by Lynn Morris
Sketes washed her hands in a tub of soapy water they kept on the stove at all times and went back to kneading her dough. Fiona asked, “Do you think I should fix some hot tea to take up to poor Mr. Jauncy?”
“That’ll be fine, child,” Sketes agreed. “But if he can’t stand the sight of a little blood, he’s in for trouble in this household, you mark my words.”
But Jauncy came down before the tea was brewed. He was holding Shiloh’s breeches out at arm’s length in front of him, keeping his eyes deliberately averted. In his other hand he held Shiloh’s other boot. “I’m afraid the only way I could handle the sock was to sort of scoop it up into the boot,” he said apologetically to Sketes. “Would you be so good as to…remove it for me and dispose of it? Then I’ll be able to clean Mr. Irons-Winslow’s boots.”
“I’ll do it, Mr. Jauncy,” Fiona said. “I don’t mind.”
“You’re a young person of exceptional courage,” Jauncy said with some asperity. She took the boot from him, and he went into the washroom, which was a bathroom but also had two great washtubs. He ran one of them full of cold water, dropped the denims in, and came back out into the kitchen. “We are having our bath now,” he said primly, “so I need to return to Mr. Irons-Winslow. But please don’t worry yourselves about his clothing and boots. From now on I shall certainly attend to them myself.”
Sketes and Fiona nodded politely, and he turned to go back upstairs. But at the foot of the steps he turned and said cautiously, “But not the socks. I shan’t have to attend to the socks, correct?”
Hiding a smile, Fiona answered, “Don’t worry, Mr. Jauncy. I’ve already tossed them in the waste bin.”
“Good, good,” he said and went up the stairs.
Shiloh had already gotten out of the bath and was in his dressing room, whistling his current favorite, “Shadow Song” from Dinorah.
“Oh, sir,” Jauncy said reproachfully as he came in, “I did air and lay out your black suit.”
“Yeah? I thought you’d just forgotten it and left it on the bench.” Shiloh was standing in front of his tall chest, which had a small mirror mounted on the top, combing his freshly washed hair. It was rather long, over his collar, but then the style was longish. Though after it dried it had a tendency to fall rakishly over one eye, he always just parted it on the side and brushed it back, refusing to use any pomade. Shiloh hated hair pomade.
He had already dried off and put on a clean pair of faded denims and a plain white pullover work shirt. He had worn his favorite cavalry boots to the hospital that morning, so now he had pulled on a pair of black Wellington boots that were theoretically dress boots, but they didn’t look too spiffy for riding.
Jauncy took the suit coat and pants out of the closet and tried again. “But, sir, I thought you told me that you were having dinner at Duvall Court.”
“I am, but this isn’t a dinner party. It’s just me and the doc’s parents. I’ve got to go down to the docks and also to Duvall’s Foundry, and Miss Irene knows that, so she won’t expect me to dress up.”
Jauncy sighed and with care replaced the black suit in Shiloh’s closet. Shaking his head, he mournfully looked at all of Shiloh’s clothes. He had four suits, all black, two wool, two broadcloth. He had four waistcoats, two black with white pinstripes, two gray with white pinstripes. One formal suit, black tailcoat, pants, white shirt with tucks, white tie.
On the other side of the roomy closet was a storage trunk where two cream-colored morning suits were nicely folded into tissue paper with small linen bags of mint tucked between the layers to discourage insects. On top of the trunk were neatly folded six of Shiloh’s favorite shirts, all identical: white pullover with drop sleeves, a V neck, and a short stand-up collar. The sleeves were full, with gussets underneath to give a full range of motion, and the shirt was also gathered at the yoke, which gave broad-shouldered, full-chested men like Shiloh a comfortable fit. Jauncy did approve of these shirts, for they were practical for everyday wear. After all, one could tie a long scarf neatly and bring the collar points down on either side of the knot.
But the denims…”Sir,” Jauncy asked with a long-suffering sigh, “may I ask you a personal, possibly impertinent question?”
“Sure.”
“How is it that all of your everyday shirts look practically new, while your…um…dungarees are so faded and worn?”
Shiloh chuckled. “Actually, PJ, Americans don’t call ’em dungarees. That’s some kind of foreign thing, isn’t it? Anyway, this man named Levi Strauss started making canvas trousers for the miners out in San Francisco that would last and be hard wearing. They got so popular that he kept running out of canvas. So he started using an indigo blue material called serge de Nîmes. De Nîmes…de Nîmes…denim. Get it?”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” Jauncy said dryly, picking up the lint brush and brushing the back of Shiloh’s shirt. “Because it was exactly my observation that your denims are not indigo blue. They are faded blue.”
“Yeah. I pay extra for that,” Shiloh said lightly.
The valet brush stopped. “Are you serious, sir?” Jauncy’s voice came from behind and far below Shiloh’s head.
“’Fraid so. When we were in San Francisco, I found this Chinese laundress and seamstress. She makes my denims to fit, ’cause my legs are so long, you know. And then—she told me all about how she’s done this for years for the miners—she stonewashes them six times. That’s beating them with smooth round rocks against a flat rock. The Indians used to clean their buckskins that way, and the lady saw that it would work really good to soften up tough denims. So I special order my denims from her, six at a time, stonewashed, and have ’em shipped here.”
The brush had started again, but Jauncy gave a final flourish and whisked around to stare up at Shiloh accusingly. “Sir, is this some kind of American humor? I believe it is termed ‘a tall tale’? You are ‘pulling my leg’?”
“Nope. It’s the truth.” Shiloh went to the chest and retrieved his watch, his money clip, and some change, all of which went into the handy pockets of his denims.
Jauncy finally said, “Well, sir, I can see that you are, er, happy with your wardrobe as is. But I do have a few suggestions.”
“I’m not wearing any muffin clothes,” Shiloh grumbled. “If it’s about muffin clothes, forget it.”
“But, sir, I wasn’t going to suggest muffin clothes,” Jauncy said with righteous indignation. “It’s just that a gentleman of your status and position should, I believe, keep abreast of the latest fashions. For instance, in London’s Saville Row I saw many gentlemen with brown, dark green, blue, even violet—”
“No! No violet!” Shiloh said darkly.
“But I didn’t finish—”
“I don’t care. No violet anything.”
“Very well, sir, but perhaps a darkbluesuitcoatwithchecked trousers,” he tried to say very quickly.
“No. No checked anything.”
“Darkbluesuitcoat?” Jauncy gibbered hopefully.
“No. I like black.”
“Very well, sir,” Jauncy said, defeated. He went into the closet and considered a very fine navy blue caped greatcoat of wool with silver buttons. But he realized that it would only look strange with Shiloh’s work shirt and denims. “This greatcoat is very nice, sir,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s not very worn. Is there something wrong with it? I checked it for tears or soil, but I could see nothing amiss.”
“No, actually I like that coat a lot. It’s just that I know it’d look funny with these kinda clothes. But yes, the inside pocket—” Shiloh took the coat and showed Jauncy a hidden pocket sewn into the coat’s silk lining—“it’s got a small tear in the seam in the bottom. I always kept my wallet in there. But I’ve been afraid the tear would get bigger, so every time I’ve gotten it out I’ve just turned around and put it back again. I can never remember to mend it.”
“Oh no, sir, that won’t do at all. I shall certainly attend to it. Anything else I can do for you, si
r?”
Shiloh took a second look at the pile of neatly folded denims on the trunk beside his white shirts. Then he looked down at the denims he was wearing. “Did you iron these, PJ?”
“Of course, sir. A gentleman’s breeches must always be pressed neatly.”
“Even though you hate ’em, you ironed them?”
“It’s not that I hate them, sir,” Jauncy said primly. “It’s just that I’ve never seen clothing made from wood and nails before.”
“Huh! You oughta see ’em before they’re stonewashed,” Shiloh rasped. “Anyway, I hate to say it, but I do like ’em ironed. Thanks. No, I can’t think of—oh yeah. I usually come in the basement door to take my boots off with the bootjack, and I leave my duster and hat down in the storeroom. The only reason I came straight upstairs today is ’cause my socks were so sticky from the—I mean, I just had to hurry and take a bath,” he finished quickly.
Jauncy swallowed hard. “Yes, sir, I had already ascertained your habits from Sketes. You’ll find your duster and hat down there, already cleaned and brushed.”
“Good deal. I could get used to this. Okay, PJ, I want to have a tray with just a cold lunch brought up to the study today. I saw the pile of mail, so I’m going to go through it while I eat. I may have time to write a letter or two before I have to go downtown,” Shiloh said, heading for the stairs.
“Very good, sir,” Jauncy said, straightening Shiloh’s toilet articles and putting the greatcoat over his arm. “I’ll bring your luncheon shortly, sir.”
Jauncy first ran upstairs to his own chambers and carefully laid the greatcoat down on his bed. Then he gave his own breeches and suit coat sleeves a quick brush, smoothed back his hair, and hurried downstairs to the basement. He and Sketes and Fiona had already painstakingly worked out how Jauncy’s duties would fit in with theirs. Because Cheney left for the hospital at one o’clock for her shift beginning at two, she and Shiloh generally tried to have luncheon together every day—they didn’t have a chance to have dinner together very often. Neither of them liked a heavy midday meal, so it was usually just cold meats, cheese, bread, and fruit if fresh could be found.
“More often than not,” Sketes had told him, “they have a tray brought up to the library. There’s that nice bay window, you know, and that big library table there. They like to sit there and study or read newspapers or letters. They’re two people for reading,” she said, smiling. “And I do expect that Mr. Shiloh will just want a tray up in the library today if he’s here for lunch.”
“I’ll serve luncheon,” Jauncy had volunteered eagerly.
“I’m the cook. I don’t mind serving meals,” Sketes said.
Jauncy looked hesitant, trying to see if this was some territorial dispute, but Sketes was smiling. “Don’t worry, Mr. Jauncy, it’s not that I’m top dog and you’re eyeing my bone. I just don’t want anyone to ever say that Molly Sketes doesn’t keep up her end. I don’t shun hard work, Mr. Jauncy. Never have and, the good Lord willing, never will.”
“I see,” he said gravely. “Such industry is a great virtue, Sketes. Then how would this be: if Mr. Irons-Winslow is alone, I’ll serve his lunch. When both Mr. and Mrs. Irons-Winslow are dining, then I’ll assume you’ll serve.”
Sketes agreed to this. She had the tray all ready when Jauncy hurried down to get it. “I’m brewing coffee, and I have some sweets,” she told him, “if Mr. Shiloh has a mind after lunch.”
“Thank you, Sketes,” he said, lifting the great oval tray and with some difficulty making his way up the stairs.
He put the tray on the library table. Shiloh was already seated at one end with a pile of letters and cards in front of him. He had opened one letter that appeared to be a long list of items with quantities posted by them, but he wasn’t perusing it. He was staring out the bay window, his gaze thoughtful, unseeing.
Jauncy removed the covers from the platter of meats and cheeses. He opened the bottle of mineral water and poured it into a crystal goblet. He took the linen napkin out of the ring and deftly whipped it across Shiloh’s lap. The first time he’d done this—two days ago—Shiloh’s hand had struck out with the speed of a snake and grabbed his wrist in an iron vise. Then, when he’d seen what Jauncy was doing, he had laughed, though Jauncy hadn’t. Now he stirred, straightened the napkin, and bowed his head. Jauncy had never seen anyone say grace before meals before he came here. Mr. Irons-Winslow always said grace when he and Mrs. Irons-Winslow were dining together. Now Jauncy was surprised to see that he bowed his head and said a silent thanks even when he was alone. He waited quietly until Shiloh stirred again. Then he took an unobtrusive post behind Shiloh by the door, hands folded, waiting.
The paper crackled. Shiloh looked at it again as he ate. Then he dropped it, and Jauncy could tell that he was staring out the window again. Jauncy studied this room closely. It was, he thought, the most attractive room in the house. It was furnished more carefully, he realized, than the other rooms, which were haphazard, it seemed, and curiously bare. But then, with a start, he realized one of the many wide cultural chasms between his home country and this former colony.
All the mansions and homes and cottages I’ve seen in my life have been hundreds of years old. Even in the village the shanties have all been there, owned by the same families, for generations. No wonder we have so much clutter, so much bric-a-brac, so many family heirlooms—valuable or not—in our homes. These Americans, they’re babes compared to us. Why, this house is brand new. I recall now that Sketes told me. Fancy that! And these people, they don’t have things from their great-great-great-greats. Even my family has gravestones in the churchyard of Jauncys from 1094, 1113, 1215…
The heavy brass knocker at the front door sounded. “Pardon me, sir,” Jauncy said, hurrying down the stairs. He regretted the shiny elbows and knees in his worn suit. Though the Irons-Winslows had been generous enough to buy him two shirts, one could hardly expect them to replace all of his clothing. And his tie had gotten torn in his horrible nightmare wandering the docks; though he had darned it so carefully one couldn’t really see the mend, Jauncy was self-conscious because of it. He felt that the Irons-Winslows deserved a better-dressed manservant. Still, he was British, and Americans appeared to prize British servants above all others. And the more snobbish the better. He raised his chin, drooped his eyelids with disdain, and stuck his nose in the air.
Opening the door, he saw a gentleman arrayed in footman’s garb, quite correctly, he noted, with powder blue satin knee breeches, white stockings, pumps with bows, long white satin waistcoat, powder blue satin coat, powdered wig, and over all this splendor an ankle-length billowing black wool cape lined with white satin. With a very slight nod of approval Jauncy said, “Good day to you, sir.”
“Good day to you, sir,” said the footman. With a deep bow and a flourish, he held out an envelope of rich parchment tied with a powder blue ribbon. “An invitation, with Mrs. Victoria Elizabeth Buchanan’s compliments.”
Jauncy, impressed by this elegant and most correct social convention, returned exactly the degree of bow required. “Mr. and Mrs. Irons-Winslow return their sincerest gratitude. Good day to you, sir.”
“Good day to you, sir.”
Jauncy delayed a moment, closing the door very slowly, watching wide-eyed as the gorgeously-arrayed footman returned to the carriage on the street. It was like a fairy-tale coach, he thought whimsically, white with gold trim, drawn by four superb white horses with powder blue plumed headdresses. The coachman wore a many-caped greatcoat, while the two footmen were mounted high on the rear of the carriage. The shutters were drawn, so one could not see inside, but Jauncy knew that the lady who owned this carriage would not be inside, herself performing the dreary task of hand-delivering invitations. The carriage was just a symbol of her goodwill—and wealth. He hurried back upstairs and placed the card by the rest of the mail at Shiloh’s side.
“An invitation, sir,” he said quietly. With deft unobtrusive movements he poured the rest of the bot
tle of mineral water into Shiloh’s goblet. Shiloh was chewing thoughtfully, still staring out the window with a troubled expression on his face. It was a gray day, with only a slight dirty light where the sun was hidden behind a dome of dingy cloud cover.
“Hey, PJ?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You have a family?” He looked up and focused on Jauncy’s face.
“Yes, I do, sir,” Jauncy answered. “My father is still Sir Thomas Rawlings’ gentleman. My mother is the housekeeper at Weybridge Manor, their estate house in Yorkshire. I have four brothers and four sisters, sir. All of them are employed by the estate in one capacity or another.”
“That’s a fine big family. Are you the eldest son?” Shiloh asked, settling back and finishing off his water.
“No, sir, I am exactly in the middle. Two brothers and two sisters older. Two brothers and two sisters younger.”
“Really? I suppose I thought you were the eldest because you were the heir’s gentleman.”
“Ah yes, but you see, sir, my two elder brothers weren’t really suited to being valets. My eldest brother is the butler of Weybridge Manor, and he manages the staff of thirty-six servants. My second elder brother is head gamekeeper of the estate. He’s a sportsman, sir. So it fell to me to train as Thomas Rawling the IV’s gentleman’s gentleman.”
“I see,” Shiloh said, his gaze wandering out to that bleakness outside again. “It must be nice to have such a large family. Mine is small and far away….”
“Yes, sir,” Jauncy said rather awkwardly. Sketes had told him in greater detail about the Winslows in Hawaii and Mr. Bain Winslow in the West Indies. His glance fell on the list Shiloh had been perusing, and he noted that it was stores for the clipper Locke’s Day Dream.