By a Lady

by Amanda Elyot

“I am sorry that you lost a friend in Fanny as well, Miss Sykes.”

  “Oh no,” the mousy girl gasped. “Mary. You must call me Mary.”

  “Then you must call me Cassandra.”

  “Oh no, Miss Welles,” said the maid in a hushed voice. “That would never do.”

  “Why not? We are both in servitude, assigned to sleep in the same room, even expected to share the same bed.”

  “Miss Welles, you are a lady’s companion,” the girl explained, as though she were teaching catechism to a heathen. “I am a scullery maid. Sometimes, when Lady Wickham needs us below-stairs servants to serve the meals or tea in the parlor, or to sweep and dust . . . which is almost all the time,” she added, blushing, “we get to mingle with the gentlefolk; and when I’m above stairs, her ladyship sometimes refers to me by my family name—Sykes—as befits an upstairs servant. But ladies’ maids and companions are more genteel-like. It’s not proper to call them by their Christian names.”

  It was quite an education. C.J. had read what she thought was a great deal about the English class system, and she knew, even from watching years of Masterpiece Theatre programs and numerous Merchant-Ivory films, that there were different strata of servants, but it had not occurred to her that among the servants themselves there were proper forms of address for each individual station.

  C.J.’s existence in the infant nineteenth century was most certainly an enlightening, albeit rather nightmarish, one thus far. At every turn, she acknowledged with much dismay that she was much further removed from this world than she had once imagined she might be. If she could make such a gaffe with a serving maid, what might happen if she slipped up among their betters, an incident that was certain to occur at any time? Not for a moment could she relax her guard, and yet no matter how vigilant she was, it was equally certain that her ignorance could betray her. Every aspect of her daily life would be affected, from the laws of the land to the minutest personal details, and no end of embarrassment might be in store for her. What would she do when she got her period, for instance? She would feel so foolish asking Mary about what was such an obviously routine custom. Even the most private matters of personal hygiene posed the threat of exposure. How could C.J. explain, let alone discuss, why she lacked any familiarity with such a normal ritual?

  She wondered what was going on in her own era back home. Had her disappearance been noted at all? Did they miss her? How would she be able to return—and what if she couldn’t? What then? If she was able to return, how much time would have passed? Would she find, like Rip Van Winkle or the hapless Usheen in the legend of Tir-na-Nog, that generations were born and had died in her absence?

  “What are you doing to me?” she asked Mary when the girl knelt beside the hip bath and began to inspect her scalp.

  “Looking for lice, Miss Welles. Were you in the jail?” C.J. shivered and nodded, not keen on where this exchange might be leading. “If I find lice, her ladyship will toss you right back into the street. But if Tony can manage to distract her for an hour, I can run to the chemist for some tea tree oil to wash your hair. That will kill them for sure . . . although we might need to chop off your pretty locks.”

  “No!” cried C.J., protectively bringing her hands to her head.

  “’Twould be a pity for certain, but leastways the hair will grow back in time and no one will be the wiser if you keep your cap on.”

  C.J. heard footsteps on the stairs and gave Mary a look of panic. The scullery maid handed her the itchy woolen blanket and C.J. held it before her, creating a shield between herself and the intruder.

  The pockmarked youth entered without so much as a request for admission, a bundle of brown fabric under his arm. “These was Fanny’s livery,” he said, tossing them indifferently to Mary. “Lady Whip-’em wouldn’t spend so much as a shilling on a dress for the new one,” he added, nodding in C.J.’s direction, “while these was still in fine condition.”

  “Mind your stupid tongue, Tony,” Mary scolded. “You’ll scare Miss Welles away.”

  Tony grinned, ignoring the poor maidservant. “Did Whip-’em get you from the assizes too? It’s where she gets all her servants. No paying fees to the statute halls for her, no sir. And if she hadn’t needed a man to do the heavy work, she never would have forked over the guinea tax to His Majesty for the hiring of a male servant.”

  C.J. opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by her new protector. “Never you mind where she came from. Stick to your own business.”

  “And which business might that be, Mary?” the young manservant asked mockingly. “Would that be tending the coal fire, or fetching her ladyship’s parcels from the shops on Milsom Street, or polishing the silver, or sweeping the chimney, or serving the guests what come for supper, or sticking together the bits of candle what burn down in the parlor so as you and Cook and me can have some light in the evenings, because Lady Whip-’em is too cheap to let us buy tallow? Which business would that be, Mary?” Tony scratched open a pustule on his chin, releasing a quantity of viscous yellow fluid, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.

  “Just wait ’til you’ve got to scrub the greasy pots and pans, girl. Or clean out the jakes when they clog. Or get on your hands and knees in the street with a wire brush and scour the sidewalk in front of Lady Whip-’em’s doorstep. You’ll wish you’d been convicted instead. In the jail, at least you’re the one being served—not doing the serving yourself. Now that Fanny’s gone, you’ll be given her duties for sure.”

  C.J. swallowed hard. Had she not just been reminded of each servant’s compartmentalized tasks and restrictive station? “Lady Wickham said in open court that she was taking me to be her lady’s companion, so I doubt that she will be expecting me to fulfill the obligations you have mentioned.” Tony’s derisive laugh sounded like the wheezing of an asthmatic horse. Even the timid Mary covered her mouth with a grimy hand to stifle a giggle. “Tell me something, Tony,” C.J. continued. “Why do you refer to the mistress of the house as Lady Whip-’em?”

  Mary shot the manservant a desperate look, as though she feared C.J. might bolt posthaste if he answered, but the pockmarked youth ignored her warning. “Fond of the lash, she is. And her walking stick. And the back of her hand . . . if she can reach you. Once climbed up on a wooden crate to box Fanny’s ears.”

  “Mary! Tony! Cease dawdling this instant!” Lady Wickham’s voice caused even her swaggering manservant to jump to attention. Mary’s face paled. “Now we’ll be whipped for sure,” she whispered to Tony. He scrambled down the stairs with Mary scurrying after him. Suddenly itchy, C.J. wondered if she had in fact been infected with head lice. Mary had been interrupted before she could render a verdict on the state of her scalp.

  After lifting herself up out of the hip bath, C.J. slid the deadbolt across the door, then grabbed her yellow figured muslin, the red silk shawl, and all of her period-accurate undergarments, and plunged them into the tub, scrubbing them with the ball of scented soap.

  When she finished washing her costumes, C.J. wrung them out as best she could, and re-donned her damp underthings. The heat of her body would have to finish drying them, but the garret was drafty and at first she shivered a little from the wet clothes. She spread the shawl, which now resembled a wrinkled rag, over the top of the folding screen and pressed the yellow gown between the woolen blankets in the metal footlocker. If she could have been sure that no one would find the dress, she would have laid it across the iron bed rail to dry properly, since she was worried about mildew ruining it, but she had no choice. It was better to dry it as much as possible and then hide it, rather than risk its discovery. She’d be hard pressed to explain the zipper to people who were still fastening their clothes with cotton ties.

  ONE RAINY AFTERNOON, C.J. tried to count the days she had been in Lady Wickham’s employ thus far. One week? Two? She was worked so hard that the days blended into one another. Mornings began at five-thirty with lighting the coal fires and heating the ovens, then she and Mary scrub
bed the town house from top to bottom. Silver was polished twice a week. Linens were changed daily and washed in tubs filled with boiling water filtered through sand—a system that also rendered water potable for tea. A five-legged wooden contraption that was cranked by hand functioned as an agitator. Never had C.J. so missed a washer and dryer.

  On the rare occasions when Lady Wickham had guests, Tony, Mary, and C.J. were expected to serve the food and help Cook wash up. The fine china was kept in a cabinet off the pantry, away from direct light, as it was hand painted with lead-based colors that were subject to fading. C.J. wondered what all the lead might be doing to their health. If she remembered her ancient history studies correctly, lead pots and pipes were once suspects in the decline of the Roman Empire.

  In the afternoons, C.J. would read to Lady Wickham until it began to grow dark. Her ladyship was a miser even with her own candles. In her parsimony she preferred the tapers soaked in animal fat, which emitted a suetlike odor, but even those were rarely lit. Most often, when the light had fully waned, her ladyship pronounced it time to retire. Otherwise, C.J.’s responsibilities as an amanuensis were relatively infrequent, although the mistress of the house corresponded with a sister in Manchester. C.J. was indeed a lady’s companion, but the scope of her duties in Lady Wickham’s employ was by no means limited to the tasks required of that station.

  The only pleasant part of the week was Sunday morning, when the old lady expected her servants to follow her to church. The staff was not accorded a second set of clothes, and, of necessity, found small ways in which to make their humble garments fine enough to celebrate the Lord’s Day. Cook, Mary, and C.J. removed their aprons and caps. Tony’s livery, such as it was, looked enough like a tradesman’s clothes for Lady Wickham to determine that he did not even require another coat for church. The manservant never paid much mind to honoring the day of the Lord: Tony used the sermons as an opportunity to sleep. Mary followed the service like a dumb animal, joining in the hymns when the congregation was asked to lift their voices in song, but she never picked up a hymnal or Bible. Lady Wickham was also too penurious to purchase a pew, the common practice among the gentry, so despite her station, she shared seats with her servants at the back of the Abbey, places that were set aside for the lower orders of society.

  C.J. cherished the rare opportunity to dwell in her thoughts while the sermons and homilies were given, often by visiting preachers. While they nattered on in self-important, stentorian tones, she studied the magnificent stained glass and the ceiling’s uncommon fan vaulting, and mused upon the astonishing fact that the atmosphere, rather than being devotional, seemed more like a marriage mart, where meaningful glances and billets-doux were routinely exchanged among the congregants.

  For a woman who reportedly took to beating her servants at the slightest provocation—although C.J. had yet to witness such vile behavior—Lady Wickham was quite the devout Christian on Sunday mornings.

  Sunday afternoons were another occasion altogether. While Lady Wickham most frequently dined alone, she did receive guests for Sunday dinner, an event that entailed the entire staff’s participation. Turtle soup was all the rage in the best households, but the mistress of number twelve Laura Place was of the decidedly stinting sort; therefore, mock turtle soup was prepared.

  C.J. was horribly squeamish the first time she, along with Mary, helped Cook prepare the soup stock. Rather than shelling, chopping, and potting a terrapin, which C.J. admitted would probably have caused her to lose her appetite forever—delicacy or no delicacy—they used leftover mutton on the bone, from meals eaten during the early part of the week, which had been stored in an ice chest in a cellar twenty-five feet below the kitchen.

  Depending on what the butcher was selling more cheaply, either a boned calf’s head or veal knuckles were placed in a saucepan and simmered with the mutton stock along with some lemon juice and vegetables.

  To C.J.’s mind, the most disgusting part of the preparation—at least as nauseating as decapitating an actual turtle—fell to Cook herself, who, after straining the stock, trimmed and diced the gelatinous meat of the calf’s head, setting it aside. Meanwhile, C.J., who had become quite adept at separating eggs with naught but her cupped hands, whisked two egg whites in the calfless saucepan. When the egg whites boiled, they formed a thick scum, the mere sight of which made C.J. queasy.

  Cook then lined a sieve with a heavy cloth, and Mary and C.J. hefted the saucepan and strained its contents through the sieve into a bowl, thence transferring it back to the saucepan. That task accomplished, Cook, who was the only one of Lady Wickham’s servants permitted the key to the liquor cabinet, unlocked a chest and withdrew a bottle of Madeira, which she poured into the stock, grumbling all the while that a proper mock turtle soup called for at least a cup of the Portuguese fortified wine, but that Lady Wickham’s parsimony prohibited her from adding a drop more than half the recommended amount. Apparently, as C.J. observed, Cook had long ago decided that such prohibition did not extend to fortifying herself from the cut-crystal decanter, and she supposed her stingy mistress would be none the wiser.

  After Cook scraped the diced meat back into the saucepan and tossed in some fresh parsley, she would taste it, proclaiming each week that the soup would be vastly improved with the additional half cup of Madeira.

  Usually, after the Sunday suppers, the servants had the chance to retire earlier than on the other days, although Lady Wickham frequently asked C.J. to accompany her to the parlor and read to her after the meal. The old woman had a fondness for Dante and for Shakespeare’s epic poetry, such as Venus and Adonis, which afforded C.J. the chance to read that particular work for the first time. A woman who appreciated Shakespeare, particularly his lesser-known efforts, couldn’t be all bad, C.J. reasoned.

  C.J. infused her readings with drama and passion. After all, it was her only chance to do anything remotely like acting, and it gave her some comfort to know that Lady Wickham did appear to enjoy the performances. Her ladyship would sit straight as a ramrod in a high-backed chair, her misshapen appendage resting on a footstool covered with a petit point tapestry she boasted of stitching herself in the days when her eyesight was as keen as a razor. “I am seventy-six years old, and I have never leaned back,” she told C.J. triumphantly when the younger woman had compassionately asked why, given her infirmity, did her ladyship not believe in more comfortable furniture.

  “SHE LIKES YOU, Miss Welles,” Mary confided one night as the young women slipped out of their simple brown dresses and into the muslin nightshirts that Lady Wickham constantly reminded them she had so generously provided.

  Mary blew out the stub of a smelly tallow candle, and they both slipped into the narrow bed.

  C.J. remembered that the first time Mary ignited one of the small gunpowder pastilles commonly used to mask the odor of the burning tallow, she had fairly jumped out of her skin from the explosion. She doubted she’d ever become accustomed to such detonations, but Mary cautioned her not to complain to the mistress, or Lady Wickham would surely put a stop to her generosity. “The servants weren’t never permitted whole candles, even tallow ones, before you came, Miss Welles,” Mary had told her.

  In the darkness of their cramped bedchamber, the long day’s exhaustive tasks finally at an end, C.J.’s mind would turn to thoughts of home. Although she was not alone, this was the time when she dreamed she could not get back to the twenty-first century, no matter what or how hard she tried. Had her landlord slapped an eviction notice on her door? Had another actress been hired for By a Lady? Had everyone there forgotten her?

  Tonight her fears got the better of her, and C.J. was unable to control the hot tears that flowed silently down her cheeks. She choked back the sobs so that her bedmate might not hear.

  “’Tisn’t just her ladyship what likes you, you know. I like you too, Miss Welles,” Mary said softly, draping a thin arm across C.J.’s recumbent body. “This house hasn’t been so terrible since you came here. Lady Wickham is much n
icer to me now.” But C.J. was too immersed in her own thoughts to accord her full attention to Mary’s stream-of-consciousness rambling. “I hope you stay here forever,” the scullery maid murmured, and drifted off to sleep.

  “MISS WELLES, you will accompany Mary on her errands this morning,” Lady Wickham announced as C.J. finished polishing an elaborate silver candelabra. “It is time you learned how to make the household purchases.” C.J. followed her employer into the parlor and retrieved paper and quill with which to make a list. Lady Wickham began to dictate. “Wax candles—six in the pound. I should like two pounds. The candles should last about six or seven hours apiece. The nights are getting shorter; therefore, we will shift from the four-to-a-pound candles to the six. There will still be ample light to read by, Miss Welles.”

  C.J. wrote out her ladyship’s instructions in the penmanship she had mastered during the past few weeks of practice with quill and ink. Her first forays had been a disaster and resembled Rorschach tests rather than correspondence. Lady Wickham had been quite sharp with her for wasting good parchment and blotting paper. Still, C.J.’s fingers bore telltale ink stains that she feared would never completely wash off.

  “Fish is too dear, so we shall dine on mock turtle soup again on Sunday. You shall purchase two pounds of mutton for the week, and a calf’s head for the stock. Game is scarce, as the hunting season is long over. You should be able to locate pigeon or sparrow, though. I prefer the pigeon as there is more meat on the bones. Purchase four birds. We shall forgo the chicken this week. Ask Mary to show you where to pick up a fine hare.”

  C.J. dropped the quill, thus creating an enormous ink blot on the sheet of cheap foolscap. She had forced herself to stomach the mock turtle soup and the pigeon pie, even after learning of the ingredients, but eating bunny rabbit was one concession to Georgian cuisine that she was ill prepared to make. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it, although harmless woodland creatures were regular fare in 1801. And people were grateful to get it.