The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’ He studies the silver fox’s head on the crop in his hand. ‘It is good to talk about them at last. For too long I buried myself in grief. Life goes on. You cannot be a farmer unless you believe that.’

  ‘Yet it is hard to lose those who make us happy.’

  ‘My wife and I were certainly happy. When we wed, I was twenty and she twenty-two. We had known one another from county dances, which Liza adored.’ He glances at me. ‘Do you dance?’

  ‘I do not know how.’

  ‘You should learn. Those little feet would fly over a dance floor.’

  I lift one of my boots. ‘I would be a danger in these.’

  ‘Then someone should give you some slippers.’

  He hesitates and I suspect from his expression he had nearly offered to provide some. I want to be wrong, for I need Thomas as a friend. Not a man who views me as a woman who might dance.

  ‘When will you take on the new man to drive your wagon?’ I say, to change the subject. ‘I would never leave this place to hawk milk around London.’

  ‘Soon. Jed did it, before his accident. But it suited me to get away from my memories for an hour or two.’ He studies the riding crop again. ‘You are the first person I have been able to talk to about my sons. Thank you. It helps me.’

  ‘So where is the foal?’ I ask, after another pause. That is, after all, why I am here.

  ‘In a paddock behind the house. With her proud dam.’ He taps his pocket. ‘I have something for Calypso. She cannot resist last season’s lemon pippins.’

  We pass through cows cropping grass under the shade of a huge tree, the ground under our feet rough and uneven from churning hooves.

  ‘That oak is the tree the farm is named after. It was already grown when the roundheads were chasing the cavaliers.’

  ‘Is it the one the king hid in? To escape the soldiers?’

  ‘I believe that was somewhere in Shropshire. But ours is equally magnificent. And my cows appreciate the shade in summer. As do I. If I have a free hour, I bring a book to read beneath its branches.’ He smiles. ‘As I told you, I have never regretted being a farmer. I enjoy the turn of the seasons and seeing my crops and animals grow.’

  Beyond, in another field, I finally see Calypso, with a beautiful long-legged foal at her side. The dappled charcoal creature darts behind the safety of her dam at our approach, to peep at us from under her mother’s belly. When we reach the fence, the mare walks over while her foal leaps away towards the far hedge.

  ‘Fillies are always more nervous than colts.’ Thomas takes the apple and a knife from his pocket, slices the fruit into quarters and hands them to me. ‘She will come over while her dam has the apple, if we are quiet.’

  I am sure Calypso remembers me, for she readily comes to butt her nose into my hand to take the fruit. The foal edges closer. A perfect creature, bouncing on delicate legs.

  I inhale the mare’s warm smell and even manage a brief stroke of her foal.

  ‘I did not realise farmers had such tender hearts. But Calypso is clearly used to being given treats.’

  ‘I am not so soft. There is a squirrel who burrows into my thatch that I plan to slaughter. I cannot use my gun, in case of fire. But one day, he will be too slow jumping back into the old quince. And that will be the end of him.’

  He wipes his knife on some grass and returns it to his pocket. ‘What do you think of Aurora, as a name for the filly? She was the Roman goddess of the dawn.’

  ‘Is she not too dark, to be named for the dawn?’

  ‘Her father was a grey. And they are all that colour as foals. She will be creamy as milk when she is grown and ready to be ridden.’ He glances at me. ‘She will make a perfect lady’s mount in perhaps four years.’

  Turning back to the house we see a brindle cow standing in a stream at the boundary of the field, pulling grass from the bank.

  ‘The famous Peaseblossom,’ says Thomas. ‘She often stands there to cool her hooves. She is the only one in the herd who does it.’

  ‘Perhaps she suffers from corns. Mistress Buttermere liked to soak her feet in a basin of water because she always wore her slippers too tight.’ I sigh, remembering. ‘She liked me to embroider them for her. Delicate things, made from silk and brocade. Tied with satin bows.’

  ‘You are a good needlewoman?’

  ‘Fair. I have always enjoyed handling fine things.’

  He glances at my rough boots. ‘You never acquired cast-offs?’

  ‘My feet were too small. And fancy shoes would hardly suit my work.’

  ‘Finery has never tempted me. A farmer needs practical clothes, not the frippery those London popinjays favour. Though I have been thinking of treating myself to an embroidered waistcoat.’

  I feel my face drop at the talk of fine waistcoats. I could never imagine Thomas as a fop, and am glad of it.

  I peer into the milking shed, empty as it is not yet time for the cows to be brought in, and I am then plunged into the gloom of the dairy with its dark slate shelves and single mullion window, high up. Both have a strong odour: fatty, cheesy, slightly sour.

  ‘Having the single window prevents sunlight turning our cream and butter, but we have to keep it closed.’ He motions to the muslin covering the bowls on the shelves. ‘Heat and flies. The foes of the dairy farmer.’

  ‘If you fixed some of that muslin over the window, it would stop the flies while allowing you to keep it open.’

  Thomas looks from me to the window and shakes his head. ‘Not here half a day and you have solved a problem we have struggled with for years. I will send Jed’s boy up a ladder to do it before you leave.’

  We return to the yard, and there is contented snuffling from the pigsty as the great sow noses through scraps in her trough. Around her, piglets wriggle and squeal like over-excited children.

  ‘What have you called them all? You must be running out of names.’

  ‘I cannot bring myself to name beasts destined for the table.’

  We pass an almost derelict structure and I peer in at tiered wooden racks, thick with spider’s webs. It smells of dust and old saddlery.

  ‘What was this?’

  ‘A cheese shed. As a boy, I used to watch the women cutting the drained curd blocks, before salting and pressing them into muslin-lined moulds. They were stacked here to mature. Dripping on your head if you weren’t careful.’ He looks away. ‘I always meant to return the dairy to how it was when my father was alive. But that was before…’ He shrugs. ‘Afterwards, I had not the heart.’

  ‘Your cheese is better than anything I have seen in the London markets.’

  His face clears. He nods.

  ‘I know. I must have the place cleaned out. With landowners enclosing the land there is a great need for work.’ He looks at me. ‘When next you come, I will take you into the village to meet Martha and look over her inn. She is a woman with the strongest Christian values, so you would be in the safest of hands, working for her.’ He smiles. ‘And we would be almost neighbours.’

  He looks happy to have found my salvation, though if I am to be employed by this lady, I must deceive her. Yet working in a country inn would not only get me away from the Chalkes, but give me a degree of freedom. Give me hope again.

  So what choice have I, but to pretend to be what I no longer am – an innocent girl?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘What was his wife like?’ I ask Betty, after a feast of roast beef followed by baked apples. Thomas is outside again, consulting with Jed.

  ‘The kindest lady. They grew up together, for her father’s farm was only across the valley. It was a tragedy. He has never really recovered from it.’

  I nod. After Mother’s death I questioned how God could let such a thing happen. Now, after what Chalke did, my faith has wavered again.

  ‘Can I not help you?’ There are piles of dishes and pots waiting to be washed. ‘You prepared a wonderful meal, but we have left you a mountain of work.’

>   ‘The master told me he has something to give you.’ She smiles across at Peg, who has eaten so much that she is dozing, slack-mouthed, in a kitchen chair. ‘I can wake your friend if I need.’

  There is a rumble of iron wheels as her man trundles a barrow across the yard.

  ‘That means they must have finished talking,’ she says. ‘The master will be back at any moment. You had best join him.’ She touches my shoulder. ‘It is good to see him interested in the farm again. It was beginning to look unloved.’

  I step from the kitchen to find Thomas in the hall.

  ‘Your clock doesn’t work,’ I say. It is a handsome thing, as tall as he is, with a peach-coloured face painted on the dial to represent a dreaming moon. There are too many signs of prosperity for me to think he could not afford to have it mended.

  ‘It works,’ he says. ‘But I found myself lying awake, listening to its chimes and picturing the pendulum swaying away the night.’ He shrugs. ‘So I stopped winding it. A farmer needs his sleep.’

  It saddens me to think of him lonely in his empty house.

  ‘Come,’ he says. ‘I have something to show you.’ He leads me back into the parlour. The ceilings are low, with beams thicker than a man’s thigh, and Thomas has to duck as we pass through the doorway.

  ‘Look,’ he leads me to shelves on the far wall. There must be three dozen books there. ‘Even a farmer has time to read, especially of a winter’s night.’

  I picture him, with a banked fire burning. Perhaps snow outside. Hector curled at his feet.

  He picks out a slender book. ‘I am going to ask Betty to put some ham and cider in a basket for you. While I am gone, look at this. It is to take away with you.’ He places it in my hand. ‘I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as my brother and I did, as boys.’

  ‘How do you pronounce that first word?’

  ‘It is the author’s name. Aesop’s Fables. He was a Greek slave. See the illustrations? The fox wants those grapes, but cannot reach them. And he is so embarrassed by his failure that he pretends he never wanted them in the first place.’

  ‘I would be afraid to borrow such a fine thing.’

  ‘It is a gift, Hannah. For you to keep.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly take it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘If the mistress saw it, she would say I must have stolen it.’

  ‘I thought of that.’ He flips open the cover and points to an inscription in a bold hand:

  This book is the property of Hannah Hubert.

  A gift from her respectful friend, Thomas Graham.

  ‘Reading is a passion of mine,’ Thomas says. ‘Which is why I insist on Betty’s boys learning their letters. Though I am fond of music, as well, and play the flute. Not especially well, but my neighbours tell me they sometimes recognise a tune.’

  I glance at his large hands and he laughs. It is the first time I have seen him like this. Almost happy. Almost young-looking.

  ‘You would not think it, would you? I will play for you when you come to meet Martha. Because you really must talk to her. You could be working for her before the summer.’

  ‘It is four weeks before I have another whole Sunday free.’ I stare at the book in my hands, wondering what might happen during that time. ‘But I would be grateful if you could arrange for me to talk to her.’

  Walking away from my position will mean giving up a year’s wages. But work at the inn would provide bed and board, as well as safety, so I would not complain.

  By the end of the afternoon my feet are reluctant as I walk towards the trap, and I stoop to rescue a bedraggled goose feather from the yard.

  ‘May I have this? To make a quill?’

  ‘There are better ones in the house.’

  ‘A wash will have this good as new.’

  Thomas picks another from the ground, brushes it off against his breeches’ leg and hands it to me. ‘I may be a farmer, but I dislike the harvesting of feathers. Most come from the Lincolnshire Fens, where they pluck five times a year. Even goslings of six weeks are not spared, to accustom them to what they must accept their whole lives. If the season is cold many of them die.’

  Peg, ahead of us, has already somehow scrambled to her seat in the trap. The step is high and my legs not long.

  ‘Let me help you.’

  The brief pressure of Thomas’s hands on my waist as I am lifted, the strength of him, unsettles me, then Peg grins at me from the back seat. Earlier she had not wanted to tear herself away from the baby. Has she had children of her own? She never speaks of them, so I imagine not. For would they not take care of her, if they existed? At least the old woman is happy today with a full belly and the basket of provisions on the floor under her skirts.

  If she were able to come and help Betty, it would change her life for the better. But it is too soon to raise her hopes.

  With one foot on the step, Thomas looks up at her, creasing his dark brows and pretending to be stern. ‘Better not guzzle that cider, Peg. I make it strong. We don’t want you doing a jig in the public street.’

  ‘I won’t, Master.’ She is shy with him, but I sense her liking.

  We sit patiently while he adjusts the harness and I begin to plan how to hide what we have been given: thick slices of delicious-looking home-cured ham; a crock of pale butter; eggs fresh laid this morning. The jug of cider.

  ‘Don’t lose your chance,’ murmurs Peg. ‘The man likes you. Smile at him. It could get you away. To safety.’

  She thinks to make me his sweetheart, while I intend to let him find work for us both. In a little more than a month we could be leaving the city and starting new lives.

  Thomas swings into the driver’s seat, grasps the reins and manoeuvres Hercules through the gate into the lane. Back toward London and bondage in the Chalke house. Where my fear is of being as much trapped in the power of heartless people as those Lincolnshire geese.

  Chapter Thirty

  After hiding our spoils on our return, Peg and I settle before the fire. Me with my darning and she on her knees polishing the master’s shoes.

  ‘That farmer fancies you something fierce,’ she frowns over a scuffed toe. ‘You should have made sure of him before we left his farm.’

  ‘Thomas is sorry for me, that is all. A job is what I need from him. Not posies of flowers. And by my next day off, I hope to have one.’

  She scowls at a silver buckle and dips a forefinger into the polish. ‘Men lose all sense when they takes a fancy to someone. Look at Chalke’s choice of wife.’

  She applies the polish to the shoe, spitting on her rag, then making circular movements on the leather. ‘You are a fine-looking girl. Educated proper and with a sweet nature. A man could do a deal worse.’

  ‘I do not want a man.’ I repress a shiver.

  ‘The bed thing is not to my liking neither. But a husband would get you away from here. And some women seem not to mind it.’

  ‘Well, I am not one of them. And Thomas said he will never marry again. He just has a kind heart.’

  ‘That man is your salvation,’ Peg says. ‘Grab him. Before you regrets it.’

  Next morning, Thomas brings me a fistful of right-handed goose quills.

  ‘Do you have ink?’ he asks. ‘Something to write on?’

  Remembering Peg’s words, I avoid his eye. ‘There are things in the house. The little I use is not missed.’

  There is silence between us.

  ‘Well? Did you enjoy your outing to the country?’

  Remembering our visit, and his kindness, I cannot be stiff.

  ‘Peg had a belly ache from overeating. But I suspect she enjoyed the unfamiliar sensation. I hope we didn’t empty Betty’s pantry.’

  ‘She enjoyed your visit as much as I did. My house is too quiet for both of us.’ He looks down at me. ‘I have decided to expand my cheese production.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  ‘What is lacking is someone to oversee the extra girls I would need.’

/>   His look is questioning, but he cannot be suggesting a fifteen-year-old undertakes such a thing. Unless he wants more from her than labour.

  ‘Have you spoken to the innkeeper’s wife yet?’ I fiddle with the quills in my hand. ‘About the position in her kitchen?’

  ‘I was planning to ride over, last night. But when I started thinking about my own plans, I saw you would have a better home and fairer prospects working for me. On my farm.’

  He is suggesting I move under his roof and I feel crushed, for Peg is right. His interest is more than Christian kindness.

  ‘I would much prefer to work at the inn.’

  ‘You would?’ His smile fades. ‘Well, I expect I can find someone else for my project. From the village.’

  ‘And the position with Martha?’ His kind eyes meet mine and I struggle to know what to make of him. ‘Will you still ask her about work for me?’

  I know I sound ungrateful, but who will look after my safety if I do not?

  ‘So be it, Hannah.’ He studies the cobbles and sighs. ‘I promise to speak to Martha and arrange for you to meet next month.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  In the afternoon a boy brings an urgent note from Master Twyford.

  ‘I am to wait. For a reply.’

  The lad is breathless from running, so I hurry upstairs and wait as the master breaks the seal. Mistress Chalke glowers across from her needlework. A tapestry of roses, the stitches ugly as a mastiff’s teeth. My darning of stockings is finer.

  ‘What?’ her brows contract as she watches her husband and I wonder again what turned that complexion to lumps of curd.

  ‘Twyford needs those proofs tonight.’ He sighs. ‘A knight of the realm wants something special. In a hurry.’

  ‘So? An hour with your pen should do it.’

  The master screws the missive into a ball and lobs it towards the grate. ‘Don’t I spend long enough at my desk, woman?’

  I am as surprised at his combative tone as his wife is, for her mouth snaps open to scold. Then they remember me and the silence in the room is broken only by coals settling in the grate. I am so often in the background I suppose I am near invisible.