Magic Below Stairs

by Caroline Stevermer

  “Not surprised,” muttered Bess. “I doubt either of you can count past three.”

  Fortunately, neither Rose nor Nancy heard Bess, but their giggling attracted Mr. Kimball’s notice. “When were the chimneys last swept? It was last done thoroughly while Lord and Lady Schofield were away on their grand tour of the continent,” Mr. Kimball said. “However, the household accounts show that there was a sweep here just a few months ago.”

  “Just the one.” Rose giggled piercingly.

  “Ah, but a good big one, he was,” said Nancy. “Big enough to shift any amount of soot.”

  “Kept us dusting for days, he did,” Rose agreed. “Thought my lungs would go black with it.”

  “Could have been a coal miner.” Nancy giggled. “We won’t want a fuss like that with Lord and Lady Schofield due here any day. Imagine them walking in on us with the house full of soot.”

  “We have plenty of time to prepare for their arrival,” said Mr. Kimball. “I’ve had a letter from town. Lord and Lady Schofield find themselves unexpectedly detained. Before you ask, I don’t know for how long. They don’t know themselves, I suspect. Time enough for another proper sweeping of the chimneys, though.”

  “They won’t stay in town long,” Bess murmured to Frederick. “Not with Mr. Grant here. They will miss his fancy cooking.”

  “I must arrange for a smaller sweep this time,” Mr. Kimball said.

  “Why smaller?” Frederick asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to engage the biggest one you can find?”

  “Strength is all very well in its way. But the smaller the sweep, the cleaner the chimneys, for a climbing boy can go higher than a grown man can, and is better by far at cleaning the narrow places.”

  “Mind you don’t send up one too small,” said Nancy, “or the spiders will eat him.”

  “Rose, if you can’t stop giggling, you may be excused from the table.” Mr. Kimball looked annoyed. “Your squeaking puts me off my food. You too, Nancy. The rest of you, mind your manners.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kimball. Thank you, Mr. Kimball.”

  Under her breath, Bess added, “The squeaks put me off too,” but only Frederick heard her.

  Very little put Frederick off his food. With Mr. Grant at Skeynes, the meals could not be faulted. Frederick thought the household did itself very well, despite its remote location. Some supplies came from London, but the eggs, cream, beef, bacon, and mutton were all from the home farm, and all of the best. After two weeks of it, Frederick’s livery began to seem tight all over.

  “You do look as if you’ve been stuffed,” Bess observed, when he asked her about it. “I’ve grown a good bit myself. I asked Mrs. Dutton about it, and she sent me to see Hetty, the seamstress. But letting down a hem is much simpler than tailoring a jacket as fine as yours.”

  “Should I go see Hetty?” Frederick wondered. “What if she can’t make it fit me again?”

  “Try Mr. Kimball first. He likes your work. If Hetty can’t help you, he may even send to London for new livery.”

  “Never,” Frederick said. “What if they sack me? I was given my first position because I fit the livery. No one ever said anything about outgrowing it.”

  “Mr. Kimball wouldn’t sack you for that, although there are some households that would. You can’t help growing,” Bess reminded him. “It’s their own fault for feeding you.”

  “That’s just what I’m afraid they’ll think,” Frederick said. “I’ve had enough of not eating to last me a lifetime.”

  Hetty the seamstress welcomed Frederick to her workroom. She was a plump little woman in brown with a spotted scarf wrapped around her shoulders. The spots on the scarf and her quick sharp gestures made him think of a hen. “Mrs. Dutton told me you had Mr. Kimball’s permission for my help, and I see you need it.” She made him take his coat and breeches off.

  Frederick sat on a stool in the corner while she inspected the garments. “Do you think you can make it fit again?”

  “Oh, yes. Plenty of room to let the seams back out.” Hetty held up the coat to show him. “The tailor who fitted this for you knew his craft very well indeed. I’ve never seen such tiny stitches.”

  “There was no tailor.” Frederick almost laughed at her mistake. “I only happened to fit the coat—it wasn’t made for me. No fitting, I promise you.”

  “No?” Hetty smiled to herself. “You know best, of course. But I say, to sew a seam any finer, you’d have use magic.”

  Not for the first time, Frederick wondered how it was that the livery had come to fit him so exactly. Georgie, the previous orphan, had been a larger boy than Frederick. Had Billy Bly helped Frederick even then? Frederick wished he still had Billy Bly with him. There was so much he wanted to know.

  “I saw it done once.” Hetty had removed the lining from the coat and was carefully picking out the stitching of the seams. “We had wizards here for the cursebreaking, and afterward I saw one of them use magic to mend a torn sleeve. Stitches so tiny he made, you might look all day and never see the repairs.”

  Frederick drew his stool up a bit closer. “You were here when this house was cursed?”

  “Oh, yes. It wasn’t so long ago, after all. The curse was cast on the Schofield family, not on any of us.” Hetty’s hands stilled as she thought back. “All the same, we kept our distance. Such evil may cast shadows, the wizards told us, so we took care.”

  “Were you here when the curse was broken?”

  Hetty threaded her needle and began to sew up the seams again. “I said we kept our distance. We were down in the village. Dreadful it was, though. Even from there.”

  “What was it like?” Frederick asked.

  “Like a summer storm, all darkness and lightning. We saw flashes of light all the way down in the village. What we heard of it was like thunder.” Hetty looked up from her needlework. “One of the wizards, young Mr. Pickering with the torn sleeve, had a weakness for my mother’s pastry. He told us stories afterward. He said at times it was like something squeaking, something between a mouse and a bat. Young ears are better than old, so he heard it better than the old wizards could, it was that high-pitched. Sometimes though, the worst times, it was shrieking. It was the shrieks that broke the windows, he told us.”

  “Get along with you,” said Frederick. “How can a shriek break a window? A shriek is just a loud noise.”

  “Magic,” Hetty replied. “If you ever hear the like, you run, understand? Don’t look around to see where it comes from. Just run.”

  “Now you’re making fun of me because I’m from the city,” Frederick said.

  “Cross my heart, it’s true, every word,” said Hetty. “It was worst in the room his lordship sleeps in. That’s what the young wizard told us. He wasn’t mocking us, I swear it. He had too much fondness for pastry to risk losing Mother’s goodwill.”

  “Shrieking.” Frederick shook his head. “Squeaks and shrieks. You were better off with thunder and lightning, Hetty.”

  “I hope you never find out different.” Hetty set the coat aside. “Now, let’s see about your breeches.”

  8

  IN WHICH FREDERICK LEARNS WHAT HE HAS BEEN MISSING

  The morning after Hetty finished the alterations, Frederick found six dried peas in his boots. His first impulse was to look for a snickering footman. When he found no sign of any, he went to Bess for advice.

  “So it happened again, did it?” Bess smiled, but somehow Frederick didn’t mind it when she showed her amusement at his actions. Bess was different. When she snickered, he did too.

  “This time”—Frederick held out his hand to show her—“it was peas.”

  “I’m to fetch Mr. Grant a dozen fresh eggs,” said Bess. “Come along with me.”

  As they made their way down the lane to the home farm, Frederick thought about the peas and beans. Not much to be fretting over, a few peas and beans. It made him miss Billy Bly all over again. Peas and beans were harmless enough, after all. “Do you still think I should forget about i
t?”

  “I know you should forget it.” Bess swung her basket to emphasize her words. “Take no notice. Unless you want whoever it is to go to more trouble and make a greater mess.”

  “Who do you think did it?” Frederick persisted. “Do you think it was the same one who spilled milk in the kitchen and left it to go sour?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Bess tugged at his sleeve. “If you don’t pick your feet up a bit more, I’ll be late.”

  “I can’t go any faster, not without stepping in a cowpat.” They had come to a particularly smelly bit of footing. Frederick felt he was completely entitled to choose his way with care. “Let alone the sheep droppings.”

  Bess didn’t slacken her pace. “Oh, don’t be such a dandy. You clean your own boots every night, no matter what. Just this one time, they will need it. That won’t kill you. Come on!”

  As he was cleaning the manure off his boots later, Frederick remembered the exchange with Bess. He wondered what he was going to find in his boots the next morning. Better than simply ignoring whatever it was, Frederick thought, would be making it more difficult for the other servants to meddle with his things. Frederick went in search of Mr. Kimball to ask for permission to sleep elsewhere in the future.

  “The servants at Skeynes are quartered in the attic,” said Mr. Kimball. “Where else would you wish to sleep?”

  “Wouldn’t I be more use to his lordship if I were close at hand?” Frederick asked. “Somewhere near his bedchamber? I can make up a bed for myself in a corner of his dressing room.”

  Mr. Kimball thought it over. “Very well. You may sleep in Lord Schofield’s dressing room, provided you keep an eye on the fire in his lordship’s bedchamber. You wouldn’t credit how it can smoke at times. There must be something wrong with that flue.”

  Lord Schofield’s dressing room was just off the room where Lord Schofield usually slept. With luck, Frederick thought, he might learn a bit more about the curse on that bedchamber. “I keep seeing fresh soot in the grate of the dressing room fireplace in the mornings. I think there must be a bird’s nest somewhere up in the flue.”

  “Possibly.” Mr. Kimball frowned. “I’ll send for the sweep at once.”

  As good as his word, Mr. Kimball had the chimney sweep in the very next day. As the maids had predicted, the soot was dreadful. Nothing of interest was found anywhere in the chimneys, not so much as a bird’s feather, nothing to explain any problems with the flues. By the end of the week, the last of the general household soot had been dusted away and cleanliness restored. But by Sunday morning, Frederick found fresh flecks of black in the dressing room fireplace.

  The first chance he had, Frederick showed Mr. Kimball the soot.

  “Looks like soot, you’re right about that,” said Mr. Kimball. “No chance anyone used that fireplace without you noticing?”

  “No chance at all. You don’t suppose it has something to do with the curse, do you?” Frederick asked.

  Mr. Kimball looked offended. “I do not! Nothing of the sort. Obviously there’s something nesting up there somewhere, a bird or a squirrel, something the sweep just didn’t notice.”

  The next night that he slept in Lord Schofield’s dressing room, Frederick woke in the dark. His eyes told him nothing, but he distinctly heard the sound of dry leaves rustling. At first Frederick, still half dreaming, took it for granted. When he could, he always slept with a window open. After a few moments, however, he woke up enough to remember that the little window in the dressing room didn’t open. Whatever the sound was, it didn’t come from outdoors.

  Frederick pushed up on one elbow, staring around despite the darkness. He strained his ears, grateful he heard no squeaking of any kind.

  No squeaking, but just beside him, a soft deep voice murmured, “Warn his nibs, young Frederick. There’s something in the chimney, something I can’t catch. It won’t hurt me, but if it can, it might hurt you. For certain sure, it will try to hurt his lordship.”

  “Billy Bly?” Frederick reached out toward the voice, feeling nothing but air. “You’re here?”

  “You noticed. I was starting to think you never would.” The deep voice came from the far end of the bed as Billy Bly tugged at Frederick’s blanket to wrap it more snugly around Frederick’s feet. “Of course I’m here. Who else would it be?”

  With all his heart, Frederick wished for a light. “You’re really here!”

  “Aye. You were flitting, so I flitted too.”

  “But Lord Schofield banished you.”

  “From his house, as he had every right to do,” Billy Bly agreed. “Not from every house. His nibs never mentioned this place.”

  “You know what he meant,” Frederick said.

  “Did I? I know what he said.” Billy Bly chuckled, a dry sound like leaves rustling. “At best, magic only does what you say. No guarantee it ever does what you want. What his nibs meant doesn’t enter into it, not unless he said it just exactly so.”

  “When did you come? How long have you been here?”

  “As long as you have.” The voice in the dark sounded cross. “You’re not half thick, lad. You didn’t notice my message? I had a job finding dried beans and dried peas at this time of year, I can tell you.”

  Frederick felt foolish for missing the significance of the peas and beans. “I thought one of the other servants did that just to be a nuisance.”

  “I did it so you would know I was watching out for you. I don’t fancy letting any of the other servants see me.” Under his breath, Billy Bly added, “Rubies to radishes they would tattle to that butler about me.”

  Frederick let the familiar sense of companionship he associated with Billy Bly’s presence wash over him. It felt like a good meal when he was hungry. It felt like the warmth of a well-laid fire on a cold wet night. It felt like coming home. Frederick couldn’t keep the words back. “I missed you. I don’t want Lord Schofield to banish you again.”

  Billy Bly sounded somewhat embarrassed. “And I missed you too, lad. But there’s no help for it this time. You must warn his nibs-ship not to come here. The wizard is too proud of his family home to stay away, but all the while he is here, he’s in deadly peril.”

  “Is it the curse?” Frederick asked. “Is that what you found in the chimney?”

  “I found something. I can’t tell you much about curses,” said Billy Bly. “They don’t work on us brownies the way they do on you mortals. I’ve tried talking with it, but I can’t get a word out of the thing. Whether it can’t answer me or whether it won’t, I couldn’t say. What I do know is, that thing is bad. It looks nasty. It feels nasty. It even tastes nasty. It’s huge, but it moves too fast for me to catch. When I do get a grip on it, bits of it come away in my hands. Fair makes my skin crawl, but it doesn’t slow the thing down a jot.”

  Frederick asked, “Is it some kind of animal, then?”

  Billy Bly sounded very grave. “It’s no animal. Not a snake, though it looks like one. It stinks of malice. Sometimes it looks like a bit of rope. Sometimes it’s as thick as your neck, but sometimes it’s long and thin. Depends on where it is hiding in the chimney. Some places are too small even for me to reach.”

  Frederick kicked his legs free of the blanket. “Let me help you catch it. What if we had a net? Do you think a net would work?”

  “Stay.” Billy Bly sounded stern. “I didn’t come to rouse you. I don’t want the whole house on end. Bad enough I spilled a pint of milk when I was chasing it out of the kitchen.”

  “That was you?” Frederick asked. “Mr. Grant was in a dreadful strop about that spilled milk.”

  “Sun was up before I had a chance to return to the kitchen. By then the maids were stirring. I dared not stay to clean it up. His nibs won’t be happy to learn I am here, for things do seem to happen when I’m around. Fragile keepsakes fall and smash. It’s the way of things. But learn I’m here he must, lad. You must give him a message.”

  “No!” Frederick tried to rise.

  “Yes!�
� Billy Bly twisted the blanket so tight around his legs that Frederick could hardly wriggle. “Do it however you please, but don’t let Thomas Schofield come here without warning him of the danger.”

  “How am I going to tell his lordship about the thing in the chimney without letting him know you’re here?” Frederick asked. “He’s sure to send you away again.”

  “Let him.”

  Frederick’s throat grew so tight he could hardly get words out. “I won’t. I can’t.”

  “All the same, you must warn him.”

  Frederick clutched his head in despair. “Dear Lord Schofield. Don’t come here. There’s a bit of rope in the chimney. Your obedient servant, Frederick Lincoln. Is that what you want me to tell him?”

  “Seems to me that would do the trick nicely. But suit yourself,” said Billy Bly when Frederick emitted a fizzing sound of disagreement. “If you can’t think how to put it, ask that young red-haired maid of yours. She knows how to do things properly. Don’t let the grass grow between your toes while you fret over what to do. Send a message and send it soon. Soon! Better to do it badly than leave the task undone.”

  With one last tug at the blanket to tuck Frederick in, Billy Bly departed. Frederick found himself alone in a perfectly silent room. Nothing rustled but Frederick, fighting to escape his bedding.

  Once he was free, Frederick made himself lie quiet and still, but he did not sleep for a long time. Instead he stared up into the dark, ears straining for the sound of anything, anything at all, lurking in the chimney. Young ears are better than old, Hetty had told him. Frederick was glad of it. It would be terrible to be old and deaf and never know if something full of malice, something that could look like a snake or a bit of rope, was coming after him in the dark.

  Houses make noise at night, Frederick discovered. Each time he began to drift to sleep, a distant window would rattle or a nearby floorboard would creak. He started awake again and again, frightened. The sense of peace and comfort that usually accompanied the rustling noise he associated with Billy Bly was gone. Instead, Frederick found himself on watch in the night, waiting for danger that never came.