In the cities it is better—well not much, but any improvement is noticeable. There you can find people who don’t look at you as if you’re insane when you open your mouth to babble out bits of their confounded tongue. And there was that one man—in Cambridge—who actually spoke German!
He recalled how beautiful the man’s heavily accented voice had sounded, spilling out from underneath his frothy mustache. They had talked of the weather and directions to an hostelry, only for a few moments, yet it had lifted Heldmann’s spirits invaluably.
Yes, near a university, one is likely to encounter people who are familiar with different languages.
But the Herefords are not at the universities! They are on farms dotting the countryside, which are inhabited by men who look right through you at best, or glare at you crossly if the wind is blowing the wrong way.
Heldmann spooned a few diced potatoes off the top of the pile where the blood had not defiled them. He chewed the dry mouthful and stared out the window at the falling snow.
I may be stuck here for days.
He took a sip of ale from his mug.
Not even the roaring fire in the inn’s fireplace seemed cheerful.
Although, I believe I’m not far from…
No, I couldn’t go back there. I disgraced myself the last time.
But it’s only a few miles from here and he did ask me to stay…It can’t be worse than what I’m facing here.
Heldmann poked uneasily at the chunk of meat, wondering at the amount of gristle it contained. With a weary sigh, he stood, and tossed a couple of coins on the table next to his heaping plate. After draining his mug, he lifted his saddle bag, stepped outside, and went to the stable in search of his horse.
Entscheidung zu Besuchen
~ Elliott
If it stops soon, we can play in it before nightfall.
Elliott stared out at the falling snow, shivering. It was very cold in the foyer away from the fireplace, but he’d never seen it snow like this, settling onto the stretch of lawn and the entryway’s windows provided the best view. Large flakes drifted down from leaden skies to rest upon the green blades.
Just then, Elliott was startled by a man rushing up the steps to the front door. His face was wound around with a heavy scarf. A hat was pulled low and his long riding coat was secured tightly around his middle. He reached for the bell pull but Elliott swung the door open before the man could give it a tug.
“Hallo,” the visitor said, uncertainly.
“Who are you?” Elliott asked as he examined the collection of snowflakes clinging to the man’s clothing.
Surprise registered in the eyes of the newcomer as a hand gripped Elliott from behind.
“Invite him in, Elliott.” Jonathan said, towering above him. “There will be time for questions once he’s out of the cold.”
Elliott held the door firmly. “But what if it’s Napoleon? He escaped from Elba, you know.”
Jonathan threw his head back and laughed out loud, pushing the door wide to admit the visitor, of whom he asked, “Parlez-vous Francais, Monsieur?”
It wasn’t often Elliott succeeded in making his brother laugh like that and he wasn’t sure how he did it this time but he felt quite proud nonetheless.
“Herr Clyde. Danke. Danke,” the man responded, pulling the scarf from his face revealing a nose, red with the cold.
“Herr Heldmann! Come in to the parlor by the fire! Imagine seeing you here on a day like today! We never have snow like this! But what of your horse? Certainly you didn’t walk here? Your horse?” Jonathan looked around.
“Mine horse…mmm…I give to man in…mmm…barn.” Heldmann removed his coat and shook it, sending a flurry of snowflakes up around him.
“You’ve given it to Hardy, have you? Well, I hope he doesn’t sell it.”
“What you say?” asked Heldmann, his brow furrowed.
“Oh, nothing, nothing at all.” Jonathan ushered the man to the parlor’s fireplace and hung his outer garments on the coat rack.
“Ja, das ist gut,” said the man, stretching his bare fingers toward the flames, a smile lifting his pinkened cheeks.
Elliott studied him carefully. He doesn’t look strange, but what’s wrong with his mouth? It moves funny and his words are ever so odd.
“This is my brother, Elliott,” Jonathan said to the man, waving his hand in Elliott’s direction.
The man turned his attention to the boy.
“I am nice to…mmm…meet you, Elliott,” said the man, bowing his head and offering his hand. “My…mmm…name is Hermann Heldmann.”
This must be one of the ‘idiots’ that Jonathan talks about, Elliott reasoned. I’ve always wondered what they look like.
Elliott studied the man’s face which was bordered with ample dark blonde sideburns. His thick lips were red, and wavy hair was plastered to his head from much hat wearing.
“Elliott, don’t forget your manners. Shake hands,” said Jonathan.
What does an idiot’s hand feel like? Elliott slowly brought his hand up as he continued to study the smiling face.
Hmm, cold and big.
“What brings you here? Ah, but first, you’ll need a hot drink,” Jonathan said, reaching for the bell pull. Then he invited Heldmann to sit on the settee and the two began to talk.
Why must there always be talking? thought Elliott, walking over to a window. Nothing’s as boring as talking.
The snowfall had lessened. The sun hinted at shining through the clouds, illuminating the blanket of snow that lay, blunting all the familiar edges of Whitehall’s grounds.
“Jonathan?” Elliott turned from the window. “Jonathan, can we go outside now?”
His older brother paused in his conversation and replied, “Soon, Elliott. But you’re not even ready yet. Go don your warmest clothes.”
At this, Elliott tore out of the room and up the stairs to his bedroom.
Shivering in the unheated room, he pulled open his armoire, and began to lift out clothing he didn’t remember ever wearing. Item after item, he threw to the ground, looking for what he deemed to be the warmest.
Once outfitted, he realized, Pony will need something as well, but none of my clothes would fit her. I know!
Now ungainly in his thick layers, Elliott rushed down the hall to his sister’s room.
Where is Sophia’s brown mantle?
He opened the armoire and pushed past the gowns that hung there. A heavy white fold of cloth peeked out at him from among the many garments pressed together. It was embroidered with little blue flowers. The sight of it stirred a memory in his mind.
We were outside somewhere and we were walking on a gravel path. There were tall trees all around. I could see my breath and tried to catch it with my hand. I told Sophia I was cold. She picked me up and wrapped the edges of this around us both. It was warm and the fur tickled my nose. Then we went inside a large hall. Mama was there with a lot of other people and she told Sophia not to carry me in such a manner.
Elliott tugged on it. It remained in place, so he gave it a terrific yank. Unconcerned by the short ripping sound he heard, he smiled as it fell into his arms.
Yes, this can keep Pony warm.
He fled the room with the surprisingly heavy garment and flew back to the parlor.
I hope they’re not still talking.
The parlor door was open and Pony was inside with the men, collecting sullied teacups.
“Is it time yet?” Elliott asked, panting from his haste.
“Yes, I believe it is,” replied Jonathan. “Herr Heldmann, would you care to join us outside for a bit of snow play?”
Heldmann looked confused, staring at Jonathan’s mouth. “Mmm…Please forgive?”
“Do you want to come with us,” Jonathan pointed at himself and Elliott, “outside,” he pointed out the window where the thin sunlight was now wanly shining, “to play in the snow?” He mimed throwing a snowball.
“Ahh
, yes. Yes, I like.” The man stood.
“Look what I brought for you, Pony.” Elliott held up his find proudly.
The maid, whose hands were full with a serving tray, tilted her head questioningly at the boy.
“For when we go outside.”
“That is a very lovely cloak, Elliott, but I fear it isn’t mine and therefore, I cannot wear it.”
“Sophia won’t mind. She never wears it anymore.”
“Thank you very much, Master Elliott, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t be proper.”
“Proper? I hate proper!” Elliott dropped the cloak and folded his arms, scowling.
She doesn’t want to play with us. It won’t be as fun without her.
“The girl…mmm…need…a mantle for…mmm…warm?” asked Heldmann, his eyebrows lifted. He walked to where his own riding coat hung on the coat rack and felt it.
“Good. Is no more…water.” He held it out to the young woman. “For you. I…mmm…commands.”
She stood frozen with the tea tray.
The idiot is going to get Pony outside with us! Elliott thought, happily. “I commands, too, Pony.”
“Master Elliott and Herr Heldmann seem to insist that you come with us, Foote.”
“Sir Jonathan, it isn’t proper for a servant to wear the coat of one of Whitehall’s guests.”
“Of course, you are right, Foote. Therefore, I must relieve you of your position of maid at Whitehall. Henceforth, you shall be a guest who kind-heartedly does everything for everyone and is thanked with a bit of money. Now, please, don the coat.”
“But what will he wear if I’m wearing his?”
Jonathan shrugged. “He will wear…my coat and I will wear…” Jonathan leaned over and retrieved Sophia’s girlish cloak from the floor “…this!”
He dramatically flung the cloak over his shoulders and secured the ties at his neck.
Everyone laughed as he pulled the hood up, his thin, boyish face framed with the soft white fur.
“Wunderbar!” exclaimed Heldmann, grinning broadly.
“You look funny, Jonathan.” Elliott continued to giggle.
Jonathan stuck his lower lip out sadly. “I was hoping to look beautiful. Never mind.” He dramatically pointed out the window. “There are snowballs to be thrown!”
Plotting Escape
~ Lydia
Lydia watched from the parlor window as the three males ran around below on a field of white. The white fur cape flew out dramatically behind Sir Jonathan as he careened about, dodging frozen missiles.
Lydia smiled.
She had remained outside with them just long enough to see that Elliott was happily preoccupied, and then excused herself to resume her inside duties.
Who is this odd fellow? she wondered, gazing down at the tall blonde visitor. Good thing he didn’t arrive four days ago…
After Joan’s soul had finally departed, her body had been laid to rest in the section of the churchyard where there were no headstones.
Even in death she’s in the servants’ quarters, Lydia had thought, thinking that Joan would have appreciated the thought as a joke, though the fact genuinely bothered Lydia.
She turned her attention back to the newly arrived guest.
He is German for certain, but why is he here? And how does he know Sir Jonathan? Perhaps he’s the son of a Bavarian noble come to visit some of England’s finest?
Just then, the man in question was pelted with an especially large snowball, directly in the face. He roared with feigned rage, his breath a frozen cloud above him, and chased after a fleeing Elliott. Sassy barked excitedly at his heels.
Lydia smiled again.
He doesn’t seem pretentious in the least.
Looking down, she realized she was still wearing the man’s coat. She examined the thick brown cloth of the arm. It was good, durable stuff, meant for warmth and practicality, not thin and shiny like that of more fashionable garments.
It looks like something a farmer might wear, thought Lydia. A well-off farmer.
A thought stirred in her mind.
He’s young--maybe a few years older than Sir Jonathan--probably not married. Hmmm…
Ugh! What am I thinking? I’m no Delilah!
But then, an image that had recently been seared into Lydia’s memory flooded her mind once again. Days earlier, while the gravedigger was carrying Joan’s emaciated body down the stairs, he hadn’t had the sense to adjust the stiff figure in his arms while coming through the door. The cloth-bound head had clipped the top of the doorframe. Even now, the knocking sound it had made echoed in Lydia’s mind.
“Mind her head!” Lydia had snapped, tears springing to her eyes.
“Sorry, Miss,” the stocky man had replied, resituating his hold on the rigid form. “I doubt she minds much, though.”
“Well, I do!” Lydia had retorted, holding the table to steady herself as she realized, And I’m the only one who does.
Recalling this all with a lump in her throat, Lydia hugged the German’s coat tightly about her, staring blankly out the window.
In that moment, the visitor looked up toward her and waved, his nose and cheeks pinked by the chill.
She smiled delicately, and lifted her hand in response though she stepped away from the window. A nearby mirror on the wall caught her eye. Moving toward it, she examined herself in the winter afternoon sunlight.
She had thought herself pretty once. Now she wasn’t so sure.
This stupid cap is no help, she thought, removing the pins that held it in place. Lifting it off of her head, she turned side to side, evaluating herself from various angles. Tugging little locks of hair free from the tight knot above her nape, she smoothed them to frame her face.
Hmph. She smirked at her reflection. A bit better, I suppose.
And what impressive meal will you serve to dazzle the fellow and secure his affection? A pot of cabbage soup, perhaps? Maybe Sir Jonathan would be willing to make some rarebit and you can pass it off as your own cookery.
Giving herself one last appraising look, she sighed and headed for the kitchen.
On the way there, she slipped into the library to retrieve something she had dusted many times, but never opened.
Minutes later she was measuring flour into a bowl on the counter with Fluegel’s English-German Dictionary splayed open beside it.
Listening to Broken English
~ Jonathan
The oil in the magic lantern was running low. It had burned brightly while Jonathan showed Heldmann the pictures of England’s greatest sight--the most common after-dark entertainment for guests of the Clyde Family--but now its light was beginning to dim, dulling the edges of the shadow puppets Heldmann was casting on the salon’s wall.
Elliott sat, raptly watching as a raven with outstretched wings transformed into a barking dog before him. The formerly roaring fire on the hearth had died down to a glowing pile of embers, occasionally crackling.
Spent physically from multiple snowball battles, and mentally from trying to converse with Heldmann, Jonathan was sunk deeply into the settee, a pillow under his head. Through barely opened eyes, he watched the dancing shadows.
“Hmm, it’s a butterfly,” commented Jonathan, watching the shadow wings flap.
“Schmetterling,” murmured Heldmann, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as his hands worked in front of him.
“Do the dog again,” demanded Elliott.
“Hmm?” asked the tall blonde man, turning to him.
“The dog. Woof woof!”
“Ah. Der Hund.” Heldmann was quick to oblige the little boy.
The salon opened and Foote entered to stand before Jonathan, her hands clasped in front of her.
“I’ve prepared the room overlooking the maze for your guest. Will there be anything else, sir?”
I suppose I ought to sit up while addressing her…but I’m so comfortable…
“No, thank you.” Jonat
han waved his hand toward an empty chair. “Sit and enjoy the nighttime spectacle known as ‘Heldmann’s Hands’.”
“No, thank you, sir. I’d prefer to be excused.”
“Pony, he can do the most amazing things! Watch!” said Elliott, then turning to the German, “Der Hund! Der Hund!”
“Elliott, say ‘please’.” Jonathan murmured.
The young woman remained standing as she turned to watch the much appreciated dog silhouette. Jonathan observed her profile. A small smile curled the edges of her lips though her shoulders sagged.
She looks weary. She’s worked hard today. Her profile is quite pretty…
Lost in his observation, Jonathan suddenly realized that she had turned back to him.
“Would you like me to put Master Elliott to bed?”
“No, no.” Jonathan waved his hand lazily. “Go to your well-earned rest. I will see him to bed. Good night, Foote.
“But I don’t want to go to bed! Heldmann, teach me how to do that.” Elliott held his hands out to the man, palms up.
“Good night,” Foote said, curtseying to Jonathan and then to the others.
“Guten nacht,” said Heldmann, rather loudly.
Then she was gone.
Through his heavy eyelids, Jonathan gazed at the door through which she had just disappeared, her footsteps growing fainter as she made her way down the hall.
“Nein, nein. Tun Sie es wie das,” Heldmann twisted Elliott’s little hands and arms into an awkward shape. The resultant shadow was a malformed dog looming on the wall above them.
“Ja. Das ist gut.”
Elliott beamed as he opened and closed his ‘dog’s’ mouth. “Woof. Woof.”
“Herr Clyde?” Heldmann asked.
“Hmmm?” murmured Jonathan, his eyelids growing heavier.
“Mmmm…who is her?”
“Pardon me?” asked Jonathan, his eyes now closing.
“Who is…mmm… she?” Heldmann pointed in the direction Foote had left.
Jonathan was suddenly awake. “Foote? She’s Foote.”
“Yes, but…who? She is your…sister? Your…woman?”
Jonathan laughed aloud, sitting up on the settee. “She isn’t my woman.”
He laughed again, feeling pleased, though warm in the face.
Heldmann was looking intently at him, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees.
Good God, he’s really waiting for an answer. Who is she? Isn’t that clear?
A Girl Called Foote Page 22