A Different Day, A Different Destiny (The Snipesville Chronicles)

by Laing, Annette

  Mr. Veeriswamy had spotted Brandon rising from the chair, and he opened his mouth to rebuke him, but at that moment, Lady Chatsfield appeared on the landing, and called out, “Sanjeev!” When she saw Brandon, she exclaimed, “Oh!” Brandon was fascinated to hear that Lady Chatsfield apparently knew at least one word in her butler’s native language.

  Mr. Veeriswamy took a deep bow. Brandon shuffled awkwardly. Lady Chatsfield quickly gathered her senses. “Veeriswamy, the bell in the drawing room is broken. I shall ring for the servants from the Blue Room this afternoon, but please see that the bell is mended as soon as possible. Brandon, you will return to the drawing room with me.”

  Brandon assumed that he was wanted to serve tea to the ladies, and so he was a little surprised to be asked to sit down in front of an audience of assembled guests. That was when he realized with dismay that it was time to do his performing trick. He slumped in his seat under the expectant gaze of seven pairs of eyes.

  Lady Chatsfield cleared her throat and introduced him. “This is my footman Brandon, whom I have asked to address you on the subject of slavery, and who will entertain your questions.” With that, she sat down. All eyes snapped back to Brandon. There was an awkward silence, and Brandon could feel the tension radiating from Lady Chatsfield. If he didn’t want to be thrown out of a job, he realized, he had better say something.

  He cleared his throat, and began. “Slavery was… I mean… slavery is a bad thing.” He struggled to remember his school textbook, and wished that he was as interested in American history as he was in European history. “Slaves got… get…whipped. All the time. And…shackles are put on them, on their legs… and stuff. And they have to work all day, picking cotton. Sometimes they run away…and…” Suddenly his eyes lit up as he remembered getting an answer right on a test. “And the Underground Railroad helps them!”

  There was a polite silence. Evidently, the ladies were expecting more. But Brandon didn’t have more. He turned round and looked pleadingly at Lady Chatsfield, who gave him only a cold hard stare, and a nod to go on.

  Brandon exhaled sharply. Then he said, “Any questions?”

  An elderly woman raised a slightly trembling hand. “Yes. Have you been free for very long?”

  Brandon glanced again at Lady Chatsfield, whose stony face spoke volumes. “Yes,” he said carefully. “A long time.”

  The elderly woman looked curiously at him. “Surely you have been free for only a few years, for you are very young, I believe.”

  “Yes,” said Brandon guardedly. “Only a few years.”

  “Was it dreadful being a slave?” asked another lady from the back.

  “Oh, yes,” said Brandon eagerly. “Horrible. Terrible. I was whipped. Lots of times.”

  The group looked uncertainly at him. One rather skeptical-looking old lady sitting by the window said, “Well, surely you can tell us more than that. Where were you enslaved?”

  “In Georgia,” said Brandon. “Snipesville.”

  “Never heard of it,” snorted the woman. “And why do you not have an American accent? You sound as English as I do.”

  Lady Chatsfield hurriedly explained. “Brandon has lived in England for several years.”

  “How long exactly?” asked the sharp-eyed old woman.

  “I don’t remember,” Brandon replied lamely.

  “Well, it does rather seem to me that you have forgotten a great many things,” said the old lady, or, as Brandon now thought of her, the old dragon. She looked piercingly at Brandon, who avoided her gaze.

  “I have a question,” Mrs. Baston-Hume said timorously. “May I touch your hair?”

  Brandon now felt like a performing poodle, but he obligingly went up to the lady and leaned down. She grasped his hair, and immediately let go. “It looks like lambs’ wool,” she said, giggling to the ladies on either side of her, “but it certainly doesn’t feel like it.”

  Lady Chatsfield now got to her feet. “If there are no further questions, Brandon will return to his duties below stairs. Ladies, may I offer you more tea? ” There was a buzz of happy agreement, and Lady Chatsfield quietly told Brandon to ask Mrs. Watson to send up refreshments.

  As Brandon slowly walked away, he overheard Mrs. Baston-Hume mutter to her neighbor, “I’m afraid he was not nearly as entertaining as that nice Mr. Douglass.” Just before he reached the door, another woman grabbed his hand, and put a shilling into it. He gazed at it blankly, before realizing it was a tip.

  Brandon returned to the kitchen feeling more embarrassed than he had ever done in his life. No, it was worse than embarrassment. It was humiliation. Lady Chatsfield had humiliated him, had forced him to pretend he was a former slave when he was nothing of the kind. If anything, he felt more like a slave now than at any other time in his life, for he knew that his job, his living, depended on his willingness to degrade himself. It was awful. He wondered if that was how slaves felt, too. Maybe he should have talked to the ladies about that. Too late now.

  That evening, Brandon was slumped in a chair in the servants’ hall, feeling depressed, and trying to read a book that Henry had brought him from the library, much to his surprise. Unfortunately, it was a staggeringly dull old history of Hertfordshire. The best that could be said of it was that it made Brandon long for sleep. He couldn’t help obsessing over the events of that afternoon, and wondered if he should quit his job in protest at Lady Chatsfield’s treatment of him. But where would he go? Unexpectedly, Mr. Veeriswamy approached him and said gently, “That was a very good deed you performed this afternoon, Brandon. I am well aware that you were never a slave, but the ladies were not, and Her Ladyship informs me that your talk helped her to raise the considerable sum of twenty pounds for the Anti-Slavery Society.”

  Brandon brushed off the compliment. He still felt gross about the whole thing.

  Mr. Veeriswamy smiled, and his eyes crinkled as he lowered his voice, so as not to be heard by the other servants. “I am about to tell you something that I forbid you to repeat to anyone, you understand?”

  Brandon nodded, and Mr. Veeriswamy continued. “You may be interested to know that Her Ladyship’s mother was among those present. That esteemed lady is well known as an attentive observer and listener, and I assure you that her reputation is well earned. She quickly discerned that it was Her Ladyship and not you who conceived the idea of presenting you as a former slave. She roundly scolded her daughter for the deception, and obtained a promise from her that you will not be punished for your unconvincing performance.”

  A light went on in Brandon’s head, and he said, “Wait…Was she the tall old lady who sat next to the window?” The dragon, he thought to himself.

  Mr. Veeriswamy nodded, and Brandon knew now why the old woman had seemed so familiar. She was Verity’s great-great-great… Oh, never mind. He got it. Wow, that made sense. He smiled to himself.

  Mr. Veeriswamy was holding a magnifying glass to a newspaper as it lay on the table, reading the tiny print. Suddenly, he asked everyone in the servants’ hall to be quiet so that he could speak. Mrs. Watson laid down her sewing in her lap, and prepared to listen attentively. Mr. Veeriswamy often liked to read aloud from the newspaper, but Brandon zoned out when he did. Victorian British writing went on and on, and Brandon had never heard of most of the people and places described.

  But what Mr. Veeriswamy read today had Brandon’s ears perking up. It was all about the Great Exhibition.

  “I want to go to that!” Brandon exclaimed.

  Mr. Veeriswamy peered at him. “Oh, I doubt you may, Brandon. True, there is a debate raging about whether the working classes ought to be allowed into the Crystal Palace, and gentlemen have proposed that there should be special days when the price of admission is only one shilling, to permit the common people to visit. But the Palace is closed on Sundays, and the shilling days will not include Saturdays, when most common people have time to attend.”

  Mrs. Watson protested. “Well, I don’t think that’s fair. I’ve heard so much
about the Exhibition from you, Mr. Veeriswamy, and I hoped to see it. Do you think Her Ladyship would allow us time away to go up to London?”

  “I have no idea,” said Mr. Veeriswamy, “but I shall approach her on the subject. For myself, I am very keen to see the curiosities from India.” He smiled.

  The answer came the very next day. Mr. Veeriswamy announced that Lady Chatsfield wished to speak with everyone in the servants’ hall.

  The servants rose to their feet respectfully when she entered the room. She paused in the doorway, looking awkward, and cleared her throat. “I understand from Mr. Veeriswamy that several of you have expressed an interest in paying a visit to the Exhibition of the Industry of All Nations. I regret that I cannot be inconvenienced by the frequent absences of my servants, particularly when Balesworth Hall is understaffed.”

  Faces fell, and she hurried to add, “However, I may have arrived at a solution to this particular difficulty. Provided that you pay for your own tickets and railway fare, I am prepared to permit those of you who wish to attend to accompany me when I visit on Wednesday. “

  Mrs. Watson raised her hand, and Lady Chatsfield acknowledged her.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Ladyship, but that would mean we would have to pay the five shillings admission price, and the cost of the railway ticket.”

  Lady Chatsfield looked sympathetic. “I appreciate that this may present some difficulties. However, I am offering to allow the time to those of you who have diligently saved money. Those of you who are able may attend. The finances of the estate simply do not permit me to present you with a more generous offer.”

  There was some shuffling and Brandon suspected that everyone would have grumbled if they could.

  “I do intend to make an exception for Brandon,” said Lady Chatsfield.

  What? Wasn’t he allowed to go at all? Had his performance for the ladies really ticked her off that much?

  But Lady Chatsfield continued: “I have already decided to make a charitable gesture to pay for Henry to visit the Exhibition and thus further his education. Brandon may accompany us, as Henry’s companion.”

  Great, an unpaid babysitter, thought Brandon. Still, at least he could go. Meanwhile, judging from the murderous looks on the faces of some of the junior staff, this decision would not make him popular.

  When Lady Chatsfield and Mr. Veeriswamy left the room, the servants vented their anger. “I haven’t had more than a half day off since last year,” complained Jane, the senior housemaid. “I got my heart set on seeing the Exhibition. And I’m tired of being passed over. You know, I think I’m going to ask Lady Chatsfield for a reference. I’ve heard tell that there’s a senior housemaid’s post at Benton Manor, and I might just apply for that.”

  “Ooh, do you think they might have a place for me, too?” asked Flora, the junior housemaid.

  “Now don’t be hasty, you two,” said Mrs. Watson.

  “I don’t mean no disrespect,” said Jane, “but you and Mr. Veeriswamy can afford to go, can’t you? I can’t. And anyway, it hasn’t been the same at Balesworth Hall since old Lord Chatsfield died. I’m doing the work of three housemaids, and now Her Ladyship wants me and Flora to help her with dressing in the morning, and undressing last thing. I’m sick to death of it. Every landed family around here is prospering, except this one. I can’t understand it.”

  Then Roberts, the quiet carriage driver, spoke. “It’s because of the money being tied up. The last young Lord Chatsfield didn’t leave a will, and his money’s all tied up in court, with the lawyers arguing over who gets what. And Lady Chatsfield can’t do nothing about it, certainly not until His Lordship, her husband, comes back. If he comes back.”

  Brandon was amazed by how much these people knew about their employer’s business. Then again, considering that they lived with their employer, and that she controlled their lives but had very little contact with them, perhaps their gossip and curiosity wasn’t such a surprise.

  Mrs. Watson tutted. “And he’s only a Viscount, and that’s practically the lowest rank of aristocracy.” While this was true, it had nothing to do with the conversation, and so everyone fell into silence just as Mr. Veeriswamy returned. He looked at all of them with suspicion. Brandon, however, was not paying attention. He was thinking about the fact that he, Brandon, would be the only kid from the twenty-first century ever to visit the Great Exhibition. How cool was that? Mr. Veeriswamy saw him daydreaming, and sent him upstairs to dust the library.

  When he entered the library Brandon groaned inwardly. Henry and Sarah were already there. Henry was reading, as usual, but Sarah was sitting in the window seat, forlornly gazing outside. Brandon hoped that they would tell him to come back later, but no such luck: Henry liked to taunt Brandon with the fact that he was uniquely privileged, and he was happy to have him working in the same room. Sarah barely noticed him at all.

  “This is a fascinating book, Brandon,” Henry said. “It is Charles Darwin’s account of the voyage of the Beagle.”

  Brandon refused to take the bait. Anyway, he didn’t know much about Darwin, except that a lot of people in Snipesville were offended by his theory of evolution. Brandon suddenly wished he had Alex’s interest in science. He made a note to ask Alex about Darwin when he saw him again. If he ever saw him again.

  Undaunted, Henry kept on “oohing” and “aahing” as he turned the pages, trying (rather successfully) to make Brandon jealous. After a few minutes of this, Sarah unexpectedly turned around and ordered Henry out of the room. Henry, taken aback, was instantly humbled, and, apologizing to Sarah, made a swift departure with his book.

  Brandon carried on dusting, pretending that nothing had happened, but the silence in the room hung heavy.

  “Are you settling in well?” Sarah asked him.

  It was an awkward, formal question, but Brandon answered honestly. He sighed heavily, and put down his duster. “I guess. It’s really hard work, and the pay is lousy, plus I hate working all the time. I wouldn’t mind some time off.”

  Sarah was astounded by his reply. Servants normally answered politely, and smiled at her. But she was also intrigued. “You don’t sound much like a servant,” she said. “You haven’t always been a servant, have you? Mama said that formerly you were an undertaker’s mute.”

  “That’s right,” Brandon said. “And before that, I was in a coal mine.”

  “Really?” Sarah exclaimed, sitting up eagerly. “What was that like?”

  “Awful,” Brandon said, and he described it to her. She was fascinated, and asked all sorts of questions about coal mining, many of which he could not answer. Finally, he suggested that she read about the subject if she was so interested in it. But Sarah looked away, and pretended that he had not spoken. In the silence, Brandon plucked up the courage to turn the tables, and ask her a question. “Miss Sarah, why do you put up with Henry? He’s such an annoying kid.”

  She looked waveringly at him, trying to decide whether the question was too disrespectful. But she wanted to answer it, and so she did. “He is my best friend,” she said. “Actually, since we removed to Balesworth Hall, he is my only friend. I still write to my old friends, but Henry is the only friend I see.” She looked very wistful, and then, suddenly, she straightened up, and said, “Perhaps we ought not to talk about this. It is a private matter.” With that, she turned back to look out of the window, at the huge private park for which she had no other playmates, except the irritating Henry.

  Brandon knew he had been dismissed, and he resented Sarah for it.

  Chapter 13: Ten Thousand Windows

  The Professor showed up the next day, with her assistant Tom, to see Hannah to the bus stop. But as the bus approached, they said goodbye to her and walked away, which was fine with Hannah. The bus was a horse-drawn carriage, along which ran a thin painted stripe on which were listed its destinations: Strand, Exhibition, Bank… and many more. Another small sign helpfully explained that the bus would also stop at the Great Exhibition. Advertisements
covered almost all other space on the outside of the bus, except the windows. Passengers were already crowded onto the outside top deck, and Hannah wondered how they had managed to get up there.

  “Going to the Crystal Palace, Miss?” the conductor called from his perch. Like the driver and many of the passengers, he was wearing a tall hat and a long black coat.

  “What, are you psychic or something?” Hannah called back.

  “Just looking for business, Miss,” the conductor said apologetically. He stepped down from the running board and helped her on, before taking Hannah’s three pennies, and closing the door behind her. Her head lowered, she squeezed into the last available seat, next to the door. Her knees were pressed uncomfortably against those of the woman sitting next to her. Now the bus resumed its journey, and lurched along uncomfortably and slowly, through the London traffic.

  Hannah’s mood improved dramatically as she waited in line outside the Crystal Palace. Now this is a mall, she thought. A giant shopping mall! Maybe this wouldn’t be such a huge bore after all. She didn’t have much money left, only a pound, but that would surely buy her a souvenir or two... or three.

  At the entrance turnstile, a man in a cap asked her for five shillings entrance fee.

  “Five shillings? Wow, that’s expensive!” Hannah blurted out.

  He shrugged. “Maybe, Miss, but that’s the only way to assure the respectability of our patrons. Count your blessings, Miss, because this is the first day the price has come down from a pound.”

  As Hannah took her ticket, she tried to remember how many shillings made a pound. Twenty shillings, that was it. Nearly two months wages in Dundee. That makes Disneyland tickets seem cheap, she thought. And the ticket collector was right: The high prices certainly kept out the riff-raff. Everyone around her, judging from the clothes and atmosphere, was solidly middle- or upperclass. When, Hannah wondered, had she started thinking about what class people were? Weird.

  Inside the Crystal Palace, Hannah followed the crowd to the crystal fountain at the center of the building, where the transept (the short part of the crossshaped building) met the nave (the long part), giving a view of the Palace in every direction. The fountain itself was like a transparent, watery, towering wedding cake, and it was surrounded by palm trees in pots, and enormous elm trees that reached up to the iron rafters.