Blackberry and Wild Rose

by Sonia Velton

  Sara was prim as a schoolgirl on the bench next to me, hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on Pastor Gabeau as his arms waved and his mouth worked to emphasize his point. It struck me that no one could look at her and see her for what she had been: it was as if she now wore virtue along with neat collars and a white apron. Her face was in profile, tilted up toward the pastor, and it was not without envy that I noticed her neat nose and chin. Her skin was pleasingly pale, and thick, dark lashes fanned over her cheeks. I jabbed her side and those lashes flicked up to reveal hazel eyes, made newly bright and interested. Perhaps I should not have made her come. What had it to do with her, after all, if the Huguenots no longer spoke French?

  Elias had recently begun to insist that the whole household came to church. Moll sat on his other side: a master silk weaver and a scullery maid. That was one of the things I most admired about Elias: his concern for those beneath us. As we had walked in, I had noticed how solicitous of her he had been, holding the door open and smiling at her as she passed. That a respected and wealthy man could show such consideration for a maidservant was admirable indeed.

  12

  Sara

  The master was not extravagant by nature, but he did employ a French cook. The Finet family had been linked to the Thorels for more than a hundred years. They had told me that Monsieur Finet’s grandfather grew up in the same household as the master’s grandfather in France. When the troubles began, they escaped Lyon together in the back of a cart, under a horse’s weight of fine silk bound for England. How strange that silk was their salvation, even then. They say that when the cloth was finally lifted off them, Thorel had lain as pale as a hung pig in the back of the cart and Finet had revived him with his own breath.

  Two generations later Monsieur Finet was as French as my left foot. Yet he liked to hold on to the customs of his grandfather’s birthplace. He insisted we call him “Monsieur” and had his clothes cut in the French manner. If his great girth were anything to go by, you would think him the finest cook in the parish, but that was not the case. I once wondered aloud to Madam why the household employed a cook who barely knew goose fat from lard. But she told me that the master would sooner give up his looms than turn out Monsieur Finet. So we were stuck with him, our cook à la mode.

  One afternoon in late spring I went into the kitchens. It had been a glorious day, sunny with a breeze that brought the blossom drifting down from the trees, like snow. Monsieur Finet had not been able to withstand the gentle birdsong and soporific sunshine and was dozing in his chair by the hearth. His stew was turning sticky on the range, so I took a spoon from the dresser and gave it a stir. Finet opened his eyes and watched me without comment. We had come to an uneasy truce since I arrived at Spital Square. He tolerated me, like he did the tomcat lying curled at his feet. I took The Art of Cookery down from the shelf, looking for ideas to save Monsieur Finet’s stew.

  “A half-gill of sack, that’s all it needs,” he said.

  I snapped the book shut and turned to him. “Indeed, and by the smell of you, that’s the last thing you need.”

  Monsieur Finet chuckled. The bottle of sack stood empty on the kitchen table. Clearly, it was not just the sunshine that had gone to his head. As I moved around the kitchen, tidying as I went, I could feel his eyes following me.

  “Where is it you said you used to work?” he asked me presently.

  My hand stopped in the middle of sweeping crumbs from the worktop. “In a tavern,” I said, and brushed the crumbs into a bucket. I stood up straight and turned to face Monsieur Finet, wiping my hands on my apron as I did so.

  “I see,” he said, sitting up. “And which tavern was that?”

  “You would not know it,” I said. “It was in the next parish.”

  “What did you do there?”

  I sighed with mock exasperation and began stacking the clean plates. I did it loudly, clattering one on top of another. Monsieur Finet winced every time as the pile grew higher. “I told you, Monsieur. I helped in the kitchens.”

  Finet nodded slowly. “It’s just Moll said you were a housemaid. And not a very good one, by all accounts.”

  “Housemaid, kitchen maid, what’s the difference?”

  “Big difference,” said Finet. “Anyone who’s worked in a household knows that.”

  I left the plates. My stories were becoming as muddled as the peelings of carrots and potatoes piled next to Finet’s stew. I turned round. Finet was still watching me from his chair. “I was a housemaid. Then I found work in a tavern helping the cook. It seems I am better at cooking than I am at cleaning.”

  “I see,” said Finet. “What luck. Plenty would be happy to go from housemaid to cook. Like going from housemaid to lady’s maid, isn’t it?”

  I ignored him. He was probably too addled to remember the conversation. I slid the plates onto the shelf of the dresser and put water on the stove to boil.

  “How well do you know Moll?” I asked, as he sank down into his chair.

  He shrugged. “Well enough. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” I fidgeted with the dishcloth and smoothed it out along the warm handle of the range. “It’s just something one of the journeymen said.”

  “I’d pay them no heed. They’re only happy when they’re causing trouble.”

  “It was about the master and Moll,” I persisted. “Something about him not letting her out of his sight.” I let the thought drop into his head, leaving it a moment to swirl into his mind with the sack. “And sometimes, when I wake at night, she’s not there.”

  “Don’t meddle, woman,” tutted Finet. “It’s nothing to do with either of us.”

  “But it is something to do with Mrs. Thorel, surely. I am her lady’s maid. I have her best interests at heart.”

  “The only thing you have at heart is your own nosiness.”

  The kettle let out an indignant puff of steam. I picked it up and poured the boiling water into Monsieur Finet’s congealing stew. That is what this household needs, I thought, as I scraped a spoon round the crusty sides of the pot: stirring up a bit.

  Esther

  I knelt on the low velvet stool by my bed and steepled my hands together, resting my elbows on the silk counterpane. We had much to be grateful for. Our material blessings were nothing compared to the opportunity to praise God in deed as well as voice by taking in Sara. I had truly saved a soul for him. I was in the middle of praying for the lady next door who had fallen ill with a pox, when Sara came in. She had a pinched look on her face, but that was not unusual. I was coming to understand that Sara experienced life much as other people experienced sucking a lemon.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked her.

  Sara gave a sigh and busied herself laying out a clean nightgown for me. Something about the affected way she did so made me think she wanted my attention, so I got up from my prayer stool and asked her again what troubled her.

  “You are too good to me, madam,” she said.

  I clicked my tongue. It was getting late and I was tired. Surely that was not what she had to say. She fiddled with the lace of the nightgown for a moment, then said, “It pains me to have to tell you this, it really does.”

  “Tell me what, Sara?” I said, rather tersely. She stopped fiddling and looked up at me.

  “It is the master, madam. And Moll.”

  “What about them?” I didn’t have the patience for this cat-and-mouse conversation.

  She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself against what she was about to say. “Madam, sometimes Moll does not sleep in her bed. I have looked all over for her, but I cannot find her anywhere.”

  I frowned for a moment, trying to work out what she meant. Then I smiled. “When Moll was small she used to sleep in the cubbyhole behind the range, just to be warm. I’m sure that’s where she must be.” I tugged impatiently at the lacing of my stays, keen for Sara
to turn her attention to something more useful. She took the hint and stood behind me, easing the corset away from my waist. I sighed with the freedom, and rubbed my hands over my face.

  There was her soft voice in my ear again. “But she is not there, madam. I have checked everywhere. Everywhere except your room, of course. And the master’s.”

  I spun round to face her. “Well, she is not in my room!”

  Sara looked at the floor. “Of course not, madam.”

  Trying to follow her train of thought was like chasing smoke. There was nothing fathomable about what she was saying. Yet still her words had created unease in me. I did not want to say it, but in the end I felt I had to: “You are not suggesting that she is in Mr. Thorel’s room? Really, Sara, you do not know him at all.”

  I’ll own that Elias was not the most attentive of husbands, but this was because his head was full of his silk. What Sara did not realize was that he was a man unlike most men. He wouldn’t even notice a girl like Moll, unless he happened upon her in one of his ledgers. I sighed impatiently and shooed Sara out of my way. Really, another mistress would have clipped her ear for the impertinence. I changed into my nightgown alone and climbed into bed.

  * * *

  Sleep did not come. I lay in bed staring at the canopy above me. A single candle burned on the bedside table, tricking my tired eyes into seeing things that weren’t there. Illusion and reality, I couldn’t tell them apart anymore. Where was Moll at night? Either what Sara had suggested was a phantom, or my marriage was. They could not both be real.

  This was nonsense. I did not doubt Sara’s good intentions—the girl must have felt she owed me a debt of more than money after all I had done for her—but it was ridiculous to lose sleep over the fanciful imagination of a servant.

  I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I would go and speak to Elias myself. Even if all I found was my husband snoring in his bed, then at least I could sleep myself. I pulled my dressing gown around me, picked up the candle, and opened the door of my room. For a moment I stood in the unclaimed space between my room and Elias’, almost nervous to proceed. I never visited Elias in his chamber. It was only he who came to mine. The thudding of my heart suddenly seemed loud enough to wake the sleeping household. I took a deep breath and turned toward Elias’ door. My hand had just closed over the handle when a laugh rang out from inside. High-pitched and bell-like, as innocent-sounding as a child’s. My hand froze. Then there was a rumbling in response, low and warm. A voice you could wrap yourself in and feel safe. If you were her. Then silence again, building like a wall around them.

  I stood there, still holding the door handle, while my life reshuffled around me, like a deck of cards. I could not go in. There was nothing in there that I wanted to see, nothing that I wanted to intrude upon my life. Opening that door would have been like opening Pandora’s box. Something awful would flood out and it would be impossible ever to put it back. Instead, I turned and walked toward my room, unsteady, feeling my way as if somewhere so familiar had suddenly become altered and alien. Once inside I leaned against the door until it gave a reassuring click, signaling my separation from Moll and her tinkling laugh, and from my husband. A man I no longer knew.

  * * *

  In the morning, I took the chocolate that Sara brought me. When she asked me how I was, I replied that I was well. I sipped at my chocolate while she silently moved around my room. The warm liquid brought color to my face. I could feel it, spreading pinkly across my cheeks, like shame. I set down the cup and told her to take out one of my favorite damask gowns—a blue so muted that it was almost gray, overlaid with white fans—and dressed with great care, making sure that my hair curled perfectly beneath my cap. Then I went down to breakfast and greeted my husband cheerfully. He looked up briefly from his paper and nodded. He did not comment on my dress or my hair that morning, any more than he did on any other. I took the napkin and laid it over my lap. While we waited for breakfast, I announced that the weather was fine and that summer must finally be here. Elias grunted from behind the wall of print, so engrossed in what was going on in the world that he was unable to summon any interest for what was right in front of him.

  When Moll brought my eggs, I smiled and thanked her. In fact, I did everything I usually did. But inside I felt hollow, as if I had been emptied of all that had defined me. There was no more substance to me now than there was in any of my gowns, and when I stood up, I almost thought I would crumple onto the floor. So I took our daily routine and made a structure of it, fitting myself around it so that it supported me, like the whalebones of my corset or the wires that gave shape to my hair.

  13

  Sara

  “The Arnauds are coming to dinner.”

  Madam was pacing round the kitchen, picking up jars and bottles, peering into them, then putting them back on the shelf as if what she was looking for might be hidden inside. Then she turned to Monsieur Finet. “What shall we give them to eat?” He was sitting at the kitchen table sharpening his cleaver, echoing Madam’s shrill voice with the metallic ring of knife on stone.

  “What about a game pie, madame?”

  “Game pie?” She emphasized each word as if he had suggested something disgusting. “We cannot have game pie again. They must have had game pie the past three times they have come! Don’t you understand how important Mr. Arnaud is?”

  Finet flared his nostrils and inspected the edge of his blade as if contemplating whether to use it on Madam. We all knew how important Mr. Arnaud was. Madam had been at great pains to tell me that he was the most influential mercer in Spitalfields. Without Mr. Arnaud how would the master sell his silk? To hear her talk, you would have thought that Mr. Arnaud was the sun that shone on the Thorel household.

  “Then per’aps a saddle of mutton, madame.”

  Madam rolled her eyes. “Something different, Monsieur Finet. We have mutton all the time.”

  Finet banged the knife onto the kitchen table and even Madam started.

  “May I suggest salmon?” I said quickly. “Served with a fennel sauce and lemon pickle?”

  They both turned to stare at me, Finet annoyed, Madam relieved.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “That would be perfect. And can you dust the London china?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And lay the table with the best damask cloth.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And make sure my pale green gown with the pink flowers is aired. I should like to wear it this afternoon.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  She had been insufferable of late. It made me wonder whether she had taken more notice of what I had said about Moll than I had thought. I was half expecting her to stride up to Moll at any minute, catch her by the ear and turn her out onto the doorstep, but instead she had thrown herself into managing her household. It was as if Esther Thorel was sugarcoating her life. She was building a veneer of such perfection around herself that no one could look at her or her home and find anything lacking. Of course, by then I was not on the outside. I could see her life for what it really was, behind the face powder, whalebones, and shiny London china.

  * * *

  Our household followed a strict routine and dinner was to be served at the fashionable hour of four o’clock. I made pea soup to be served before the salmon, and Monsieur Finet did little more than get under my feet, then take the credit. Mr. and Mrs. Arnaud arrived promptly at half past three. Moll let them in while I was in the kitchens with Monsieur Finet, pouring the soup into a tureen and sprinkling it with parsley.

  After a few minutes of slicing bread and filling the butter dish, I made my way up the stairs to the dining room carrying the tureen by its handles. Moll trotted behind me with the bread and butter. They were already seated when I came in. Over the heads of the gentlemen, I could see Madam and Mrs. Arnaud chattering with their heads together. Mrs. Arnaud was not a com
ely woman. She was of an age when the best any woman could hope for was to be called handsome, and she herself was far from that. Her nose hooked downward, while her chin jutted up as if they were determined to meet in the middle.

  I put the soup on the table and Mrs. Arnaud caught the scent. She stopped her chatter with Madam and turned to inspect it.

  “Pea soup,” she exclaimed. “Mr. Arnaud’s favorite!” She beamed across the table at her husband. He was turned toward Mr. Thorel and did not look round. Mrs. Arnaud’s gaze was left directionless so she turned it on her empty soup bowl, watching as I filled it. Once I had served her, I moved to Mr. Arnaud. I must have been thinking about how it was his favorite as I filled the ladle to the brim, then brought it over to his bowl, conscious all the time of the best damask tablecloth. As I poured it in, my eyes fell on Mr. Arnaud, or rather the lower part of him. His waistcoat. A pale cream silk, detailed with mulberry trees, stretched gamely across a barrel belly. And for a moment I must have just stood there staring, because Madam suddenly gave a forced laugh and said, “Will Mr. Arnaud not get another spoonful?”

  I flushed and stammered, “Of course, madam,” before dipping the ladle into the tureen again. I kept my eyes fixed on the table, the bowls, the spoons, anything but his face, while I served the master and Madam. Then, when they were all busy spooning soup into their mouths, I allowed my eyes to rise up from the straining waistcoat, past the jowls spreading over his collar as he bent toward his food, and up to his face. When he sat back and licked his lips, patting at them with his napkin, I knew that those lips had dragged themselves across my skin. Those fingers gripping the napkin had dug into my wrists and thighs. He must have sensed me watching him because he stopped his patting and looked at me. I felt as naked under his gaze as I had been that day at the Wig and Feathers. I could do nothing but wait for everything to fit together in his mind in a moment of complete recognition. He narrowed his eyes at me and put down his napkin. “Get me some salt,” he said.