The Wages of Sin

by Judith Cutler

  The sermon was about hard work.

  Mary and Martha.

  He almost persuaded his congregation that Christ was wrong to suggest that listening to Him was better than toiling in the kitchen, but he resisted the temptation, grudgingly. He managed to include Milton’s observations about standing and waiting. Mysteriously he construed this as waiting on your master at his table.

  ‘What was that sermon all about?’ Mrs Arden demanded, as we walked back towards the House together. ‘I couldn’t make head or tail of it. And what’s that poem got to do with the price of coal? Begging your pardon, Mr Rowsley, it’s what we say where I come from. It means—’

  ‘That it’s irrelevant? And so it was,’ I agreed with a smile. ‘But I sympathize a little with Mr Pounceman. It had to be produced at short notice. He and I had a brief discussion after this morning’s service,’ I added.

  ‘Ah! We saw you heading out to the rectory.’ She stopped, looking up at me, her expression stern but possibly approving.

  ‘I’ve been elsewhere, too,’ I said. ‘Asking questions about Maggie. And receiving some disconcerting answers.’

  She seemed to read my mind. ‘Perhaps you should say no more till we gather for supper. I hope Mrs Faulkner is well enough to join us; her back was too bad for her to walk down for Evensong, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I quite understand.’ My voice was grave, but my eyes responded to the ready twinkle in hers. ‘And I am sorry that so many of the staff are similarly afflicted.’

  We set off again in a companionable silence. With no warning she suddenly asked, ‘Tell me, Mr Rowsley, why is there no Mrs Rowsley? A fine young man like you should have a pretty wife and a quiverful of children.’

  ‘My wife would not necessarily have to be pretty,’ I said with an embarrassed laugh.

  ‘Well, goodness knows there are plenty of plain women to choose from! But, Mr Rowsley, I fear I have upset you.’

  ‘Not at all. I should imagine, Mrs Arden, that you are only saying out loud what is whispered in the corridors and in the cottages. Since you have been open and frank, I will be open and frank with you. I grew up surrounded by the most admirable women, who never regarded themselves as the weaker sex – any more than I believe you or Mrs Faulkner would. No? I thought not. But while they have not changed, society has. It seems women are to be cherished, cossetted, sometimes to within an inch of their lives.’

  ‘May I correct you, sir! Ladies are to be cossetted and cherished. They are to swoon and blush. We loosen our stays and get on with our tasks.’

  ‘That would be the philosophy of my grandmamma and my mother. They regard themselves as relics of a bygone age – not a better one, not a worse one, just a different one. They raised me to be friends with women, to like them, to argue with them, to challenge them. But it seems that the days of easy camaraderie between the sexes are over. Men like me are to tell their womenfolk what to do and when to do it, what to wear, how even to dress their hair – in, I have to say, styles that may be modest and submissive but which very rarely flatter.’

  ‘Indeed – how many of us can carry off a centre parting? Just because the dear Queen thinks it makes her face look thinner. Dearie me, what am I saying?’

  Laughing, I took my penknife and cut off a rose, holding it high over our heads. ‘Sub rosa!’

  She took the bud and tucked it fetchingly into her bonnet.

  Mrs Faulkner greeted us in the kitchen, where the rest of the female staff were waiting talking quietly among themselves. She was moving stiffly, but she assured me that the discomfort was subsiding.

  ‘I can tell you something that’ll help your back more than embrocation,’ Mrs Arden declared cheerfully, taking off her bonnet and hanging it on the back of a chair. ‘A sermon, that’s what!’ She broke off to speak to the senior kitchen maid, nodding in approval at the answer she received. ‘Good girl.’

  Mrs Faulkner said, almost repressively, ‘Perhaps we should speak of it in the Room.’

  I grinned. ‘I am quite happy for Mrs Arden to tell all her staff, if she so pleases. And for you to tell yours, who I am quite sure will tell the footmen and other manservants. It will be all round the village anyway by this time tomorrow.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  I could detect very little enthusiasm. Had I somehow challenged her authority? Serious again in a second, I said, ‘There is something I do need to tell you both, in private. Perhaps we should start with that.’ I bowed; she was to lead the way.

  As usual, a pile of books lay on the table. Her tastes might have baffled and enraged our employers in equal measure: The Mill on the Floss sat cheek by jowl with a text I’d not yet read myself, Utilitarianism. I must ask her if I might borrow it when she had finished it. More respectably, there was a Bible, held open by a pair of spectacles I had never seen her use before. She moved to stand in front of her treasures, notably not inviting us to be seated.

  Without thinking, I asked, ‘Mrs Faulkner – have I offended you in some way? Or are you in more pain than you care to admit?’

  Her smile was stiff. ‘I believe my visit to church this morning exacerbated the problem.’

  ‘I cannot imagine otherwise. However, I think I can assure you that Mr Pounceman—’

  Mrs Arden snorted. ‘Pouncewoman, more like, though actually I doubt if he’d touch a woman with a bargepole! Sorry, Mr Rowsley. I interrupted.’

  I grinned forgiveness. ‘Our esteemed rector will not preach a sermon like this morning’s again. I believe he may be … chastened … by the reaction to it. I am not sure that this evening’s effort would rate highly in ecclesiastical circles, but at least he did not insult either Martha or Mary.’

  ‘Jesus might not like being shown to have made the wrong judgement, though,’ Mrs Arden murmured, pouring three glasses of sherry, an informality I would not have risked. ‘Go on, Mr Rowsley, tell us how you achieved the turn-about.’ She sat down, uninvited.

  Now it came to it I felt like a schoolboy told to stand and recite. I fear I even blushed. ‘I was forced to remind Mr Pounceman that it takes two for a woman to be with child, and that to harangue only the one likely to suffer the most is barely Christian.’ I broke off as someone tapped at the door.

  ‘That’ll be young Tess,’ said Mrs Arden, who opened it herself, returning with a plate the contents of which smelt as manna might have done. ‘Cheese straws. A new recipe, the one you recommended, Mrs Faulkner. Will you both try one? I believe they will suit the sherry very well.’

  Until I too had tasted one, I had no idea how hungry I was. ‘They – literally – melt in the mouth! But, if you will forgive me, lest I eat the whole plate, I will give you the other news.’

  Mrs Faulkner raised an eyebrow. ‘But did not Mr Pounceman object to your Turkish treatment?’

  ‘Of course he did. But he … he let me persuade him. Although he is by no means an employee of his lordship, he is beholden to him for a very lucrative benefice. I cannot imagine he would want anything to disturb his relationship with him.’

  Mrs Faulkner shook her head. ‘You took a risk, Mr Rowsley. A great risk. I say that as one who has known his lordship no short time. But I am grateful that you took it, as I am sure we all are. You are right: everyone on the estate will be aware of what you did by noon tomorrow. But you spoke of other news,’ she continued, as if wishing to shake off a dangerous topic of conversation.

  ‘Indeed. News which, I fear, can bring no joy, just anxiety. After my … discussion … with Mr Pounceman, I needed to clear my head and went for a ride – to the south, as it happens. Eventually I had a conversation, the gist of which was that a witness saw a girl like Maggie, but not with a handsome beau. She was alone and with a tear-stained face. The witness also swore that she was with child. I rode further: another witness said much the same, though without mentioning her condition.’

  The women nodded as one, as they digested the implications. Mrs Arden looked at Mrs Faulkner: she was to speak first. ‘I did suspect. Of course
I did. I questioned her, as gently as I might. But she was firm, emphatic, even in her denials. Yet this witness recognized her condition immediately?’

  ‘Mother Blount.’

  ‘Ah! Of course. In the old days she’d have been burned as a witch, but she does a lot of good. Tops and tails the villagers, you might say – there at their birth, there to lay them out. Well, I feel embarrassed, of course, that she should be so much more observant than I, but bow to her experience.’ Her smile was wry. ‘Do I recall, Mr Rowsley, that it was Mrs Billings who told you that Maggie was with … a young man?’ She seemed to be choosing her words with extra care.

  ‘She implied it. I must have been mistaken – perhaps I heard what I wanted to hear, that the child had at least a protector with her. The thought of a child of fifteen, on her own, knowing she is carrying a babe, and … I am truly lost for words.’ I covered my face with my hands. Yet pity was not enough. ‘I need your advice, please. You will both have known girls like this equally betrayed. What should I do? Go in search of her?’

  With a dry cough Mrs Arden refilled my glass.

  Mrs Faulkner waited while I drank down far more than was seemly. Only then did she say quietly, ‘Firstly I think her mother must be questioned again. You may feel that this is a task for a woman. If you do, I will undertake it. Her answers may save you what might be at best a wild goose chase. At worst you may be compromising yourself and your reputation, which could well lose you your position here. If you were dismissed, you would be leaving the House without an effective master. Between us Mrs Arden and I can manage the household, even the men, but we cannot manage the estate, and it is on the estate that everything and everyone depends – yourself included, I should imagine. Festina lente: that would be my counsel.’

  Mrs Arden shot her a surprised look.

  I hope I managed not to do the same: not since I left home had I heard a woman offering me a Latin adage. And somehow I had to translate it without humiliating Mrs Arden.

  But Mrs Faulkner was doing it already, with grace. ‘Tell him, Mrs Arden, there is no point in dashing off like some romantic knight errant when he could – with a little pause for thought – make much more progress!’

  Her friend laughed. ‘Might this pause include a bite of supper? It is ready for the table, I should imagine. I hear the men coming down to the hall now, ready to hear you say grace. As for ours, Tess will bring it in, but I fancy – with your agreement, Mr Rowsley – that we should serve ourselves, as we often do when there are just a few of us.’

  Our supper might have been more of a war cabinet, largely as a result of a question Mrs Faulkner posed, apropos my urge to dash off to find Maggie.

  ‘Suppose you do find the child, Mr Rowsley – what then?’

  ‘I restore her to her family, of course,’ I said. I might have begun confidently but I stuttered to a halt.

  ‘You have seen her family’s home? Exactly. How can she return there?’ Mrs Faulkner asked.

  ‘And she can scarcely return here,’ Mrs Arden said. ‘With the best will in the world, Mrs Faulkner cannot have her working in her usual capacity, any more than I would have a girl in a similar situation in the kitchen. We do not expect our fellow-servants to be nuns or monks, but to be seen to reward … No, it will not do.’

  ‘So, having found her, we must persuade her to name her betrayer and compel him to marry her? One has often heard of this happening, but so many times it has brought much distress to both parties,’ I observed, thinking of cases my father had tried to deal with.

  ‘Some would say that they deserve to be punished. Both.’

  ‘Speaking to Maggie would help mean the circumstances of her pregnancy could be determined, and blame apportioned,’ Mrs Faulkner pointed out. She raised an index finger. ‘But who would do the questioning? And who make the judgement? Who enforce any verdict? You? Or Mr Pounceman?’

  I had no answer. ‘Has there been no talk amongst her fellow-servants? The girls she shares a room with, for instance?’

  ‘Now we know more of the situation, and we can point out the child needs help, not a lonely walk where harm could befall her, I think the staff will feel more able to confide in us,’ Mrs Arden said. ‘Between us we can speak to all the females, but who will question the men? It is Mr Bowman’s job, and he will not return till Tuesday.’ She looked hopefully at me.

  I spread my hands. ‘Mr Bowman might resent my interference. And probably the young men, who fear me anyway, would not co-operate. If, however,’ I added, capitulating, ‘any specific names come up in your questioning, then of course I will speak to the man concerned.’ I looked from one woman to the other. ‘And then what? What if the man turns out to be married?’ I shook my head. ‘Oh, for the wisdom of Solomon!’

  Mrs Faulkner’s laugh was dry. ‘As Mrs Glasse might have said, “First catch your hare”.’

  VIII

  I must not get above myself – but I must and will learn to read. I make sure I give every book an extra-careful dust; in other words, I turn the pages, scanning them for words I recognize or can at least put together. But the letters on the sampler defeat me. Perhaps Nurse has forgotten to ask Mamselle what they mean. I dare not ask. Not if that means I am getting above myself. When Nurse calls me Miss – worse still Missie – I know that though she is smiling, she is giving me a serious warning.

  What if Mamselle herself does not know what they mean?

  NINE

  Monday’s weather was bad, heavy low cloud bringing rain driven by a southwesterly gale. Having ridden a reluctant Esau briskly round the estate to give my orders for the day, which entailed as much indoor work as could reasonably be found, I was glad to return to the House. Esau was to be rubbed dry and kept in the comfort of his stable; I withdrew to my office and the pile of paperwork I had reserved for just such a day as this, even if it meant sending for extra lamps. I longed to be able to introduce gas-lights, like those in the homes of so many of my acquaintance, but would have to choose my moment – and probably wait till all the pleasure-giving changes had been paid for.

  However, as the rain hurled itself at the window, I knew that other expenditure might be even more urgently needed. This was just the time to inspect the fabric for leaks. I sent a note to George, the estate carpenter, bidding him to join me in my tour of the House – he would know better than I what might need immediate action and what could be postponed.

  While I waited, I wrote more notes, this time to neighbouring farmers, offering tarpaulins and labourers to deal with any urgent storm damage. Two hapless outdoor lads had the unpleasant task of delivering them. I worked my way through a pot of coffee and two thick files of correspondence before George presented himself, clearly soaked to the skin.

  ‘’Tis a regular cloudburst, gaffer,’ he said, as if apologising for the puddles he was leaving on my carpet.

  ‘So I can see. Look at you, man – you’re dithering as if you’re in an ague.’ I eyed his height and girth. In his fifties, he was shorter than me, his shoulders broad in proportion. His hands looked strong enough to throttle someone with one of them tied behind his back. ‘If you don’t mind being decked out as a footman, we’ll get those clothes of yours dried in the kitchen, yes, and your boots. And I’m sure Mrs Arden can find some hot coffee for you too.’

  He was inclined to demur, but I was entitled to insist, which I did, sending him off with Eliott, one of the more sensible footmen, whom I called back: ‘There is to be no open mockery, nor behind-the-hand sniggering. Am I clear?’

  Within a quarter of an hour George was back. Someone had found him not livery, but a Sunday suit, predictably too long in the trousers, so he had to hitch them up with string tied below the knee. Far from being relieved, George looked remarkably hang-dog.

  ‘The only thing to do, man, is laugh at yourself before others do. Turn it into a joke at my expense – “Gaffer’s turned me into a scarecrow!” That sort of thing. My shoulders are broad enough,’ I said, more hopeful than convinced. ‘N
ow, where do we start? You must know this place like the back of your hand, but I’ve been worried about the roof since the day I arrived.’

  ‘And you’re right to worry, gaffer. To my way of thinking, we should look at the attics first, begging your pardon, gaffer.’

  ‘Lead the way. But let me make this clear, George, you are the gaffer here. You are the expert and I will listen to your advice – and act on it, if it’s in my power.’

  Nodding, perhaps doubtfully, he led the way straight to the back stairs, stumbling as he left the brightness of the front of the House for the ill-lit stone stairs, dark green paint on the walls making the matter worse. How on earth did people carry items without tripping in the near Stygian gloom?

  The first note I made was to have them painted cream and have them covered with drugget. Not ideal but better.

  ‘Lord bless you!’ George puffed as we reached the first attic. ‘All these stairs. Now, gaffer, this is the oldest part of the House – right?’

  ‘It may well be – I’m completely lost!’

  ‘Look at the size of the bricks: smaller than ours. Hey, look at that lot.’ He gestured at a double row of paintings stacked against the far wall. ‘Isn’t that a picture of Good Queen Bess?’

  ‘Probably. Painted during her reign by the look of it. And look at all those other pictures too! Surely that’s a Holbein – and that’s a Kneller.’ His lordship wasn’t so much as sitting on a fortune but lying beneath it. ‘And the furniture – how on earth did they get such heavy stuff up here? This table – it must weigh a ton!’

  We wandered round like children in a bizarre fairy-tale. In the end we were recalled to the task in hand by a persistent drip in one corner. ‘Blocked gutters or a missing tile,’ George said, ‘and dead urgent, or we shall be getting dry rot – if we haven’t got it already.’