by Jeff Guinn
“Elizabeth tells me you are her cousin who wants work,” she said briskly, her tone matter-of-fact without quite becoming rude. “We may have some for you. Sara, Sophia is upstairs and her lessons are about to begin. Hurry if you want to join her.” Sara hurried, and Mrs. Sabine returned her attention to me. “Please look directly at me, missus. Well, you’ve got an honest face. We have an organized household here. Phyllis, do not fold the towels that way. Here. Watch. See? Isn’t that better? Well, Missus—Layla, is it? Odd name. I’ve had one of the washing women leave me at a very inconvenient time, since some of Mr. Sabine’s suppliers from Portsmouth—very wealthy, influential people, all of them—are coming to dine tomorrow, then staying for another day, and we must impress them and everything from sheets to shirts needs cleaning. I’ll take you on to help with the washing for a while. Two pennies a day is the wage. If you please me, we’ll talk about a permanent position. Oh, and you get your dinners here in the kitchen. Elizabeth, take your cousin back into the washing shed and get her started, then come back and help me arrange things in the parlor.”
We watched as Mrs. Sabine marched from the room, barking out suggestions on how best the kitchen floor might be swept and don’t let that pitcher of milk spill; Sophia wants two cups of it sent up to her room immediately.
“One cup of milk will be for Sophia and the other for Sara,” Elizabeth explained. “I know Mrs. Sabine seems gruff, but in her way she’s very kind. Most rich employers wouldn’t allow their children to mingle with the children of servants. Sophia treats Sara almost like a sister. Well, you’re hired, so let’s take you over to where you’ll work. Washing is hard business, I know, but with luck you’ll please Mrs. Sabine and she’ll soon set you to more pleasant tasks.”
Like the kitchen, the washing shed was a bustling place. There were two huge wooden tubs, one for soaking and the other for rinsing. My job was the most demanding. There were dozens of sheets and lots of outer garments and underclothes and towels and pillowcases and every other imaginable item to be washed, and to accomplish this water had to be hauled in from huge vats in the backyard. I would lug wooden buckets to the vats, fill them with water, then bring the heavy, swinging buckets into the washing shed, where I would empty their contents into the tubs. A fire burned under the soaking tub, so the water could be heated, and all the clothes in there had to be scrubbed by hand with soap. It was hard work, but not as hard as hauling the water, which I was doing. Then, when the things in the soaking tub were considered finished, they were transferred to the rinsing tub and wrung out by hand again. Finally, they were hung on long lines in the backyard to dry in the sun.
I had wondered, before I began, if I would be able to work at much greater speed than everyone else. But I quickly learned I had no special powers as a washerwoman. Soon enough my arms and back began to ache from hauling the heavy buckets, and the heat from under the soaking tub made me feel sweaty and uncomfortable. By the time someone came in to tell us it was time to break for dinner—that was what the midday meal was called—I was having some difficulty standing up straight. I could not remember ever having worked so hard.
“Tie a little cloth around each palm, dearie, so you won’t get no blisters from carrying the buckets,” an old woman who worked at the rinsing tub suggested. Her face, though deeply wrinkled, was very kind, and I asked what her name was. “I’m Janie,” she said, and remarked that she’d been working for the Sabines, mostly in the washing shed, for twenty years.
“What did you do before that?” I asked, mostly to be polite. My back throbbed horribly.
“Why, I helped my mother in the fields,” Janie replied. “Now that I’m thirty-five, I hope I’ll stay healthy enough to keep working here a while longer. But it wears you out, it does.”
Janie
I was thirty-five when I met Nicholas and stopped aging. Janie looked haggard and ancient, old enough to be my mother or perhaps even my grandmother. I’d never really understood before how constant hard, physical work could age people. Though I was an enthusiastic gift-giver, I realized that, in my more than twelve hundred years, I’d never really had to do anything so exhausting before.
Elizabeth joined me at the long kitchen table as we ate the bread and cheese provided for our meal. It was good bread and cheese, and there was plenty of it. I asked why Sara wasn’t eating with us, and Elizabeth said she usually ate with Sophia in her room. I valued the break from hauling water even more than I did the meal, which seemed to be over in minutes. Then Elizabeth went off to another part of the house and I trudged back to the washing shed. For the next five hours, I took water from the vats to the tubs, slowing considerably as the day wore on, but never completely stopping. Janie’s advice about wrapping cloth around my hands helped, but I still wore blisters on my palms. Finally, though, the last sheet and shirt were hung up on the line, and everyone got ready to go home.
“You’ve tried hard,” said a voice behind me, and I turned to see Mrs. Sabine. “You’ve not done this kind of work before, have you?”
“It was quite tiring,” I admitted.
“But you kept at it, and that’s commendable,” she said. “Because of your attitude, I have something better for you. So you’re staying with Elizabeth and Sara? Elizabeth is a good worker, and little Sara gets along so well with my daughter. I like them both. Well, I’ll need you here by sunup tomorrow, since the guests will arrive around noon. Lots to do, lots to do. Have you polished much silver before? No? By this time tomorrow you’ll be expert at it. Now go home and rest.”
The walk back to the Hayes cottage seemed endless. Elizabeth had to slow down so I could keep up. Sara scampered ahead, not tired at all.
“They worked on sums today,” Elizabeth told me. “Sara likes to practice them, but I’m hopeless with numbers and can’t help her much. Say, should I carry your pack for you? I’m sorry you’re so tired.”
I could barely keep my eyes open. “Elizabeth, I can’t understand how people can work so hard every day of their lives,” I moaned. “If I’m suffering so much after just one day, imagine how weary Janie must feel after twenty years! No wonder working folk are desperate to keep the few pleasures they have, like Christmas.”
“Eating is a pleasure, too, and we have to work to earn money for food,” Elizabeth replied. “People find the strength to do what they must, Layla. I saw you talking to Mrs. Sabine just before we left. She must have been impressed with you to take time for conversation. I’m to be at the house by sunup tomorrow. What about you?”
“She asked me to come then, too,” I said. “Something was mentioned about polishing silver before the guests arrive at noon. That sounds easier than hauling water.”
“Ah, the silver,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “Well, I’m sure you’ll at least find it different from water hauling.”
Working-class people didn’t have forks. No one in England did until the early 1630s. But the Sabines had hundreds of them—no exaggeration! —and hundreds of knives and spoons and fine plates and goblets, all of them tarnished and desperate for cleaning. I sat down in the kitchen a good hour before dawn, and didn’t stop polishing until, finally, the last silver was shining brightly just as a carriage pulled up outside with the Sabines’ guests. My fingers ached, and my eyes stung—the polish had a harsh aroma that burned as well as smelled bad. But the silver did look lovely, and Mrs. Sabine even complimented me on it as she bustled past to greet the men and women who suddenly filled her parlor. They were all Puritans, as evidenced by their sober dress. Mrs. Sabine wore plain black instead of the brighter silks I’d seen her in the day before. Her husband stood by her side, looking stout and prosperous in his formal black coat and trousers. The greetings were long and loud, with God repeatedly thanked for welcome guests and gracious hosts, and Mrs. Sabine said how everyone must be tired and hungry after their journey, and please come into the main dining room, where a little light refreshment had been prepared. The light refreshment would have fed a dozen families for a week. Th
ere were all sorts of rare, wonderful treats—things like tomatoes and grapes, and perfectly roasted venison, which had arrived in plenty of time. We servants were kept busy picking up this and moving that. The women guests praised the furnishings and the shining quality of the silverware—I felt proud—while the men huddled over glasses of wine and talked about the war.
“I hear Cromwell swears he won’t fight again until his troops are ready,” one said. “Imagine that, a glorified farmer telling lords and real gentlemen how they’re supposed to fight!”
“Don’t underestimate Oliver Cromwell,” another responded. “There’s a sense of destiny about the man. Say, Sabine, are your people here getting nervous about the royals’ battlefield success? Can you keep your pro-Catholics in line?”
“My people will always obey me,” Sabine said confidently. “They’re really good and God-fearing, I promise. We’ll find a way to get the king whipped, and then we can really get this country straightened out.”
“Cromwell’s been saying he doesn’t want the king deprived of the throne at all,” the first man said. “He just wants him to learn a lesson about sharing power with Parliament. Be a shame to win the war and still have Charles and his Catholic queen.”
“Mr. Cromwell hasn’t thought this through,” Sabine said. “It may be he isn’t tough enough for leadership. But we have others who are sufficiently stern, and useful for keeping doubters in their places.”
“Blue Richard Culmer, perhaps? Is that who you mean, Sabine?” “Certainly, I mean Mr. Culmer.”
Sophia Sabine
The man sipped some wine. “Now, Culmer’s one fellow I wouldn’t want after me!” and the others laughed and agreed. I winced; with all my exhaustion from hauling water and polishing silver, I’d almost forgotten that I was one of the unfortunate ones Richard Culmer was pursuing.
After the guests had eaten and we’d cleared the dishes away, the Sabines brought down their daughter to present to the company. Sophia came dashing down the stairs, with Sara trailing quietly behind. The two girls were complete physical opposites. Where Sara was sturdy and blonde, Sophia was tall and slender and her hair was almost black. There was also another obvious difference—while Sara hardly ever talked, Sophia never seemed to stop. She ran from one guest to the next, chattering constantly, asking where they were from and what they’d seen on their journey and telling about her latest lessons—“Sara thought eight and three made eleven, but I told her they made twelve.”
“Well, eight and three do make eleven, dear,” one of the women told her, and instead of becoming angry Sophia threw back her head and laughed.
“Sara, you were right after all,” she called to the back of the room, where Sara perched quietly on the staircase. “Let’s go back up and practice numbers some more.” In the manner of well-raised children in company, Sophia curtsied to the grown-ups before she turned to leave the room.
“Is Sara your sister, dear?” the woman asked. Before Sophia could answer, her mother said sharply, “Oh, no, not at all. She’s the daughter of one of the servants. We sometimes allow her to play with Sophia, however.”
“How democratic of you, Margaret,” the woman said, and back on the staircase I saw Sara’s cheeks flush bright red before she turned and followed her friend Sophia. So, along with intelligence and ambition she also had pride.
So eight-year-old Sara woke up on the morning of December 25, 1642, to discover a dress and a doll by her pallet, as well as several candy canes on her pillow. She shrieked with delight, trying to pull the dress on over her nightgown while cuddling the doll at the same time.
CHAPTER Thirteen
That night, Elizabeth asked if I would take Sara home. She explained she’d just heard a friend was about to give birth, and needed to go to her and help with the delivery of the baby. While rich women brought their babies into the world surrounded by physicians and midwives, poor women usually had to rely on their friends. I told Elizabeth I’d be glad to, and went upstairs to fetch Sara from Sophia’s bedroom. I found the girls sprawled on a wide bed with silk covers and a canopy. Sophia was talking about a dress her father had promised to buy her, and Sara was bent over a slate, studying arithmetic.
“Time to go home, Sara,” I interrupted. “Your mother has to go help a friend, so it will be just you and me.”
“You’re Sara’s Aunt Layla, aren’t you?” Sophia inquired. “The one who’s come to stay at her house while your husband’s in the colonies? Do you like living with Sara and her mother? How long do you expect to stay with them?”
“I really don’t know,” I replied, trying to sound respectful as befitted a servant speaking to an employer’s child. “I’m just glad Sara and her mother have offered me their hospitality.”
“Sara says she likes you,” Sophia observed, and I felt immensely pleased to hear it, though Sara had never said anything to me that indicated like or dislike, for that matter. “She’s glad you’re her aunt.”
“I’m glad, too,” I said, and Sara and I set out for the cottage. Since it was just the two of us, I thought the girl might chat with me along the way, but she didn’t. We walked in companionable silence though. I found pleasure simply in her presence. It occurred to me that, although Nicholas and I and the rest of the companions had devoted our lives to children, we never actually spent time with them besides briefly coming into their homes at night to leave holiday gifts.
When we reached the cottage we went inside and lit some candles. Today, with electric lights that shine brightly at the touch of a switch, that Canterbury cottage in 1642 would probably seem like a dark, depressing place. But back then, a few candles and their meager light were what we were used to, and so Sara and I found their glow cheerful. Neither of us had eaten, so she fetched water and I sliced bread and washed a few carrots and pears. As we ate our simple meal I asked, “What cities do you want to visit someday?”
“Paris,” Sara said promptly. “Athens, in Greece. Rome, of course, and Alexandria. I suppose I’ll start with London, since it’s the nearest great capital and I haven’t even been there, yet. What is it like?”
I told her about the high towers and palaces, the great hall of Parliament, and the other impressive buildings. Then I described London Bridge over the wide Thames, and the marketplaces where so many things were for sale, and the theaters and gardens and the streets with cobblestones. I did leave out details about trash and smells, because this little girl had plenty of time to temper her dreams with reality, as we all must eventually do. Sara smiled hugely as she listened, and after I’d talked about London I couldn’t resist beginning to describe Paris.
“You’ve been to Paris?” she exclaimed. “However did you get there?” I explained that my husband Nicholas was a craftsman and trader, and that his work had brought us all over the world. When Elizabeth finally came home around midnight, reporting that her friend had given birth to a healthy baby boy, Sara and I were still at the table, and I was describing the unique scent of tabouli that permeated the streets of Constantinople.
“Cousin Layla, I’m glad you and Sara have had such fine conversation, but eight-year-olds need their sleep!” Elizabeth said. “Young lady, off to bed with you! We all have to get up early.”
Sara obediently rose and walked over to the short ladder that led to her pallet in the loft. “I’m glad the baby is fine, Mother. Good night. And good night, Auntie Layla.” Now I was Auntie rather than the more formal Aunt. That thought warmed me as Elizabeth chatted for a bit about her friend and the baby, and when we blew out the candles and went to bed ourselves I almost hoped Sara was still awake in the loft pallet we shared so I could tell her more about the places she wanted to go, but the child was fast asleep. And soon, so was I.
For a few more weeks, life remained simple and mostly good. All day from Monday through Friday, and then half-days on Saturdays, I worked in the Sabine house, doing all sorts of chores. Saturday afternoons were spent with Elizabeth and Sara shopping in town or enjoying walks throu
gh the green hills around Canterbury. On Sunday mornings there was church—I was pleased Elizabeth attended one where the minister did not adhere to the stern tenets of the Puritans—and then, afterward, perhaps a picnic.
After so many centuries of magical gift-giving, it was in some ways pleasing to live what would be considered a “normal” life. I was often reminded, though, that I was still a fugitive. Reports of the war reached us regularly, often in my letters from Arthur and Elizabeth’s from Pamela, which they sent whenever they knew someone who was going between London and Canterbury. In those letters, we learned the king was winning most of the battles against the Roundheads, but he was never quite able to end the war by marching all the way into London.
“Even without Cromwell, who is still supposedly training his troops, the rebels fight just well enough to keep the king from complete triumph,” Arthur wrote. “The Puritans still go around saying God will not let them lose. They’re trying to convince the working people that few, if any, real Englishmen are fighting for Charles at all. Their new rude nickname for the king’s troops is Cavaliers, which, I think, is based on the French chevalier or ‘cavalry.’ If the rebels don’t win a major battle soon, I don’t think they can hold out much longer.”
But besides the English rebels, Charles had other troubles. The Scots kept raiding up along the northern border, and there was outright rebellion in Ireland, where most people were Catholics who wanted English Protestantism completely gone from their country. It was rumored that the Roundheads were holding talks with the Scots, Arthur said, hoping to form an alliance with them against Charles—who, other rumors had it, was trying to get the Irish Catholics to join him!
It was all very confusing, and ordinary people had trouble keeping track of who was doing exactly what. So long as Avery Sabine was in charge, Canterbury would officially belong to the Roundheads, but as fall 1642 turned into winter, it seemed quite likely Charles was going to beat the rebels of Parliament. In Canterbury’s markets and streets, working people began to grumble about Sabine, and how the king might just wreak some awful vengeance on the town in retaliation for its mayor supporting his enemies.