Bessie mustered her most charming smile. “Young man. Could you tell me please, how far it is to Simmins-Hollow?”
“Not far, Mississ,” said the young man, wiping his brow. “Just round yon copse, past Master Herrin’s fields, and then up Simmins Hill. Hollow’s just t’ other side.”
Bessie looked down at her painful feet, which she had slipped out of her brogues. She sighed.
“Well, Mississ, me cart’s empty. Jump in, why not. I’ll get ‘ee there in half a tic.”
She did not have to be asked twice.
By the time they got to the village, Jeremiah, for that was his name, was beginning to regret his kind offer. It wasn’t that the woman was a heavy load, it was just that she hadn’t stopped talking, and having to turn his head to reply made him stumble and curse himself under his breath. He set her down at the edge of the green.
“Here you are then, Mississ.”
“Thank you, Jeremiah,” she said, clambering out. “So that will be the cottage? That one, on the far side of the green?”
“That be it, Mississ,” said Jeremiah, and hurried off in the opposite direction.
“Mrs. Davenport?” asked Bessie of the woman who was draping some grubby wet linens over the bushes in front of the cottage.
“Who are you?” she replied, suspiciously.
“Elizabeth Goose—Bessie,” she hastened to explain, “and I am looking for one Josie Davenport, employed at Wriggin Hall some sixteen years ago as a lady’s maid. Your daughter, perhaps?”
The woman laughed a toothless laugh. Her hands were twisted with arthritis, her skin was slack and her hair was a dull grey.
“I am herself. Josie I mean. Mother’s been dead these five years. What do you want?”
Bessie looked down at her feet, embarrassed. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to offend you. Then it is you I was hoping to find. I was taken into service at Wriggin soon after you left.”
Josie smiled wryly. “Wriggin, eh? Now back then, back then I were a beauty. Yes, a beauty.”
Bessie smiled. “Weren’t we all, weren’t we all.”
“Well, come in, come in. I see that you’re tired. We’ll have a cup of cowslip.”
Bessie gratefully followed her into the sooty cottage.
What Bessie found out was, at first, a good deal about Josie Davenport, and nothing whatsoever about Olivia Steppys, because Josie was delighted to have a visitor, a real visitor who had come especially to see her—Josie—thrilled, really, she was! It reminded her of her lady’s maid days, when she had vicariously lived the life of the wealthy, seeing her ladies, dressed to the nines, spend their afternoons paying calls on other ladies, giggling, gossiping and drinking that fancy new brew, China tea.
Josie had no tea in her larder—where would she have obtained the money for such a luxury?—but the cowslip wine was an acceptable substitute. She spiked her own cup with the last dregs of a jug of ale. They sat at the rough table, sipping genteelly.
“And so,” Josie finished her personal history, “after just a year of the life, in London, I found myself with child. When I begun to show, madam turned me out in the street. Said I’d scare away the customers. Said I were a poor tart to get into such a fix. And though I’d made a good living—some of my gentlemen was most kind—all that was spent, or lost in the Great Fire, and I hadn’t a farthing to my name. So I quit London and come home, and had the child, and six more since. There’s not a one willing to marry such as me, but they’re not aversed to beddin’ me. Leaving me with another mouth to feed…”—she glanced around the filthy cottage—”and then I think, I wisht to God I’d never left service at the big Hall.”
Josie, having poured out her story, was silent. Bessie looked down at her feet. A bundle of rags lying in a dough box—Bessie had assumed it was some bread rising—had suddenly begun to wail. She hadn’t realized it was a baby. She picked it up expertly, cradled it to her bosom and sniffed its bald head. It was pitifully scrawny. She could tell from the smell—not that soft milky sweetness but something more sour and pungent—that it was not thriving. She threw Josie a questioning look.
Josie shrugged. “It won’t take the pap, and I use good ale in it too, nought’s good enough for it, that one, it just spits everything out.”
Bessie began rubbing the flaky skin gently. The little thing was all skin and bone, born before its time. “You should keep it warm,” she said, automatically dispensing unsolicited advice, “close to your heart, see, and give it a good rub—like this—from time to time. That might make its appetite come back. Don’t let your milk dry up, for goodness sake! A sip of mother’s milk does more good than a gallon of ale-pap, I always say.”
Josie did not reply. It was not the first time she had found herself saddled with a dying child. Mentally she had already sealed herself off, withdrawn her love. It was easier that way. She changed the subject.
“I often think of those times, up at t’ big house. How is Tucker? Did he ever take a wife? And Lady Olivia, what happened to her, after she had the baby? Did she ever come back?”
“Lady Olivia,” said Bessie, “never came back. She died giving birth. It was a girl,” she added, “I was her nurse.”
“Poor soul,” said Josie. Then she grinned, showing empty gums. “I were the go-between, you know, between my lady and the baron.”
“The baron.” Bessie caught her breath. Now they were getting somewhere.
“Yes, you know. The one she were in love with. Couldn’t right blame her, either. A dream, a right dream, he was. Could have welcomed him into me own bed, I could.”
“That’s—that is precisely what I’ve come about,” said Bessie. “Lady Olivia’s daughter is my charge. I raised her, actually,” she added. “Now she wants to know who her father is.”
“My lord and lady was set against it. The match, I mean. They had someone else picked out for her. This one was naught but bad debts. The family lost everything, in the wars.” She shook her head. “Lady Olivia told me. But Lady Olivia, she was so taken with him, she would not listen to no reason. Late at night, I’d help her sneak out into the garden. They used to meet in the pavilion, you know, by the lake.”
She paused, and wiped her forehead.
“Poor lady. So in love, they were. I wisht I was in her shoes, I did. Thought she had it all. But now look what happened. Her sent away in disgrace like that. Now me own mam, she didn’t like what I did. But she never sent me away neither. Let me come back when I had nowheres else to go. Poor, poor lady.”
Human nature being what it is, speculating on the troubles of those more fortunate than us is often the best way to forget our own. It was thus not an unnatural digression for Josie and her guest to start swapping satisfyingly shocking stories about their betters, and to find examples of decent kindness in ordinary folk like themselves. There was the old duke, for instance, whose daughter, a beauty, had hanged herself the day after her wedding to a wealthy beast almost forty years her senior. Or old king Harry, that bearded blueblood whose excuse for killing six wives (this was Josie’s version; Bessie thought there might have been eight) was that they were all faithless and he a six-fold cuckold; and then Bessie told the story she had heard about a kind cobbler’s widow who was raising a dozen children not her own, even though it meant near-starvation for all.
She finally brought the subject tactfully back to where they had left it.
“Now tell me, who is this baron?”
“Lord…Sunningham? No Sunderland, that’s the name. He were a visitor at Bissenden, staying with Lord and Lady Doughby. They first saw each other at a ball, up at Bissenden. I tell you, it was love at first sight, it was…”
“Can you describe him to me?”
“My lady called him Gillyam. ‘Sweet Gillyam’, she’d say. Fine figure of a man he were, too. Dark hair, and a lovely smile he had.” Josie sighed wistfully. “I wonder what’s become of him.”
“So do I,” said Bessie grimly. “I am going to find him. And when I do find hi
m, I will give him such a piece of my mind…”
She was silent a while, absently rocking the dying infant lying across her knees. From the rigid set of her back and the firm set of her mouth you could tell she was already preparing for the scene, in her mind.
15
WILLIAM
It was clear to Thomas, when he read Bessie’s report, what had to be done next: he would have to sneak off to Bissenden on a quiet afternoon in order to ask Lady Doughby about that guest of hers. He could not think of any way to request an interview with a high-born lady other than pretending to be seeking employment.
Bissenden was a great house about seven miles from Wriggin Hall. Lady Doughby, a widow, was living out her days on the estate that now belonged to her son. Lord Doughby was too busy cavorting about London to tend to his inheritance, so that Lady Doughby continued as absolute monarch of Bissenden. Unlike most of her neighbors, she used no intermediary in hiring household help.
One of her serving men had recently died of the gangrene resulting from an ingrown toenail, and she agreed to see Thomas as an applicant for the job so sadly left vacant.
“Well, er, Boothby, is it? Thomas, yes of course, Thomas. Well, Thomas, Graves tell me you are not happy in your present employ.”
Thomas opened his mouth to explain, then thought better of it, and nodded.
“I know Arabella Steppys.” She paused, and raised an eyebrow. “I suspect she must be hard on her servants.” She smiled at him encouragingly. “We have not spoken since Lady Hempstead’s death, God rest her soul. Well…?” She was dying for some good gossip about her elusive neighbors. “What makes you seek to terminate your employment?”
“Actually, ma’am,” said Thomas, pulling little balls of wool off the cap he was clutching, “It’s not…it’s not…you see—”
“Don’t be shy, don’t be shy. I promise you I shall not betray any confidence.”
“Well, madam, for myself, I have no complaints.”
“No?” she probed.
“For myself, ma’am, no, only it’s the way she treats our poor Miss Lucinda…”
“Lucinda. Ah. Who is that?”
“Miss Lucinda—she’s Master’s grandchild, Lady Olivia’s little girl.”
“Olivia…Olivia? Well! That’s the first I’ve heard of it! Olivia had a child? Well I never. I always thought she had died a maid…”
“She had the baby, uh, out of wedlock, ma’am, begging your pardon, of course.”
“And the child’s name is Lucinda? Well, well, Lettice certainly kept that one under her hat,” she muttered to herself.
“Yes, ma’am. Lucinda. And, you see, now her aunt—her aunt the Lady Arabella, she has been giving the poor girl a very hard time, put her to work like a servant, she has, sweeping out fireplaces and the like. And, well, it’s a crying shame—”
“It certainly is, Thomas. A cinder sweep? My, my.”
“Yes, ma’am. So—so that’s why I come to you, ma’am…”
“I don’t see….”
“Begging your pardon, milady, I was hoping…”
“I cannot do anything for that poor girl. I think you must know that. It is not my place.”
“No, I know, but…It’s her father. You see, we thought, if only we could have her father come forward, to have him recognize her…”
Lady Doughby lost all the color in her round little face.
“Her father? How do you mean? If you are implying that my son…”
“Oh no, oh no, ma’am, not to worry! Not Lord Doughby, oh my Lord, no.” Thomas was aghast at having given this nice lady such a fright. “Not him, not him at all. No, it was another, a young gentleman visiting here—Lord Sunderland, we think was his name—er, he…”
“William! Of course!” Lady Doughby’s expression softened. “Yes, of course. I knew that he wanted to marry one of those Steppys sisters. I made him confess it to me. He had nothing to bring to the table, of course. I don’t blame ’em for turning him down. So William was the one—what a rogue, eh?” she joked.
Thomas flushed. He liked this lady, who was so straightforward and pleasant. She spoke to him almost as an equal. He smiled at her. “Well milady, seeing as you know him, we thought that maybe, well, maybe you could direct us to him…”
Lady Doughby looked grave again. “I am sorry. He died years ago. A duel. His mother, my dear, dear friend”—she sighed deeply, and her lips briefly relaxed into a sorry droop before snapping smartly to again—“never got over it. She died a year later. Broken heart. Her only son.”
“Oh,” said Thomas. That was it, then. Poor Lucinda. Still an orphan, this last hope dashed. “Well then. I must go. I am sorry to have given you so much trouble…”
“No! Don’t go yet!” Lady Doughby had taken a liking to this serving man with the boyish charm and the kind heart. He looked ready to cry. He would do. He would do very well. And Lady Doughby was used to getting what she wanted. If she could not persuade him to desert Wriggin for Bissenden—well, then she had lost her touch.
“I shall write to the estate’s executor. Sir Matthew Chancrey, I know him well. It is unlikely, in view of the family’s debts, but perhaps—you never know, there might be something that poor young girl can claim. Now come here, and sit down—” she patted a chair across from hers—” and tell me more about her.”
And that was how Lucinda found her origins and Thomas a new employer.
16
THE BEADED SLIPPERS
My Dear Lady Doughby,
As regards her Ladyship’s enquiry to me, viz. the Sunderland Estate, it is my Sad Duty to inform her that we were fain to sell all Holdings left at the time of My Lady Sunderland’s death, to Wit, the House in London & My Lady’s personal Effects, in order to defray remaining Debts, wherefore the young person in question is indeed left penniless. I am entrusting to her Ladyship’s care, however, a personal Memento, one pair of lady’s Slippers, which Lord Sunderland had asked his Mother to embroider for his Bride and which, sadly, were left Unfinished upon news of his Death.
I write “Bride” because I must further advise that despite the Family’s refusal to sanction the union, Lord Sunderland and his Lady were conjoined in Matrimony upon their Elopement, on the twenty-eighth day of October of the year of Our Lord 1657 & I have as proof of this a Letter written by his Lordship to his Mother informing her of the Same. The young Lady in question, if indeed Born as she claims in February of the year 1658, is thus the Honorable Miss Sunderland & Sadly the Sole surviving Heir of that Line, since his Lordship was killed in a Duel by a Jealous Suitor of the Lady Olivia shortly after the Marriage. I do not think that his Lordship’s Mother was apprised that the Marriage had borne Fruit, otherwise I am persuaded She would have shown Greater Perseverance in trying to find her Daughter-in-law & might even have put aside the Notion that that poor Lady was responsible for Lord Sunderland’s Death.
Her Ladyship’s most devoted, obedient and humble Servant &c.
Matthew Chancrey.
Lucinda carefully smoothed out the stiff paper and rolled it back into a neat cylinder, tying the blue ribbon around it. She had read it at least twenty times since that morning, when Thomas had given her the package. She looked down at her feet, and rotated them slowly, pointing first one foot, then the other. The ivory leather sparkled with glass beads and intricate embroidery done in metallic thread. The heel of the left foot was not quite finished; there were pencil markings in lieu of silver and beads, but it did not matter. Never had she owned anything so lovely. They were a perfect fit, too. Apparently she had inherited her mother’s narrow little feet. Her heart was bursting with pride. The glass-beaded slippers defined her at last! Finally she had an identity, an assurance of being someone real, someone with a real father and a real mother, two real living beings who had fallen in love and run away together. He had died defending her honor; she had died of a broken heart. She, Lucinda, was both the proof and the product of this most glamorous, if tragic, love story.
&nbs
p; Her own two feet suddenly acquired a fascination of their own. This, then, was where it all began, in these dainty little toes! How had she never noticed them before? Because they really were too exquisite. The Hon. Lucinda Sunderland, she was. Not just a young lady: a real lady, daughter of a lord! Her feet were her mother’s; that much was obvious. But what had she inherited from her father? The hair, perhaps? Reverently, she freed the curly mass from the fetters of the bonnet. She patted it apologetically, regretting her frequent complaints about its unruliness. Henry would not find it so; Henry would love running his fingers through that aristocratic mop. As for the feet—surely he had noticed them, and deemed them the prettiest, most elegant, most precious little feet he had ever seen…
“What have we here?”
A sigh of happiness stuck fast in Lucinda’s throat. Planted wide apart in front of her were two alien feet, thick and graceless, jammed into heavy brown leather.
“Well, well!” snarled Arabella. “If it isn’t little Miss Cinder-face, neglecting her duty! Get up, you filthy swash-bucket, and put that bonnet back on. At once!”
Lucinda scrambled to her feet, nervously wiping her hands on her apron. She had to swallow a few times before she could speak.
“Forgive me, Aunt Arabella, I was just…”
“What’s this?” Arabella had noticed the rolled-up letter, and snatched it out of her hands. “A letter? Are you plotting something, young lady?”
“No, no, give it back to me! It’s mine!” Lucinda shrieked, grabbing her aunt’s arm.
Arabella calmly swung her arm free, sending her niece flying into a corner. “We shall see about that,” she said, and, tearing off the ribbon, quickly scanned the neat lines.
“Well, well,” she repeated at last. “That’s it, then. It seems that we have an Honorable here now. Ha! An honorable gutterslut!” She seemed to find it supremely comical. “Oh, and quite the inheritance too! A pair of unfinished slippers! My, my. Such riches! Such power! May I humbly beg your forgiveness, my lady, for mistaking you for a common trull.”
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