by Mary Hooper
Leaving her asleep, Will and I spoke at our relief in finding her – Will saying that at least he’d taught her to keep her head above water, so while he’d been searching he’d been confident she hadn’t drowned.
‘You must learn to swim, too,’ he said.
The thought of dipping my body into smooth, cool water was so enticing just then that before I knew it I had taken off my outer smock, bodice and skirt and was standing (still covered, mind, a lot better than some Society young ladies) in my stays and petticoats.
Will, sensing my embarrassment, endeavoured to be very matter of fact and, acting just as if I were fully dressed, backed into the river holding both his arms out straight in front of him. He told me to follow him in whilst holding tightly on to his hands and kicking up my legs. I did this and so enjoyed the feeling of lightness and well-being that I found myself jumping backwards and forwards, first going on my back and then on my front, my petticoats floating about me in the water.
‘You can do it if you’re confident,’ he said. ‘A few more lessons and you’ll be swimming as well as me. Now, why don’t you sit on the bank in the sun a little while and dry yourself as best you can.’
I went to sit near Betsy, who was still asleep, and it wasn’t until I began to pat myself dry with a rough cloth of Will’s that I remembered: the letter. I had been in the water with the letter still in my pocket!
Will hauled himself out of the water and came to sit beside me, then took one look at my stricken face and asked me what was wrong.
‘Miss Sophia’s young man!’ I said. ‘I met him and he gave me a note for her . . .’
Very gingerly, I felt in my petticoat pocket and pulled it out, soaking wet. I handled it very carefully, but it fell into four pieces, each a blotchy mess of blue ink and totally indecipherable. The only thing still in one piece was the young gentleman’s seal, which had a dolphin on it.
Horrified, I began weeping – waking Betsy, who cried in empathy with me.
‘He told me to take it to her . . . He said to tell no one!’ I said. ‘And now look at it!’
Will sat Betsy on his lap and comforted the both of us as best he could, and after some discussion we decided that I should go straight to Miss Sophia and confess what had happened. Thus I went into Will’s hut, took off my wet petticoats and put on my gown, then walked with Betsy back to the barn where one of her ‘sisters’ put her to bed for the night.
In the kitchens I found a great debate under way as to whether young ladies should be forced to marry men of their father’s choice or be able to follow their hearts. Another time I would have joined in and spoken up strongly on the side of love, but that evening I was too anxious about Miss Sophia’s letter to think of anything else. How was I going to approach Miss Sophia? What excuse could I use and what would the rest of her family think? Surreptitiously passing her a note was one thing, but actually approaching, speaking, explaining and apologising to her was another.
I beckoned to Patience to leave the servants’ discussion for a moment. ‘Do you know where Miss Sophia is?’ I asked her, for the family’s supper hour was long past and the two young ladies could be anywhere.
‘Miss Sophia?’ she replied cheerily. ‘Halfway to Bath by now, I should think.’
I didn’t understand and thought she was making a joke. ‘What do you mean? How so?’
‘It’s what we’ve all been talking of,’ she said. ‘Weren’t you listening?’
‘I heard all the talk about whether or not one should obey one’s father but I’ve been out of the house for near two hours. Has something happened here?’ I asked urgently.
‘Why, yes: Miss Sophia has been sent away in the carriage to stay with her uncle.’
‘Never!’
‘ ’Tis true. And ’tis because of a young man she’s been meeting in secret. Milord was heard to say that he was a naval man and, being without a title or a fortune, quite unsuitable. He called him a varlet and a fortune hunter!’
I stared at her, shocked.
‘She’s never to see him again!’ said Patience, enthralled in the telling. ‘There must be as many miles as possible between the two of them.’
I stared at Patience. ‘Really? She’s been sent to Bath?’
‘She left an hour ago, crying her eyes out. She’s been allowed to take Christina with her, but must not return until the new year,’ said Patience.
I sat down at the table, tears filling my eyes. Now she would never know that her sweetheart had sent her a letter. And he would never know that she had not received it.
It seemed that love was not always an excellent thing.
Chapter Seven
The house was very quiet in the days following Miss Sophia’s departure, and it was apparent that Miss Alice missed her dreadfully, for she was to be seen moping about the place with red eyes. There was some talk of her being sent to be with her sister, but in the end she stayed – and on warm days sat in the park under the big oak where her parents had been painted, sometimes with her maid, sometimes alone, but always with a book in her hands. Lady Cecilia arranged a variety of amusements for her: a picnic, various musical events and a visiting landscape painter, but anyone could see that Miss Alice was pining for her sister. At one time I thought of telling her about the note and confessing what had happened to it, but I was worried that this was not the correct thing to do, for hadn’t the young man said that no one must know, not even Miss Alice? Besides, what difference could it make to anything now that Miss Sophia had been sent away? Finally, I decided: I knew I would have the opportunity to speak to Miss Sophia when she returned after Christmas, so I resolved to try and forget about it until then.
One humid evening Betsy and I had another swimming lesson with Will. Betsy, trusting fully in her brother, managed to scramble quite a distance in the water, but I, not quite so sure of being able to stay afloat, thought it a great achievement when I managed to take my feet off the riverbed and float on my back for a few moments without being held.
Afterwards, as we sat drying off, Will told me that he had had news of his relations in London. A cousin from Kent had gone to join them and sent a message back to say that the family was having a new boat built, one that could hold twelve passengers. This meant that, when full, each trip across the Thames would earn them the sum of four shillings.
‘And four shillings back again!’ Will told me, marvelling at it. ‘Although there would need to be two strong watermen in the boat, of course, to row across that many passengers.’
‘And you think you are that strong waterman, do you?’ I teased.
‘Indeed. My cousin said they are waiting for me.’
We were silent for a moment.
‘But what of Betsy?’ I said, for I still didn’t want to go to London and she was an excellent reason not to. ‘Even if I could find work there –’
‘You can and would!’ Will interrupted. ‘There are thousands of well-to-do folk in London, needing thousands of servants to look after them.’
‘Even if I could find work, what would we do with Betsy in London?’ I repeated. ‘She couldn’t just be left to fend for herself all day.’
Will heaved a sigh. ‘I know. ’Tis a problem.’
‘And you would surely not go without us.’
‘My two girls?’ Will said. ‘As if I could . . .’
‘Is it so bad here?’
‘Not . . . bad. It’s just that we will never make anything of ourselves.’
‘There are compensations,’ I said, and I made a gesture with my arms, taking in the beautiful grounds, the orchard and the sunset reflected on the river, then leaned over and kissed him. He forgot about London then, and – kissing and being kissed – so did I, until Betsy came back crying that a dormouse had bitten her.
In mid-August, there were various parties held at the house and visitors from London coming and going, and Miss Alice was allowed to Bath to see her sister. We learned afterwards, in whispered snippets of news, that Miss Sophia
desperately wanted to come home, but this was still not going to be allowed until after Christmas. By that time, so Lord Baysmith had apparently discovered, her young naval officer would be on his way to Australia and well out of harm’s way. Patience, after some listening at doors and skulking around corners, assured us that Lord Baysmith had now selected the man who would be Miss Sophia’s future husband and she was to be introduced to him soon. Following this, there was a lot of speculation amongst us as to who this gentleman might be and whether he would be titled, worth a fortune, or perhaps have both these desirable qualities. I joined in, but ached inside for Miss Sophia.
Two more things happened in August, the first being that Mrs Bonny taught me how to make soft cheeses, which I was very pleased about, for it was another skill that – if I ever had to find a new job – would stand me in good stead. The other thing which happened in August, however, was not at all good. It was, in fact, devastating.
It was the last day of the month and Betsy had set off to spend it at the river as usual. It was a slightly misty morning, for the season was just on the verge of turning autumnal, and I was thinking to myself that when the days grew shorter either Will or I would have to bring Betsy backwards and forwards, for unless there was a moon it would be pitch-dark, and even with a candle she couldn’t be expected to go across the fields on her own. She waved to me when she reached the river and, though I did not see Will waving back, I presumed he was there and just ferrying someone across.
An hour or so went by and I had finished with my cows, wiped them down, put them back to pasture and was about to begin the lengthy process of churning butter when I heard Betsy running back towards the dairy, sobbing heartily with every step she took.
I stopped turning the handle of the churn and ran outside thinking she had hurt herself in some way, but her face was so pale, so shocked, that I knew it was something much worse than this.
‘Will’s not there!’ she cried. ‘He’s gone!’
I picked her up and hugged her. ‘What do you mean? I expect he’s over on the other side of the river.’
‘No! He’s not. I waited and waited and looked everywhere, but he’s gone away!’
My first thought was that he had drowned and, terrified and anxious that Betsy should not know this, I put her in the care of one of her ‘sisters’ and said that I would go down and sort things out, that he was sure to be there and perhaps he was just having a game of hide-and-seek. Not even waiting to find Mrs Bonny and tell her where I was going, I ran down the field as fast as I could, twice tripping over my feet in my anxiety. As I ran I looked for his boat, hoping to see it plying its way back from the other side of the river, but when I got a little nearer I realised that it was pulled right up on the opposite bank, just as if Will had taken a fare over and stayed on that side. I also saw that there were two men and a woman standing on the landing stage on this side: passengers waiting to be taken across.
When I reached them, I could hardly breathe enough to speak. ‘Is he not here?’ I asked desperately, and the three of them shook their heads.
‘I have been waiting near half an hour!’ said the first in line, the baker’s boy. ‘I’ve a full tray of bread for the Millbridge market. I’ve never known him be away so long before.’
‘Nor I,’ said the woman. ‘Where can he be?’
I ran into his hut and, though admittedly it was difficult to tell, it didn’t look as if his canvas bed and rough old blanket had been slept in. I looked under the bed, where he’d kept a tin box containing a few things that had belonged to his parents, but this box had gone – as had his oilskin cape, his boots, spare shirts and extra pair of breeches. I went outside again, crying with shock, and informed the others.
‘Perhaps a thief in the night . . .’ the woman said, but I shook my head wordlessly. I already had my suspicions about where he’d gone.
‘He liked a swim in the mornings,’ the second man said, and then offered to swim across to the Millbridge side of the river, just to ‘make sure he’s not over there’. This was what he said, but what he meant was that he wanted to make sure Will was not in the water somewhere, caught up in weeds, drowned in the deep water. He stripped to his breeches and dived in, while the rest of us poked about in the shallows and amongst the bulrushes, but they knew, of course – and I knew – that if his possessions had gone, then he must have gone with them. And I could guess where.
‘He was always talking about London,’ said the baker’s boy, when the other man had swum across and reported that he had seen nothing untoward. He looked at me sympathetically. ‘Shall I go over, get the ferry boat and row it back?’
I shook my head and told him to leave it on the other side, saying that if Will had gone off for the day somewhere, on his return he would want to find the boat exactly where he’d left it.
‘In the meantime, what shall we do for a ferryman?’ said the woman, tutting impatiently. ‘My daughter lives in Millbridge and is expecting me to look after her children. She can’t go to work otherwise. I must get over!’
We discussed this – or they did, while I stared across the water, shocked and speechless. The baker’s boy said he knew someone else with a boat and he would ask this man to run a temporary service ‘until Will comes back’.
‘If he ever does,’ I said.
I sat there with Betsy on my lap until the next milking time, both of us watching the river flowing on and on towards the sea and feeling totally desolate. I knew that I would never see him again, for if he had truly loved me, surely he would have stayed by my side.
Chapter Eight
‘Have you heard from your sweetheart yet?’ Patience asked a few weeks later.
I pretended not to hear her, which was foolish because it meant she had to say it again, but louder, so it seemed to me that everyone in the kitchens heard and there was a moment when everything stopped; the servants ceased pounding, kneading, polishing, scouring or crimping and waited to hear what I was going to say in reply.
I felt my face flush. ‘No, I haven’t. Not yet,’ I said stiffly.
Of course I hadn’t. I didn’t think, in all the time I’d been working at the hall, that any of the kitchen staff had ever received a letter. If they had, it would have been a minor sensation and Patience and everyone else would most certainly have heard of it. Letters sometimes came for Milord and Lady, and for the aristocracy and Honourables and plain wealthy ladies and gentlemen who stayed at the hall, but never for any of us.
‘But I don’t suppose your lad is clever with ink and parchment, is he?’ she persisted.
I shrugged.
‘Though even if he can’t write, he could surely have got a message to you by some other means.’ On this, too, being received by me in silence, she added, ‘The cheek of the devil, some lads! Fancy him up and leaving you with his little sister to care for.’
I think she would have gone on provoking me until I snapped back, but thankfully Mrs Bonny appeared from the still room. ‘That’s enough chatter from both of you,’ she said. ‘Go back and make sure the butter has come together, Kitty. We need it for supper.’
I nodded and escaped, taking my irritation out on the butter churner and turning the handle so hard and fast that the whey came off, the butter came together and then began to separate again so that I only just caught it in time.
I had been desperately miserable in the days that followed Will’s departure. At first I couldn’t believe he had really gone; for a day or more I thought that he must be playing some sort of trick on us and would appear, laughing and teasing us for being worried. After that I almost convinced myself that he must have rowed over to Millbridge to buy something and had had an accident, but the fact that all his possessions had disappeared didn’t make sense of this explanation. And why hadn’t he left me a note? He might not have been able to write a whole, proper letter – in fact, I knew he wouldn’t have been able to do that – but he could at least have scribed a few words: I will send for you soon or I love you o
r even just Sorry, and added his name. I found nothing, however, even though I practically took the hut to pieces. Why hadn’t he left us anything? The obvious answer was that he was too embarrassed about leaving us; too ashamed of himself.
After I’d wept enough to fill a milking bucket, I began to grow angry. How dare he just go off and leave Betsy with me? How despicable! I became so resentful of him then, so furious, that for a time I almost wished he’d drowned in the river rather than stopped loving me. For I knew he must have stopped loving me to go away.
The day we found out he’d disappeared I’d finally quelled my own tears, then sat Betsy down quietly and told her that Will had gone to London to make his fortune and one day would come back again, a rich man, and take us to live in a big house. She didn’t believe me – but then I didn’t believe me, either – and for two whole weeks she stopped speaking. I observed her with her little friends, saw her standing watching their games, occasionally nodding or shaking her head in response to a direct question. She barely ate, and became pale and sad, while I seethed with rage about Will, furious at what he’d done, and longed for some means to inform him just what misery his selfish actions had caused.
Mrs Bonny was very kind to both of us. Betsy, of course, no longer took her meals with Will, so on the face of it was costing the household money, but for those first two weeks she hardly ate a thing anyway, just kept going on some ends of cheese which she nibbled like a mouse. After two weeks or so her appetite and speech began, gradually, to return, but she still didn’t cost a lot to keep, for she would either share my portion or help herself to a ladleful of meat and vegetables from the stewpot which hung permanently over the fire. It was a rich household and there was no need for anyone ever to go hungry.
More pressing was the question of where Betsy would go during the day in the winter, for the other children either had little jobs on the farm or went back to spend the day with their mothers. A very young child in a dairy, however, is a danger to itself and others. For the first few days, she wanted nothing more than to go down to Will’s hut and, after looking in it carefully to make sure that he hadn’t arrived back in the night, stare endlessly over to the other side of the river, where the ferry boat still stood, saying, ‘But where has he gone?’ and looking far more miserable than any five-year-old should ever do.
