by Rose Lerner
“Thank you.”
“I apologize for asking, but are you quite sure her illness can’t be cured? We might approach doctors first.”
“Her little brother and sister died of it already, a few years back. She says she knows it can’t be cured, and she doesn’t want to be bled and starved and dosed and fed false hope until— But it could be months and months.”
“Can she receive assistance from the parish?”
“She’s tried to get a settlement in Lively St. Lemeston, but the parish won’t give her one. She moved here from Nuthurst after her family died. She’d have one if she married Jack, the reptile.”
John wrote no settlement in his notebook. “I see a number of avenues to assisting her. Would she like to go home to Nuthurst? The parish here will pay for her journey.”
Molly shook her head emphatically.
“Very well. Is she Orange-and-Purple or Pink-and-White?”
Molly made a face. “Pink-and-White, of course, sir.”
“Of course.”
Molly’s face changed. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
He smiled, although he had hoped she was Orange-and-Purple, since his own connections were on that side. “It’s quite all right. Might I point out that Mr. Summers has a great deal of sway in the parish vestry? You might prevail on him to help your friend get a settlement.”
Molly made an apprehensive noise. He didn’t blame her. Mr. Summers could be very sarcastic when he’d a mind to, and it could be hard to guess when he’d have a mind to.
“Should that fail, we may try approaching others with influence,” he said matter-of-factly. “Mrs. Toogood, I believe, is friendly with the wife of the Pink-and-White agent Mr. Gilchrist. Sarah is a laundress, is she not? Has she many customers?”
“She did.”
“If we fail to get her on the parish, perhaps she could find another young woman who would care for her in exchange for inheriting her business.”
Molly’s face brightened. “I never thought of that.”
“Two heads are better than one.” John poured her a cup of strong tea. “Now. Your father. Has he any money of his own?”
She warmed her hands on the cup, hunching to breathe in the rich smell. John felt a little calmer himself at having done something positive to cheer her. “He does get money from the parish. He was a carpenter, but he lost his leg on a job a few years ago.”
“And when you say that you make sure your father is eating, do you mean that you buy him food?”
She nodded shamefacedly, her mouth a tight line. “Every quarter day I give some of my wages to a neighbor, and she puts bread in the cupboard on Sundays.”
“Because his own money is spent on drink.”
“But he still doesn’t eat it if I don’t remind him.” Her voice was hard, even argumentative, but her eyes were pleading. “I have to visit. I have to. He could die in that hole and no one would find him until Saturday. Just fall down the stairs and lie there bleeding.” She gulped down her tea as if hoping it would make her feel less tired.
“Could the neighbor look in on him?”
“He doesn’t listen to her. He only listens to me.” She glanced despairingly at Mrs. Khaleel. “He loves me. He’s a good father and I can’t just let him…”
John didn’t like what he was about to say, but it had to be said. He leaned forward, keeping his voice impassive. “Perhaps it is time for him to go in the workhouse. He would be safe and fed there.” Unfortunately, it was an option not open to Sarah, as neither workhouses nor hospitals would take consumptives.
She bit her lip. “He’d hate it. He’d be miserable. He might even—he’s sick when he don’t drink now.” But John would have sworn a flash of hope crossed her face.
“His existence does not sound particularly happy at home,” John said gently. “How much worse could the workhouse be? And perhaps after some time without strong drink, he will do better and go home again. Or we might be able to find him a place in an almshouse.”
That was definitely hope on her face now, but she sighed, shoulders slumping. “He’d never go.”
“You cannot go on like this. Believe me, I know what it is like to feel responsible for—for everything. I spent many years as a valet precisely to limit my obligations. But you cannot be in three places at once and do the work of three people, any more than I can.”
“There’s a difference between worrying over my father’s life and worrying over how neatly a bed is made,” the girl snapped.
Mrs. Khaleel made a warning murmur, and John sat back, startled. “I like things to be done properly, yes. A well-made bed is a satisfying object to look upon. But my real concern is that we give Mr. Summers satisfaction and all retain our positions.”
“Mr. Summers never complained about how I made his bed.”
No. John supposed he hadn’t.
“You believe I should worry less about you and the other servants, and do my own work. That I should leave you to make your own mistakes.”
“Yes!”
“If I go back to bed and permit you to continue to leave this house in the night, and you are caught and sacked, or catch your death from walking about at night in wet clothes, would you really hold me blameless?”
“Yes.”
“Then how can you be blamed if your father chooses not to eat?”
She glared at him, clearly feeling that he had somehow cheated.
“It is a hard lesson to learn, and I have not entirely learned it myself,” he said quietly, “but we cannot be everywhere at once. But it will be left undone if I don’t do it, I think, and it’s very difficult for me to accept the answer, Then it won’t be done. Sarah and your father—I hope and believe we can find ways to help them. But whether we do or not, you do not owe it to anyone to risk your livelihood or to go without sleep dunnamany nights in the week. You look tired. Aren’t you?”
She shut her eyes in defeat, then laid her head in her arms on the table. “So tired,” she confessed in a whisper.
“You are a good friend, a good daughter and a good servant,” he told her. “You will still be all of those things when you are sleeping and safe at home at night.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said glumly.
She reminded him terribly of himself. “Have you given any thought to where you wish to be in ten years?” he asked her. “Would you like to manage a household of your own one day?”
“You mean get married?” She half-laughed. “No one’s asked me yet.”
He dropped his eyes to his notebook, a little embarrassed at having misspoken. “No, as a matter of fact. I meant, would you like to be a housekeeper, or a cook like Mrs. Khaleel?”
He supposed that few people would consider the vicarage his household. He supposed it was not his household. But while Mr. Summers might be master, in his heart he felt, nevertheless, that the place really belonged to them. The servants.
She blinked. “Do you think I could?”
“Why not?”
“I can’t even read.”
“I think Mr. Summers could be prevailed upon to allow you to attend Sunday school.”
“R-really?” She sat up a little straighter—and dropped her head in her arms again. “He never would. The Quakers run the Sunday school, and Mr. Summers says Quakers are anarchists.”
“It might be a battle,” John allowed, “but I believe I could win it.”
She shook her head. “I’m too tired to think about this now. I can’t think about this.”
He nodded. “Of course. Get some rest. But think about it tomorrow. Think about yourself for a change.”
She looked uncertain.
“Would you like me to talk to your father about the workhouse? He loves you. When he understands how much he’s frightening you, perhaps he will feel differently.”
Molly hesitated, and gave a tiny nod. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You are welcome. Would you like me to speak with Mr. Summers about Sarah, or would you rather do it yourself?”
“I’ll do it myself,” she said with a decided bravado that reminded him of Sukey. She stumbled a little with weariness as she stood up and made her way out of the room.
John remained at the table, jotting down a list of future tasks relating to Molly in his notebook.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Khaleel said.
He looked up in surprise, having forgotten she was there. “You’re welcome. Please, have some tea.”
She poured herself a cup, sitting in Molly’s vacated chair with a sigh. “I have said the same thing so many times. Of course when a man says it, she believes him.”
John, already unsure and wishing he had said a hundred things differently and better, felt supremely uncomfortable. What could he say to that? Was it true? “She considered herself responsible for a hurt you suffered. I imagine that was part of why she could not allow herself to believe your assurances.”
Mrs. Khaleel wrapped the end of her braid around her finger. “I was too ashamed to speak to her about it. And now I’m ashamed of that.”
“Life is full of shame,” John said ruefully. “Would that it were not so.”
Her fidgeting hands stilled. “Could you ask Mr. Summers for me not to have Mr. Bearparke to live here? I don’t think—I think it would be a disaster.”
He nodded, surprised and grateful. He must not have done too badly tonight if she trusted him enough to ask him that. If she believed he had a chance of success. “Of course.”
“What will you say to him?” she said apprehensively.
He rubbed at his temples, wishing for his bed. He had not had any tea himself. “I’ll give it some thought. But I don’t anticipate needing to say more than that I have observed the curate is overpartial to you, and that I believe it extremely unwise for him to live here. Perhaps…perhaps I might add something to the effect that while I have the utmost faith in both your virtues, it is best not to rely solely on one’s fortitude, but to avoid the temptation and opportunity for sin, as far as possible.”
Her eyebrows went up admiringly. “You should have been a vicar yourself. He’ll eat that up.”
He was surprised into a laugh. “Thank you, but I can’t agree that planned hypocrisy is a good recommendation for the surplice.”
She smiled. “That’s a matter for debate.”
He smiled back. “Is there anything else we ought to speak of?”
She shook her head. “Go back to your bed. Thank you again.”
He stood, and then thought that perhaps he ought to say more. A compliment. “I should rather offer you thanks. I am very grateful to have someone on whom I may so completely rely as my partner in managing this house.”
Her face glowed.
When he got back to the butler’s pantry, he found Sukey waiting for him with a lit candle. “What happened?”
“I caught Molly sneaking out.”
“I know. I eavesdropped for a minute or two. You were terribly kind to her.”
He ought to disapprove, but he only felt warm. And it was hard to mind that she had probably known about all of it first, when Molly and Mrs. Khaleel had finally trusted him. Her pointed face was flanked by loose, lopsided braids, and she had acquired an old linsey-woolsey striped bedgown at least twenty years out of fashion that she wore as a sort of dressing gown. All in all she had a charmingly sleepy, havey-cavey air. He leaned down and kissed her. “I’m doing my best. Thank you for teaching me how to pay compliments.”
“Thank you for teaching me how to kiss,” she murmured, her teeth catching at his lower lip.
He tugged at her braid. He’d meant to buy her new hair ribbons, but he liked these old green ones. “I compared her fear for her friend with my fear when work isn’t done properly. And I was shocked when she pointed out that it wasn’t the same. Because it feels the same to me. It feels like averting disaster. Why is that?”
“It seems to me like you generally expect Mr. Summers to leap out from behind an end table and give us the sack.”
“I suppose I do.” It should have been a humiliating observation, but there was no condemnation in her tone. He could think of no one else in the world he could have talked to about this without expiring of embarrassment. The answer to the riddle was obvious, now he thought of it. Perhaps that was most embarrassing of all, that he’d never thought of it. “You may have gathered that my father could be very harsh when things were not done as he liked.”
Her eyebrows said, You’re a chip off the old block, then. But her mouth said, “I have gathered that, yes. My mum—well, she could be harsh enough, but she had less rules.”
He took a deep breath, and then another. “I knew how he liked things done, and I had an unfortunate tendency to impart my knowledge to others. It didn’t always make me very popular outside my own circle of friends, as you can imagine. But I really did feel a sense of panic, because I knew that if they made enough mistakes, eventually one would be their last at the Hall.”
She nodded. “I still count the coal when I light the fires, even though I know Mrs. Humphrey isn’t going to check the scuttles.”
He sighed, pinching out the candle and drawing her down into bed with him. “I’m sorry, I’m keeping you awake.”
“I like it when you keep me awake.”
“Tomorrow morning I have to talk to Mr. Summers.”
“What about?”
“About Mr. Bearparke coming to live with us.”
She didn’t ask why. So Mrs. Khaleel had confided in her. At the moment, he didn’t mind it. “Take this with you for luck.” She sat up and felt through her clothing, pressing a scrap of paper into his hands.
He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was one of the little talismans Molly was always drawing, pencil-drawn flowers and twopenny bits and cups of tea with steam rising out of them. The maid had never offered him one.
He didn’t believe in talismans. But he believed in gifts, and he believed in good wishes. “Thank you,” he said, and got up to tuck it into his coat pocket so it wouldn’t be lost.
* * *
He said it just as he had told Mrs. Khaleel he would. “It is best not to rely solely on one’s fortitude, but to avoid the temptation and opportunity for sin, as far as possible,” he finished, looking at Mr. Summers’ blotter so he wouldn’t have to see the vicar’s face grow grave.
“I see.” There was a world of disappointment in the words.
John waited, tense and hopeful, to see what he would say next.
The vicar toyed with his pen. “Are you sure?” he said at last. “I know him to be fond of her, but I have always thought it because she reminds him of his childhood. He was born in India, you know.”
John kept his face blank. “As far as I know, there is nothing to reproach him with. But perhaps he has been less guarded around me, or perhaps his thoughts tend more towards the mundane. I thought the nature of his interest quite unmistakable. I’m sorry, sir.”
Mr. Summers’s long sigh was silent, but John could see his thin chest collapse slowly and his shoulders hunch. “Well then. It would be a sin on my own part to put him in the way of further temptation. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“Thank you, sir.” He hesitated. “If I might be so bold, sir…”
“Please do.” Mr. Summers now sounded resigned rather than amused.
“I apologize if I do either you or Mr. Bearparke less than justice. I wish only to say that I would be sorry to see Mr. Bearparke blame Mrs. Khaleel for his disappointment.”
Mr. Summers’s eyebrows shot up. “I believe you do do us less than justice. You have placed the matter in my hands. Rest assured I will deal with it.”
John nodde
d. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“You may go, Toogood.”
John bowed. His hand was on the doorknob when the vicar called him back.
“How is Thea?” the old man asked quietly.
John hesitated. Thea was at least reliably where she should be when he went to check on her, but he regularly caught her sowing gapeseed out of the window, or else working at a glacial pace. It had been too much to hope that the vicar could remain blind to it. “She is unhappy, sir,” he said, hoping his delay in answering had not been obvious. “There is no mistaking it. But time is said to heal all wounds.”
Mr. Summers rapped his knuckles on the desk, his mouth turning down.
“Will that be all, sir?” John said, trying to behave as if there was nothing more to be said—as if talk of hiring a new laundry maid had no place here and had not so much as crossed his mind.
“She used to sing while she worked. It brightened up the place, even if most of her songs were gruesome in the extreme.”
John remembered that he had chided Sukey for singing and felt ashamed.
“Thank you for your patience with her,” Mr. Summers said at last. “Pray continue it. That reminds me, Mrs. Toogood is said to know a wide selection of local ballads. I’m told she was much in demand when Mrs. Humphrey’s lodgers had a musical evening.”
John hadn’t known that. He couldn’t suppress a pang of jealousy that the vicar did.
“I fancy myself something of a local historian,” the vicar said. “I should like to try to write some of her songs down, if she might sometimes sew in the living room by the spinet.”
The pang of jealousy turned to a dull ache. John would like hours of the week to sit quietly and listen to his wife sing, but such luxury belonged to their master, not to him. “Yes, sir. I shall inform her.”
“That is very obliging of you,” the vicar said, an amused twist to his mouth. “It is not a command, however, but a request.”
“Yes, sir.” John felt embarrassed and in the wrong, and even more resentful at having been made to feel that way.
