The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  ‘You are the prettiest girl I know, Hannah. But an odd little creature at times.’

  Am I? Jack is so far from my experience that I sometimes think he talks in riddles.

  ‘I am an ordinary servant, as you well know.’ I smile. ‘Though admittedly not tall.’

  ‘Far from ordinary,’ he says, stepping closer. ‘A secret princess. Awaiting her prince. Like in a story book.’

  With no sensible reply to make, I study the package in my hand. The third I have collected this week. No wonder Master Chalke spends so long at his desk. If only he could be a serious writer of books.

  ‘And that hair…’ his fingers tease at a curl that has escaped my cap. ‘Like a blackbird’s wing. A shame it must be hidden.’

  I step back, refusing to look into those dazzling blue eyes. ‘On the contrary. It is just as well, with young men like you about.’

  ‘We will have our outing this Sunday afternoon, then.’ His lips turn up in amusement. ‘And you need have no fears, for am I not sworn to the best behaviour?’

  He is right. How could I be in danger from him? And I am far too sensible to let those good looks make me do anything foolish. I have enough to worry about.

  As I leave, a coach clatters up outside the snuff shop and an elderly gentleman clambers out on spindly shanks, leaning heavily on an ebony cane. He looks like a high churchman, or even a judge. As he hurries inside it surprises me that he conducts such an errand himself rather than sending his manservant. Perhaps he is particular about what he buys. Some men consider snuff like fine wine and are accordingly choosy.

  Yet the place looks dark and shabby for fine wares, with the upstairs windows tightly shuttered. It is none of my business, of course. Just my habitual nosiness. Yet I have learned today that the master composes this Maid’s List for Jack’s uncle. If I can find and read a copy, my questions should be answered. It could be something totally innocent.

  But what if that snuff shop is not what it seems? Could there be loose women in there, offering their bodies to men in exchange for guineas? Yet the brother of a lord would never be involved with such a disreputable trade. Would he?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charred fragments, covered with looped writing, are folded in the scrap of rag in my pocket. I may not own lawn handkerchiefs, but was raised never to wipe my nose on a sleeve or the back of my hand.

  Mistress Chalke left me on my knees at the book room grate while she fetched something from her bedchamber. I had already noticed the scraps of parchment under the coal scuttle and scooped them up before continuing with my work, my face suitably vacant. The more stupid she thinks me, the better.

  There is fine furniture in here. As well as the Chinese cabinet, the master has a massive inlaid desk and glass-fronted library cases full of books. The ones beside the fireplace contain authors I recognise from the Buttermere library: Fielding and Smollett, Johnson and Sterne. The others appear to be in foreign languages: Les Bijoux Indiscrets, L’Ecole des Filles. Margot la Ravaudeuse. Mother spoke French, but apart from fragments of a lullaby about a candle and a moon that she used to sing to me, I remember not a word.

  Though I have not read them, I am intrigued by books like Gulliver’s Travels and The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle. But I cannot linger, with Mistress Chalke sure to return at any moment.

  The desk has a tooled green leather top decorated with gold scrolling and my discreet fingers have already established that its drawers are locked. What else is there? That painting of the arrogant-looking man with the stallion, and the heavy silver candelabra on the table. But even though I know where the keys are kept, I could not snoop unless left here unsupervised.

  Later, when I spread the parchment fragments out on the kitchen table, I am disappointed to find them unintelligible. Words. Phrases. A swirling loop that will have been the tail of an underlining. I recognise the master’s bold handwriting, but are these extracts from a book? Edges crumble under my fingers like over-toasted bread while I marry pieces together like a lawyer squinting over the settlement of an heiress.

  The mysteries of the house at least keep my mind occupied. The best part of a year remains before my service is done. Not that I mean to be here till Lady Day, for I am determined not to be passed to that Jarrett person. Like a parcel of used linen. There are households in this district I could apply to, though without a character from the Chalkes they would probably send me on my way. If I see that maid with the nose in the market again, I might just ask if she would put in a good word for me. Through her, or with help from Thomas, surely finding another place is possible?

  Meantime, I intend to find out about The Maid’s List and if these fragments will not solve the mystery, and Jack refuses to enlighten me, perhaps my other friend can.

  Next morning, I hurry out to his wagon.

  ‘Thomas…’ Before long he will come no more. The realisation makes me sad, for I shall miss our talks.

  ‘Yes?’ His smile is reassuring.

  ‘Have you heard of a book called The Maid’s List?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’ He looks up from the pouch into which he has tossed the mistress’s pennies. ‘Who is the author?’

  ‘Master Chalke, I think.’

  ‘What is it about?’ Raised eyebrows suggest he finds this hard to believe.

  ‘I would like it to be about adventure or travel, but I have only heard the title. There is a mystery connected to it.’

  ‘Perhaps the mystery is why it was written in the first place.’ Thomas’s lips twitch. ‘A surprising number of men think themselves talented with a pen. Most are sorely mistaken.’

  ‘But I believe it is to be published by Master Twyford, the bookseller. His apprentice, Jack, says so.’ I look down at my friend’s polished boots. ‘It was being discussed by visitors the other day. They were drinking the master’s best Madeira and incredibly loud with their opinions.’

  ‘With your ear pressed against the door?’ A smile suggests Thomas is not shocked at my prying and I am pleased I said nothing about the auctions. I must solve one mystery at a time.

  ‘Why should it be secret? What man would not be proud of being an author?’

  ‘Perhaps his book touches on political matters. Your master would not risk being accused of sedition.’ Thomas shrugs. ‘That might explain him wishing to publish anonymously. With a limited circulation.’

  I think of the gentlemen who visit. They do not look like men who care about anything except their own pleasure.

  ‘I saw scraps of paper in the grate. Partly burned. The writing was not about serious matters.’

  No need to mention the hours they spent on the kitchen table while I struggled to join them together.

  I frown at Thomas.

  ‘Choice Selections. For Gentlemen of Discernment. That sounds almost like a tailor’s handbill. But the master would hardly write about cravats and buckskin breeches. Would he?’

  ‘Gentlemen can find themselves short of funds. Through losing money at cards or from extravagant living.’ Thomas shrugs again. ‘Which might force them to meet debts in ways they would never normally consider. And explain not wanting a family name on it. You say he thinks himself a fop. Perhaps he invents ways to tie a cravat?’

  ‘He does care about his dress.’ I kick my boot against the kerb. ‘His tailor is forever presenting bills at the door.’

  ‘He is probably dissatisfied at not being able to live to the standards he was born to.’ Thomas does not sound sympathetic.

  ‘But I wanted him to be a writer of books. It was the only good thing about the house.’

  Thomas opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. His brows knit and he looks suddenly weary. ‘Best leave your master to his interests. Old men can have ill-advised fancies.’

  I look back at the house. Perhaps this Maid’s List has nothing to do with either his book or those auctions. After all, he works enough hours to produce writing of all kinds. Perhaps, too, he is a good man, with a wicked
wife. Though he clearly knows all about that disturbing arrangement with Jarrett.

  ‘I should not waste your time with foolish questions.’

  I must get back to the pig’s head simmering in our biggest pot on the fire. I am making brawn and if it boils dry it will have no flavour. When it is cool, I will pick off the meat, press it into a crock and pour calf’s foot jelly over it before setting it under a weighted plate. My skills in the kitchen are improving at a gratifying rate. They are my best way out of here.

  ‘They are never foolish, Hannah. Our talks are one of my few pleasures.’ Thomas frowns over my shoulder at the windows of the house. ‘I recall Jed saying the Chalkes never keep a maid more than a year. Less sometimes. It makes one wonder why.’

  So, he, too, wonders about the house and its occupants.

  Back inside, I chide myself for not asking about alternative work, for Thomas is surely my best hope. Much better than the woman in the next house. And a voice in my head questions whether I am holding back because of Jack.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Best keep this between ourselves,’ says Jack, when we meet at the corner of the square. I am wearing my new dark blue gown and pleased that I took so much trouble with its stitching.

  ‘Who would I tell? Apart from the mistress, who would dismiss me on the instant?’

  ‘Forget that miserable pinchpenny. The sun shines. The afternoon is ours.’ He taps my elbow to hurry me along and away from the bookshop, since presumably Master Twyford must not know, either. I had dared wonder if this outing might be the start of a proper friendship. But how could that be, if it must be hidden? I accept that Jack is far beyond my reach, but the need for secrecy makes me feel something is not right.

  I repeat to myself that I cannot come to harm, in broad daylight, in public places. With only Peg and Thomas Graham to talk to, I am hungry for distraction and companionship.

  ‘Folk live for gossip,’ Jack says. ‘But what is it to them, if we go walking? We harm nobody.’

  ‘You are right,’ I say, still doubtful about what I am doing. ‘And I have seen almost nothing of the city, though I have lived here my whole life.’

  It is wonderful to be outside, away from the house. I love the light of these early summer days after living half-underground in the kitchen or in my garret, with its meanly proportioned window. But with so many streets and squares, I am soon lost.

  ‘Where are we?’

  We have reached a green space where cows graze in the care of a boy with dirty hair and a knobbly stick. The edifice across the grass is impressive, with curved perimeter walls and free-standing statues. Built of rosy red brick with white colonnades, there are garrets for servants high in the roofs with smoke drifting from tall chimneys. A fashionable couple stroll before the entrance with a giant wolf-hound on a leash, the lady’s mantle rippling in the breeze.

  ‘Is it a palace?’

  ‘A palace for whores,’ Jack laughs at my expression. ‘Oh, Hannah. How innocent you are. Forgive my plain speech, ’tis simply London talk.’

  It is easy to forgive him. I have been protected for too long. It is time to learn to be a grown woman. Ignorance will not be my friend.

  ‘That is the Foundling Hospital. Our city is full of strumpets and it was built to house their bastards.’

  I study the cobbles under my boots. Such talk may be the London way, but I feel a blush warm my cheeks. ‘And they leave their babies here? To be cared for?’

  I remember the infants abandoned at our poorhouse, often on the doorstep in the dark of night. Most perished, some even before they were found at first light. Alive or dead, there was never any love for them and precious little care.

  Jack shrugs. ‘With a bastard, a woman cannot find respectable work. And she is shunned by decent folk.’

  ‘Who built it? The King?’

  ‘Farmer George has other concerns. I am told some old sea captain was horrified at seeing babies left in the gutter and raised the money. Fortunately for the whores, the city has deep pockets.’

  I am pleased people believe in Christian charity, but shocked by the size of the building.

  ‘Everything revolves around money, Hannah. Gaining it. Spending it. Losing it.’

  ‘But what are those people doing there?’ Finely dressed ladies and gentlemen saunter through the entrance, laughing and chattering. ‘It is not a pleasure park. Won’t those unfortunate women be shamed, to be gawped at?’

  ‘They should not have been so free with their favours.’

  ‘It is like a lord’s mansion,’ I say, wishing he would be more tender-hearted. The babies, at least, are innocent.

  ‘People say so many mothers come that they must take part in a public ballot.’

  ‘And the gentry watch? For entertainment?’

  ‘It is the same at the mad house.’ Jack at last looks shamefaced. ‘The fashionable love visiting Bedlam. If they are diverted, their donations can be generous.’

  ‘That is wrong.’

  ‘It is how the world turns.’

  A gaunt and bedraggled woman appears, creeping along the Hospital railings, and I clutch Jack’s arm. She has a bundle at her breast and looks as if she has been crying.

  ‘Will she be one of them?’

  ‘Probably. Some penny-whore who got unlucky.’ Jack places a hand on my elbow and steers me in the other direction. ‘We should have come a different way.’

  Moments later we are in the lee of the wall and his arm is around my waist as he draws me close. His mouth is on mine, wet and insistent, and I am suddenly aware of the blood coursing through my veins. Of a strange ache in my loins. My vision of the anguished woman fades until I recall what is proper and push him away.

  ‘Come.’ He grins, unabashed. ‘I know how to divert you.’

  I struggle to compose myself. Shocked by the kiss and by my body’s reaction to it. ‘Are we not going to Vauxhall Gardens?’

  ‘The Gardens are best at night. This entertainment is nearer.’

  We walk for several minutes, unspeaking, my mind full of his lips on mine and of the tragic-looking woman. She did not look wicked, but I am unfamiliar with whores. I expected a gown that failed to decently cover her. An unsteady step, from gin-drinking. A painted face and a coarse laugh. But the woman was nothing like that. She looked like someone who might have served me at a market stall or sold me a length of ribbon in a shop. Jack is right, I am unprepared for London ways.

  With his grip firm on my elbow, he hurries me along as if afraid we might miss something. Perhaps the King is due to pass in a golden carriage. Or a military band is about to play, with the bright blare of trumpets and the rattle of drums.

  ‘This is the place,’ he says, as we turn a corner.

  A crowd is gathering outside an inn – a great circle of forty or fifty people. They are mostly men, but a few women, too. Some hanging on the arm of their menfolk. Dogs bark excitedly. One of them has a bloodied rat dangling from its jaws. There is an air of expectation.

  ‘What are they waiting for?’

  Jack lifts me in strong arms and places me on top of a mounting block outside the inn. As if I were a child.

  ‘You will be safer there, and get a better view.’

  Now that I am raised above the crowd, I see a bull tethered by a short length of chain in the centre of the space. He looks alarmed by the crowd and strains to get his liberty. People are laughing at him, pushing to keep out of his way, yet staying perilously close, as if the danger thrills them.

  It does not excite me, though I am relieved we have not come to see some public punishment. The crowd have a rough air – as if bent on mischief. I can smell slaughterhouses near-by and the bull is old. This will not end well for him.

  There is a sudden roar from the mob and it makes me fearful. This must be how people behave at a public execution.

  A shout goes up. ‘A lane! A lane!’ This must be a recognised signal, for they squeeze together to form a narrow avenue of bodies leading
towards the frantic bull. Then a thick-set man brings a bulldog on a leash. The animal is powerfully-built, its flanks covered in old scars. The man sets the dog towards the bull, which lets out an enraged bellow.

  ‘Pin him!’ everyone cries, Jack included.

  The dog lunges forward and latches onto the bull’s nose with its jaws. Dark blood mixed with flecks of foam fly from the animal’s muzzle as he tries desperately to shake off his assailant. It is horrible and my stomach heaves.

  Frantic, his flesh torn and blood now streaming brightly, the bull somehow manages to dislodge his tormentor. The crowd pushes and shoves, disregarding danger in their need to see the outcome. Then the owner urges the bulldog back to his ugly task. There is to be no mercy. But as the dog runs at the animal again, the terrified beast somehow catches it on his horns and throws it high in the air.

  There is a collective surge from the crowd, who close up together and catch the bull-dog as it falls, to save its neck being broken.

  Agitated barking and snarling heralds a pack of mongrels who are now set on the poor bull, with active participation from the crowd, who throw stones and jeer. When, inevitably, the beast falls to the cobbles with a juddering thump, the dogs are pulled off its twitching body. A man in a leather apron leads forward a broken-down nag, its eyes rolling in terror at the stench of blood, and drags the carcass away with ropes.

  Jack is flushed, his eyes bright. I know men enjoy this kind of spectacle, but what made him think I would want to see it?

  ‘What jaws the dog had,’ he says. ‘I was sure he would hang on longer. Sometimes their teeth can wrench a bull’s muzzle clean off. I won a shilling last summer on a hound with similar markings.’

  I look up at the glorious blue sky, so perfect it almost hurts my eyes, then down to the trail of blood on the cobbles, and clench my teeth. I must not shame Jack by vomiting, but wonder if there is something darker behind his easy smiles to think this fit entertainment for me. So much beauty, and so much ugliness. How can it be a proper pastime for a Sunday afternoon?