by Emma Carroll
‘Still want to work for me, then, do you?’ she asked, her tone softening a little.
I nodded, though didn’t think to ask what I’d be doing. As long as it wasn’t pig-killing, I didn’t much care.
‘Come, then,’ she said, beckoning urgently for me to follow. ‘We must away.’
Yet before I could take a step, someone gripped my shoulder. ‘You, boy, are taken.’
In the tail of my eye, I caught a shimmer of dark blue velvet. I spun round in alarm.
‘No, sir, I’m not for hire,’ I told the man who had hold of me.
The rest of the crowd melted back until it was just me, the man in the cloak and his daughter, looking less than impressed.
‘I’m already taken,’ I tried to explain. ‘This woman’s going to hire me.’
Except when I turned to Maira, she wasn’t there. She’d disappeared with my parcel still in her hand.
II
IN WHICH OUR HERO DISCOVERS TWO SECRETS AND HAS HER OWN REVEALED
9
The man eyed me up and down, like I was an animal and he was considering my worth. It made me shrink deep inside my clothes.
‘A scrag-end of a boy,’ he said, tapping his foot. ‘Hmmm … You’ll do very well. Just the sort of servant I’m after.’
He set off towards his waiting carriage, expecting me to go with him. I stayed where I was. Surely he had to bargain with Maira, who’d as good as already hired me: that was how it worked. Yet neither she nor my parcel was anywhere to be seen. I felt flustered and suddenly angry.
Had I been tricked?
Had Maira wanted to rob me rather than hire me?
What annoyed me most was my own stupidity. I was an idiot. I’d been dazzled by her sunshine voice and gentleman’s swagger and now, in her possession, was the one item I had from home.
‘That woman, she’s got something of mine!’ I pleaded to the man’s daughter, who was trying to hurry me towards the carriage.
‘Well, she appears to have gone now,’ the girl answered, as if that put an end to it.
‘But she’s a thief!’
‘I don’t care what she is,’ the girl muttered irritably. ‘Though why Father had to hire the scruffiest, oddest-looking creature in the whole fair I’ll never know.’
‘I didn’t ask him to pick me!’ I retorted.
The girl seized my arm. ‘We’re stuck with you now, so come on. We mustn’t keep my father waiting.’
I didn’t have much choice but to swallow my anger and go with her. Being a servant to this man had to be better than butchering pigs, and that was the choice I faced.
*
I’d never been inside a carriage before. And I only did so now because every inch of outside space held items bought from the market – a bolt of cloth, a basket of chickens, boxes, all of which had already been tied down for the journey ahead. Being Mr Spicer’s final market-day purchase, there was no room left for me.
‘Must he sit inside?’ the girl complained, fanning her nose.
I ignored her, concentrating on the carriage instead. The seats – more rich velvet – were as hard as a stone floor, the walls papered in rose patterns. It was smaller than I’d imagined. Smellier too – a nose-tickling mix of hair oil, dust and soap. Spread out on one of the seats was a piece of sewing, complete with coloured threads.
‘That’s mine,’ the girl said, snatching it up as if she didn’t want me to see it.
She needn’t have worried: I wasn’t interested in needlework. Back home, I was the one who tore holes in things, and it was Abigail or Mother who sewed them up again. But, I remembered fast, I was a boy now, and boys didn’t have to explain why they hated sewing.
Yet I still caught myself staring at the cloth in her hand.
‘My daughter has a rare talent for crewel work, as you’ve noticed,’ the man commented.
Not normal needlework, then, but something finer and more detailed. From the bit I could see, she’d sewn a scene with people and trees, and a river. It was pretty, I couldn’t deny it, but how anyone would have the patience for such work I’d never know.
‘It’s difficult,’ the girl said. ‘And private.’ With that, she rolled it tightly and hid it up her sleeve.
Once we were settled in our seats, the door closed on the crowds and the cold. The horses strained against their harness, the carriage lurched forward, and we were on our way. The daughter and I were squashed together, her big skirts foaming over my legs. It felt odd to be so close to a girl who wasn’t Abigail. She smelled cleaner than my sister, her elbows were sharper, and she scowled like a small angry cat.
She was, I decided, the sort of girl I never wanted to be – perfectly groomed, spoilt, ill-tempered.
Her father, I soon learned, was called Mr Spicer, and she, Susannah. When I told him my name, he studied my face for the first time, and I him in return. He was handsome, I noted, though his expression was changeable: in the short time I’d known him, I’d already seen flashes of temper there, and charm.
‘Fortune?’ Mr Spicer frowned. ‘Isn’t that a girl’s name?’
‘It can be either, sir,’ I said quickly.
‘Well, I trust your character is befitting of such a virtuous title.’
‘I try, sir,’ I replied. Being virtuous wasn’t one of my strong points, but since I wasn’t a boy, either, I didn’t suppose another lie would hurt.
Anyway, he seemed convinced, and I sat back in my seat, relieved to have passed this first test. Though I didn’t feel so clever when Mr Spicer called to the driver, ‘Straight home,’ and a blast of longing hit me.
When would I return to Fair Maidens Lane? In weeks? Months?
My chest tightened as I thought of Jem, who’d be awake by now, wondering where I was. The sooner I started earning a wage, the quicker I could go home. But what would things be like between us when I got back? Perhaps they’d already changed too much.
*
We travelled in bone-rattling haste. The road was frozen hard, made rougher by the potholes, loose stones and sheets of ice that made the wheels skid. Crushed together inside, we were constantly bumping knees, knocking shoulders.
‘Pardon me,’ I’d mutter each time I fell against Susannah. And each time, her frown would get a little tighter, and she’d shuffle away from me as far as the tiny space allowed.
Don’t think I like it, either, I wanted to say, but held my tongue.
Beyond Bridgwater, we followed the river almost as far as the mudflats on the coast. I was torn between feeling queasy and wanting to gaze out of the window at the view. When the horses slowed to a brisk trot, we turned inland. The carriage creaked as we wound in and out of woodland, across open heath and through small grubby villages not unlike my own.
The rocking of the carriage, and the fact I’d had little sleep the previous night, began to make me drowsy. Yet my brain refused to slow down. I’d picture Mother’s face with the sword against her nose. And the parcel she’d given me lying open in Maira’s hands. And then back to Mother going home to Jem.
When Susannah announced we were nearly there, I was relieved to sit up and clear my head.
The bright daylight outside turned suddenly dim. Instead of open countryside, we were now travelling through a sheer-sided valley – all grey rock and gorse – and seemed to be passing very close to the edges of it. The carriage was going much faster too.
We were plunged into near-darkness. I gripped the edge of my seat. In truth, I feared the horses had bolted with fright and were about to drive us straight into the hillside. Yet just as suddenly, we burst back out into daylight again. The sun was still shining weakly. Frost lay as thick as snowfall on the grass. Up ahead at the curve of a driveway was a long, low house, with so many windows glinting in the light it almost looked as if it was on fire.
‘Berrow Hall,’ Susannah said by way of explanation. She looked happier suddenly, like any girl might who was glad to be home. I tried not to remember how that felt.
The carriag
e swung by the front entrance. As it slowed to walking speed, Susannah flung open the door and leaped out on to the drive.
‘For heaven’s sake, child, can’t you wait a moment longer? Have some decorum!’ Mr Spicer cried after her.
I watched through the window, a little bit impressed. For such a frail, pampered creature, she could certainly run. Skirts bunched in her hand, she bounded up the front steps to a woman in an apron and cap, who was holding a baby.
‘My daughter has her mother’s flighty nature,’ Mr Spicer observed.
‘Is that Mistress Spicer?’ I asked, indicating the woman now handing the baby over to Susannah.
‘Mistress Spicer is dead,’ he said coldly.
I sat back in the seat, wincing at my mistake. ‘Well, that’s a bonny baby.’
‘She’s another daughter, more’s the pity,’ he replied, in the same cold, flat tone. ‘My wife died in childbed. My eldest daughter has taken on the responsibility of looking after … well …’ He sighed, rubbed his brow. ‘I don’t wish to be bothered with another child, you see.’
I didn’t see. But, wary as I was of putting my foot in it again, I kept quiet. Besides, Mr Spicer was keen to move on.
‘Now listen to me, and listen carefully,’ he said, businesslike again. ‘Your position here will be as a personal servant to my only son, Ellis Spicer. He’s sixteen years of age and hasn’t quite … found himself yet.’
I nodded, even though I didn’t quite catch his meaning. Being a servant to his son was a decent job, all right – far better than butchering pigs or milking cows.
‘My son will inherit my wealth,’ Mr Spicer went on. ‘Therefore, it is our responsibility to ensure he grows into a fine young man.’
‘Yes, sir.’
It was the way of things in this world, I knew that, though it didn’t always make sense to me, the way boys got chosen over girls. When Jem became the favourite to lead our community in Fair Maidens Lane, he didn’t even want the position.
Perhaps Mr Spicer’s son was different.
10
The carriage deposited us in a courtyard so spotless you could’ve eaten supper off the cobbles, and I was ravenous enough to do just that, had anyone offered. In amongst the sweet smell of horses and hay was a saltiness I knew all too well. It made me glad and homesick all at once.
‘We are on the coast?’ I asked. On the drive here I must’ve lost my bearings, because I had been sure we were still some way inland.
‘Right by the sea,’ Mr Spicer confirmed. ‘We’re eight miles north of Bridgwater.’
I realised I was further from home than I’d ever been in my life. Though I didn’t get to dwell on it as Mr Spicer hurried me around to the back of the house, through a walled garden, under an archway and up some steps to a low studded door that was clearly the entrance for household servants. As we walked, I wondered what Master Spicer would be like – not ill-tempered like his sister, I hoped, for it was dawning on me that I knew nothing of the ways of daily bathing or keeping clothes fresh, or whatever a rich boy might require. In fact, it troubled me enough to say so.
‘Not wishing to speak out of turn, sir,’ I said, as Mr Spicer strode ahead. ‘But wouldn’t a boy like your son be better with a proper trained servant?’
‘Aha!’ Mr Spicer spun round, his handsome face lit up. ‘You’ve hit upon it! My son is of an age where he needs more male influence.’
I gulped.
‘A proper, rough-at-the-edges sort of boy, to help him become more …’ He paused, ‘… manly.’
‘Manly,’ I repeated in my best deep voice.
So my position here was to teach the young Master Spicer how to become a better man? I, who’d been raised by strong women, and who, despite my short hair and flat, skinny body, was a girl. It was a job not to laugh at the craziness of it.
‘Well?’ Mr Spicer stopped on the threshold. ‘Is everything clear?’
As clear as sea fog, I thought, though I nodded yet again, like the good servant I was trying to be.
*
Inside, I was taken to an enormous kitchen. The fireplace was so big Jem and me could’ve stood in it, and the ceiling went up and up to the heavens like a church roof. All the maids chopping, banging pans, scrubbing vegetables, talking, filled the room with a deafening buzz.
The moment they saw us – or rather Mr Spicer – everything stopped. Like puppets, the maids turned their faces to whichever wall was nearest, and an eerie hush fell. Just one woman, so red-cheeked she looked parboiled, came forward. She was the same person I’d seen earlier handing the baby to Susannah.
‘Ah, Mistress Bagwell,’ Mr Spicer greeted her.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ she said, bobbing stiffly. ‘The surgeon is already here. He made swift time from Glastonbury.’
‘Excellent.’ Mr Spicer nodded. ‘And remember, my son mustn’t have anything for the pain.’
Mistress Bagwell sucked in her cheeks. ‘Not afterwards? Nothing at all?’
‘Nothing. I forbid it. We mustn’t pander to his weaknesses. Fortune has been hired to tend Master Ellis from now on. No doubt he’ll toughen the boy up.’
And I was promptly handed over to the woman who seemed to be both housekeeper and nursemaid, rolled into one.
Once Mr Spicer had gone, the whole room seemed to let out a breath.
‘Back to it, girls!’ Mistress Bagwell clapped her hands, then looked me up and down, and properly too, like those housekeepers at the hiring fair.
She sniffed. ‘You haven’t seen water for a while, have you, lad?’
‘I got wet in the sea yesterday,’ I reassured her.
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Soap, that’s what you need.’
She yelled to a kitchen maid to follow us to the washroom with a pail of warm water, then took me down a passageway, past a stillroom full of jars and bottles and the meat room where whole lambs and sides of pig hung from the ceiling hooks. There was so much to see, my eyes were jumping out of my head. Mistress Bagwell threw open a door on a tiled chamber and told me to strip off.
I didn’t move.
The maid put down her bucket. From her apron pocket, she produced a cake of soap. She’d also brought a clean shirt and breeches, which she hung on the back of the door. She wasn’t in any hurry to leave, either.
‘Go on, lad, get washing,’ Mistress Bagwell urged.
There wasn’t a chance in hell I could risk getting undressed in front of these two.
‘You don’t need to stay,’ I insisted, thinking of what my nakedness would reveal.
The maid snorted. Mistress Bagwell rolled her eyes.
‘Would you at least mind not staring, then?’ I asked.
That set them off into gales of laughter.
‘Oh, bless him, he’s a shy one!’
‘Must have something to hide, mustn’t he, eh?’
Too right I did.
I was on the verge of point-blank refusing to wash when another maid came running in, shrieking about the bread having burnt and could the missus come quick before the whole kitchen went up in smoke.
They went, thank goodness, though I didn’t trust them not to come back again. I splashed the water over myself so fast it was more of a dampening than a proper wash. The clothes they’d left me, though too big, were of good cloth and clean. With a bit of tucking in and rolling up sleeves, I managed to look half decent.
‘You’ll do,’ Mistress Bagwell observed, when I appeared back in the kitchen.
My stomach made a yowling sound.
‘Any chance of a bite to eat, missus?’ I begged.
She shoved me on to a stool at the kitchen table, before pushing a plate of burnt bread and butter in front of me. I ate the lot.
‘Anything else?’ Mistress Bagwell asked, eyeing my empty plate. ‘Roast swan? Pigeon pie? A cup of mead for the young gent?’
I wiped my mouth and shook my head.
‘At least you’ve got a strong stomach. That’s something. Let’s go and meet Master Ellis
, then, shall we?’ She said it as if the two things were connected.
11
We were halfway up the stairs when the yelling started.
‘Get that hook away from me! I’m warning you!’
It was coming from a bedchamber up on the first floor and made me freeze, mid-step.
‘Who the devil is that?’ I asked.
‘Master Ellis, making a fuss,’ Mistress Bagwell replied, and kept climbing the stairs as if it was all perfectly normal and people hollered their lungs out here every day.
So this was the boy I had to toughen up, though by my reckoning he sounded fierce enough already. I was beginning to wonder what sort of house I’d come into.
At the door to Master Ellis’s bedchamber, Mistress Bagwell turned to me.
‘He’s not a bad boy,’ she said, softening. ‘His father sometimes forgets he’s still feeling the loss of his mother.’
The door swung open on to a room that smelled of blood. Glimpsing round Mistress Bagwell’s shoulder, I couldn’t see a boy, never mind a bleeding one. I took in the high bed with its tapestried hangings, the leaping fire, the wood of the tables, walls, floor, all polished to perfection.
And then, the tooth-barber.
He was by the window. Despite being rather short, he managed to block out a good deal of light.
‘Just a back tooth removed today,’ he said to Mistress Bagwell. He had a strong local accent, soft and meadowy, which was at odds with the blood on his bare forearms. ‘More teeth-cleaning, less sugar-eating, that’s what this young man needs.’
Mistress Bagwell sucked in her cheeks like she didn’t agree, but replied, ‘Very good, Dr Blood.’
The name was fittingly grim.
From the bed, someone groaned, then spat. There was the sound of something solid hitting a pan. Master Ellis, I saw now, was tucked away in the far corner of the mattress, like an animal that was hurting. I didn’t blame him, either – Dr Blood had a brutal look about him that wasn’t only on account of his trade. He made the hairs at the back of my neck twitch.
