A Girl Called Foote

by A. E. Walnofer

  They were here this morning…

  Returning to the foyer, he ran up the stairs, hollering, “Is anyone here?”

  Still nothing.

  Throwing open the door to Elliott’s room, he saw through dim light that it was tidy, eerily so. The curtains were drawn over the windows. The bed was made, though the pillow was gone. There were no playthings littering the floor. The fireplace looked as if it hadn’t been used in weeks.

  Elliott…Did he go to London after I left for Heath? No, Sophia would have mentioned him in her last letter.

  Elliott!

  Jonathan ran from room to room, throwing open every door. Each room was as cold and empty as the last. Not a single fire burned.

  He bolted down the staircase to continue his frantic hunt on the lower story.

  I thought he’d be safe here! Where the bloody hell is…

  …what? What’s this?

  His hand still clutching the doorknob, Jonathan froze, his mouth agape.

  Inside his father’s old study, every drawer and cupboard was opened. Their contents were strewn about the room, haphazardly. In the midst of the extreme disarray was the most bizarre sight of all.

  Before a cabinet, stood a woman who appeared to be prying open its door, or attempting to anyway.

  Her back was to him as she agitatedly dug a file into the lock, murmurs of frustration exiting her lips. Meeting with no results, she stuck it into a crevice and pushed on the little lever, groaning with the effort.

  A burglar?

  Jonathan rushed into the room, hollering, “Away from there!”

  The woman turned, dropping the file. Her strained face flashed from terror to elation as she beheld the man before her.

  “Sir Jonathan!” she cried, her hands flying to her joyous face.

  “Foote?”

  “Oh, thank God! Thank God! Thank God!” She ran to him and clutched at the front of his coat. “Hurry, you’ve got to find it!”

  Jonathan said nothing, stupefied by the proximity of a young woman grabbing onto him in such an unreserved manner. Though tear tracks stained her cheeks and her eyelids were swollen, there was an earthy authenticity about her that was nothing less than stunning. Her tousled hair, freed from the ubiquitous mob-cap was beautiful in a wild sort of way and her face was animated like he had never seen it before. Gone was the required restraint that she had always maintained in his presence. Here before him was not a curried, proper servant, but a genuine young woman clothed with ivory flesh that coursed with blood.

  “Please! Where is it?” she begged, her teeth glinting just beyond her reddish lips.

  Jonathan tore his eyes away from her face and asked in a slightly strangled voice, “Where’s what?”

  “The laudanum! Oh, please. It’s Ploughman. She’s crying out in pain and I can’t bear it!” Her eyes bore intently into his own, her hands regrasping at the folds of cloth on his chest.

  “Wha…what’s happened to Ploughman?” he stuttered.

  Get ahold of yourself! he urged himself. Are you not a man?

  Squaring his shoulders, he grabbed her hands and pulled her down into a chair, then knelt in front of her. “Now…start from the beginning.”

  Visibly a little calmer, the maid breathed deeply and replied, “Ploughman became ill after the Lady left for London. It wasn’t long before she could not leave her bed. Now she can barely communicate, but this afternoon she awoke, screaming in pain. Please, Sir Jonathan, I’ve been looking for the laudanum ever since. She needs relief. Please...”

  The memory of Smith stretching out her narrow hand to give him a key entered Jonathan’s mind.

  “Yes…yes, I know where it is. Go to Ploughman. I will bring it immediately.”

  He felt her hands tighten around his fingers and she panted slightly, still winded, but it was the look on her face that took his breath away.

  She smiled at him as no one ever had, as he had never known a young woman could. It was a smile full of joy and appreciation, tinged with ecstatic relief.

  Relief that, he knew, he alone was responsible for.

  “Thank you,” she breathed and smiled for a moment longer, then stood, loosening her hands from his grip.

  Slightly recovered, Jonathan recalled something else of great importance.

  “And where is Elliott?” he asked, watching her move quickly toward the door.

  She stopped and turned back to him. The look of shocked realization on her face told him that she had no idea.

  “Never mind. I’m sure he’s fine,” he said, waving her on. “Go to Ploughman.”

 

  Dispensing Laudanum

  ~ Lydia

  As Lydia returned to the small attic room, the answer to Jonathan’s question was there before her. Sitting on the frame of the bed she had shared with Wells for many months, and then with Ploughman, was Elliott. Though it was late afternoon, he still wore his night clothes and his hair was decidedly unkempt.

  The room stank of urine and unwashed human flesh, but this seemed to have no effect on the young boy who was peering fixedly at the prone figure in the other bed.

  “Why’s she thrashing about like that?” he whispered upon seeing Lydia, his eyes wide.

  “She’s in a lot of pain.” Lydia bit her lip, her eyes welling, and silently prayed for the discovery of the laudanum. She sat down on the wooden slat next to the little boy, pulling him onto her lap. They gazed at the old woman in silence.

  At least she’s not howling now, thought Lydia as a low moan escaped Ploughman’s lips. Lydia reached for her hand.

  “He’s looking, Joan. He’s looking for the laudanum.”

  Just then she heard a masculine voice call out from below stairs, “Hello! Where are you?”

  “Jonathan?” Elliott asked, sitting up straight. “Jonathan!”

  The little boy hurried off, his bare feet padding loudly on the hall floor and down the stairs. In a moment, Jonathan’s form filled the doorway as he handed over the sought after bottle with its accompanying cup.

  Lydia measured out a dose and held it to the agonized woman’s lips, pouring it as slowly as possible into the lax mouth. A thin trickle ran down the cheek to the pillow, and Lydia wiped it with her sleeve.

  “There.” She watched as Ploughman’s head tilted to the side and her wheezing stilled to a slow, steady breath.

  She capped the bottle and placed it on the little table next to the ewer.

  “What are you doing here?” Elliott asked his brother. “Mama’s not here as well, is she?”

  Lydia started.

  Yes, what is he doing here? A sick sensation filled her stomach. And is the Lady here?

  “No, I came from Heath. Come, Elliott.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Ploughman needs to rest.”

  The little boy sighed. “Alright. It stinks in here anyway.”

  The two Clydes exited the room.

  Stinks? Well yes, it would. I suppose I could clean a bit now that Joan is resting peacefully.

  Lydia busied herself, but her cleaning was limited since the worst stench arose from the bedclothes and mattress underneath Joan.

  When Lydia rose from a crouching position, she was suddenly lightheaded and gripped the side of the bed to keep herself from falling over.

  Have I eaten today? she wondered and then was struck by a new thought.

  Sir Jonathan will be expecting dinner! As if it wasn’t hard enough to keep Hardy, Elliott and myself fed, and now there’s a hungry young man who is used to fine dining for every meal!

  She sighed heavily, and surveyed Joan’s sleeping figure one last time before turning to leave.

  As she descended the stairs, she was met by a warm and inviting scent. Arriving in the kitchen, she saw Jonathan and Elliott kneeling by the fire.

  Oh, why is he here? This is my room. Can’t he go inhabit one of his many fine salons or drawing rooms…?

  The thought caught in Lydia’s bra
in as she recalled the filthy state of those areas of the house.

  Well, I’ve had no time for cleaning! she thought, indignantly.

  “Is it ready?” Elliott was bouncing up and down.

  “Nearly. Just wait,” replied his brother.

  What’s he doing? Lydia wondered as she washed her hands in the basin.

  Jonathan lifted a long handled toasting frame out of the fireplace.

  He knows how to toast bread? The smell of it filled her nostrils and her mouth began to water.

  “Careful!” Jonathan warned and held the frame out of Elliott’s reach, carrying it to the wooden table.

  Deftly, he popped it open with a knife and dropped its contents onto a plate.

  Glancing at it, Lydia saw that it was not ordinary toast. There were two pieces of bread and between them was a blob of pale yellow goo.

  Melted cheese!

  She tore her eyes away from the delectable sight and began to peel a potato.

  So Sir Jonathan can make Welsh Rarebit! I’ve never seen that done in a toasting frame before. Where did he learn that? Lydia’s stomach rumbled.

  “Normally I’d make you wait to eat until the others are made,” Jonathan told his brother, “but it’s best warm, so you may begin. But don’t moan about how good it is or you’ll make us all jealous, and I’ll have to take it away from you.”

  You understand jealousy? Lydia thought sourly as she lifted the cabbage that would make the bulk of her own dinner onto the cutting board.

  Mere steps away, Elliott stood at the wooden counter and took his first crunchy bite.

  Jonathan placed another slice of bread in the toasting frame, followed by thick slices of cheese and topped them with another piece of bread.

  “Mmmm, Pony, this is even better than your rolls. It’s so…” he stopped, a bit of yellowish grease dripping from the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide. “Sorry…I forgot.”

  Jonathan chuckled as he walked toward the fire once again. “Learning how to toast a bit of cheese and bread over the fire in a dormitory is, perhaps, the most vital bit of education that all my years at Heath afforded me.”

  Schoolboys, cooking?

  Lydia chopped a few carrots, thinking of how little they would improve the thin soup. Her stomach grumbled again. It was already dinner time and it would be at least an hour before the simple meal was ready.

  “Can I have another?” Elliott asked, wiping his hands on his trousers.

  “You’re the only one who has had even one so far,” Jonathan said as he crouched by the fire, slowly turning the handle of the frame. A drop of melted cheese fell from the bread and hissed in the fire.

  They could at least take their torturous rarebit elsewhere, thought Lydia as she breathed in the thick scent of the burning cheese and headed outside to the well with an empty pot.

  And what’s this?

  Against the well was propped her mattress. The two blankets were draped over the nearby wood pile.

  Suddenly horrified, Lydia wondered, What must he think of a mattress in the kitchen? Yet, he saw Ploughman himself. He couldn’t expect me to sleep there! Oh! What would he think of Elliott sleeping in the kitchen…and on a corner of the same mattress? Oh the decorum of these monied fools!

  Doesn’t he realize how impossible it is to tend to a very ill woman and a little boy and keep a palatial home clean, all single-handedly?

  Ready to speak plainly if spoken to, Lydia returned to the kitchen with the heavy pot, the front of her apron sloshed with cold well water.

  Jonathan was no longer hovering near the stove when she entered, so she put the pot on the grate and stoked the fire beneath.

  Returning to the cutting board, she saw that there on a plate, next to her neat pile of chopped carrots was the second finished rarebit.

  How thoughtless to put it there.

  Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She grabbed a peeled onion and began to chop it into little pieces, hoping that it could be blamed for her watering eyes if they were noticed.

  Jonathan stood nearby preparing a third for the toasting process.

  “It’s best warm, Pony. You ought to eat it now.” Elliott stood near, looking longingly at the coveted cheese and bread.

  Steady your voice, Lydia told herself. As cheerfully as she could, she said, “I don’t believe that’s intended for me, Master Elliott.”

  “Jonathan said I mustn’t touch it because it was yours.”

  What? Lydia paused in her onion dicing and glanced at Jonathan’s crouching back as he held the laden frame over the flames.

  “Oh, I think you are mistaken, Master Elliott. Servants serve their employers, not the other way around.”

  Her mouth nearly dripped as she spoke.

  “Hmmm,” Jonathan said, still facing the fire. “Then I guess I shall have to dismiss you and then rehire you once you’ve swallowed the last bite. Really Foote, for such a clever person, you can be rather thick at times. Please, eat your dinner.”

  Lydia stood stunned for a moment, then reached for the cheesy bread.

  “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled lamely before lifting it to her mouth. It was warm to the touch and crunched loudly as her teeth bit into it. Hot, salty goo oozed onto her tongue as she forced herself to chew each bite several times before swallowing.

  Eat it slowly, she told herself as she felt her mouth taking larger and larger bites. And don’t lick your fingers! Mmm…

  She pushed the last bit of crust into her mouth and wiped her hands on her apron.

  By the time Lydia had dumped all of the soup ingredients into the big pot, Jonathan was cutting at the long crusty loaf on the counter again.

  Elliott bounced up and down at the table. “I’m still hungry, Jonathan!”

  His brother cleared his throat affectedly and replied in a high falsetto, “Only polite young gentlemen are rewarded here, sir.”

  Elliott giggled. “Please, Miss Gloriana, may I have another?”

  “Very well, sir. Just give me a moment.” Jonathan’s voice dropped to its usual register as he glanced in Lydia’s direction. “And you, Foote, would you care for another?”

  She nearly declined, but as she eyed the large block of cheese that he was now deftly slicing, Lydia instead replied, “Yes, please.”

  “Oh,” he said off-handedly, “and I’ll bring the mattress back in later. I kept tripping over it on my way to the fire.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  That’s thoughtful of him, Lydia thought, recalling the tears that threatened to flow only moments earlier.

  And he found the laudanum for Joan.

 

  Observing, Determining

  ~ Lydia

  The breath laboriously rattled in and out of dying lungs. Each time she came to check on her, Lydia wondered if she had heard Ploughman’s final draw at life, only to be startled by another dry, raspy intake.

  Attentively, she watched the movements of the declining figure. If they were fitful, she would slowly pour a small amount of laudanum past the chapped lips, praying for relief. It was only once she noticed that Ploughman had lost the ability to swallow that she stopped dosing her.

  Oh God, please let the end be near. Please.

  To pray for another’s death was something Lydia had never supposed she would do, but now she did so fervently.

  The near-corpse before her had not mouthed a single word for several days and the eyes had not opened in two. She studied Ploughman’s loose flesh, mottled and thin, hanging from its framework like worn out cloth. The mouth hung unabashedly open. The arms lay inert at her sides. Only the chest betrayed the presence of frail life as it rose and fell unevenly.

  Gently patting the old woman’s shoulder, Lydia leaned in and whispered in her ear, “I’ll be back to check on you in a little while, Joan.”

  She straightened up and studied the unresponsive face, finding no evidence of understanding.

  A difficult life lived quietly, without complaint...
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  …and without notice.

  No one came to see her.

  Lydia thought of the letter she’d sent to Joash Ploughman, never having received any sort of response.

  Surveying the small room, Lydia rested her eyes on the little cupboard, thinking of how it held the slip of paper upon which she herself had written ‘Joan Ploughman’.

  And so her few treasures will be tossed into the fire, cleared away to make room for the next maid.

  Oh…

  The thought caught Lydia with its sharpness.

  I’m the next maid.

  Lydia’s eyes welled with tears, her stomach churning as she stared at the fading life before her.

  Will that be me in forty years? After toiling ceaselessly, will I flicker out in this room, neglected and forgotten?

  Her throat ached with strain.

  No.

  No, I can’t.

  I won’t.

  She thought for a moment longer as she dried her eyes.

  I won’t let myself.

 

  Thinking in High German

  ~ Heldmann

  An inn near Plimbridge

  The man from Hamburg looked down at his plate with disgust. Blood pooled in its base, oozing from the bit of beef, staining the accompanying cabbage and potatoes. His language skills had failed him again.

  Why can I not learn how to say such a simple phrase as ‘cooked thoroughly’ in English?

  The fellow next to him at the bar cast him a distrusting glance.

  Shifting uneasily, Heldmann picked up his fork and began to poke at the meal before him.

  And to think how proud I felt when Father chose me—me of all his sons!

  “Herman,” he said, “you are gifted in language. You will go to England and learn all you can about the Herefords. Return with all of this knowledge and our herd will prosper.”

  What a grand adventure for me, the finest linguist of the Heldmann family! Or so I thought!

  He recalled trying not to grin jubilantly in front of Franz and Karl. They, too, had wanted to be chosen, and he had pitied them.

  A bark of bitter laughter escaped his lips as he continued to stab at the beef before him.

  The look of distrust his bar-mate cast him now hardened into one of disdain with a visible curling of the lip.

  Embarrassed, Heldmann cleared his throat and put down his fork.

  Yet another foul meal in a lonely little town, surrounded by strangers who would have no interest in talking with me, even if they could.