‘Put the wine on the table, Hannah. Then leave us. Under no circumstances are we to be disturbed.’
I am getting used to being in a house with a man in it. Life is noisier than it was with Mistress Buttermere: an establishment full of soft-spoken, soft-footed women.
Despite fine shoes with elaborate buckles, Master Chalke stomps up and down the stairs like a bullock on a ramp. His smells are pungent: cedar wood from his clothes press, tobacco from his pipe and, in the evenings, a breath spiritous with brandy. He cannot close a door without slamming it and sometimes shouts and curses, not I think from ill-temper, but just because he can.
Mrs Lamb warned me that men are unpredictable. That even great lords can drink to excess, spend whole nights at the gaming tables, or chase after loose women. Some do all three. Even the best gentlemen have few occupations in London but paying social calls, gaming or attending coffee shops or playhouses. By contrast, Master Chalke’s abrupt temper and noisiness seem trivial, for he is a man of learning.
In any case, whatever their failings, no man could frighten me the way his wife does. That speculative look she sometimes slides over me makes my palms sweat. She takes pleasure from tormenting Peg. Will it be my turn next? What dubious plan might she have for me, next spring?
I was behind her on the stair yesterday and had to fight down an urge to give her a vigorous push. As a lady, she wears skirts fuller and longer than mine. Fatal accidents happen all the time because of women’s dresses. If not from stairs, from open fires or candle flames. If she broke her neck, Peg would get no more beatings and together we could look after the master in peace. Everyone would be happier, for how can he care for such a heartless creature?
Yet I am horrified at myself. It is a sin as bad as murder to wish another’s death. My mother, up in Heaven, might be watching, revolted at how wicked I have become.
Chastened, I finish serving the wine, conscious again I have been studied as I slip from the room. As my feet turn towards the stairs a deep baritone voice says something that provokes a roar of laughter.
I pause, hand on the bannister. Are they laughing at me? But I can be nothing to these men, with their fine houses, horses and carriages. Country estates as well, probably, for from their wigs and finery these people are from the top of society. They have so many possibilities open to them, yet fritter their lives on pleasure. I would rather scrub floors. They remind me that I have never envied young ladies. For though tempted by their gowns and relative freedoms, I would not want to pass my days in frivolity until some velvet-coated fop deigned to give me a destiny as his brood-mare.
I leave the visitors to their talk, which becomes muted, with only one raised voice drifting after me down the stair.
‘Don’t tell me that fine chit spends all her time in your kitchen?’
My feet pause.
‘Come, gentlemen. She is not what you seek. Let us return to the matter in hand. Who will make the first bid?’
To be the object of their scrutiny makes my ears burn as I hurry downstairs. But what was that talk of bids? What could that have to do with books and writing?
I think back to the curiously watchful look the Master had on his face last week. That swivelling eye is impossible to read, but at least he takes an interest in me and uses my name. I am not just a beast of burden to him, as I am to his miserable wife.
I wonder again about the hours he spends in his closet and those gentlemen who come to call. He is not a man of business or of the law, so perhaps they hold one of those literary salons Mistress Buttermere used to talk about. I suppose it is possible gentlemen might bid for book manuscripts as they do for fine horseflesh.
One day, after I have proved my worth in the kitchen and when he is in a good mood, might I admit to having an education? Tell him I am awed by anyone who can create so many words. Yet then he would know I had lied to him.
‘Good,’ he had said, with a nod. ‘It is proper you concentrate on your duties.’
‘Yes, Master,’ I adopted my impassive face. It was the appropriate response and he seemed satisfied with it.
Then he held out his hand with a frown and I remembered the key and transferred it from my pocket to his broad palm before going back to the kitchen.
In some ways he seems a fair man, not someone with a house full of doubtful secrets. Yet why the contents of his book room must be hidden continues to baffle me.
As I return to darning the mistress’s drab cotton stockings my mind returns to that tender salutation from Jack. I have not been kissed since I was a child on my mother’s knee. It gives me a strange, warm, feeling that I might matter to someone after so many years alone. A young man like him, with prospects, would surely have scores of girls from whom to choose. Not, of course, that he would think of marrying a common maid. But any friends are welcome in my narrow and insecure world.
I think again about what was said upstairs. This is a gentleman’s house and the visitors are aristocrats, I suspect, from their dress and manners. Does one of them perhaps think to offer me a position in his own household? As a lady’s maid to a wife or daughter? That would mean not only escape from Mistress Chalke and her schemes, but a step up in the world. Servants are sometimes poached if a family lacks a good pair of hands. Yet I doubt the Chalkes would let me go. And why should the Master seem so relieved that I cannot read? Instead of concentrating on dust and cobwebs, I must find a way to unearth clues.
Peg has said no more about my leaving before the end of my year, but there is anxiety in her eyes when she looks at me. To her, Mistress Chalke represents danger and not just from the leather strap she is so fond of. If I could be alone in the book room, perhaps I might discover why.
Chapter Thirteen
‘I have brought you something.’ After filling my jug Thomas Graham produces a basket containing field mushrooms and two huge eggs. ‘Fresh gathered and fresh laid this morning.’
‘You have geese?’ I touch the hard shells with a finger. Much larger than hen’s eggs, Mrs Lamb used them when baking for a family visit.
‘There is a flock in my yard, eager to peck any shin within reach.’ A glint of humour lights his face. ‘I have a farm. Remember?’
I scarcely know what to say. I imagine he has done this because I would not let him gift me that milk.
‘I love mushrooms. And Peg falls on anything she can eat.’
I will shave butter from the crock and fry them to go with our bread and soup at mid-day. If I keep the windows open the smell should not drift upstairs. Fortunately, Mistress Chalke does not watch me as closely now. I tell myself she has realised I will not steal from her. Apart, of course, from that lick of butter, which is hardly stealing since servants expect to share the food in their houses.
‘Keep the basket. I don’t need it.’
‘That is kind of you. I will think of your fierce friends while we enjoy our feast.’
‘Geese are the best guardians. The Romans used them. They raise a noise to wake the dead if strangers enter my yard.’ He glances at his dog. ‘They have a running feud with Hector. He usually wins, but not always.’
I step across to give Calypso a stroke. The well-brushed feathers around her fetlocks are the colour of flax. As blond as Jack’s hair, and nearly as well groomed. I look on the beast as a friend now, whispering endearments into her swivelling ears. She is lucky, with a kind master, a plump belly and probably a snug stable at the day’s end. I try to picture where they live, a place without crammed-in buildings, rattling carts chased by urchins and speeding carriages with footmen hanging off the back.
‘Who was Calypso?’ I ask.
‘A nymph in ancient Greece. In addition to beauty, she had a voice that lured the passing Odysseus onto her island.’
‘What for? To rob him?’
‘To rob him of his free will.’
I frown, remembering stories read at my mother’s knee.
‘Those Greek gods were strange. Turning women into trees.’
; ‘They did not need to work. Perhaps that is why.’
‘I wonder if I would get into mischief? Without chores?’
‘An unlikely circumstance with the Chalkes.’
I nod. ‘It reminds me of the poorhouse. They lectured us on the goodness of work, but it was only to make us more biddable.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Two years.’ I study the cobblestones. ‘I was with my parents until I was ten. But after my mother died everything changed.’
‘A hard life for a child.’ He glances at the house. ‘I wish you had found a kinder mistress.’
I summon a smile. I was not looking to make the man pity me. ‘I had a good lady in my previous position. And intend to find another, after Lady Day.’
He fills a leather bucket with water from a barrel on the wagon and puts it before the horse, who dips her muzzle and sucks deep, noisy draughts.
‘Could you not find alternative employment?’
‘I would like to, but it is difficult, without a character. And Mistress Chalke would withhold that if I left early, together with my wages. Every penny.’
‘And you cannot, of course, afford to do that.’ He grunts. ‘Forgive me for thinking you free to choose.’
Her bucket empty, Calypso lifts her head and shakes beads of water over us, making us step back.
‘I will be looking to employ another man soon,’ he says. ‘Work can be hard to find in the countryside, except at harvest time. Doing the deliveries myself denies bread to a labouring family.’
‘I did think it strange…’ I has become so easy to talk to him that I cannot stop my mouth running on.
‘That I do it myself?’
‘In your place, I would stay in my fields.’
‘The man who used to do it had three of his fingers crushed by a wheel.’ The farmer shrugs big shoulders. ‘My house was as neat as a parson’s parlour, without a hobbyhorse or wooden blocks to trip my feet. So it suited me to do the deliveries myself, and get away for a few hours.’
He turns to adjust the harness, I suspect unnecessarily, his voice almost inaudible. ‘I still sometimes wake at night wishing to be troubled by a baby bawling over a tooth.
‘They were young? Your sons?’
‘Just over three years old. Our pastor tells me they are with God, but it is hard to fathom His plan in taking them. And my dear wife, besides.’ He shrugs. ‘I vowed never to wed again. To never risk making myself hostage to so much pain.’
Not knowing what to say, I concentrate on stroking the horse’s warm neck.
‘You lost your parents,’ he says. ‘I lost my family. I suppose we must be grateful to have had these bright people in our lives.’
For a moment there is only the sound of Calypso nosing at her empty bucket.
‘What happened to the man whose fingers were crushed?’
‘Jed? I have given him management of my cows. I could not risk him with a horse and wagon on the London streets. Not with only one good hand.’
He frowns. ‘Our milk is of exceptional quality and Elizabeth always wanted to make more of our dairy.’
‘You could still do that. Surely?’
‘If I found the right woman to take charge of it.’ He studies me. ‘Do you like cheese?’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’
‘I will bring you some.’
‘The mistress would take it from me.’ I cannot restrain a scowl. ‘The Chalkes consider everything theirs. Like it is their right.’
He nods, clearly not surprised.
‘So, hide it.’
‘Then Peg and I would love some.’ I smile at the thought of our conspiracy.
‘It is best with fresh-made bread. And lots of butter.’
‘Butter would be nice,’ I say, aware of sounding wistful.
‘Do they not feed you?’
‘The mistress expects me to live on leftovers.’ I shrug, embarrassed to admit I am not much better fed than Peg. The farmer thinks he knows about my life, but does not understand how my young appetite craves more than I am allowed. ‘They begrudge every crumb.’
‘I hear their son is away in the Americas. They no doubt miss him.’ He grunts dismissively. ‘We all tend to look only to our own wants. I expect they think they have a hard life.’
I imagine the son, across the ocean in a place so strange it must be like a fairy tale, and remember my mother’s stories of distant lands. Of princes and princesses. Of happy endings.
‘I have read it takes six whole weeks to cross the ocean.’
‘When I was a boy, I dreamed of being a midshipman. I had an uncle who commanded a frigate at the Battle of Quiberon Bay, so I grew up with tales of battles and prize money. There was plenty to fire a boy’s imagination.’
‘Why didn’t you? Become a sailor?’
‘My older brother was lamed, hunting. The Church offered an easier life, so he went up to Oxford while I was left to sail the tides of my imagination in the family fields.’ He shrugs. ‘It was probably for the best, for I enjoy being a farmer. Or did, till I no longer had anyone to get up for in the mornings.’
‘I will be sorry when you no longer come. But I would not spend my mornings in London when I could be in green fields.’
‘I am glad you will be sorry.’
I should be getting back inside, but it is pleasing to talk to my farmer friend.
‘Your horse is getting fat.’
‘Feel her belly.’
I do as I am bid. She is a fur-covered barrel.
‘There is a foal in there,’ he smiles. ‘I will soon harness my piebald and leave this lady in her paddock.’
I stroke the bulging flank, identify limbs, faint movement. You often see mares pulling carts with their young following behind. The drivers know the foal will stay close to its mother, but I have always hated to see such fragile creatures among the rough traffic of the public roads.
‘Why the blisters?’ he says, frowning at my fingers.
‘Our washing tongs are broken. And the mistress refuses to buy new.’
‘So your hands get raw?’ He makes a noise of disapproval. ‘My housekeeper swears by butter for sore skin.’ He turns to the wagon and rummages in a canvas bag. ‘Have this. From my own cows.’
I transfer the fold of paper into my pocket. Presumably it was part of his refreshment. It is a comfort to have such a generous friend, even though it will not be for much longer. ‘You should call me Hannah.’
‘And you must call me Thomas. I will feel less like a grandad, fit only to doze in a rocker by the fire.’ He smiles again. ‘Would you care to visit my farm, after the foal is born? When you have your full day off? I could come and collect you and Peg in my trap and take you to Broad Oak to sample some of my roast beef.’
‘We would like that.’
It might not happen, but I will enjoy imagining it. Mother used to tease me about being away with the fairies whenever I helped with chores: hands doing one thing, mind elsewhere. But daydreaming is useful when you are eternally darning stockings or scraping egg yolk from encrusted fork tines.
So, Thomas Graham’s countryside is not always a place of plenty. I should have realised, for there are ragged men on the London streets who have been cast off the land and are desperate for work. It is said they need to head north, where the new manufacturies swallow men like a pig does swill.
Thomas will have many customers before he turns his pregnant mare for home. How cruel his own life has been. As hard as mine, though in a different way. But I hope it is not too soon that he employs his new man, for I will miss our talks.
Calypso clops a hoof on the cobbles and snorts, turning a soft eye on us. She clearly thinks it time to move on.
I turn towards the house. I may use that butter on my hands, but the temptation of sharing it with Peg on a filched fragment of this morning’s bread is strong.
‘I will bring your cheese tomorrow,’ Thomas promises, taking up the reins. ‘And do talk to Peg about visiting t
he farm after the foal is born.’
There is a lightness in my step as I go back inside. I have two friends now: Thomas and, of course, Jack. And two outings to look forward to. I should concentrate on them, rather than worry about things that are probably nothing to do with me and, in any event, that I will be powerless to change.
Chapter Fourteen
I am not used to arguments. Mistress Buttermere was a sweet-natured widow living alone with her few servants so there were no raised voices in her residence. The floors of the Chalke house are elm planks, its heavy doors of oak, so even loud conversations are usually muffled, but this afternoon is different.
I am rubbing beeswax into the hall panelling. It has not been given attention for years and though the hungry wood soaks up polish it is hard to buff to a proper shine. I am giving it much-needed elbow grease before returning to the kitchen when Mistress Chalke’s voice slices through the air. At least, for once, her temper is not directed at either Peg or myself.
‘This is our family house. I insist on having charge of it.’
I should not eavesdrop, yet cannot help myself. My days are so boring that this is the nearest I come to entertainment. How I wish for a book to read. But why do the Chalkes argue about how the house is run? The master never troubles himself with what goes on below stairs.
‘Nobody disputes that, my dear,’ he soothes, a rider nervous a fractious mare might unseat him. Every day I pity him in his choice of wife. Perhaps she was a beauty in her youth, before her face turned to porridge. Mrs Lamb said the ladies at court sometimes ruin their complexions with noxious face powders. Perhaps the mistress did the same, though I would not care about her looks if she had a pleasant disposition.
‘The girl is our maidservant until Lady Day.’ Mistress Chalke is not to be deterred. ‘Until then, I do not want either you or your friends ogling her.’
My arm halts its rhythmic circling.
‘You fret over nothing.’
‘Do I? Must I dispose of another maid? You expect clean linen whenever you want it. Fires laid. Meals on the table. Would you have me do the work myself?’
The Servant Page 6