The Maid and the Footman

by Don Jacobson

  His business concluded, he straightened his uniform and picked his way back toward Cecil House on Grosvenor Square. Taking a shortcut, he passed through Hyde Park. He forced himself to slowly stroll on the packed sand of the path adjacent to the Serpentine. The Sergeant resisted the temptation, drilled into him through six years in Wellington’s army, to quick march at 120 beats per minute.

  Sadly this urge was not the only remnant of the army, his home since he had joined up as a lad of four and ten. Now, ten years later, his back laced with the thin white cobwebs of three floggings, he was bedeviled with other-worldly breaks in reality where he was suddenly surrounded by screaming, dying men. He could not predict when a spell would hit him. All he knew was that when one did arrive, he would be transported to Waterloo or Vitoria or Salamanca. He would be insensible to all around him when he was in the throes of the vision.

  A cooling breeze swept through the park. The warm air smelled sweetly of rose bushes in full bloom. Wilson could feel the tension of the past months begin to seep out of him. Those horrific four days in Belgium were followed by a fortnight of paying off his regiment only to be finally told by the Colonel that he, too, was being released. He spent another fortnight dealing with teamsters and fishing boat captains to get to and then escape from Ostend. His Channel crossing ended in Bristol. Then he endured several days of riding atop a coach and making do in the public rooms at inns along the way…all to get to London and Cecil House.

  Through it all, he managed to keep his sabretache protected. Therein lay his future wrapped in cotton batting—ten thumbnail-sized diamonds ranging from blue to crystal clear, a number of iridescent pink pearls and three rubies big as walnuts—all remnants of the Spanish treasury left on Vitoria’s field by Joseph Bonaparte. Eventually, when he discovered someone trustworthy, he would sell these and deposit the proceeds at Coutt’s Bank in the Three Percents. They would be his path to step beyond his childhood. He thought of opening a tobacco shop in one of the newer up-and-coming neighborhoods in the city, maybe near the warehouses in Cheapside. His manner and looks would encourage a better class of clientele, men hoping to become gentlemen through hard work and wit. Oh, he would marry, and they would live over the shop to start. Then, once things got going, they could purchase a real house nearby. Well, time enough for that!

  He settled on a bench, spreading his long arms along the top board. Wilson closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sun. Now was his chance to get a some peace. He would have precious little once he got back to Cecil House. Mr. Hastings looked like many a top sergeant he had run across in his life—more competent than most of the officers under whom they served, but smart enough to recognize they could never hope to rise into those exalted ranks themselves. Hastings would keep Wilson on the move…and maybe add a little extra to remind him of this morning’s impertinence.

  Crunching footsteps and a child’s excited voice broke through his reverie. Blinking away the afternoon sun, he spied a young girl, maybe seven or eight years old, walking hand in hand with a medium height blonde lady with stunning china blue eyes. She was dressed in the dove grey of a governess. A well-hewn footman in full livery in spite of the oppressive heat shadowed them. Sweat trickled down his face and stained his collar and underarms.

  Think it is hot here, boy-o? You do not know hot until you have enjoyed the Spanish interior in July. Now, that is some real heat! We’d lose two or three men every day. Not just falling out of file, but dropping dead from heat stroke.

  I cannot be too harsh on the lad. After all, that could be me next week once I get my outfit!

  After the trio had passed, Wilson released a deep breath, brushed his pant legs and rose to his feet. Squaring his shoulders, the ex-Sergeant resumed his march back to Grosvenor Square.

  Chapter III

  How do that boy’s toys end up buried in the one place I cannot reach?

  Annie was stretched out on her belly with her head crammed against the sideboard of Marcus’ child-sized bed. Sweeping her right arm underneath, her fingertips barely touched the building block only managing to push it further out of reach. She then grabbed the feather duster lying by her side. Another attempt was met with a loud “thunk” as she made solid contact with the offending object as if she was a batsman at Lord’s field in St. John’s Wood.[xii] The toy skittered to wedge itself in the corner where the footboard abutted the wall.

  Frustrated, she lifted herself to sit on the floor, legs crossed like a fakir. Staring at the bed as if she could will it to float off the floor and move itself away from the wall, she huffed a breath to blow away a curl of light brown hair that had escaped her mobcap. Both of the child beds had withstood generations of Cecil boisterousness and must have been constructed by Navy carpenters, she mused, as they were of solid English oak and weighed at least 11 stone![xiii] There was simply no way she would be able to shift it from its present position to get at the toy.

  Unlike some of the other maids in harness at Cecil House, Anne Reynolds was more slightly built. That is not to suggest she was a wasting, pale flower like some of the ladies she had served in the parlors at Larchmont. She stood at most three inches over five feet—but she was a tough like a barnyard hen! Her lithe athletic frame had been hardened through six years of emptying chamber pots, polishing stone and hardwood floors, and lugging thousands of gallons of hot water up three flights of stairs so that the Cecils and their guests could be fresh for dinner every evening. Then while the gentlefolk ate and drank and then whiled away the time playing cards or music, footmen emptied and removed the pounded copper tubs while the maids set the rooms for the evening. Once those tasks had been accomplished, the lady’s maids and valets awaited their mistresses and masters before they, too, could rest. The cycle began again shortly after dawn.

  Staff had to make do with one bath a week at best. Even then, as a younger maid, Annie had to wait her turn at the tub. She would usually be one of the last to settle into the tepid, greyish water, pushing the soap scum aside, hoping to scrape off days of dried sweat. However, this sojourn at Cecil House was different because Lady Mary and Lord Tom had brought relatively few of the Larchmont servants into Town. Mr. and Mrs. Hastings had hired on a number of temporary maids and footmen. As a result, the Warwickshire household staff had precedence. The blessing of relatively warm and clean bathwater could not be under-estimated in Annie’s eyes.

  When I have my own house, the first thing I will get is a bathtub—even an old hipbath—and leave it in the kitchen right next to the stove. I would have a tub every night. Of course, my husband might demand his rights for first crack at the hot water. That would happen just once, believe me!

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the solution to her immediate problem. Hearing the clumping sounds of male footfalls mounting the back stairs, Annie quickly stood and opened the servant’s door to enlist the newcomer’s help.

  Her first sight was the top of his head as he arrived on the landing one flight below. She noticed the light hair, nearly bleached white by years of exposure to the sun. Then his shoulders became visible as he rounded the bend. Clad in a faded regimental jacket, they were massive! That unsettling vision caused a hidden chord deep inside her body to resonate like a violin string when plucked by the player.

  Her gasp alerted him that he was being observed and he looked up, his blue eyes catching her light brown ones. Flustered and blushing uncontrollably, she looked down. He finished his ascent and stopped in front of her, towering well over a foot above the top of her head.

  “Good afternoon,” was all he rumbled.

  Regaining a bit of her composure, Annie pertly replied, “Good afternoon, yourself. You must be the new footman the Mistress hired this morning.”

  Wilson was by nature a cautious man, hiding his true intentions behind his Sergeant’s Mask, which, when combined with his size, usually frightened away unwelcome approaches. But this little woman shook him to the core.

  Her eyes are remarkable. I have never seen a color
like that. They are brown, to be sure, but they look like caramel! A man could get stuck there and never want to escape!

  His lack of response and his stern countenance first puzzled and then angered Annie.

  “Excuse me, but it is polite to respond when someone has spoken to you…or did they beat all civility out of you when you took the King’s Shilling?” she snapped.

  At the word “beat,” Henry flinched involuntarily. Quickly he tried to make amends.

  “Please forgive me, Miss, I was woolgathering. Today has been quite busy and my attention slipped.” Annie’s eyes flashed at this, instantly slamming him to a halt.

  Oh, god. Not the best thing to say to a lady when she is standing in front of you.

  “Ummm…,” he fumbled, trying to recover, and then finally giving up, “I guess I am destined to apologize to you again and again. The dust of too many battlefields has clogged my brain and left me less than suitable for polite company. Allow me to introduce myself, Miss. I am Henry Wilson, most recently a Sergeant in his Majesty’s 33rd Foot. I was mustered out after the Duke finished that French bastard.

  “Oh, sorry…again,” he said with a sad grin, “And you are, Miss…?”

  Anne shyly smiled at his last indiscretion and then pulled herself to her full height, first putting her eyes level with the dulled silver lace stretched across his incredibly broad chest and then turning them upward to spear his, saying, “Reynolds, Mr. Wilson, Anne Reynolds. I am and have been a maid for the Cecil family these past six years. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  He dipped his head in a small bow. She responded with a little curtsey.

  

  Wilson placed both hands on his narrow hips and considered the bed.

  “You are telling me that you cannot move this wee thing,” he said.

  Annie looked at him, slightly exasperated at his tone.

  “I could probably drag it, but that would scratch the floor. Then there would be all sorts of trouble. You need to pick it up, move it away from the wall and let me get that block. Then you have to put it back without marking the floor…and no dropping it either! Do you think you can do that?” she quizzed.

  Wilson chuckled. He handed her his shako and bent his knees, gripping the foot posts with his huge hands. Then he effortlessly straightened his legs, lifting the bed six inches. Without moving his feet, he shifted the furniture a foot to the side and gently set it down on the gleaming oaken floorboards.

  Standing behind him, Annie could not help but admire his form.

  His pantaloons may be looser than what gentlemen wear, but they do little to hide those incredible thighs. How they moved just now. He is built like a V—everything wide at the top and dropping down to nothing at his ankles!

  She stepped around him and reached down to grab the block, in the process giving Wilson a thoughtful pause of his own.

  That work dress of hers leaves little to the imagination when it pulls tight across her hips like that. She is all woman, but tough. Her forearms look like she’s been working on a gun crew. Hmm…she said she’d been in service for the Cecils for six years. That would make her, what, seven and ten or so? Sure seems like it given that she has “all the right curves in all the right places.”[xiv]

  The two stood silently looking at one another, neither breathing much. The moment was suddenly broken by noise in the schoolroom adjacent to the nursery. Through the open door, a child’s voice could be heard prattling along.

  “Oh, Miss Bennet, how pretty it was in the park today. The sky is so clear. It was very hot. I am glad that Nurse had me wear a light dress today. I could never be dressed up like you ladies. Do you think Michael will recover? He looked absolutely fagged out, he did,” she enthusiastically burbled.

  A woman’s clear soprano broke in admonishing the girl, “ Miss Margaret Cecil! Where did you pick up that term? Saying ‘fagged out’ makes you sound like a street urchin. You must NEVER, EVER say that again!”

  Margaret’s chastened voice replied, sounding closer to tears than happiness, “I am sorry, Miss Bennet, but I overheard Michael telling Jonas at the front door that he was ‘absolutely fagged out.’ I did not think they were bad words.”

  “Oh no, my sweetling, do not cry. They are not bad words. They are just something a young lady should not say. Your Mama and Papa would be shocked. I doubt if either of them has ever said that because people like your family only use the best words.

  “Now what words would work better?”

  The youngster paused. Then she answered with, “Well, Michael was walking slowly behind us, and his face was red. I remember that because we had to slow down so he could keep up. I think I would say ‘Michael was quite tired.’”

  Miss Bennet’s voice beamed, “Excellent Margaret. See, when you use all the words in the King’s English, you can express yourself elegantly. Now, please settle yourself so that you may take a brief rest before we join your Mama for tea.”

  Henry and Annie looked quickly at one another. He quietly picked up the bed once again and returned it to its original position. Then with a nod he moved away from her, his booted feet barely whispering across the floor, and stepped back into the stairwell. Annie gently closed the door and began humming a happy tune to alert the others she was in the nursery.

  Chapter IV

  July 31, 1815, Cecil House, below stairs

  Hastings sat at the head of the long table in the common room where the entire staff was gathered for their evening meal. His wife sat on his right and the cook on his left. The rest of the staff settled into seats on the trestle benches. Wilson looked around, a bit confused as to his precedence in the downstairs pecking order. Footmen were above the scullery maids and kitchen skivvies and of roughly equal importance as the maids.

  However there were footmen who served in the dining room: on their way to becoming under-butlers and butlers. Then there were those who ran errands and opened doors and would never do any more than that. Wilson had concluded that his size would prevent him from becoming more than a much-appreciated furniture mover. On top of that, he was the most junior member of the staff.

  Hastings saw his indecision and rescued him. “Wilson, sit down next to Winters. I think you would be most comfortable if you perched on the end of the bench, no?” In a phrase, he told Henry who “Winters” was without having to go through introductions as well as alerting him as to his proper place in the pecking order.

  Winters looked up at Wilson’s bulk that dwarfed him. He grimaced in disgust and pushed over into the maid sitting next to him. She despised Winters and surreptitiously planted her elbow right in his ribs reminding him that personal space was something to be respected even in tight quarters.

  Annie watched the tableau with an amused smile. Although she had no siblings, she had heard Lady Mary chuckling with Miss Bennet about the high jinks in which she and her four sisters used to engage when crammed into the family carriage. Annie could just imagine five spirited girls jostling to fit onto one bench without irreversibly creasing their gowns while their parents sat opposite.

  Hastings cleared his throat to get everybody’s attention.

  “Before we begin our meal and the evening’s activities, I have a few items to bring to your attention.

  “First, I welcome a new member to our family. Henry Wilson, formerly a Sergeant in His Majesty’s Army, has joined us as a second footman. You see him seated next to Winters. I hope that you will make him feel comfortable and be ready to answer his questions.

  “Wilson, the Cecils are one of the first families in the realm. Your behavior and comportment will reflect on the Cecil name. Lady Mary and I have full confidence that you will not fail us in our expectations.

  “Also, Lady Mary has asked Mrs. Hastings to consider a solution to a pleasant problem. It seems that Sims, Miss Bennet’s and Miss Margaret’s lady’s maid, has accepted the marriage proposal of Mr. Anderton, under-butler at Burghley House. Once they wed, she will relocate with him to
Cranborne House here in the city where he will assume the post of butler and she will become under-housekeeper in the Viscount’s household. May we wish the happy couple joy?”

  The entire table broke into applause, as Sims was one of the most popular people below stairs. She dipped her head and blushed happily.

  Hastings now looked to his wife who took up where he left off.

  “Of course that means we need to replace her rather quickly because it seems that Mr. Anderton has purchased a special license, and the wedding will take place next Sunday. I am certain that the entire staff will be excited to attend, but that does not leave much time for Sims to train her successor. However, I quickly selected a logical candidate. When I offered her name to Lady Mary, she readily agreed.

  “As such, I spoke with our nominee this afternoon. She meets the estimation we had of her character. That was, to be honest, no surprise. Her forebears have served their families well and with distinction. We are pleased to announce that Anne Reynolds will succeed Sims. She will begin her training immediately after dinner tonight.

  “And, to replace Reynolds as an upstairs maid, we have decided to elevate Sarah Small from her current position in the laundry on probation,” Mrs. Hastings concluded.

  Annie looked across the table at Sarah who beamed back a proud, brilliant smile. She mouthed “Congratulations” back at Annie who nodded in reply.

  Mr. Hastings’ face became more serious, “Now to one last, less pleasant, matter. After he returned from escorting Miss Margaret and Miss Bennet to the park this afternoon, Michael Johnson fell ill. Apparently he became terribly overheated in this unnatural weather. Dr. Campbell was called and insisted that Johnson be immediately immersed in an ice bath.

  “I am pleased to let you know that Johnson is now on the mend and colorfully complaining about being subjected to what he called ‘insidious torture worse than the ‘indoos could devise.’