by Merry Farmer
A PLACE TO BELONG
MERRY FARMER
A PLACE TO BELONG
Copyright ©2017 by Merry Farmer
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)
ASIN: B073PKLQY3
Paperback:
ISBN-13: 9781548891268
ISBN-10: 1548891266
Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.
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Created with Vellum
For Jessica, Naomi, Megan, Taney
and all the foster mothers who love without limits
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND – 1877
C lara Partridge had endured plenty of hardship in her life—from being born into a large, poor family, to her father losing their home, moving them all to California, and then abandoning the lot of them, to landing in a life of prostitution to earn her meager daily bread. So she had no problem at all with the concept of moving halfway around the world to work as a maid. In fact, she felt blessed by the generosity of Bonnie Cole, Theophilus Gunn, and the others that were working so hard to find positions in England for the girls from Bonnie’s Place who wanted them. She just wondered if a life of polishing floors, dusting sideboards, and straightening curtains was truly where she belonged.
She stepped back from brushing one of the curtains in the grand parlor of Winterberry Park and right into the bucket of ashes that Annie, the scullery maid, had just swept from the fire. The bucket crashed over with a clang, spewing its contents across the floor and the antique, oriental carpet.
“Gor blimey!” Annie yelped, staring in horror at the mess.
“I’m sorry.” Clara dropped to her knees, intent on helping Annie clean up. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t see you there.”
Annie stared up at Clara in horror. Even kneeling, Clara was miles taller than the tiny girl. She was miles taller than everyone, over six feet. Most men looked up at her, even when they’d been singling her out from the rest of Bonnie’s girls for a tumble. More often than not, the men who had patronized her had done so with a laugh and a joke about climbing a mountain and planting their flag.
The unpleasant memories distracted Clara enough that she bumped into Annie’s shaking hands as they tried to sweep up the ashes. Annie was using a dustpan and brush, and in her inattentiveness, Clara knocked into the dustpan, sending the ashes back onto the carpet.
“Oh, dear. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“They’ll have my head,” Annie sniffled, bursting into tears. “I’ll be turned out for sure.”
“No, they wouldn’t turn you out. Would they?”
Although, Clara wasn’t so sure. After the letter she’d had from her old friend, Millie Horner—who was now at a place in Cornwall called Starcross Castle—Clara had expected a warm welcome from a happy house. But in the three days that she’d been at Winterberry Park so far, she’d seen very little happiness, and as for welcomes….
“What in heaven’s name is going on over here?” Mrs. Musgrave, the housekeeper, snapped as she swept into the room. The woman was all business in her stark, grey dress with her hair pulled back in a severe, grey bun. Clara had taken to calling her The Grey Lady in her mind, although she was sure the other servants would laugh at her if she referred to the housekeeper as a lady. Just like they were laughing at her now.
“Clara’s gone and upset Annie,” Mary, the head maid told Mrs. Musgrave over her shoulder as she continued brushing curtains on the other side of the room.
“She’s upset the ash bucket too,” Martha, the other maid and Mary’s sister, added. The two of them shared a snigger.
Clara’s stomach twisted into a dull knot. She launched to her feet as Mrs. Musgrave grew closer, then winced as the seam under one arm of her dress ripped and a thick strand of her black hair escaped from the cap she wore. And here she’d thought that her mortification couldn’t possibly increase. But the simple fact was that her uniform didn’t fit. It was the biggest one Mrs. Musgrave could find upon Clara’s arrival, and it barely covered what needed covering.
“Gracious heavens,” Mrs. Musgrave grumbled, narrowing her eyes at Clara. “Ripped again?”
“I’m afraid so,” Clara answered, her head bowed and her shoulders stooped. She may have been over six feet, but under the housekeeper’s stare, she felt less than six inches.
“Well, the seamstress in town won’t have your new uniform stitched for at least two more days.” Mrs. Musgrave shook her head. “You’ll simply have to make do until then.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Clara’s heart sank.
Mrs. Musgrave’s gaze dropped to the smudge of ashes on the carpet. Annie was furiously trying to clean up, a terrified pallor on her face. “And what’s this?”
Clara assumed the woman didn’t need a direct explanation. “It was my fault,” she said instead. “I stepped back from the curtain and knocked Annie’s bucket over. I tried to help her clean it up.”
Twin giggles sounded from the other end of the room. Clara caught the briefest glimpse of Mary and Martha shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. Her heart sank further. She’d had such high hopes of befriending the other two maids, of befriending everyone else in the house. So far, it wasn’t happening.
“Annie, sweep up what you can and take the bucket downstairs.” Mrs. Musgrave took charge. “Mr. Croydon is up, and things appear to be even worse today, so I don’t want him seeing you in this state.”
Annie scrambled to her feet, grabbing her bucket, and rushing off without another word. Clara almost envied her ability to flee the scene of the crime, although she wasn’t so sure she liked the way that people like the scullery maid and the hall boy weren’t allowed to be seen upstairs. Then again, at the moment, she wasn’t sure she wanted to be seen either.
“Is Mr. Croydon well?” she asked, brow lifting in genuine concern for her new employer. He was the one taking a chance on helping her start a new life, after all.
To her surprise, Mrs. Musgrave looked offended by the question. “Might I remind you, Clara, it’s not your place to go asking after the master.”
“But…but he seems to be a good man, and I hate seeing anyone in the kind of distress he’s been in since my arrival.”
“He’s probably distressed because of your arrival,” Mary muttered across the room.
Martha shared a laugh with her, but they were both cut off by Mrs. Musgrave’s curt, “That’s enough from the two of you.”
To their credit, Mary and Martha stepped apart and returned
to their tasks, both looking penitent enough to be genuinely sorry for the jab.
Mrs. Musgrave turned back to Clara, pursing her lips and letting out an impatient breath through her nose. “I know that things are different in America, less formal. But in an English country house, the servants do not lift their eyes or their inquiries to their betters.”
“Even if those inquiries are full of genuine concern?” Clara asked, disappointment pinching her face.
Mrs. Musgrave hesitated before saying, “All concerns will be addressed by Mr. Noakes at supper, if they are to be addressed at all.”
Clara nodded. Mr. Noakes was the butler, but everyone in the house knew that he deferred to Mrs. Musgrave in all things. Which, apparently, was unusual as far as the pecking-order of manor houses in England went.
“It’s just that I feel bad for Mr. Croydon,” Clara went on. “Even though no one will say what it is that has him so out of sorts.”
Martha snorted. Mrs. Musgrave’s expression darkened, and Clara questioned whether she’d gone too far with her last statement.
She was on the verge of apologizing yet again, when Mr. Croydon himself marched into the room. He was a handsome man, even for a man nearing fifty, who had streaks of grey at his temples. Clara had enough experience with the male form to know that he was still fit under his fine clothes. He was evidently an important man too, a member of the House of Commons who had served with distinction in the Crimean War, then gone on to earn a large fortune in shipping. But he had a decided air of distraction about him, and his sharp, blue eyes never seemed to rest in one place.
“Mrs. Musgrave, has the morning post arrived yet?” he asked like a man waiting to be given bad news.
“No, sir,” Mrs. Musgrave replied with a nod of deference that had quite a bit of sympathy in it too.
Across the room, Mary and Martha dropped what they were doing to curtsy. Clara belatedly did the same, hearing another small rip. She winced and straightened, remembered her tumbling hair, and tried to tuck it back into her cap. But Mr. Croydon didn’t seem to see any of them. He nodded anxiously and rubbed a hand over the lower half of his unshaven face.
“Send it to me as soon as it comes,” he said, then turned and marched out of the room.
Clara bit her lip as she watched his retreating back. There were so many things she wanted to say to Mr. Croydon. She wanted to thank him for more or less saving her life and promise that he wouldn’t regret his decision. But he’d barely acknowledged her since she arrived. If ever there were a man who needed…something, it was him. Maybe what he needed was a wife. It didn’t make a lick of sense to her that a man like Mr. Croydon had never married.
“Now then.” Mrs. Musgrave cleared her throat, snapping Clara to attention. “We’ve the issue of the carpet to discuss.” Clara followed Mrs. Musgrave’s gaze to the large, black spot on the carpet. “If it were anyone else, I would simply say ‘clean it up’ and be done with it. But with you?” She eyed Clara wearily.
“I’m sure I could do it.” To prove her point, Clara dashed to the side of the room where the collection of cleaning supplies they’d brought into the parlor earlier rested. She found a broom and a rag and rushed back to the spot. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of brushing the ashes out of the carpet’s fibers. I’ll have everything back to normal in no time.”
She dropped to her knees and began scrubbing at the spot. Instead of clearing up the mess, though, her efforts only seemed to rub the soot deeper.
“Stop, Clara, stop.” Mrs. Musgrave held out her hands, her brow knit in a deep frown. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I…don’t?” Clara paused and glanced up at her. “Perhaps a little water and soap would help?”
Mrs. Musgrave let out a long-suffering sigh. “Mary, come take care of this spot.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mary dropped what she was doing to follow orders, but she didn’t seem happy about it.
“As for you,” Mrs. Musgrave went on, arching a brow at Clara.
She didn’t go on. Clara pushed herself to her feet, careful not to move too quickly and rip her uniform again. She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving dark grey smudges on the white fabric. That only served to make her aware that her hands were filthy. She stared at them not knowing what to do.
“Honestly,” Mrs. Musgrave grumbled.
She shook her head and motioned for Clara to follow her to the pile of cleaning supplies. There was a bucket of clean water among them and a few more clean rags. She pointed, which was the only indication Clara had of what she wanted her to do. Clara bent over to dip one of the rags in the bucket so that she could scrub her hands as Mrs. Musgrave went on.
“I don’t know what kind of a situation you came from in American,” she said, “but wherever it was, you were not properly trained.”
Clara blushed, focusing on cleaning her hands so that Mrs. Musgrave wouldn’t see the embarrassment in her eyes. As far as she could tell, Mr. Croydon hadn’t told a single soul at Winterberry Park—including Mrs. Musgrave—where exactly she’d come from or what sort of life she’d lived. So far, every indication Clara had was that the entire household believed she’d been in service in America too. It was another thing she had to thank Mr. Croydon for.
“I assume American households are much less formal,” Mrs. Musgrave went on. “But that is not how we do things here. If you’re going to fit in with the staff at Winterberry Park, you’re going to have to learn to do things our way and to conform to our standards.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Clara mumbled, keeping her eyes lowered as she finished wiping her hands clean.
“I know that by employing you, Mr. Croydon is doing a favor for an old friend, but even that won’t stop you from being dismissed if you cannot learn the tasks which are required of you.” Mrs. Musgrave’s frown made Clara’s shoulders sag as though burdened with a heavy weight.
“I promise I’ll do better,” Clara said. “I’ll get the hang of it soon.”
Another round of giggles sounded from Mary and Martha, even though the two were separated now.
“I’ve had quite enough of the both of you,” Mrs. Musgrave scolded them, her voice raised. “The two of you could do more to help Clara find her place in this house. I will not have petty competitions or childish cliques amongst my staff.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mary and Martha answered.
Mrs. Musgrave glanced from one to the other, one brow raised as if she weren’t sure she believed they would come into line. “Mary, you will show Clara how to clean a stain out of the carpet. When you are done with that, Martha, you will demonstrate the proper way to clean windows.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sisters answered.
“And you, Clara, will be a good student.”
“Yes, ma’am, I absolutely will,” Clara answered with her whole heart.
Mrs. Musgrave nodded. “Good. Carry on.”
She turned to go. Clara chewed her lip for a moment, peeking sideways to where Mary crouched on the carpet, carefully brushing at the soot with small, light motions. Clara wasn’t sure she was capable of anything small or light. Her height wasn’t the only part of her that was too big. Her hands had never been dainty enough for sewing or quilting or any of the things that the fine ladies back home in Haskell engaged in. She didn’t think they would be right for delicately combing a carpet either.
“I should have become a cow poke instead of a maid,” she sighed to herself and moved to Mary’s side. “What should I do?” she asked Mary.
Mary glanced up at her with an irritated pinch of her lips. “You shouldn’t knock over buckets of ash to begin with.”
Clara didn’t think it was possible for her spirits to sink further, but there they went. “Should I fetch the bucket of water? Would that help?”
“I suppose so,” Mary sighed, a little too dramatic, to Clara’s way of thinking.
Clara stood and retrieved the bucket, bringing it back to where Mary worked. She managed to slosh a littl
e over the side, splashing it on the carpet.
“Honestly,” Mary muttered, echoing Mrs. Musgrave, whether she knew it or not. “You’re as bad as Rev. Fallon.”
“Who?”
Martha laughed, sliding closer to them as she continued with the curtains. “You’re right. She is like Rev. Fallon.”
“I take it he’s the local preacher?” Clara sat back on her heels so that she could both watch how Mary was scrubbing the carpet and converse with Martha.
“Rev. Arthur Fallon is the vicar,” Mary explained. “Last Sunday, he tripped on his way to the pulpit to deliver his sermon.”
“Poor man.” Clara’s heart instantly burned with sympathy. She imagined a stooped, balding man with a kind face and spectacles, falling over his own feet on the way to a podium, like the one Rev. Pickering used in Haskell.
“Yes, and the week before that, his sleeve caught fire when he was giving the benediction because he was standing too close to the candles.” Martha laughed.
Clara imagined the lovable but wizened old minister nearly going up in smoke.
“Oh, and do you remember last spring, when he nearly dropped the Farnsworth baby in the baptismal fountain?” Mary giggled.
Martha laughed outright. “I don’t think young Willy was ready for baptism by full immersion.”
“I’ve seen plenty of people baptized that way,” Clara said, feeling the need to defend the man she’d never met. “It’s pretty common in America.”
“Oh, in America, I’m sure,” Mary said.
The remark stung, but there was nothing Clara could do about it. She was beginning to think that she would never become friends with Mary or Martha, and that they were as far from their Biblical counterparts as could be. She also made up her mind that, as soon as Sunday rolled around, she would introduce herself to Rev. Fallon and offer to assist him in any way she could. She imagined herself escorting the feeble cleric through his church duties, helping him turn pages in his Bible, copying out letters as his eyesight grew dim.
