Is he an honourable young man? He sensed my love of books at our first meeting and cared enough to show me something of London. I think he is good, but obliged to consort with others who are not. After all, he was apprenticed to his uncle at fourteen. With no more choice in the matter than I had.
Given time, if I can hide what has happened and prevent it happening again, perhaps we could remain friends who share an interest in books.
Yet I wonder now about the expression on his face when he looks at me. Mrs Lamb warned me that men can be unreliable. I would never want to understand them, if it were not necessary for my safety.
I even feel nervous about going to Thomas’s farm on Sunday. Though Peg will be with me and it will take us away from the Chalkes for a whole day. Hopefully there might also be news of someone who needs a cook or even a scullery maid, safely away in the country.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two more gentlemen have come, clumping their way up towards Master Chalke’s book room. I stand aside on the landing to let them pass, with their odours of snuff, tobacco and horse sweat. The younger one, with a sallow, pock-marked face, pauses and leers. I remember him, from before.
‘Ah,’ he murmurs, ‘the pretty maid.’
He grabs my chin in his hand and presses me against the wall so the buttons of his riding coat stab my bodice. There is wine and something sour on his breath.
I struggle, but am penned into a corner and feel the threat of that disgusting bulge in his breeches. A vein throbs in his temple. His hands are moist and urgent on my neck. What is there about me that makes men think me a slut? Don’t I even possess my own body?
‘Hannah!’ The summons from the book room is loud and insistent. A reprieve. ‘Where the devil is that wine? Get yourself up here!’
Master Pock-Face backs off, placing a foot in a polished riding boot on the stair leading upwards. ‘Another day,’ he says, sounding so determined that I shudder as I stumble to the cellar for the wine. I am convinced these men are no better than my master and suspect now that it is women who are auctioned off in that room, where gentlemen bid against one another like traders in the market. Yet these visitors, sprawled in the worn leather chairs with their wide-spread knees, are silk-stockinged men with gold-topped canes and lace frothing at their cuffs. Men of property and rank.
Peg believes she is protecting me by keeping silent, but ignorance will not help me.
I decide to fetch the wine, then creep back and listen at the door before going inside.
With a cloth on the tray to prevent the fine-stemmed glasses chinking and giving me away, I hurry back and approach the door on tiptoe. They have made it easy for me, since it stands ajar, tobacco smoke billowing out in pungent clouds. I must be careful it does not make me cough.
‘You are a sly rogue, Chalke,’ someone laughs. It sounds like the young one. ‘Keeping the best for yourself.’
‘Nay.’ That is Master Chalke. ‘I have said before, the chit is not what you and your father seek. Too old by far.’ A chair scrapes. ‘Where the devil is she?’
I rattle the glasses on the tray to signal I am coming through the door. The father has taken the pot from the cabinet and is pissing into it. He glances up from a feeble yellow stream and grins as if to say, you will have the privilege of emptying this later. Which, indeed, I will. Probably while it is still warm.
Two pairs of eyes assess me, a plump duck ready to be carved. Their talk has stopped, but resumes as soon as the door closes behind me. Though since I cannot make out anything comprehensible, even with the draught from the keyhole in my ear, I return to my kitchen.
These men do not trade in brandy, for who would consider such traffic evil when ministers of religion happily accept illicit barrels of the spirit at their back doors after dark? Loose women are probably involved, though why would they be auctioned like shipments of China silk? If Peg and Jack remain tight-lipped, my only way to uncover the truth is getting sight of The Maid’s List.
But why the interest in me? I want to be mistress of my own destiny. Not passed on to that Jarrett woman, like a chattel. Or given into the hands of someone like Pock-Face.
After the men have gone, I remember that brimming pot of piss in the cupboard and trudge back upstairs, carrying a cloth to conceal its contents on its way to the necessary house. The sight must not offend any gentry who might be about, despite them being responsible for its creation. It is certainly not to protect my modesty, for I must tip away whatever it holds and scour any stains vigorously with sharp sand. What a nonsense that is. That if they are not seen, dirty things do not exist.
Tomorrow Peg and I go to see the foal at Thomas’s farm. She thinks I should make eyes at the farmer and become his sweetheart, but I am more concerned with whether he has found me work. A place away from the Chalkes, and whatever happens in that room.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘We are almost there.’ Thomas glances up from the lane, lowering his voice to avoid disturbing Peg who is nodding in the back of the trap. ‘Hercules has quickened his pace. Instinct always draws a horse back to its stable.’
In the traces is his sturdy piebald and I think of Calypso waiting, with her foal. Yet I feel awkward in my plain gown and darned stockings beside Thomas’s broadcloth coat and buff breeches. This is who he really is, a prosperous yeoman farmer. Not the man delivering milk.
We have turned off the main road, hectic with mail coaches thundering in the opposite direction and gentlemen on mettlesome horses with smartly-dressed grooms trotting behind.
After passing brickworks and lime kilns, everything becomes green, the dappled light on the road like gold coins scattered in our path. There are trees in the city, of course, especially where the gentry live. In parks and public gardens. But they are hemmed in by buildings. Here the expanses stretch to the horizon broken only by random roadside cottages and farms. The hedgerows are studded with wild flowers and tree branches arch overhead like interlacing fingers.
To be away from the Chalke house is a relief, though I know I will never be free of what was done to me there.
‘I feared I would never persuade you to come,’ Thomas’s eyes return to the lane ahead.
‘Nobody has done such a kind thing for me before. Nor for Peg, either.’
I realise he does not frighten me. Instead he makes me long for an older brother, who might have taken care of me. Protected me.
‘Well, they have been remiss.’
The air smells different. Cleaner. I close my eyes and feel something approaching peace.
‘You should leave that place, Hannah. Those Chalkes are savages.’
‘I want to. But they would refuse to give me a character.’
‘That is nonsense. You are a hard worker. And skilled.’ He glances at me. ‘There is a coaching inn, outside my village. Martha, the innkeeper’s wife, needs a new cook. Her present girl has recently married and is in the family way.
‘I am told their beds are clean and the food of exceptional quality.’ He smiles. ‘It should be, for their butter and milk are from my cows.’
I look at my chapped hands, clasped in my lap, and wonder if this could happen. A coaching inn would be a bustling exciting place to work, though the innkeeper’s wife would reject me in disgust if she knew my history. Yet the place should be far enough away from the Chalkes to conceal my sordid secret.
I glance behind, at Peg. ‘Might they have a position for someone to do rough work? Who would not need much in the way of wages?’
‘I suspect not. But my own housekeeper would find her useful. She has a baby son. There are always clouts to wash.’
I stare at the horse’s twitching tail and wonder again that Thomas comes so often into the city with a home in this clean countryside. A home that warrants a housekeeper.
Hercules has slowed to a walk. Across the quiet lane is an old stone church with a tower. We pass the churchyard wall and approach an open five-barred gate with a carved wooden sign: Broad Oak Farm.
>
‘We are here.’ Thomas guides the horse through. ‘Betty will have refreshments ready. You must be thirsty after the dust of the road.’
I look around and my reaction is muted, for I had expected something different. A neat cottage, with half-a-dozen cows grazing in a field beside it. Perhaps chickens running in and out of a kitchen door.
The large yard we enter is a clutter of piled-up hurdles, with a broken wagon being used by chickens as a roost. Yet the farmhouse beyond is a handsome three-storey timbered building with ivy clambering towards tall chimneys, and outbuildings visible behind. It is too prosperous.
I sensed something like this when I saw Thomas waiting at the end of our street, dressed like a gentleman and holding the reins of this trap. I stare again at my stubby nails, ingrained with coal dust. How shabby I am, even in my one good gown. I am a servant. What am I doing here? Am I an object of charity?
‘You have a thatch.’ I do not know what else to say. ‘I am not used to them.’
‘After the great fire – you know of it? – when King Charles planned the rebuilding, he would not allow them in London. Flames spread too easily from one roof to another.’
‘It looks like a painting.’
‘A thatch is a mixed blessing. In wet weather, it gives off a fishy smell in the upstairs rooms. Though you barely notice when you live with it.’
He looks across at me as I struggle to make him out.
‘Welcome to my home. I hope you will approve it.’
I hesitate. This man must be a respected figure in his community. Why bring a penniless kitchen maid to his house? Why care what she thinks of it? I remember Jack. The master. When men are interested in girls, I suspect now it is because they want their bodies. I must keep Peg near.
Loud honking approaches. From behind a rusty plough, geese waddle aggressively across the yard to investigate our arrival. They hiss at Hector, who jumps down, bristling, to bark at them.
‘Come inside,’ invites Thomas, helping us both down and placing himself between us and the stabbing beaks. ‘But watch where you put your feet. The yard has its fair share of droppings.’
He offers me his arm. ‘But before I take you back to town, remember we must agree about arranging a meeting with Martha.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thomas is as welcoming to Peg as he is to me. She is silent, hunching her shoulders, her mouth agape at the house.
The stone-flagged entrance is a sensible three steps up from the mucky yard; the air inside fragrant from a jug of rosemary on a table by a tall-case clock.
Then we are led into a room with an inglenook fireplace. You would be able to see the sky if you craned your neck and peered up its massive chimney. A pair of battered pewter candlesticks flank a brass carriage clock on the over-mantel. Dark floorboards are underfoot, with lime-washed walls creating a pale, glimmering light. On one wall hangs an oil portrait of a stout man in an old-fashioned coat and bag wig, sitting in a carver chair with a dog of indeterminate breed at his knee. Thomas’s father perhaps, or grandfather. A prosperous yeoman.
Everything is cool and clean. Wood shines. Brasses glitter. Windows are polished. His housekeeper must spend busy hours tending it. Yet I understand why Thomas seeks to spend time elsewhere, for the house echoes with empty rooms and ticking clocks.
‘Come and meet Betty. She will have refreshments ready. Tea. Cider. Home-brewed beer.’ He smiles. ‘Even milk, if you prefer.’
We follow him back through the hall into a kitchen, where a plump woman bobs a curtsy. It is another fine room, with a stone-flagged floor and smoked hams suspended from the roof beams.
The goodwife has come from what must be the scullery, drying red hands on a clean apron. A baby sleeps in a wooden cradle in the corner of the kitchen and I assume it was her man feeding the pigs outside. The youth helping him is probably hers, too, for his sandy-coloured hair is identical to the strands escaping her frilled cap.
‘I will be back in five minutes,’ Thomas says. ‘I need a word with Jed. Have your refreshment while I am gone.’
As he leaves, Peg limps over to the cradle, crouches down and peers at the infant, her wrinkled face softening. I had not suspected she liked babies. ‘A boy?’ she asks, voice low to avoid waking the child.
Betty nods proudly. ‘My fourth,’ she says. ‘The others are old enough now to help on the farm in the mornings. In the afternoons Master Graham kindly pays a curate’s widow to teach them their letters.’ She sighs. ‘I prayed for a girl this time. Perhaps the Good Lord will smile on me with my next.’
She urges us to sit at the scrubbed wood table, laid invitingly with a dish of saffron buns. Then, while the tea kettle boils, she pours lemon juice through a muslin cloth into a glass jug and carefully grates sugar over the top. I am impressed that she knows to use a long silver spoon to prevent the glass cracking when she adds hot water.
‘Lemonade, Miss.’ she explains, stirring the cloudy liquid. ‘The master brought the lemons from town specially. I will leave it in the dairy to be cool for later, after you have seen round the farm. But will you take tea now?’
‘We would love tea. But call me Hannah.’
‘That would not be fitting. You are Master Graham’s guest.’
‘But I am only a servant. No different from you.’
‘If you say so, Miss.’ Her lips curve as she slides the saffron buns closer to Peg, who is eyeing them.
‘What makes you smile, Betty?’
‘Because I knew there had to be a reason Master Graham kept delivering the milk himself. When he didn’t have to.’
I open my mouth to protest but Peg, her hand already on one of the buns, catches my eye and shakes her head. She is right. What could I say, anyway? Let Betty have her fancies. She will soon learn that is all they are.
‘The single women of the village have been after him these last two years, as you would expect.’ She shakes her head. ‘But the young ones are silly, fluttery things, and the widows dull as ditch-water. Only interested in buying lace collars and inviting curates to tea. Though not one of them would bother to open the Bible, never mind the things the master likes to read. He needs someone to talk to about all those books he loves.’
This means Thomas must have spoken to her about me and our shared interest in stories.
‘He is just like his father. Not a man to be impressed by ninnies with their heads full of nonsense.’ She sighs. ‘He spent the first year after his loss being bitter and angry at everything. Then he simply became sad. He has always been such a giving man. It is good to see him more like his old self.’
After we have had our tea and made a discreet visit to the necessary house, Peg stays in the kitchen while Thomas takes me outside. The old woman is in a chair by the fireside, her sound foot happily rocking the cradle and another saffron bun in her fist.
I cannot remember such a day in all my fifteen years. I am shown Aphrodite with her moist snout and curling tail, and scratched her rough back through the rails of the sty.
I have had the geese shoo’d away from my skirts by Thomas’s silver-headed riding crop and taken care to avoid the slimy trail they leave behind them. And, on the way back from the open-sided shed where the cows are milked, have smelled the pungent muck heap.
‘Liza always wanted me to shift our midden behind the barn,’ Thomas nods towards it. ‘Away from the house. I should have done it, instead of putting the chore off. Perhaps I will do it now. It would please her, if she is up there somewhere, watching.’
‘Do you believe she is? Watching over you?’
‘Perhaps. Religion is a puzzle to me, and I prefer sitting in an empty church to listening to sermons. Sunlight through stained glass moves me far more than words, along with knowing people have sat in those same pews, mouthing identical prayers for generations.’
‘I sometimes wonder if my mother sees me.’ I avoid his eye. ‘I hope she does not.’
I used to kneel by my bed each night, hands clasped and
eyes screwed tight.
Please God, help me be good. Help me to work hard. Help me to make something of my life.
But God cannot have been listening and now I have nothing to say to Him. I wish my life could be scraped clean. Scoured with brick dust, or sharp sand. Rubbed with coarse salt and a pumice stone. I want to be made-over into a pure girl again. One who can kneel and pray with a clear conscience.
‘Why is that?’ Thomas’s brow wrinkles.
What can I say?
‘I suppose because she hoped I might lead a more comfortable life. As her family did. In the old days, in France.’
‘They were Huguenots?’
‘They came from a place called Lyon. My grandfather was a silk merchant.’ It sounds as if I am boasting, so I quickly add, ‘Though that may be a tale. It was long ago.’
‘But you remember your family? Your grandparents?’
‘It is hard to picture my mother now, but I only need close my eyes to conjure a sense of her. The scent of her hair and how it curled down to her waist like a black curtain when she let it down at night.’
‘Then you take after her. There is clearly a wealth of raven hair under that cap.’
‘I am nothing like her, for she was spoken of as a beauty and a scholar. It was said my grandmother even had a governess, as a girl, in France. But that is all I remember.’
‘They were wise to leave when they did. It was a cruel time. But it must have been hard for your family to lose everything.’
We walk past the pond, towards a field of grazing cows.
‘I like the way you are training those two willows to arch over the water.’
‘I planted them when our boys were born. It is strange to think they will grow to maturity, when my sons will not.’ The lines in his face are back. ‘Now they stand as memorials. There is a marker in the churchyard, but I have a preference for living things over dead stone.’
My smile dies. ‘You have been so kind, inviting us here, and I repay you by reminding you of sad times.’
The Servant Page 11