The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  So much for my place in this house being my path to better things. Some servants do well if they stay with a family long enough. A few even stay their whole lives and are looked after with kindness in old age. If I had dreamed of anything, it was of becoming the valued housekeeper to some aristocratic family.

  As Peg hurries upstairs for the chamber pots, I start viciously kneading the dough for the morning rolls. Outside the sparrows chitter their start to the day, eager for precedence. For the best perch, the best chance of crumbs. They have one another and a clean life. But everything is spoiled for me. I am spoiled. I doubt if I can even stay safe while trying to find another post.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Thomas Graham throws down his pannikin with a clatter and turns me towards him with a gentle hand. I had kept my head down, sidling close to the piebald’s flank.

  ‘Whatever happened to your poor face?’

  Having seen my reflection in the parlour looking-glass, I hate to be studied. I resent feeling stained by what happened, when I was so foolishly innocent. My body still aches and I cannot even make water without it stinging like a nest of wasps. But the greatest hurt is to my pride. I no longer want this body to be mine.

  When I raise my chin, I see anger in his face.

  ‘Has Mistress Chalke done this?’

  I shake my head. He must not suspect my shameful trouble. And he is, in any case, a man. I have learned about the evil thing they keep in their breeches and believe I hate every single one of them. Even Thomas Graham.

  ‘I tripped. Struck my face against the banister.’

  ‘The devil you did!’ His eyes snap with anger. ‘You tripped against someone’s fist.’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  He does not believe me, but what could he do? Beaten servants are not unusual and, provided they are not killed, it is common knowledge there is no redress. Rape is another matter, of course, with harsh consequences. But Peg is right. No prudent maidservant will accuse her master.

  Light rain starts to spatter the roof tiles and make the cobbles gleam which means I need to get inside and festoon the washing over the kitchen hanging rails to dry. I should ask Thomas about work, but am seized by an urge to creep into the furthest recesses of some dark cupboard and hide.

  ‘You had best get back indoors,’ Thomas shakes his head. ‘Use cold cloths, to reduce the swelling. Then try to take things quietly for a few hours.’

  I clutch the jug and turn towards the steps to the kitchen entrance.

  ‘Does she often beat you?’ The concern in his voice makes me turn around.

  ‘Not often.’ It sounds the lie it is. Though, for once, the mistress is not responsible for my hurts.

  ‘I would be glad to think you will be all right,’ he says. ‘If I believed it.’

  It is a comfort to see kindness in those dark eyes. It helps remind me not all men will be beasts.

  ‘I am not surprised Mistress Chalke cannot keep servants. Her man should speak to her. Better still, you need another place. Why don’t I make enquiries for you? In my village?’

  That is what I planned to ask him about, but everything unknown is suddenly fearful to me and I am as knowledgeable about the countryside as I am about the Americas. Thomas Graham seems a good man, but what if he is another dissembler? I thought Master Chalke a Christian gentleman, didn’t I?

  ‘Our local gentry families are good people.’ He is pressing me. ‘Fair to their workers. Or there is an inn that might need help in its kitchen.’

  I avoid his eye, wishing I had someone to give me advice. Wondering whether I could turn to Jack, who surely has tender feelings for me, but would be disgusted at what I have become.

  I am no better than a beaten dog, desperate to crawl away and lick its wounds.

  ‘The Chalkes would not appreciate interference and might take it out on you if they found out. But I would be discreet.’ He rubs his chin, already darkening with stubble, though it is early. ‘Calypso will have her foal any day. Why not make your visit to my farm on your next free Sunday? You can bring Peg, as your chaperone. By then I will have made it my business to talk to a few people about you.’

  I lick my split lip, wordless. Chaperone? Does he think me a proper young lady? Little does he know.

  He frowns at my silence. ‘It could be your best option, Hannah.’

  He turns towards the next house, where the maidservant has appeared at the area steps, her fresh cap and over-eager smile making me suspect she hopes to catch his eye. He is an unattached man who would give a wife a comfortable life. But he could do better than that raw-boned harridan, were he to change his mind about marrying again.

  I drag myself back inside. I cannot afford to dwell on my pain and humiliation, though my mind is like a tongue worrying a rotten tooth. For I think of it, the whole time. The sounds he made. His sweaty stink. Being used like an animal.

  But what can a penniless girl do? The world is divided between those with so many possessions they need stewards to keep records of them and those with little more than the clothes on their backs.

  As Peg warned, the mistress, with her ruined face, would have no pity. I can picture her outrage. Accusations that I led her husband on. That he is a good man, though easily led astray like so many of his sex, while I am a lying slut. The dismissal for lewd behaviour. The impossibility of finding another position. Hunger and want.

  To keep my place, to have a roof over my head and a crust in my mouth, I must bow my head. But there are too many months before my servitude will come to an end. Too many nights to avoid the master. I must pray Thomas can find me a position in his village. If I must put my trust in anyone, it should be in him.

  Meanwhile I will only live to find a way to hurt Chalke. To pay him for my disgrace and pain. Uncovering his secrets before I leave might help me bring about some kind of justice, but for now I must face seeing the pair of them when they come downstairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Somehow, I help the Chalkes break their fast, positioning myself behind the mistress. As usual, she does not even glance up as I place hot rolls and the chocolate pot on the table. The master is across from me, but I avoid his eye and think him unlikely to remark on my bruised face.

  By the time the chairmen to come take them away, my mind is scrabbling at my plan. With someone sharing my bed, the master would surely not come after me in the night. Could I use Mistress Chalke’s hunger for money to keep myself safe? At least until Thomas finds out about work for me in his village?

  ‘Do you think the mistress would allow you to share my room?’ I ask Peg, as we finish off the breakfast chocolate that I had kept back in the heating pan. I no longer care about filching from the Chalkes. ‘With you there, he could not come after me in the night.’ I shudder at the thought of what will surely happen, come dark. I have wondered about trying to sleep in the wooden kitchen chair. ‘Would you mind? Do you think she would allow it?’

  Peg licks chocolate from her lips, then wipes her nose with her sleeve. She always seems to have a cold.

  She blinks. ‘There would need to be something in it for her pocket.’

  ‘I could offer to work for less than my promised wage. It would be worth it, to stay safe till I find a new position.’

  Perhaps Peg could go with me when I leave, but I must not promise salvation to her when I cannot yet see how to save myself.

  ‘She would like that.’

  ‘If she let us do it, you would save on your own rent.’

  Peg scratches under her cap as she thinks it through. Pence matter to her. She has too few to feed herself.

  ‘We would have to share the bed,’ I say. ‘Unless one of us slept on the floor.’

  ‘I does that already. On straw.’

  I look at her and wonder where this wretched place can be, where she sleeps on the floor, on straw, like some farmer’s beast.

  ‘It would be a comfort to me, to share,’ I say.

  ‘For me, too. And y
ou are likely right, about it keeping him away.’ She runs a finger around the inside of her bowl, though it is already spooned clean, then licks it. Perhaps there is a taste of sweetness left. ‘And if I was allowed a bite of bread and cheese at night, I would be better off.’ Peg sucks the finger, in case she has missed anything.

  At the end of the afternoon, we face Mistress Chalke together. I need Peg behind me, shrinking in the parlour doorway, as I am still struggling to conceal my hurts, of body and spirit.

  ‘I have a request, ma’am.’ I force myself to sound like a dullard. That is my best defence in this house.

  The unfeeling eyes slide over me. My nose has swollen and I suspect I am getting a black eye.

  ‘Have you been in a brawl?’ She fidgets with her lace mittens. It can be chilly in the parlour if you move away from the fire.

  ‘I slipped on the stair, ma’am.’

  ‘Did you break anything?’ My hurts do not interest her.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Then what are you asking? You are not getting paid before next Lady Day.’

  ‘I wondered… If I took only two guineas for my year, instead of three. Might you let Peg sleep in my room? It would save her paying for her lodging.’

  The glitter of greed in her eyes is immediate and gives me hope. ‘Why would you give up a whole guinea? For that wretch?’

  ‘I thought to do her a kindness.’

  ‘A kindness! Then you are a simpleton.’ She looks from me to Peg. ‘The two of you? In the garret together?’ There is an odd expression on her face that convinces me she has known about her husband all along.

  She frowns down at the mittens, but not before I see she means to agree.

  I bled for three days afterwards. I hoped, perhaps, that I might die from it, but I did not. So I exist, full of hate for Chalke and for a body that no longer feels my own. I have become his creature, even if Peg’s presence in my garret has so far stopped him coming after me again.

  I am convinced I still stink of him. That he has marked me, like a dog urinating on a post. And, as a final burden, what happened was a sin. The preachers insist on it. The flames of Hell surely beckon.

  The old woman smells familiar now. Something to cling to in the night, for I feel in pieces, like broken china. But I cannot allow myself to be eaten up with bitterness and give the Chalkes another victory. I must cobble my fragments together and carry them away from here.

  I listen for the master whenever he is in the house, but though he never tries to touch me in daylight and I curl up tight with Peg each night, his gaze follows me. He is careful whenever the mistress is near, but I sense his foul hunger. Shadows grow like bruises under my eyes and at the day’s end I put off going up to bed. My nights are full of smothering dreams or of wakeful hours listening for the creak of his foot on the stair. Peg may not be enough to deter him, nor that chair wedged against our door. What if he were to order her from the room?

  I loathe him from the top of my mob cap to the toes of my shabby boots and ache to empty the stinking contents of his chamber pot over his head. To scratch those invading eyes from his face with my nails. To find a way to poison him and see him clutch his belly in agony. But then I would hang as a public spectacle and go to Hell after. Which means that all I can do is piss into a jar in the scullery and trickle the contents into his tea. And wonder if Thomas might have found work for me.

  Oddly, my weakness has given Peg strength. She does more about the house and keeps a rheumy eye open for the master.

  ‘Watch yourself. He is wandering about, downstairs,’ she will hiss, sliding into the scullery. It is a waiting game that I cannot win. I must do something. What if Thomas cannot find me a position?

  The master calls for me. Peremptory. I am his servant and must obey, though my knees feel weak as I enter the hateful book room.

  ‘Master?’ My palms are sweating. If he puts his hand on me I know I will scream or swoon. Perhaps both.

  ‘Do not think to avoid me.’ He stands at his desk, thumbs thrust into the pockets of a green brocade waistcoat. Glowing with arrogance and expectation.

  I wish I had the courage to fly at him, but am too slight to inflict harm. I am an insect to be swatted away. Or stepped on and crushed. And I have only one weapon: his fear of his wife.

  He leans towards me. ‘Come closer.’

  On the floor above, the door of their bedchamber slams and he freezes as the mistress’s footsteps stomp down the stairs and into the parlour next door. She is only through the wall from us. He scowls and slumps into his chair, lowering his voice.

  ‘I have it in mind to dismiss the old woman.’

  I take a quivering breath and lick parched lips. This is what I have feared. What I have prepared my mind for. Pretending boldness is my only hope. The mistress must think me stupid; the master a convincing threat.

  ‘Then I will tell your wife.’

  ‘You will do what!’ The chair tips over with a crash as he leaps up.

  Courage, or desperation, makes me jut my chin, though my tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth.

  ‘I will do it. I swear.’

  In a stride he is around the desk and has slammed me against the wall. A meaty hand grasps my throat.

  ‘You dare threaten me?’

  ‘I ask only to be left alone,’ I croak, a spurt of hot urine leaking shamefully down my leg.

  His fingers tighten. I am starved of air. Blood pounds in my ears. My vision blurs. He is killing me.

  Then the door bangs open.

  ‘What the devil is going on?’ The mistress is staring at us.

  ‘Nothing, my love.’ The hand relaxes its grip and I drag in a breath. If I was not against the wall I would collapse. The master’s face is livid, but his recovery is quick. ‘This imbecile forgot my tea. She needed a lesson.’

  His wife stares at us, eyes narrowed.

  ‘I will bring it immediately, master,’ I croak, struggling to swallow. Terrified Mistress Chalke’s sharp eyes will spot the damp patch on the carpet.

  ‘Forget it. I am going out instead.’ He glances at his wife. ‘If that does not inconvenience you, my dear...’

  ‘Do whatever you please.’ She divides a scowl between us before turning to leave.

  The master waves me from his presence with a muttered oath. But as I stagger downstairs, sodden stockings rubbing my thighs, I pray we have an understanding. For the present.

  That night I gaze from my window at the new moon, high over the rooftops. It looks so pure, like a bowl of fresh cream, far removed from the cruel things that happen in its light.

  I still dream he is in my room and wake in panic. But Peg is with me now and if she senses my nightmare her reassuring hand creeps to my shoulder to give me comfort.

  At least Thomas should be making enquiries for me in his village. Someone surely will need a willing pair of hands. Living in the country would mean never seeing Jack again, but even if he could overlook my lowly status, he would never consider marrying soiled goods. Master Chalke has ruined my future in more ways than I can count. And, besides, marriage, even to Jack, would be utterly distasteful to me now.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I can hardly bear to return to the bookshop and face Jack. Even strange men in the street make me uneasy, and it is unthinkable to tell him what has happened. My face is less marked now, only swollen about the nose, but I feel everything about me shouts I have been despoiled.

  ‘Best keep away,’ I mumble, coming through the door. ‘I have a cold.’

  ‘I am glad you warned me.’ He takes the package and retreats. ‘I had trouble shifting my last chill. The only thing that eased it was a warmed treacle posset.’ He shakes his head. ‘My chest is delicate. Mother would put brown paper on it when I was younger. Spread with goose grease.’

  Such talk might once have amused me, now I only want to hide myself away.

  ‘Is there anything to take back?’

  ‘Not today. The press is being cleane
d. Ink clogs the letters. A dirty, tedious job.’

  ‘Poor John.’

  ‘The fellow is fed and housed. He has no cause for complaint.’

  I move towards the door, not wanting to stay yet reluctant to return to the Chalke house. Jack is placing my unopened package in a drawer and I cannot help wondering about its contents.

  He locks the drawer and shoves the key in his pocket. ‘Isn’t your next Sunday free? We could have another outing.’ He grimaces. ‘Assuming you are better.’

  ‘I am going to look at the river. With Peg.’

  ‘That drudge? Whatever for?’

  ‘We want to watch the traffic on the water.’ The lie comes easily. I do not want Jack to know about our visit to Thomas Graham’s farm.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He looks down his nose at me. ‘I would have been a better companion than that old crone. Perhaps I will not ask you out again.’

  I hesitate. He knows the world in ways I do not and will be familiar with Master Chalke’s character. But he is also a man and they have become something to be wary of.

  Yet with Peg still close-mouthed, is he not the best way of finding out about those auctions? To keep myself safe, I need to know.

  ‘Jack…do you know someone called Jarret?’

  His face changes. ‘Where did you hear that name?’

  ‘The mistress mentioned it.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘I overheard talk…’

  ‘Hannah.’ He moves close and I flinch at his grip on my arm. ‘Spying on the Chalkes is imprudent. Especially if they talk about that woman.’

  Then he steps back, either remembering my chill or wondering if he has said something he shouldn’t.

  ‘It was just the once,’ I lie, glad that at least it is not some strange man that they are thinking of passing me to. Yet women usually run brothels, don’t they?

  He watches me open the door, a frown creasing his brow. No salutation on my wrist this time, not that I could bear one.