‘Get back to your kitchen,’ she snaps.
‘The boy is waiting. For the reply, ma’am.’
‘Damn Twyford!’ Master Chalke heaves himself from his chair. ‘I planned to go out. Now I must stay home and act the clerk.’ He studies his wife’s black brows before sighing and turning to me. ‘Then you’d better say Master Twyford shall hear from me later.’
Mistress Chalke deflates. A bird of prey deciding against launching at a vole. She glares at me. ‘Go on, then. Shift yourself.’
I scurry downstairs, send the lad on his way, then fetch the master’s stockings from where they have been drying on stretchers in the yard. I am apprehensive. The streets will soon be dark and full of shadows, never mind scurrying rats.
At least Jack will be at the shop. Perhaps he will walk back with me.
I have never minded work, for there is satisfaction in ordering a clean house and having fresh linen snapping on a line. Yet something rots beneath the floorboards of this house and I worry about the three weeks I must get through before I can meet that innkeeper’s wife.
Long after, when the sky is black, the bell summons me to the book room.
‘Sir?’
I hesitate in the doorway, mouth dry, afraid of being within his reach. We made that agreement, but I do not trust him.
He stands at the desk in his mulberry-coloured silk banyan. He has draped his wig on its stand and candlelight makes his cropped hair gleam like bristles on a hog.
He softens a stick of wax with a candle and pools it onto a package like a glob of congealed blood. Then he presses his ring into it.
‘Take this to Twyford. Quick as you can.’
Five minutes later, my shawl tight around my shoulders, I run into the dark street. It is ten minutes’ walk, less if I hurry, and my speeding boots echo on the cobbles.
I need to rap several times at the bookshop door before a glimmer appears in the darkened windows and Jack opens up, clutching a candle. He is in shirtsleeves, wiping his mouth with his free hand. I smell beer and meat on his breath.
‘Hannah? What are you doing here? It is late.’
‘Didn’t you expect me? Your uncle sent a message to Master Chalke.’ I hold out the package. ‘He needed this. Tonight.’
‘I have been out all afternoon.’ Jack looks in an ill-humour. ‘I suppose you had better come inside.’
There is a smell of hot food in the shop and when he leads me into the back room I see the remains of a cook shop pie on a plate, with a tankard of ale alongside. A late supper. The fire burns merrily in the fireplace.
Jack wipes grease from his chin. ‘Give it here, then.’ The package is taken unceremoniously from my hand. ‘Wait by the fireplace while I take this upstairs. Touch nothing.’
I had hoped for a friendlier greeting. If he is in this mood, how can I ask him to walk me home through the dark streets?
The uncarpeted stairs shake as he hurries up, two at a time, to rouse his uncle from bed and I stare at my anxious face reflected in a wall of glass-fronted bookcases. They will be locked, of course. There is a smell of melting beeswax from the candles on the mantel and a silver-gilt claret jug gleams on a dresser. I suppose this is their private sanctuary.
Minutes pass. Where is Jack? His supper will be getting cold. I wonder if I should put it before the fire to keep warm.
Then there is an abrupt noise through the wall. From the adjacent snuff shop, which is shuttered and dark. A tortured squeal. An animal of some kind? There might be rats in there. I shudder. London is running with them.
The coals shift in the grate and one of the candles gutters and dies. As I lick my fingers to pinch the smoking wick, the unsettling noise comes again. Loud. And it makes my heart lurch. For it is a girl’s scream.
Where is Jack? I must call him back.
Even as I run to the stairs, he thumps back down. Yawning.
‘Jack! Someone is being murdered. Next door.’
His shoulders stiffen. ‘What did you hear?’
‘A great cry. From a girl.’
Jack stares at the wall, then blinks. ‘Do not upset yourself. The man who runs the snuff shop uses the upper floors for his daughter. The girl is touched in some way, so he has to restrain her. For her own good.’ He pats my arm, as if I were a troubled dog. ‘She is better off than most. Some would pack her off to Bedlam.’
‘She sounded terrified.’
‘Come, Hannah. Forget the noises through the wall. They have stopped. And they are not our business, anyway.’
I listen, then nod, my nerves raw from being on the streets at night. Those muffled noises were probably the result of the girl having a bad dream. They are something I have learned about these last weeks. And Jack is right that her father is doing his best by her. Plenty would have her committed to the horrors of Bedlam.
At least Jack has returned alone. There is an advantage in Twyford being so fat, for he is disinclined to labour up and down steep stairs. And I now consider him as bad as the Chalkes.
‘At least your package put my uncle in a better mood,’ Jack says, stifling another yawn. ‘Now I had better kick John awake to set the type.’ He stares at me. ‘The old man will be asleep by now. We are alone.’
I do not trust the look in his eye. Must I fear Jack, too? Does my shame give off some kind of odour? Are all men like dogs in the street, scenting a bitch?
‘I must get back.’
‘You can spare ten minutes, surely?’ He steps close, ale fumes on his breath and I think perhaps he is unsteady on his feet. This is a different Jack from the one I am used to.
‘It is dark outside,’ I say, still hoping he will be concerned about my return journey.
‘But cosy in here.’ His arm is suddenly around my waist. ‘Will you not give me one kiss?’
‘I will not.’ I jerk away, revolted. Do I have slut engraved on my forehead? ‘I will be looked for.’
He folds his arms around me and I panic at his male proximity.
‘Why do you struggle? A kiss is not much to ask, surely? Did you not enjoy the one we shared that Sunday? Aren’t you my sweetheart?’ His manner seems different tonight and I hate his disrespect. As if he senses I am spoiled goods.
‘Let me go.’ I push at him, struggling to stay calm. ‘Didn’t you say your uncle wants you to court your cousin?’
‘The girl is straight up and down, like a yard of pump water. And thick-minded as a barn door. I would rather spend my time with a pretty girl who has an interest in poetry.’ He nuzzles my neck and my suspicions are confirmed, that he is the worse for drink. ‘Think what pretty children the two of us would make together. If we could wait two years, why shouldn’t I get away from Uncle Twyford and open a little shop somewhere? Must I always be at his beck and call?’
I catch my breath. Is he suggesting we might marry? But my interest in Jack was an ignorant girl’s fancy. I break free and his face lengthens and becomes sullen. ‘You have a cold heart, Hannah.’
I do indeed. It was turned to ice by Chalke. There is nothing in London for me now. Certainly not Jack, who must know what is sold at those auctions, even if he is not directly involved. My future lies in a country inn, well away from the Chalkes and their wicked activities. And although Thomas is a man, too, I believe he is one who can be trusted.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Thomas looks thoughtful as I approach with my empty jug. It is not long since our visit to the farm, but I am fidgeting with the need to secure my future far from here. The master keeps away from me, but for how much longer?
‘Have you managed to speak to the innkeeper’s wife?’ I ask.
‘I have and she is looking forward to meeting you.’ He fills the jug. ‘I will drive you over in my trap when you come to Broad Oak next month.’
‘And she will take your word for my character?’
‘She will. Though I wish you would think again about working for me. That idea about the muslin has already made a difference.’ He leans towards me.
‘I would take special care of you and of Peg. You have my word.’
‘What’s up with you?’ Peg is mashing hard gums over an apple core left by the mistress.
‘Oh, Peg.’ I remove a hot loaf from the oven, drum the bottom with my fingers to check it is cooked, and sniff the crust. Almost to Mrs Lamb’s standard. Once that would have made me happy for the rest of the morning. ‘Thomas was talking again about wanting me to work for him, instead of at that inn.’
‘Aint that good?’
‘It would mean sleeping under his roof. And him with no wife or other woman in the house.’
‘There is Betty.’
‘She sleeps in her own cottage, doesn’t she? With her man and children.’
‘That she does.’ Peg picks an apple pip from her lip and swallows it, never one to waste nourishment.
‘So, you see why I am worried. He gave me such a look this morning. I don’t know if I should trust him.’
I toss the loaf on top of the rolls already baked.
‘But you will be at that inn, won’t you? Not at his farm.’ Peg rests the bucket of dirty water she was taking out to the yard on the floor. ‘The important thing is to get away from here. Take your chance at the inn, but stay friends with your farmer. He strikes me as a good man.’
She hoiks up the bucket again and I could almost smile at the idea of Peg being a judge of men. If I were to trust anyone, it would be Thomas, but I still live in fear of every man breathing. And of what they want from a woman.
If he will get me that position with Martha, I will accept it with gratitude, and work from dawn to dusk to prove my worth.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘Tread careful.’ Peg is anxious. ‘The witch is spitting feathers. She lost something when she went off in the chair this morning.’’
It is Monday. Where do they go, regular as clockwork toys? Peg refuses to say, but she knows. It has to be to do with their illicit trade.
‘Was it money?’ That will have put her in a filthy mood.
‘That book she is always scribbling in.’
The little notebook in which she keeps her accounts. She is as careful with that as she is with coin. We had best avoid her till she finds something else to be vexed at. At least we cannot be held responsible.
I turn my attention back to gutting and skinning a rabbit for a pie while Peg drags her bucket outside to wipe soot smuts from our windows. But minutes later she is back, sidling up to me and pulling open the rags she has been using on the glass. Inside is a sodden calfskin-bound notebook.
‘Look what I found,’ she gloats.
‘Where was it?’
‘In the gutter. In a pile of horse shit.’
The cover is fouled and beginning to warp. Some pages are ripped, others stuck together. It will not be of much use now.
Peg smirks. ‘Let’s throw it on the fire.’
‘No.’ I wipe my bloodied hands, wrap the book in a scrap of rag and shove it deep in my pocket. Its contents would mean nothing to Peg, who cannot yet read more than her name and the simplest words.
The mistress would of course like it back, though Peg would never get thanks for finding it. But I am curious to see what the crow is forever writing in its pages. With a furrowed brow, and yellowed teeth chewing the end of her pencil stub, I would guess she struggles with accounting. I will study it later. Then burn it.
The master does not return to the house until after ten at night, his gait unsteady and his breath reeking of brandy.
‘Sponge that,’ he orders, fumbling off his coat and throwing it in my direction. ‘Someone spilled Canary down the front, but I expect it like new by morning.’ Then he clumps up to bed without a backward glance. Just as well, since each day it gets harder to hide my loathing of him.
I am relieved the stain is not the red wine that is nearly impossible to remove. After I am finally satisfied with my efforts, I shake the coat out and drape it over the kitchen chair before the embers of the fire. It should be dry by morning, when I will give it a final brush.
But as I position the shoulders around the curve of the chair back, the coat tails swing against the wood with a thud. My curious fingers feel a heavy metal shape in the pocket. The key to the book room door.
The temptation is momentary. I like to think myself brave, but not foolhardy. In two weeks, I hope to be safely away at Martha’s inn. In the meantime, I cannot afford to make trouble.
I forget the notebook until I am undressing for bed and its rank smell in my pocket reminds me. Peg is already wheezing in sleep and I carry it to our rush-light to squint at the pages. Most are indecipherable, but some are only spoiled at their edges where the ink has run. There are entries dating back more than a year. Columns of tiny figures. Monies paid for coals. For comfrey, pennyroyal and liquorice from the apothecary. For a pair of silver shoe buckles set with brilliants. For copper sulphate, oak galls and gum, for the making of ink.
The witch’s handwriting is crabbed and much of her arithmetic wrong. It pleases me to think the book’s loss will inconvenience her. As well as the entries starting from the front, I notice others beginning from inside the back cover. More figures, but these are hefty sums rather than regular household expenses. I move closer to the sputtering light, but my eyes at first do not comprehend what they see:
Becky, from Seven Dials, Forty-five guineas.
Suzy Songbird, sixty guineas.
Irish Nell, forty guineas.
I turn the page. More women’s names. More huge sums of money. They remind me, abruptly, of a bill I once saw belonging to Major Harper. Prices of bloodstock racing mares.
My head begins to spin and I sink onto the edge of the bed. These women are for sale. This must be the secret Peg has kept from me. The reason those gentlemen visit. The choice items put up for auction.
Are women sold like slaves from this house where The Maid’s List is composed and deals are struck between arrogant gentlemen in that smoke-filled room? Are my suspicions right? Do the Chalkes run some kind of brothel for London’s aristocrats?
I think of that key downstairs in Master Chalke’s pocket. Nobody will stir until morning. This is my opportunity. I need to know for sure if the people I work for traffic in women.
I shudder. Was that what I was destined for, at the end of my year of service? Is that why the mistress didn’t want her husband looking at me? To safeguard a saleable virgin?
In two weeks, I should be packing my carpet bag and leaving for ever. But I refuse to go knowing only half the truth.
I lace up my gown again and tiptoe back through the dark to the kitchen. Then I reach into the coat and grasp the key.
Chapter Thirty-Four
I stand at the book room door. Key in hand. Reminding myself to breathe.
My feet are bare, to make less noise, and I used my toes to feel for the edges of the stairs so they would not betray me with a creak. I have not dared bring a light.
The master will not rise for hours. Not after all that wine. The mistress never ventures from bed before ten o’clock in the morning. Peg always sleeps like the dead, which is just as well since she is still frustratingly secretive about what happens here. Yet I am still terrified of being caught.
Can the Chalkes really run a brothel? Is that where they go on Mondays? The thought makes me shudder. It would explain Mistress Chalke’s lack of society connections and also her uncouth friend, Mistress Smith. I could imagine that woman running such an establishment.
I had wondered what the two of them were up to, heads conspiratorially close over tea and my saffron cakes. With Peg always anxious to keep out of their sight.
My palm feels sweaty as I ease the key into the lock. What if I am caught? I turn my mind from the thought of being dragged before the magistrates and accused of theft. Being branded. Transported across the oceans on some crowded, disease-ridden ship.
I have always done what others said I must do. Gone where they said I should go. Even worn the clothes I was told t
o wear. But when I think of the wrong that was done to me – which I cannot help, however much I try – I know those teachings have harmed rather than helped me.
I was to have been tied to this house until next March. Might still be, if Thomas has not secured that position for me in his village. What fate was planned for me? I intend to know before I leave.
The grain of the wooden floor is chill under my feet as I turn the key. The heavy door will be silent since I oiled its hinges with a feather only yesterday. At the master’s request.
In the dark, I grope my way to the flint kept by the hearth and light one of the candles in the candelabra on the desk. Then I go to the Chinese cabinet, remove the hidden keys and spread them across the green leather top of the desk. One stands out: no longer than my thumb, tied with a scarlet ribbon.
I have not been alone in here since Master Chalke was attacked, except when I salvaged those scraps of parchment. I pause, gauging the size of the key against the room’s furniture, before taking it to the central bookcase. In the candlelight the silk glistens like a flame as the key fits and turns.
Close packed on the shelves are books with handsome bindings and gilt lettering. The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, I have heard of. But other titles are unfamiliar: Satyricon, which must be foreign. I hold the candle closer. The Whore’s Rhetorick, and Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, will not be respectable books. I have heard men are drawn to such things. Women either pretend it is not so, or accept it. Might this be the kind of thing the master writes?
I lift one out, then recoil at black and white sketches. Disgusting portrayals of women with men. Their privy parts shown in detail that turns my stomach. I shove it back. If Chalke and Twyford publish such filth, Jack must at least know about it.
My instinct is to run back to bed, but I am no young lady, raised to swoon at the slightest shock. Nobody will bathe my temples with Hungary Water and urge me to spend the day in bed to recover from seeing something I shouldn’t have. For my own safety, I am here to uncover secrets.
The Servant Page 13