The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  My trembling fingers explore smaller books with grey covers and white pages that look like copies of sermons. But they are not.

  There is no sign of a Maids’ List, but I find Harris’s List of Covent-Garden Ladies. On the cover, a group of women flaunt themselves without a shift between them. Turning pages, I am reminded of the witch’s account book, for here again are names, descriptions and prices, though for less outrageous sums. There is no doubt what these women are:

  Sally R. The origin of this lady is obscure, but she sold sausages about the streets till above fifteen years old, when the celebrated Mrs Cole had sight of her maidenhead for thirty guineas; out of which she generously made Sally a present of five shillings, to cure her of the clap, which she got from her deflowerer…

  Miss L. is nineteen years old. Her eyes, of a beautiful sloe black, beam a torrent of delight; her breasts are in the fullest proportion and will rebound with the more grateful ardour…

  Even a kitchen maid knows there is a trade in whores, from the creatures lurking near disreputable inns, to finely-dressed women at court. Great men have the keeping of such creatures. There was salacious gossip about them from French lady’s maid, Mlle Dubois, before the Buttermere staff began to be paid off. But my days in the servant’s hall are gone. Mistress Buttermere has sent me to a den of depravity.

  Perhaps the master visits such women on the nights he returns home in the early hours. But the signs tell me he is more than a customer. Is his involvement why Peg considers him the devil incarnate?

  I leave the bookcase and examine the desk. Pigeonholes hold ink, quills, sealing wax, a shaker of sand and a knife for trimming pen nibs. What I would expect. Testing the keys, I open one drawer and find unpaid accounts from his tailor. Another contains play bills, a rolled-up map of London and loose silver coins. A third is stuffed with more demands for payment.

  Then, on the landing, there is a noise.

  I think I will faint. My heart thumps like a kettle drum. I cannot breathe.

  Is it the mistress? The master, woken from drunken sleep? With the door ajar, the flicker of my candle must be visible in the hall.

  I scramble into the kneehole under the desk and shrink into its tight space. Anyone entering will surely discover me. And why wouldn’t they, with that unexplained candle burning?

  Yet nothing happens. The thundering in my ears, in my head, slowly subsides. Licking my parched lips, I crawl to the door to peep into the darkness. All is silent. Was it a rat? A shutter caught by the wind?

  I swallow bile and straighten up. Return to the desk to pick over the keys. If I do not find what I am looking for I will never dare do this again.

  It is in the bottom drawer of the desk that I find the letters, their seals roughly broken, as if in haste:

  If you will have the wench delivered to my London house tomorrow, Master Chalke, there will be fifty guineas for you. Especially if the maid is of the quality of the last. A young miss, fresh from the country, and clean, merits a special price.

  I take a deep breath. Mlle Dubois told us with relish that bawds meet coaches newly arrived to London, looking for unworldly girls from the countryside seeking work. Apparently, virgins in the capital are as sought after as bolts of China silk.

  The impression in the seal is a heraldic device, revealing the writer to be a gentleman of quality. Someone the world will look up to.

  The other letter, of only a few lines, is signed simply Twyford:

  I look to receiving your proofs of The Maid’s List as soon as can be managed. Remember, Chalke, we are now dividing the auction price for these chits between us equally, after Jarrett takes her expenses.

  Although I loathe the man, I struggle to believe a high-born gentleman would procure virgins for society. Yet the proof is in my hand.

  The letters were beneath a muddle of documents and are unlikely to be missed. I hold them in my hand a moment, then thrust them inside my bodice before returning everything else to its place. As I shut the drawer a faded scrap of paper falls out, with a smudged date that looks like December 1740. It is another bill, from a surgeon:

  For attending to the injuries inflicted on the child, Margaret. Half a guinea.

  On the back are closely written details of the number of visits made and the miracles performed in saving her leg, when she had not been able to put one foot on the ground for weeks afterwards. What had happened? Was this the child of some bawd? Or might it have been Peg? After hesitating, I stuff the note into my bodice with the other papers.

  The City Fathers frown on the keeping of bawdy houses, but although their abbesses are regularly hauled before the magistrates they continue to exist and, reportedly, thrive.

  So what likelihood is there, were a high-born gentleman implicated, of anything being done? Would it be worth the risk for his servant to betray him? If I cannot see a way to use this evidence against Chalke, it might be better in the fire. Yet I ache to stop the trade.

  The stolen letters crackle against my breastbone as I lock the door, anxious to get downstairs and replace the key. But as I do so, a hand grips my shoulder and I let out a muffled scream.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  A thin hand smothers my mouth and I realise, from the familiar odour, that it belongs to Peg. She must have woken and come to find me.

  We huddle together, waiting to see if my cry rouses anyone. Then, when the house remains silent, I scurry down to the kitchen to replace the key while she returns to our garret.

  Back in our room I undress and crawl in beside her. The sweat on the back of my neck has dried and chilled, making me shiver. The letters lie safe under a loose flagstone in the scullery. Taking them makes me a thief and I remember Susan and her branded thumb. But ignoring them was unthinkable.

  Yet Master Chalke has powerful connections. What could a kitchen maid do against such men?

  Even I know London has wickedness in its depths that polite society pretends does not exist. Churchmen rail against immorality and leading citizens call for reform, but as long as bad things are hidden nothing much happens. And servants are expected to avert their eyes from whatever their masters do, regardless of what it is.

  Peg is hunched up in bed, fingers twitching at the blanket.

  ‘You could have been caught.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  She sets her back against the wall and drags the covers up to her chin. ‘Peach on them two and you will end up like Susan. Or at the bottom

  of the river.’

  ‘They are selling women, Peg. Publishing their descriptions in some kind of list. Auctioning them to the highest bidder, like mares.’ I tug at my laces. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you?’

  ‘Women?’ She evades my eye and licks her lips.

  Knowing I will not sleep, I get up again, snatch my stays from the chair and begin to dress. Starting to pound the washing might work off my rage.

  ‘The sooner we leave here, the better. Thomas said he would set you to work. For Betty. Would you not like that? Helping with the baby?’

  She plucks at the blanket.

  ‘I cannot leave.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘For one thing, I owes them money.’

  I think of that surgeon’s bill and wonder whether a debt like that could follow a little child through life. Probably it could.

  ‘If that is the case, you might earn enough from Thomas to pay off the debt. You know you will never earn enough here to do it.’

  ‘It is more than money.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Chalke is from some grand family from Ireland. Filthy rich, from the labour of poor folk.’ She hesitates. ‘But they threw him off. For marrying a common whore. And they’d slit throats before letting people know what he does.’

  ‘Marrying a whore?’ My breath catches in my throat. I could believe Mistress Chalke abbess of some bawdy house, but never a woman of pleasure. She was surely ugly when she slid out of her mother.

  ‘You would ne
ver think it,’ Peg shakes her head, ‘but she was a beauty once. That is how she got her talons into Chalke. Set the girl up in style, the fool did. Showed her off around the playhouses.’

  I think of that yellow dress. The satin slippers.

  ‘Which is why she hates anyone young and pretty, like you.’ Peg struggles from bed herself and splashes water into our washing bowl from the jug. ‘But after the family cast him off, their extravagance soon had them head over ears in debt. So, she visited her old abbess. To find ways to pay off their creditors. And, later, to have funds to send young Charles away from London. After the lad started asking awkward questions.’

  I watch as she dabbles fingers in the water for a perfunctory wash.

  ‘How could a whore make a gentleman marry her?’

  ‘By knowing ways to pleasure a man. And giving him a fine son.’

  I remember Mlle Dubois telling how the French king’s mistresses were showered with jewels and palaces. How their power over him was so strong, they could even slight his queen.

  ‘And now the pair of them run a bawdy house. And he composes a list of girls for sale?’

  Peg nods, but still refuses to meet my eye. Can there be more? Printing and selling filthy books, I imagine.

  ‘Whatever happens, Hannah, never let on you know their secrets. Susan had an inkling and it got her transported.’

  I finish pulling on my clothes, queasy and muddled from lack of sleep. Pray God that position with Martha will get me away from here, and soon.

  I remember Betty and her respect, affection even, for Thomas. Servants often understand the people they work for better than they do themselves. Would she have been so warm and talkative if she thought her master meant me harm? If Martha gives me a good report, I will remind Thomas about giving Peg work. I could not bear to abandon her in the depravity and cruelty of this house. Whatever she has done in the past, whatever her debts might be, I cannot believe they would pursue her into the countryside.

  Later, when the milk wagon pulls up, I scurry out.

  ‘Please, Thomas…’ I must not sound desperate. ‘That position at the inn? Might your friend let me start straight away? After we have talked?’

  ‘I expect so. Though I still think you would be better off supervising my cheese-making.’ He frowns at me. ‘You would have more of a position in the world, with a higher wage. Martha can only offer you two guineas.’

  ‘Two guineas would be plenty. I would take less.’

  He sighs, clearly frustrated at my obstinacy. ‘Then you had better bring your things with you when you come to Broad Oak. Martha’s present cook is leaving soon, so it would probably suit everybody for you to start straight away. And you could leave a note behind for your present mistress, telling her you are leaving, without notice.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ‘Take this to Master Twyford’s,’ commands the mistress.

  I am up to my elbows in a washtub, sleeves pushed high, arms red and raw.

  ‘Now, ma’am? I thought I was due to go this afternoon?’

  She must be tired, for her slap has little force.

  I abandon the tub, towel myself dry and tie a clean apron around my waist. I am still sickened by what I discovered in that room. It put me off my food and I ate no breakfast. I am now counting the days before I go back to the farm and can secure that job at the coaching inn. I cannot get away from here fast enough.

  Peg still protests that she is unable to leave, but I think of that surgeon’s bill. For attending to the injuries inflicted on the child, Margaret. Assuming that was her debt, how could a small child owe a surgeon for treating wounds not of her own creating?

  The afternoon streets are quiet, though a town coach with glittering harness and matched bays waits outside the questionable snuff shop. Its liveried coachman honours me with a bored glance as I hurry past. The bookshop is empty when I arrive, though the outer door is not locked. After waiting a moment, I call upstairs for Jack, but softly. Master Twyford publishes lewd books and the fewer dealings I have with him the better.

  But there is no response. The rooms feel hollow. There is not even the rhythmic thud of the printing press across the yard. Jack must be on some errand at this quiet time of day. But since I cannot leave my package unattended, I tentatively mount the creaking stair.

  Then comes a small voice. ‘Good day, Mistress.’

  It is a tiny girl, of about six years, with a lilac ribbon threaded through her cap. She has appeared so suddenly, standing neatly on the top step like a porcelain-headed doll, that I am startled.

  ‘I am seeking Master Jack,’ I say. She is expensively dressed and from those vibrant blue eyes I wonder whether she might be his sister. ‘Could you fetch him for me? I have an urgent letter.’

  ‘Everyone is next door.’ She beams at me, eyes wide and sparkling. ‘But I could take you to them, if you like. Next month I am to go and live in a rich household with my new uncle.’ She jiggles up and down, humming with excitement. ‘I have been promised a kitten. The finest silk stockings. And my very own spinet, so I can learn to play while I sing.’ She pauses for want of breath.

  ‘Then I must not interrupt,’ I say. ‘For that sounds important. But if Master Jack is upstairs, can you tell him Hannah is here with an urgent message? I will wait in the shop until it is convenient.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she patters down the half-dozen steps to stand in front of me. She smells faintly of musky perfume. Has she been sitting on someone’s lap, being petted? ‘You can come with me.’ She folds warm fingers into mine and tugs at me to follow her. She is so trusting and sweet that I cannot help thinking how wonderful it would be to have such a sister.

  ‘Do you like my new gown?’ she asks as we walk through the room where I waited for Jack that dark night. ‘They say it is called silk damask.’

  ‘It is beautiful.’ Only a rich family would dress a growing child in anything so costly. She is lucky. But then I remember what she said about being adopted. Like me, she must be motherless. I tighten my hold on the little hand grasping mine.

  ‘I am called Suzy,’ my diminutive guide says, leading me up the stairs. ‘Though my uncle may change my name. After I go to live with him.’

  She leads me to a blue and gold tapestry at the end of a corridor and proudly twitches Susannah and the Elders aside. Behind is a heavy oak door and she nods her pointed chin towards it. ‘Everybody is through there, but you had better knock, or they might be cross.’ She giggles, revealing dimples and perfect teeth. ‘I am not usually allowed out. But today they were too busy to notice.’ Then her hand slips from mine and she skips away down the passage, humming to herself.

  I hear the deep voices of men through the wood panels, together with that of one low-spoken woman. My mind is busy. Could that be some kind of housekeeper? Jack and Twyford must have someone to tend to their needs. Strange that I had not wondered about them being without a servant before.

  At least it does not sound as if the troubled girl is with them. Hopefully she is having one of her good days and is away with her father. I hope so, for I am afraid of meeting a mad person. Mrs Lamb told me they are unpredictable and violent. That the ones in Bedlam must be chained to the wall.

  Footsteps approach the door and I frown over what I now know about the Chalkes. What really lies through there? A mad girl? A brothel? A dreadful place where a pretty child is locked away, awaiting collection by an uncle she seems never to have met. Could that be the man’s coach outside?

  As the voices get closer, I know I cannot stay a moment longer and fly back down to the shop, dropping my letter onto the counter. Relieved when nobody follows me. Then, in my rush to get away, my foot knocks over a leather satchel, spilling its contents onto the floor. A title stands out, crisply black against a buff cover: The Maids’ List. In a panic, I shove the copies back, but not before thrusting one under my shawl. Then I run outside.

  A glance upwards shows one of the shutters is ajar and I glimpse a familiar flattened
face peering out, its shape now suggesting to me that the horrified midwife sensed evil at the birth and used her fist to try and thrust the child back into the womb. Is that Mistress Jarrett?

  As I flee along the street, afraid to look at either coach or liveried coachman, a picture flashes into my horrified mind of that entry in Mistress Chalke’s sodden account book. Suzy Songbird…sixty guineas.

  My mind races back to the night Mary was taken. Though ignorant of what was happening, I had sensed it was something bad.

  I could not help Mary. Must it be the same with little Suzy? That child is in terrible danger. I should go back. Drag her away. Find safety for her. But how could I put a respectable roof over her head and food in her mouth? Would these evil people not immediately accuse me to the constables of abduction? And even if I produced that notebook, who would believe my suspicions? Especially with a fat bribe thrust into their hand?

  As I hurry back to the Chalke house, I could scream with frustration at being just a useless girl.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When I stagger, breathless, into the kitchen Peg frowns up from the wooden paddle with which she is pounding the linen.

  ‘I know everything,’ I pull The Maid’s List from under my shawl and wave it at her. ‘There was a beautiful child at the bookshop. About to be sold to some foul old man.’ I shudder at the recollection of that carriage. ‘I refuse to let them have her. I must do something.’

  She abandons the washing, her shoulders drooping.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘If they knew, good people would surely be sick with horror.’

  ‘Would they? Folk can be like blinkered horses, Hannah. There’s things they cannot abide to see.’

  ‘Then they should be made to.’