But those people hadn’t been lounging on silken settees desperately trying to entertain themselves after suffering through a long day of fine food and tedious leisure.
No, this is not a proper reward, sir, and I am no bear.
She pushed the apple under some books, and proceeded to dust the next shelf below.
What is he getting at? Mama warned me of possible “gifts” from male employers. Lydia scoffed. But I think she meant ivory combs or bottles of parfum.
She continued down the ladder to the final shelf. Apparently I’m not worthy of gifts of that caliber.
A fresh wave of anger crashed over her as she stood, thinking.
I ought to tear his offering in half.
Hastily she ascended the rungs and regarded the offensive little scrap.
Imagining Jonathan’s grinning face twisting into one of fury at finding it torn in two made her hesitate.
I’m the one who ought to be angry, she thought. Still…
With a sense of dissatisfaction, Lydia pushed the offensive slip of paper fully under the books, leaving no hint of its existence to the casual observer.
I don’t want to catch sight of that again…
***
That evening, Lydia and Wells were propped up in bed.
“‘P’ is such a nice letter,” Wells said, looking at an ornate capital P on the page in the book on her lap.
Lydia smiled pertly and wrote a long word on a slip of paper. “What do you think that says?”
Wells began to sound it out, “P-l-ah-uh-g-huh-m-ah-n. That can’t be right.”
“That was nearly it, but these all stand together to say ‘ow’,” Lydia pointed. “Try again.”
“P-l-ow-m-ah-n. Oh! Ploughman!” Wells turned to Ploughman. “You’ve got a hard name.”
“Let me see it,” said the older woman. The beds were so close together in the small room that Lydia was able to hand her the paper simply by stretching her arm out.
“Hmm,” Ploughman said, examining it. “It’s a long one.”
“Here, whisper your Christian name in my ear so I can write it out for Wells,” said Lydia, leaning toward the woman.
Ploughman complied and soon Wells was reading, “Juh-oa-n. Joan.”
“Let me see,” said Ploughman. “I’ve never seen that one.”
Lydia hid her surprise as she handed over the paper.
She’s never seen her first name written out! At times these dear people astound me.
“So that’s what I look like on paper--Joan Ploughman. I certainly look different in person.” She chuckled.
An idea occurred to Lydia.
“Would you like to learn to read?” she asked the graying woman. “I could teach you alongside Wells.”
“Thank you, Foote, but I’ve gone this long without it and I think I can go a bit longer. I would like to keep this scrap of paper, though.”
“Of course.”
Ploughman creakily rose from the bed and carefully put the precious little slip of paper into her sparsely stocked cupboard.
Lydia thought back to the snippet of paper she’d seen earlier that day.
Did he expect me to pack it away for safe keeping amongst my prized possessions? She snorted lightly.
“What is it?” Wells asked, looking up from the book.
“Hmm?” Lydia asked and then feigned a cough.
Not Finding What is Sought After
~ Jonathan
It’s been a week since I placed it. Surely she’s cleaned here since then. Don’t they clean each room once a week?
The narrow rungs felt twig-like under Jonathan’s heavy footwear as he ascended the ladder.
So that would mean…
The thought was interrupted by the opening of the library door. Jonathan froze and gripped the sides of the ladder, swinging his head around.
Sophia stood in the doorway, looking up at her brother, a sheet of newspaper clutched in her hand.
“Oh, Jonathan, you won’t believe this.” She pulled the door shut behind her and regarded her brother on the ladder. “What are you doing?”
I nearly thought it was Foote! Oh, to be caught up here by her!
“Huh? Oh…uh, I’m looking for a book.” He continued his climb, cringing internally at the minor falsehood. “What’s the matter?”
Reaching the top, he looked from left to right.
Gone. I did put it right here, anchored by Robinson Crusoe, didn’t I? He examined the length of the shelf again.
“Mama has placed an announcement about our ball in the newspaper.”
Yes, yes, it’s gone. She’s taken it.
He imagined Foote ascending the ladder and finding the apple, an amused smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she tucked it into her apron pocket.
“Did you hear me, Jonathan?”
Satisfied, he began to make his way back down.
“Yes. Announcement. Ball. Newspaper. There’s nothing unusual about that.”
“Well there wouldn’t be if she hadn’t included this bit, ‘All members of the Peerage are welcome to attend.’”
“What? Ha ha!” Jonathan laughed loudly. “Well, they’ll all be lining up now! The salon will be bursting with English nobility.” He continued to laugh as his feet hit the floor. “Her absurdities ever increase! Why are you troubled?”
“It’s not funny, Jonathan. It’s absolutely ludicrous and…and shameful. Don’t you see why she’s done this?”
Jonathan lifted his eyebrows. “Are you able to explain it?” he asked doubtfully.
“Clearly since things with Spalding never progressed she sees this ball as a chance to marry me off and marry me well.”
Here we go with that again!
“Sophe,” he began, “no duke reads the Times to determine which country ball he’ll stumble into each week. Even if that was the Lady’s hope, it won’t be realized. You’re worried about nothing.”
The lines in Sophia’s forehead did not lessen as she bent her head back over the paper.
A thought struck Jonathan and he looked back up at the shelf.
What if a breeze caught it and it floated down…?
He envisioned the apple’s drifting descent and began to look at the floor and under a nearby table.
No. Nothing. She definitely took it.
“What is it?” Sophia asked.
Trying not to let jubilance show on his face, Jonathan responded, “Oh nothing. I thought I dropped something.”
He noted the downward turn of Sophia’s mouth.
The poor thing’s truly worried.
Taking the newspaper from her, he crumpled it and tossed it into the fireplace.
“Solved,” he said, holding his empty hands out before him.
“Yes, thoroughly,” Sophia said dubiously, but smiled at Jonathan regardless. She grabbed one of his hands and tilted her head, asking, “What would I do without you?”
He shrugged and forced a broad smile, the lies he had just told her echoing in his mind.
Wary of a Bottle
~ Lydia
“Smith didn’t tell you what this is all about?” Lydia whispered as she and Wells approached Sophia’s bedroom door, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting.
Wells whispered back. “All she said was, ‘Come to Miss Sophia’s room and bring Foote with you.’”
Of course there is more for us to do, thought Lydia. If Mama hadn’t written that a fox got half the chickens I’d leave tomorrow.
Settling her face into what she had come to think of as her ‘face-of-servitude’, Lydia knocked lightly on the paneled door.
“Yes, yes! Come in!” called Smith from within.
They entered to see Miss Sophia who was wearing just a chemise and pantaloons, sitting at a mirrored vanity. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was a thin, hard line.
Smith stood behind her, holding combs in both hands, looking severely agitated.
“Wells, F
oote,” Smith beckoned them over. “The hairdresser who usually prepares Miss Sophia’s hair before special occasions was not able to be here this afternoon, but I told Miss Sophia not to worry as I recall one of you saying that you were quite good at arranging hair.”
Lydia was astonished, certain that she had never made such a proud claim, and doubting Wells would ever do so either.
“Which of you was it?” Smith asked, exasperatedly, but did not wait for an answer. “Wells, you come from a large family. Certainly you’ve done up a lot of hair at home.”
“Plaits and such, yes,” Wells began. “But…”
“Good, here,” said Smith, shoving the combs into Wells’ hands. “Go on!”
Hesitantly, Wells began to comb through the thick, straw colored hair. It hung to Sophia’s waist in dense waves.
It is Miss Sophia’s greatest beauty, thought Lydia, though even it is not a remarkable feature.
She studied Sophia in the mirror as Wells combed with slightly shaking hands.
The blue eyes were small and lightly lashed. There was an unfortunate fine downiness that covered her broad cheeks, now illuminated in the afternoon light spilling through the window. Her lips were neither fine nor shapely. Neither was her nose. Her forehead was wrinkled with concern, her eyebrows pushing together.
What miracle can be done with the hair to transform all the rest? wondered Lydia. And who are we to do it?
“Let’s part it here,” Wells said, dragging the edge of the comb down the center of Sophia’s crown. The hair would not lie sleekly on either side of the part.
Though she was hesitant to be responsible for any part of the task, Lydia murmured, “Perhaps we can smooth it down with some water.” She lifted a comb from the vanity table and dipped it into a cup.
“Don’t get it too wet or the curls won’t hold.” Smith advised, her arms crossed in front of her.
“Curls?” Wells asked.
“Yes, of course. The iron’s heating in the fire.” Smith motioned toward the hearth.
Wells and Lydia looked at the metal tongs sticking out of the fire and then at one another, questioningly.
Oh, no, thought Lydia. She’s never used them before, either.
“Foote, can you herring bone?” Wells asked softly.
“Pardon me?” Lydia asked.
“Have you ever plaited a herring bone? Come here. I’ll show you on this side and then you can do the same on that side.”
Although Lydia was relieved that Wells was formulating a plan, she was not pleased to be involved in it. Still, she watched Wells’ hands as they manipulated several thin locks of hair at once into a tidy plait. It took her only a moment and soon, with hands that felt too large, she was similarly plaiting on the left side of Sophia’s head. Wells then directed her as they looped the plaits and secured them with a sort of hairpin. That took them some time to figure out since neither of them had ever used one like it before.
Hmm, she won’t win any prizes, but it is an improvement, Lydia thought examining Sophia in the mirror again. Very good. Now I can go sweep the front entryway and set out the flatware.
Lydia curtsied, ready to walk out the door with Wells.
“You are not yet excused,” Smith murmured, her face severe.
Biting back the words she found forming in her mouth, Lydia turned back to face the vanity, determined to keep her irritation from exhibiting itself on her face. Glancing in the mirror, she noticed that Sophia seemed unaware of anything going on around her.
Steadily, Sophia gazed at her own reflection, the worried look replaced with one of calm resignation. This improved her appearance vastly, Lydia noted.
Though she’d still not be described as pretty.
Suddenly, the door burst open and Lady Clyde strode in, startling everyone there. Lydia had never seen her move so quickly before.
The servants silently curtsied and Lydia moved aside as the woman reached the vanity where she began to scrutinize her daughter’s appearance.
The look of worry had returned to Sophia’s face.
“Smith,” she said, meeting the housekeeper’s eye in the mirror. “I have a slight headache.” She began to rub her temples.
“Of course, Miss Sophia,” said Smith who quickly disappeared out the door.
“Hmmm…” Lady Clyde assessed, her arms crossed, her eyes flitting between examining Sophia directly and in the mirror.
“Help me with my dress.” Sophia rose from the vanity seat and motioned toward the gown hanging on the wardrobe door.
“The corset comes first,” Lady Clyde barked as Wells reached for the gown.
On the bed was a frothy pile of petticoats and a strange looking garment with lots of ties. It was more complicated looking than the simple stays that Lydia wore under her own clothing, but it looked as if it would function similarly. Lydia lifted it and helped Sophia into it.
Sophia grabbed onto a thick column of her poster bed and instructed, “Pull it as tightly as you can.”
Wells and Lydia looked at each other.
“Come on then,” said Sophia, sharply.
No need to get waspish, thought Lydia as she stepped forward to grab the dangling ties. She pulled the laces snugly and began to tie them.
I thought you were nice, but it seems there’s a bit of the Lady within you after all.
“No. It needs to be much tighter than that,” griped Sophia. “Lord, where is Smith?”
Yes, where is Smith, Lydia thought. I’ve never done this before. I’ve never even seen one of these before.
Lydia tried again, pulling till she feared Sophia would cry out in pain. Clumsily, she tied the corset’s laces and stepped back.
“Now the petticoats.” Lady Clyde snapped her fingers at Wells who picked up one after another, handing them to Lydia.
Lydia counted four in all as they draped them around Sophia’s waist.
Next, they lowered the gown itself over Sophia, who knelt with her arms up in the air.
“Careful! Mind her hair!” the Lady snapped.
Yes, you wouldn’t want to have to stand there uselessly while Wells and I dressed it all over again, now would you?
Once Sophia was standing with every inch of her dress smoothed and every ruffle fluffed, Lydia surveyed her, looking for any details they might be blamed for missing.
The blue of the dress complemented Sophia’s eyes. At the neckline was a broad band of lace. Matching bands hung from the end of each sleeve. The waist and hemline were embellished with a cream-colored braid. Overall, Lydia thought the effect was very pretty, though she found the huge sleeves ridiculous.
She could hide a side of ham in each of those. May we go now?
Lady Clyde observed her daughter through narrowed eyes, pursing her lips and sighing several times. Finally, she announced, “It will do. Make certain that you smile often; your teeth are your best feature.”
With that, she turned and walked briskly from the room.
Don’t bother expressing any gratitude to those of us who paused in our endless duties to dress your daughter’s hair and body, dear Lady! Lydia thought, then curtsied to Sophia, ready to excuse herself.
Startled, she bumbled the curtsey as she saw that a tear was slipping down Sophia’s cheek. Immediately, she averted her eyes, struck by pangs of guilt.
Clearly this ball isn’t the joyous occasion I assumed. Well, how could any occasion be joyous with that gargoyle of a mother staring at you? What did she say? ‘It will do? Make sure you smile often’?
Forgetting how Sophia had snapped at her just moments earlier, Lydia wanted to put her arm around the girl and tell her she looked lovely, wanted to tell her not to pay her own mother any mind. But she knew she could not, so she continued to stare at the floor, regretting her earlier impatience.
At that moment, Smith returned, carrying a small tray. On it were a glass bottle and a tiny cup.
Glancing to see if the tears had stopped, Lydia saw that Sophia’s eyes were rivet
ed on the tray Smith carried.
Her mouth slightly open, Sophia watched as Smith carefully poured out a measure of liquid from the bottle and held the little cup out to her.
Lydia observed, engrossed, as Sophia closed her eyes, lifted the cup to her lips and tilted the contents into her mouth. She held it there for a moment as if to drain every drop, then licked her lips and sighed heavily. A look of relief spread across her face.
What magical fluid is that? wondered Lydia, taken aback.
Uncomfortably, she looked at Wells, who was arranging things upon the vanity table, and Smith, who was recapping the glass bottle. Neither of them seemed to notice anything unusual.
Sophia gazed into the mirror, now with a dreamy look on her face.
“How is your headache, Miss Sophia?” asked Smith.
The girl simply nodded, a little smile playing on her lips.
That was an odd answer, thought Lydia. And how could it possibly work that quickly?
“You look very nice, Miss Sophia,” Smith declared then turned to the servants. “Go. Ready yourselves to serve the guests.”
Once they had passed through the door, Lydia whispered, “What was that she was drinking?”
“What?”
“That glass bottle Smith brought in. What was in it?”
“I don’t know,” responded Wells. “Her petticoats, though! Her underclothes are finer than our serving clothes. Ha! We cleaned the entire house, prepared countless dishes of food and even dressed Miss Sophia’s hair! How would they manage without us? Oh, I’m so glad they forgot about the curling tongs. I know I would have burnt her ears!”
“Hmm…yes,” said Lydia, thinking, It seems nearly everything was forgotten once that bottle was brought in.
Promising to Dance
~ Jonathan
Jonathan stood in the marble hall, looking out the window at the front drive.
I thought that at least Hodges would be here by now.
There was a rustle behind him.
“Jonathan?”
He turned to see his sister descending the staircase.
“Well?” she asked.
“What?”
“How do I look?” she asked, uneasily.
Jonathan turned back to the window. “Fine.”
“Jonathan! You hardly looked at me.” She held her arms out at her sides as her brother eyed her more carefully.
“You look lovely, Sophia,” he said, giving the answer he supposed she wanted to hear, neglecting to add, Certain to charm all the nobility in attendance.
A Girl Called Foote Page 12
