Jack, Knave and Fool

by Alexander, Bruce

  “You wish, then, to give up the notion of placing her in service?”

  “Girls in service have an uncertain future at best,” said Lady Fielding. “You know that as well as I. Besides, even if we found the best possible place for her in all London, one free of the usual influences, putting her in service would still be a waste of her talents — her reading, her writing, her mind. The girl has a fine mind, and it should not be wasted.”

  “Hmmm,” said Sir John, and only that for a long moment. At last he spoke up: “I understand your point now in sending her away. This is a matter that concerns us all. The bit of extra food she eats is of no concern to me. We can well afford it. She shares a bed with Annie. But to add permanently to our number a new person, a new personality, that is something that affects us all. I should like to hear from Annie and Jeremy on this matter. Annie? What say you?”

  “I’m for her,” said Annie, quite immediately. “She’s been a good chum to me, helped me with my reading and with my cooking, as well. Oh, but not just for that. We get along well, well as any two who ain’t the same age can. And for a girl who’s had a life hard as she has, she knows how to make a bit of fun. She can set me laughing anytime she wishes.” She paused then, frowning. “And, well, she’s a good bedmate, too —doesn’t pull off the covers of a cold night. That’s all I can think of to say.”

  Sir John took all that without comment, simply nodded a number of times, thrusting out his lower lip in deep consideration. At last he said: “And you, Jeremy?”

  I had dreaded the moment when I, too, would be asked to speak, and I had resolved to say as little as possible.

  “I have no objection,” said I.

  “No objection?” repeated Sir John. “Does that mean you are for it? Do you wish her to remain with us permanently?”

  “Well …yes.”

  “Forgive me, Jeremy, if I mistake, but have I not detected something strained and distant between you and Clarissa in the past weeks?”

  “Well … perhaps.” And I thought we had kept it so well hid. The man amazed me.

  “Why, Jeremy,” spoke up Lady Fielding, clearly disturbed, “I had no idea! Whatever could you — “

  “Please, Kate, those are matters with which you are not acquainted.” .And then to me: “Does she blame you for what happened to her father?”

  “Partly, I think, yes.”

  “Did you tell her his part in the crime?”

  “No, I told her that only you should do that.”

  “Well, you were right in saying so. Nevertheless, you should not have carried that burden all these weeks. But do you stand by what you said? That you have no objection to Clarissa joining our household? That you wish her to remain with us permanently? “

  “Yes, I wish her with us. I know she has a great desire to do so. I know that she is bright and has great talents. .And I know, or suspect, that what Lady Fielding said is true, that girls who go into service have an uncertain future at best. .And I believe that whatever difficulties Clarissa and I may have between us will be resolved with time.”

  “But Jeremy,” said Sir John, most insistently, “doyou want her here?”

  “Yes sir, I do.”

  “Well and good,” said he, “it is settled then. Clarissa Roundtree may remain with us if she chooses. The division ol her time between the Magdalene Home and here can be worked out satisfactorily. I’m sure. If you like, you may go up and tell her that, Kate.”

  “Why don’t you tell her, Jack?”

  He sighed. “Yes, perhaps I should.” He rose and started across the kitchen. At the stairs he paused. “We may be a while,” said he.

  We heard him knock upon her door, a few murmured words, and then there were footsteps in the upstairs hall, just a few. I knew that he had taken her to the small room between the two bedrooms which he called his study. He would invite her to light a candle il she liked or sit in the dark, tor it was all the same to him. And then he would tell her that she was welcome to remain with us if that was her wish. After she had said that indeed it was her wish, he would tell her that since that was the case, it was only fitting that she know the truth about her father. I was as sure as could be that this, or something quite like it, was what would pass between them.

  As I cleared the table, Annie busied herself stowing the leftover mutton for tomorrow’s stew, then heated the water for my washing up. Lady Fielding left us, giving a curious look to me as she bade us good night. She went straight to her bedroom and shut the door. Once the water was warm, Annie took it off the stove and set it out for me there to do what more had to be done. Then, in taking leave of me, she grasped me by the hand.

  “You did right, saying what you did, Jeremy,” said Annie. “Sometime you must explain to me that matter between you and Sir John about her father.”

  “Sometime perhaps I shall.”

  And so Annie, too, left the kitchen and went up the stairs.

  The task of washing up seldom took much more than half an hour under ordinary circumstances. On this night I lingered over it a bit, giving extra effort to the greasy pan in which the mutton had been cooked; grease, fat drippings, blackened bits of meat covered the bottom of it. With soap and brush I won the battle, however, and I was just drying it down with one of the rags I kept for that purpose, when quite without prior notice Clarissa appeared next me, giving me a bit of a start.

  “It’s only I,” said she. “I did not mean to startle.”

  I laughed in embarrassment. “Only that I was surprised,” said I. “I heard no closing of the door, no step on the stair.”

  “You were busy banging that pan about. Making a terrible racket, you were. You couldn’t hear me coming for all the noise you made.”

  “Well, you might have whistled a tune, or at least cleared your throat— something to let me know you were near.”

  Then and only then did I notice the tears that dampened the corners of her eyes, and I remembered where she had come from and what she had no doubt heard.

  “You must forgive me. I fear I’m a bit tetchy this evening,” said I.

  “No,” said she, “it is you, I hope, will forgive me, for I misjudged you and took for ill what you meant in kindness. I do apologize to you most sincerely.”

  “Were you urged to make this gesture? Told to say what you’ve just said?”

  “Of course not. Then it would not be a sincere apology.”

  “True,” said I. “So I accept and offer you my hand on it.”

  Briefly we clasped hands and made peace, each with the other.

  “This will do much better,” said she, “for I’ve been driven near to distraction being always so cheerful, so falsely cordial, with you. What I’ve missed most is our quarrels.”

  “I’m sure,” said I, “that we shall have time in the future to make up for all those lost opportunities.”

  Later, years later in fact, when we were fast friends, I had the chance to ask Clarissa what it was that attached her so to her father. “Probably,” said she, “it was that with my mother gone, he was all I had.” I told her that he had said the same thing of her. “But there was something more,” she added, “something quite especial that my mother often commented upon. No matter what our state, no matter how low our condition, he could always make us laugh.” Let that, then, be his epitaph: He could always incite laughter.