“In the library.”
“What? Do you mean that’s not one of your books?” Wells asked, a familiar hint of fear in her voice.
“No. I only brought six books with me and I’ve read them all so many times.”
“You took one of the Family’s books from the parlor?” Wells’ eyes were large.
“Don’t trouble yourself! I was dusting the shelves today and I dropped it into my apron’s pocket. It’s not the first time. Rob Roy came from there as well. No one was there. No one saw me.”
“Would you have taken it if someone was there?”
Annoyed, Lydia thought for a moment. “No, I suppose not, but still…I didn’t do anything wrong. All of those books just stay there propped up on the shelves, collecting dust for me to clean off. As far as I know, I’m the only person in the entire house who wants to read them. I’m being careful with it and I’ll return it once I’m done.”
I’ve got to read them before I return home! Farington’s collection is a pittance in comparison, she added silently, tired of the conversation which seemed to be turning into an argument.
“Foote,” began Wells, “I know you won’t harm the books, but the Family, especially the Lady, wouldn’t like it. You might even be…dismissed.” There was an edge of horror in her voice. “Please put it back tomorrow and don’t ever take another. Please?”
“Wells…I’m not worried about it and you oughtn’t be, either. And no, I won’t promise to not take more. It’s one of the few things I actually enjoy and I’m not doing anything wrong.”
Wells sniffed lightly and said, “Well…I won’t be having any reading lessons out of the books you sneak out of the library.” She rolled over as if signaling the end of the discussion.
As if you could read even a quarter of the words on this page, Lydia thought, rolling her eyes.
Ploughman began to chuckle.
Lydia looked to her questioningly. The older woman was propped up in bed with her aged hands folded over on the bed spread.
Even Wells bothered to ask, “What are you laughing at?”
“Foote’s not the only one who’s been up to mischief,” she said, slyly.
“What?” Lydia smiled.
The older woman clumsily climbed out of bed and knelt on the floor beside it, groaning awkwardly.
Is she going to pray? wondered Lydia.
Instead, Ploughman reached under her bed and pulled out a cloth wrapped bundle. Wells was now watching, too, as Ploughman placed the bundle on her bed and drew back the sides of the cloth. Inside were tens of rush lights.
Each of those would burn for nearly half an hour, marveled Lydia. There are hours of light there.
“Where did you get all of those?” she asked, incredulously.
“I made ‘em,” came the answer. “I knew you needed more light for teaching Wells reading. When I was a wee one, I made dips like these and sold ‘em by the dozen on the roadside. Last week I asked Glaser to bring me a bunch of reeds, I soaked ‘em, peeled ‘em, dried ‘em and when I got the chance, I dipped ‘em and dried ‘em again.”
“I wondered what all those reeds on the kitchen counter were. Where’d you get the fat for dipping?” asked Wells.
“I won’t tell you, Wellsy. You’d have a fainting fit.” Ploughman winked. “So you’d better stop up your ears as I tell Foote. When Cook roasted up a joint of meat, I used the drippings before I washed the pan. Cook didn’t mind as she’s always taking nibbles of what she ought not. I don’t tell on her, and she don’t tell on me. You’re stealing stories from the same Lady I’m stealing fat from.” Ploughman winked again, chuckling, setting her second chin aquiver.
“Why, this room is a veritable den of thieves!” Lydia laughed.
Wells huffed and rolled over, her back to the other two women.
Lydia and Ploughman smiled at each other and Lydia mouthed, “Thank you.”
“Well, now you know where they are when you need to nick one.” Ploughman pushed the bundle of contraband back into its hiding place and found her way back into her bed.
Snuffing out the light, Lydia lay facing Wells’ back, which was still heaving with indignation.
Silly, silly girl. Imagine regarding a dish of fat that’s about to be tossed as illicit!
Frightening Another Maid
~ Jonathan
Due to a scuttling rat in the floorboards of his bedroom, Jonathan had not slept well the night before. Following breakfast, he wandered into the library for his sketchbook but soon found himself curled up on the settee.
Ah yes, the old napping place, he thought, grabbing a nearby decorative pillow. Hello. You’ve cradle my weary head before. In fact, I do believe that’s a spot from my drooling mouth from ages ago. Ah, soft as ever.
What seemed like only moments later, the cramping of his knees and the sound of a door closing awoke him from his light nap.
Who’s that? he thought dully.
The newest servant girl came into view.
Ah, the Retriever of Fallen Teeth.
She went directly to the bookshelf ladder, dust rag in hand, and ascended it.
Servants, Jonathan considered, looking at the girl through barely opened eyes. They appear magically when one tugs the bell pull…or simply to awaken one from a much needed nap.
Jonathan thought back on the times he had played tricks on various servants, recalling how sometimes they were amused along with him, and other times seemed angry in a silent, constipated way.
Most of the servants employed at Whitehall were either mere children or, what Jonathan considered, old. Once he had heard his mother say that young men ate far too much and young women were a distraction to the men so neither would be chosen to serve in her home.
Yet, here is a girl about the age of Sophia, newly hired. Perhaps the Lady supposed this particular girl would not tempt the men of the household. Though I’m not sure why, thought Jonathan. She’s reasonably pretty.
A number of his fellow Heath students had bragged about conquests they’d made of their families’ various maids, both attractive and plain. Most of the stories were, Jonathan thought, based on the unimpressive nature of their tellers, highly exaggerated at best and completely fictitious at worst, but a few were plausible.
This girl had dark hair and a figure that was slender without appearing juvenile. Though Jonathan had not seen much of her face, which was presently turned away from him, he recalled it having a nose that was a little short and a chin that was a little broad.
Groggily, Jonathan watched as she put down the dust rag and proceeded to do something very strange.
His eyes flew wide open, though he remained lying still on the settee.
Did she just take a book from her apron pocket and return it to the shelf?
His interest piqued, he watched intently to see what else she might do.
The girl hummed a tune quietly as she resumed dusting shelf after shelf. Suddenly, she stopped, saying, “Oh!”
She lifted another book which Jonathan recognized, flipped through several pages and began to read, perched on the ladder. A few years earlier, he had looked through the same book. Upon opening it, he had had little motivation to comprehend the poems. The inscrutable Scottish dialect had muddled his brain.
Jonathan held his breath, aware even of the sound his eyelashes made against the pillow as he blinked, watching for several moments, delighted and astonished.
A servant girl who reads Robert Burns?
The girl turned a page and quietly giggled.
Is it possible she understands and likes that jumble of words?
Taking something small from her pocket, she put it between the pages and returned the book to its place. Two shelves later, she lifted another book and began to flip through it.
Amused, Jonathan could stay silent no longer.
“Getting the dust from between the pages?”
Her reaction was similar to what Ploughman’s had been to the
flatus he passed many years earlier in the very same room --a frantic clutching of the ladder and wild turnings of the head.
When she had regained composure, she replied, stiffly, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s quite clear.” He sat up and stretched enormously.
She pushed the book, which miraculously had not dropped from her hand, back into place and resumed dusting, vigorously. Silence prevailed as she finished cleaning the final bookcase.
As she returned the book ladder to its place, Jonathan asked, “Do you really understand the poems of Robert Burns?”
The girl assumed the uncomfortable air that servants often did when Jonathan asked them questions. They would answer him politely, but with a steeliness under the words and facial expression that made him think they just wanted to be done with him.
“I’m able to discern enough to find enjoyment in them,” she replied after a brief pause.
Jonathan felt the corners of his mouth twitching.
Did this parlor maid just use the word ‘discern’?
“You’re the ‘new Foote’, aren’t you?” He studied her and saw he had been correct about her face. None of the features were noteworthy, but none were unfavorable. Her eyes were light, though he couldn’t tell if they were blue, gray or green from the distance. He also noticed two moles on the left side of her face.
“So says the Lady,” she said, then bit her lip and quickly added, “Sir, would you like me to go until you’re finished with this room?”
Slightly taken aback, Jonathan said, “Yes. Yes, I would.”
Quickly, Foote gathered her cleaning materials and left.
After the door had shut behind her, Jonathan sat for a moment longer, marveling.
‘So says the Lady’? Sounds as if she’s been familiarized with the Lady’s charms. But what an odd servant--stowing books in her apron and marking pages of poetry! What page was that that made her giggle? he wondered, standing and moving toward the shelf.
Holding the book loosely in his hand, it fell open to where a torn scrap of paper had been placed.
Why, it’s the haggis!
He nearly laughed.
That was the only poem in the book that I somewhat enjoyed as it celebrated something so vile.
There in the margin, next to the title “Address to a Haggis” was a little sketch of a platter overwhelmed by a hulking, steaming sheep-gut. Just beyond was a man’s overly large grotesque face, split with a wide grin. In his raised hands, he held a knife and a fork as if he was about to greedily devour the entire sausage-like bag.
Ahh, yes, I remember drawing this. I’m still quite pleased with the rendition.
He silently read the first two lines:
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
Hmmm…he pondered. Was it the poem or my drawing that made her laugh?
He shut the book and returned it to its shelf, a small smile on his lips.
Sharing a Joke
~ Lydia
Out in the hallway, Lydia bit her lip. Is he always going to catch me looking through books?
The thought was interrupted by the sound of quick, punctuated footsteps coming down the hall.
Ugh…Smith, always treading about…
Setting the bucket down roughly, Lydia grabbed a rag and began to dust the frames of the William Walter Clyde portraits, or ‘those Clyde Fellows’ as she had come to think of them. Her heart was still pounding from her exchange with the young baronet.
Ha! Well I won’t be telling Wells about that!
Did he see me returning Rob Roy to the shelf?
A shiver of fear ran through her stomach.
What if he did dismiss me?
Don’t be ridiculous! He didn’t seem bothered in the least. In fact, he seemed… entertained. Is that the right word? Maybe, but whatever it was, it wasn’t anger or disgust. This thought settled her a bit as Smith’s footsteps grew louder.
Can’t he go nap in his room? Isn’t that what a bed is for? I’ve been looking forward to dusting those books all week!
Lydia hadn’t expected Smith, who was always rushing around in every direction, to halt right next to her.
She stopped dusting and looked up. Smith’s attention was normally engaged on anything but the person to whom she spoke, so Lydia found it strange to be staring into her lightly lashed blue eyes.
“Foote?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Thursday,” Smith said in a low voice.
The words hung in the air meaninglessly. Having no idea what her expected response ought to be, Lydia repeated, “Yes?”
Smith’s mouth puckered sourly as she pointed at the door nearest them. “It’s library-and-study-day, not hallway-day. I’m sure there’s plenty to be done in there.” She began to reach for the doorknob.
“The baronet desires to be alone.” Lydia regretted saying the words instantly, imagining Smith bursting in on the young man and having her own awkward interaction with him.
That would have been fun to watch.
“Oh…” Smith’s hand fell to her side and her mouth opened and shut a couple of times.
Ha! You’ve nothing to say to that, have you? Lydia could feel the smugness of her thoughts squaring and lifting her shoulders as she faced the elder woman.
Seeming to sense it, Smith sniffed and looked Lydia over head to toe.
“Where is your mob-cap, Foote?”
“My mob-cap?” Lydia felt her confidence wane.
Where is that hideous thing?
She felt around and pulled the limp, crumpled hat from a small pocket on her bodice.
“Because you’ve been caught improperly attired, you will lose your free afternoon this Sunday.”
“What?!” Lydia gasped, her mouth hanging open.
Smith continued quietly, “It is vital that you represent the family well by wearing the designated uniform.”
“Yes,” Lydia spat, holding her hands out to indicate the empty hallway, “in front of this vast array of witnesses.”
“Don’t make it two Sundays, Foote.” Smith’s voice was low and fierce. “There’s plenty of silver to be polished again and again. Now put that on and get to work.”
Her quick, clipped footsteps began again, sounding down the hallway and rounding the corner.
Lydia stood aghast.
How can she…?
I didn’t know she’d…Ugh!
She pulled the hat onto her head hard enough to hear a stitch give.
It’s just going to fall off without the pins.
She found one pin, digging it out of the same pocket and turned to the frame on the wall habitually as if it were a mirror.
Sir William the Second looked back at her, painted as if he smelled a slightly unpleasant odor.
Instinctively, she sneered back and began to rub the rag over his frame, noticing that the caricature face had been removed. A few fibers of paper were stuck to the paint.
I’ll probably be required to clean those off, too, she thought, peevishly.
Just then, the library door opened and Sir Jonathan emerged. Not even glancing in her direction, he walked past, straightening his coat and went down the hall, out of sight.
Flustered and angry, Lydia returned to the library with her supplies. Once inside, she shut the door and looked behind all the furniture and in every corner.
Is the little one tormenting a dormouse under the table? Perhaps the Lady is crouching behind the end table, ready to pounce on anyone whose name displeases her.
Satisfied at the room’s emptiness, she walked past the settee where Sir Jonathan had been napping. His sketch book now occupied the place. It was open, but she stayed far enough away as to not see what was on the page.
Is this an invitation or a trap?
She envisioned Sir Jonathan lurking for a moment at the other side of the door and then bursting in, bellowing, “U
nhand that book, underling!”
I won’t do it, she decided, turning her back on the book, then gasped.
The man with the haggis! He must have drawn that as well!
She giggled at the remembrance of the rapturous look on the man’s face.
Well, even if he is a bit pompous and sly… Sir Jonathan is entertaining. She sighed. But back to work…
Lydia tended to her cleaning tasks, though she kept glancing at the settee and the book it held. Once she had finished with the parlor and returned her supplies, except for a single dust rag, to the bucket, she looked toward the door and cautiously approached the book.
He wouldn’t have put it here if he didn’t intend for me to have a look.
She halted, stunned in delighted surprise.
On the page before her was sketched an elderly man with puckered lips, his mouth an empty black hole. A young woman in a maid’s garb stood before him, one hand presenting him with a silver platter, the other hand lifting the large silver lid. Upon the platter was a set of teeth as white and gleaming as the cream colored paper would allow.
That’s me! She chuckled silently, studying the sketched maid. Never before had she seen a drawing of herself, at least not from the hand of a talented artist. She recognized some likenesses, but the focus of the drawing was the elderly man. The look of delight on his saggy face was accentuated by the way his hands were thrown out to the sides. His eyes were lit up with unmistakable joy.
What a lovely antiquated suitor…and those untethered teeth!
A feeling Lydia had not experienced for months warmed her, filling her with a quiet sense of excitement. She ached as the long-absent sentiment of understanding another’s amusement washed over her.
Words ran through Lydia’s mind arranging and rearranging themselves as she continued to stare and giggle. Realizing she would soon be expected back in the kitchen to serve the noon-time meal, she sighed and walked away from the book to leave the room.
It was hours before she realized she had forgotten to slip another book into her apron pocket.
***
That night, Lydia knew Wells was anticipating her reading lesson as they sat in bed side by side. On most nights she hoped to get through the lesson quickly so she could focus on reading whichever book she was making her way through. Tonight she had a different mission altogether. Hurriedly, she scribbled down the easiest poem from A Pretty Little Pocketbook that she could recall memorizing as a child.
A Girl Called Foote Page 9
