarah did not have the attention necessary to read whatever book she had borrowed last from Mr. B. Instead she had a lend of his old Courier, and read out loud, for Mrs. Hill’s benefit, the news from three days ago, soft with folding and refolding, the ink smudging on her goose-greased hands. She read softly—so as not to disturb the sleeping child or the drowsy old man—the account of new hopes for a swift victory in Spain, and how Buonaparte had now been put on the back foot, and would soon be on the hop, the notion of which made her think of the war as a dance, and generals joining hands and spinning. And then there was a noise.
Sarah let the paper hang from her hand. “Did you hear that?”
“Eh?” asked Mrs. Hill, blinking up from the edge of sleep. “What?”
“I don’t know, a noise outside. Something.”
A soft whinny then, and the bump and thud of horses unsettled in their stalls.
“I think there’s someone out there.” Sarah set the paper aside, went to lift the child’s sleeping head off her knee.
“It’s nothing,” Mrs. Hill said.
Polly sat up, still three-quarters asleep. Mr. Hill muttered, blinked, then reared up suddenly, wiping his chin. “What is it?”
“I heard something.”
They all listened for a moment.
“It might be gypsies—” Sarah said.
“What would gypsies want here?” Mr. Hill asked.
“Well, the horses.”
“Gypsies know horses; gypsies would have more sense.”
They listened again. Polly leaned her head against Sarah’s shoulder, eyes closing.
“It’s nothing. It’s probably a rat,” said Mrs. Hill. “Puss’ll see to it.”
Sarah nodded, but still listened. Polly’s breathing softened again, her body going slack.
“All right, then,” Sarah said. “Bed.”
As Sarah stripped the lacing from her stays, moonlight seeped underneath the curtains, and soaked right through their weave. In her shift, she drew back the drapes and looked out across the yard, at the moon hanging huge and yellow above the stables. All was clear, almost, as day; the buildings stood silent, the windows dark; there was no movement. No gypsies certainly, not even the slip-scurry of a rat.
Might it be the scotchman? Might he be bedding down for the night here, and away at dawn before anybody knew? His pack empty, he’d be off to restock at one of the market or manufacturing towns. Now that would be a thing indeed, to live like that. To be there and gone and never staying anywhere a moment longer than you wanted; to wander through the narrow lanes and the wide city streets, perhaps even as far as the sea. By tomorrow, who knew: he could be at Stevenage, or maybe even London.
Her candle guttered in the draught. Sarah blew out the flame, dropped the curtain, and crept into bed beside Polly’s sleeping warmth. She lay looking across at the veiled window: she would not get a wink, not tonight; she was quite sure of it, not with the bright moonlight and the knowledge
that the pedlar might yet be out there. But Sarah, being young, and having been on her feet and hard at work since four thirty, and it now striking eleven, was soon breathing softly, lost in sleep.
“Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable.”
They were lucky to get him. That was what Mr. B. said, as he folded his newspaper and set it aside. What with the War in Spain, and the press of so many able fellows into the Navy; there was, simply put, a dearth of men.
A dearth of men? Lydia repeated the phrase, anxiously searching her sisters’ faces: was this indeed the case? Was England running out of men?
Her father raised his eyes to heaven; Sarah, meanwhile, made big astonished eyes at Mrs. Hill: a new servant joining the household! A manservant! Why hadn’t she mentioned it before? Mrs. Hill, clutching the coffee pot to her bosom, made big eyes back, and shook her head: shhh! I don’t know, and don’t you dare say a word! So Sarah just gave half a nod, clamped her lips shut, and returned her attention to the table, proffering the platter of cold ham: all would come clear in good time, but it did not do to ask. It did not do to speak at all, unless directly addressed. It was best to be deaf as a stone to these conversations, and seem as incapable of forming an opinion on them.
Miss Mary lifted the serving fork and skewered a slice of ham. “Papa doesn’t mean your beaux, Lydia—do you, Papa?”
Mr. B., leaning out of the way so that Mrs. Hill could pour his coffee, said that indeed he did not mean her beaux: Lydia’s beaux always seemed to be in more than plentiful supply. But of working men there was a genuine shortage, which is why he had settled with this lad so promptly—this with an apologetic glance to Mrs. Hill, as she moved around him and went to fill his wife’s cup—though the quarter day of Michaelmas was not quite yet upon them, it being the more usual occasion for the hiring and dismissal of servants.
“You don’t object to this hasty act, I take it, Mrs. Hill?”
“Indeed I am very pleased to hear of it, sir, if he be a decent sort of fellow.”
“He is, Mrs. Hill; I can assure you of that.”
“Who is he, Papa? Is he from one of the cottages? Do we know the family?”
Mr. B. raised his cup before replying. “He is a fine upstanding young man, of good family. I had an excellent character of him.”
“I, for one, am very glad that we will have a nice young man to drive us about,” said Lydia, “for when Mr. Hill is perched up there on the carriage box it always looks as though we have trained a monkey, shaved him here and there and put him in a hat.”
Mrs. Hill stepped away from the table, and set the coffee pot down on the buffet.
“Lydia!” Jane and Elizabeth spoke at once.
“What? He does, you know he does. Just like a spider-monkey, like the one Mrs. Long’s sister brought with her from London.”
Mrs. Hill looked down at a willow-pattern dish, empty, though crusted round with egg. The three tiny people still crossed their tiny bridge, and the tiny boat crawled like an earwig across the china sea, and all was calm there, and unchanging, and perfect. She breathed. Miss Lydia meant no harm, she never did. And however heedlessly she expressed herself, she was right: this change was certainly to be welcomed. Mr. Hill had become, quite suddenly, old. Last winter had been a worrying time: the long drives, the late nights while the ladies danced or played at cards; he had got deeply cold, and had shivered for hours by the fire on his return, his breath rattling in his chest. The coming winter’s balls and parties might have done for him entirely. A nice young man to drive the carriage, and to take up the slack about the house; it could only be to the good.
Mrs. Bennet had heard tell, she was now telling her husband and daughters delightedly, of how in the best households they had nothing but menservants waiting on the family and guests, on account of everyone knowing that they cost more in the way of wages, and that there was a high tax to pay on them, because all the fit strong fellows were wanted for the fields and for the war. When it was known that the Bennets now had a smart young man about the place, waiting at table, opening the doors, it would be a thing of great note and marvel in the neighbourhood.
“I am sure our daughters should be vastly grateful to you, for letting us appear to such advantage, Mr. Bennet. You are so considerate. What, pray, is the young fellow’s name?”
“His given name is James,” Mr. Bennet said. “The surname is a very common one. He is called Smith.”
“James Smith.”
It was Mrs. Hill who had spoken, barely above her breath, but the words were said. Jane lifted her cup and sipped; Elizabeth raised her eyebrows but stared at her plate; Mrs. B. glanced round at her housekeeper. Sarah watched a flush rise up Mrs. Hill’s throat; it was all so new and strange that even Mrs. Hill had forgot herself for a moment. And then Mr. B. swallowed, and cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“As I said, a common enough name. I was obliged to act with some celerity in order to secure him, which is why you were not sooner informed, Mrs. Hill; I would much rather have consulted you in advance.”
Cheeks pink, the housekeeper bowed her head in acknowledgement.
“Since the servants’ attics are occupied by your good self, your husband and the housemaids, I have told him he might sleep above the stables. Other than that, I will leave the practical and domestic details to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured.
“Well.” Mr. B. shook out his paper, and retreated behind it. “There we are, then. I am glad that it is all settled.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. B. “Are you not always saying, Hill, how you need another pair of hands about the place? This will lighten your load, will it not? This will lighten all your loads.”
Their mistress took in Sarah with a wave of her plump hand, and then, with a flap towards the outer reaches of the house, indicated the rest of the domestic servants: Mr. Hill who was hunkered in the kitchen, riddling the fire, and Polly who was, at that moment, thumping down the back stairs with a pile of wet Turkish towels and a scowl.
“You should be very grateful to Mr. Bennet for his thoughtfulness, I am sure.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Sarah.
The words, though softly spoken, made Mrs. Hill glance across at her; the two of them caught eyes a moment.
“Thank you, sir,” said Mrs. Hill.
Mrs. Bennet dabbed a further spoonful of jam on her remaining piece of buttered muffin, popped it in her mouth, and chewed it twice; she spoke around her mouthful: “That’ll be all, Hill.”
Mr. B. looked up from his paper at his wife, and then at his housekeeper.
“Yes, thank you very much, Mrs. Hill,” he said. “That will be all for now.”
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless …
Sarah carried a chamber pot down from the Bennets’ room, crossing the landing towards the narrow back stairs. She went carefully, head turned aside. Just nightwater, thankfully; not the dreadful slopping thunk of solids.
It was pissing it down outside, and confined by bad weather for the morning, the young ladies made the house rattle with noise. From upstairs came the sound of Mary practising on the piano—it seemed, to Sarah’s untrained ear, rather pleasant: lots of notes, in quick succession, and most of them sounded like the right ones—a laugh from Lydia, hammering footfalls, and then an angry outburst from poor Kitty—“Too many people in this house! Just too many people!”—and then Elizabeth’s calls for peace, and then Jane’s emollient tones, and then, for a while at least, calm. Oil on troubled waters, Jane was: a blanket over flames.
Sarah clumped down to the ground floor, past the open door onto the hall, where she caught the low mutter of Mr. B.’s voice coming from the library; he’d often address himself to the empty air, or rather to his book: it was the only way, he’d say, that he could be sure of a decent conversation in that place.
Just past the open doorway, Sarah stopped, mid-step: there was another voice. It was as though the book that he
’d been talking to had spoken back. It was a woman’s voice, pitched low, so that the words themselves could not be distinguished, but Sarah recognized the speaker instantly. It was Mrs. Hill. And she just kept on talking.
Sarah took a step back and peered down the hallway. The library door was shut. The glossy wood, the polished brass doorknob: all was as it ever was, and as it should be. And yet the door seemed somehow quite particularly, pointedly shut.
The pot was growing heavy in her hands, and she could hear the rain hissing down outside, and the gutters dripping, and Mrs. Hill still talking, low, urgent, insistent, the words themselves teasingly unclear. It was a cardinal sin to eavesdrop; Mrs. Hill herself had impressed this upon both Sarah and Polly in their training, but this was just too much. Sarah set the pot down on the bare boards, slipped out of the servants’ corridor and crept, breath held, along the main hall.
A hand on the cool wood of the library door, she listened. She still could not hear what was being said; she could only hear that something was; so it wasn’t really eavesdropping, was it? And still Mrs. Hill talked, and talked, and the longer she talked the stranger it became that she was still talking. Mr. B. would lend you a book, but he didn’t want to hear what you thought about it. He’d say thank you for any service you performed, but he wouldn’t even catch your eye. How could she have so much to say to him, and why—and this was the truly baffling thing—was he just letting her go on saying it?
Then something changed. Three words from Mr. Bennet, like dropped stones: You may go, Sarah guessed. She raced on tiptoe back down the hall, slipping through the open door into the servants’ corridor. Heart pounding, she crouched to lift the chamber pot, then peered back the way she’d come. But Mrs. Hill did not emerge. And from inside the library it was like when the ginger beer went wrong—the top burst off the bottle, the contents foaming out until what must be spilt was spilt: a torrent from Mrs. Hill. Sarah’s eyes widened. How could she be so angry? How could she dare to be?
