The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  ‘By a fifteen-year-old serving girl? Even with that proof you say you have?’

  A voice in my head sneers that she is right. That a nobleman’s brother would never fear a nobody like me. Even if I manage to put my evidence into someone’s hand, would it not be discreetly disposed of? Like slamming the lid on a noisome cesspit?

  To get justice I must be resourceful. I had meant to wait until I was away from the house before using the evidence under that flagstone. But with Suzy at risk I do not have that leisure. I must find a way.

  There is no sleep for us in bed that night.

  ‘You should have told me that they sell children.’

  Under our threadbare blanket Peg’s hand clutches mine.

  ‘I was too scared. For you and me, both.’

  ‘But why did you stay?’ I drop her hand and punch the rock-hard bolster serving as my pillow. ‘Even the poorhouse would be preferable to working here.’

  ‘I done something bad, Hannah. When I was little.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘I would have swung, if they told on me. Might still, even now.’

  I shake my head. She must have stolen something valuable.

  ‘They would never have hanged a little girl, Peg.’

  Everyone knows a thief who takes goods to the value of twenty shillings risks the rope. But what jury would condemn a tiny child?

  ‘There is no forgiveness. Not for murder.’

  I recoil. Murder?

  ‘It wasn’t deliberate, Hannah.’ She is shuddering. ‘But they had forced me to swallow a poppy drink, so my mind was muddled. I only remember the knife in my hand afterwards. And the blood. Dark and sticky. Stinking like an old metal spoon. And the scrape and bump of them dragging away the body.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Peg sucks the edge of the blanket. A petrified child again.

  ‘If I tells you, I might as well stick a knife in you. Like I did in that man.’

  ‘I don’t care, Peg. I need to know.’

  ‘I never meant to kill him. That I swear.’ She shivers. ‘But though I wanted to hurt him, real bad, after what he done, I still can’t believe I slit a man’s belly. I must have lashed out. In fear.’

  I make myself take her hands again. I had assumed she had stolen a watch or a ring.

  ‘Tell me everything.’ My words drag out, for I do not really want to know. ‘From the beginning.’

  ‘The whores said as how I was taken by the gypsies as a little ’un.’ Peg seems to take strength from my grip. ‘They would laugh and curtsy, saying I could have been a lord’s daughter. Before making me scrub their filthy sheets.’

  ‘What whores?’

  ‘The ones at the bawdy house where I was took.’ She sighs. ‘But a lord would never have rested before I was found. Would he? So, I expect I was from some poor cottage.’

  I struggle to picture Peg as a girl, toddling at her mother’s knee. Old wives frighten children with tales of girls – snatched away to be raised by gypsies, it is whispered, until old enough to sell into slavery on the Barbary Coast. Or into London brothels. Mrs Lamb said the stories were lies, to make naughty children biddable. Now I know different.

  ‘What happened at the bawdy house?’ I cannot imagine Peg having been a harlot, even when young.

  ‘One of the whores said I was being farmed. Like a suckling calf. That they snatch children up before they can speak proper, so they cannot say where they are from. Or who they belong to. But I understood none of it.’

  Her fingers clench mine.

  ‘Some months later, a man in a fancy coat took me into a room with a bed in it. Don’t know how old I was. Don’t know to this day when I was born, nor where. But I was small and had not bled yet. Though I bled plenty that day.’

  Her fingers pinch mine.

  ‘He was rough and hurt me. I couldn’t pass water afterwards. Only blood.’

  She grunts. ‘When he come back for more, not long after, I was so terrified that I kicked him in the crotch, hard as I could. It put him in such a fury that he hit me in the mouth with his cane. Then smashed me leg. They had to send for a surgeon.’

  She wipes at her eyes with the edge of the blanket.

  ‘They told me I took a knife after it happened and run into the passage after him. Flew at him like a demon. Not that I remember. Because of the poppy juice.

  ‘The abbess was furious at having to cover everything up and pay the surgeon as well. She said I would owe them for saving me for my whole life.’ She bites at her thumbnail. ‘I remember it was the year our old king died.’

  I count on my fingers. Can Peg be only sixteen years older than me?

  ‘The girls said Ma Jarrett got rid of the body, in the river,’ she says. ‘And because the man was never missed, nothing come of it. But they only need tell the constables and I would swing.’

  This is almost too much for me. A tiny girl? Killing a grown man with a knife?

  ‘It must be a lie, Peg. And they were keeping you as someone to blame, if questions were asked. You should have run away.’

  ‘How could I? With a crippled leg and insides that weren’t right? I was no use to nobody. And Ma Jarrett said that unless I did what I was told, they would hand me over to the law.’

  She gives a weary sigh.

  ‘Soon after, Mistress Chalke turned up. Though her name was different then, of course. A fine-looking girl she was, with a pink and white complexion. Not a London face at all. No trace of the pox. Peaches they called her. And the gentlemen queued up for a touch of that skin.

  ‘She got on with Ma Jarrett like a long-lost sister. Like iron nails, the pair of them.’ She pauses. ‘You have seen the abbess. The one with the squashed face.’

  So, my guess was right.

  ‘The ugly one, calling herself Smith?’

  ‘No other. If a girl was difficult, she would burn them with a metal spoon on the soles of the feet. Heated over the open fire. She knew how to do it without leaving an ugly mark. They would scream at first, when they thought she had some kind of a heart. Then, when they knew better, they did as they was told.’

  I think of the future planned for me and feel sick again.

  ‘It was Ma Jarrett who found Master Chalke for Peaches,’ Peg says. ‘The pair of them had a fancy place in Covent Garden before she had that boy and sweet-talked Chalke into marriage.’ she snorts. ‘But the noble lord, his father, cast him off when he found out.’

  I remember the signet ring. That painting. The signs of past wealth. Chalke’s casual arrogance of manner.

  Peg sighs. ‘When they ran out of money, they turned to Ma Jarret for ways to pay their debts. And the trade in children pays well.’

  I clutch her hand tight, willing her to spill everything, like a filthy flux. Someone needs to know what happens here, even if it is only me.

  ‘I scrubbed floors in their brothel for years,’ she says. ‘Most of the time like a chained dog. Finally, they let me come and work here. I slept on the kitchen floor at first, before they kicked me out to sleep wherever I could. But I still had to come and scrub their floors. To be under their eye. Though they knew by then I was far too scared to ever talk about what they got up to.

  ‘Later, the master had the idea of publishing a regular list, to keep the money coming.’ Her voice falters. ‘They had an agreement with Ma Jarrett about their maids, as well. Choose them young and pretty. Work them to death for a year. Then pass them to the abbess. They was supposed to be untouched. To fetch a better price.’

  My mouth goes dry, remembering Master Pock-Mark.

  ‘The mistress warned Chalke off the girls, of course. But once a bastard, always a bastard.’

  She touches my shoulder. ‘But you are going to escape, Hannah. To that job you was promised. By your farmer.’

  The thought that Martha might refuse me makes me feel even more queasy. People worry about having their goods stolen. They fear being murdered in their beds and want to know servants taken into their h
ouseholds can be trusted. What if Thomas is wrong about his innkeeper friend giving me work without a character? What if I cannot get away? What if I am turned into a whore? And what will happen to little Suzy?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  I think of what is hidden under the kitchen flagstones. If only I could find the right man to whom to send those letters, and he saw how young the girls were, would he not bring these wicked people to justice?

  But what kitchen maid knows people capable of acting against the aristocracy? Then I think of Mistress Buttermere’s neighbour. The magistrate with five little daughters on whom he dotes.

  If he believes my evidence, Sir Christopher will be outraged by what is going on and is a man with the power to challenge it.

  I know he reads sermons to his family and servants every Sunday evening and is said to be that rare thing, an incorruptible magistrate. One who could take on Chalke and his clients, however high born.

  I cannot know if a letter to him will achieve anything, but know I must try.

  But I could never approach someone like that myself.

  I gnaw my thumb and think that Sir Christopher is unlikely to take notice of a servant girl, even if I were somehow able to confront him. But if a letter in an educated hand was delivered to his house, written on good parchment and spelling out plainly what is being done, that should be a different matter. Especially one enclosing those damning letters and the account book detailing the money changing hands. Not to mention that copy of The Maids’ List with the tender ages of the girls being sold.

  There would be immediate repercussions, of course. But since Master Chalke does not know what I took from his desk he surely would not link me to his disgrace. He would likely assume a disappointed customer has made trouble for him.

  Such a letter will not be easy to compose. I would have to dredge up the most scholarly words I can remember so that nobody would suspect it the work of a servant whom her master believes can barely scrawl her name.

  I think of Mrs Lamb and wish I had her wise counsel, but suspect she would be horrified by my audacity. That she would counsel me to stay quiet and keep my head down.

  I am taking a risk, but what choice have I? That girl is only six or seven years old and unprotected. It is time to stop being afraid.

  I sit at the kitchen table after everyone is in bed and grasp one of Master Chalke’s quills. This letter must convince the magistrate I am a gentleman of education and position, outraged at what he has uncovered, yet anxious to preserve his anonymity.

  Dear Sir Christopher,

  I write to you since you are a Gentleman Known and Respected for Speaking Publicly against the Immoralities of our Times. Someone furthermore who is considered a Protector of the Values of a Christian Nation and a Scourge of Dissipation and Vice.

  If you will Peruse the Documents that I am Entrusting to your Care, you will Uncover an Outrage being Perpetrated against Innocents in our very Midst.

  The Rules of Morality, Religion and Humanity Demand that the Virtue of Innocent Children is not Sacrificed to Debauched Men and those who Procure for them.

  I beg you, Sir, to Consider the Miseries to which these Unfortunates are Subjected.

  It is Against all Conscience for this to happen in a Civilised Country - and for Good Men to do Nothing.

  As I wrote I found myself so angry that I could scarcely breathe and as I laid down the pen had to draw in a lungful of air. Then I sprinkled my missive with sand, folded it in parchment together with my evidence, and melted some of the master’s wax to secure it. There was no signet ring to imprint in the wax, but I told myself that would be explained by the gentleman’s wish to remain anonymous.

  Perhaps justice will be done if I can get this letter into Sir Christopher’s hands. If he believes it. If he takes action.

  And if I am quick, and can work out how to have it convincingly delivered, there could be time to save Suzy. Perhaps then I will I be able to let this hatred of the Chalkes go, before it destroys me.

  Chapter Forty

  The letter is written, now I must get it safely delivered. Men of influence are the only ones with the power to challenge an aristocrat like Chalke, even a disgraced one. I have done my best with my letter. Now I must get it safely into the magistrate’s hands.

  The footman at Sir Christopher’s will never take in a package unless it looks like a respectable missive. But my curling hand looks educated, elegant even, and the address is carefully correct. All I lack is a messenger, since I have no wish to approach the house myself and risk being recognised.

  I think of the old clothes belonging to young Charles in that upstairs wardrobe. He must have been slight, for I think they would fit me. Well enough, at least. And I could borrow an old pair of the mistress’s shoes. There is even a tatty wig that would look well enough under one of the master’s tricorn hats.

  In the afternoon, with the Chalkes both out and when Sir Christopher will be having tea with his family, I tuck the letter and its enclosures under my jacket and check my halfpenny is in my pocket, trying not to think of how much I might need that coin if things go wrong. Then I trudge to Sir Christopher’s house, expecting at any moment to be challenged by a member of the public outraged at seeing a girl wearing breeches.

  It feels strange wearing them. They chafe my thighs and it is a relief that the coat covers the shape of my legs.

  I stood in front of Peg before leaving.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That you will get yourself arrested. For offending public decency.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t risk going to the door myself. I will find a boy to do that. Just allow myself to be glimpsed by the footman, for when questions are asked later.’

  It is strange not wearing stays and my breasts jiggle as I walk, but at least they are not pushed up make my clumsy disguise evident.

  When I reach the magistrate’s house I gaze at the velvet-draped windows and think of Puss somewhere inside. Spoiled and plump from kitchen scraps.

  A figure in a frilled cap is looking out from one of the windows. Mrs Roberts, their housekeeper, I suspect, but she will simply see a nondescript youth standing down the street.

  I beckon over a ragged boy who despite bare feet and threadbare clothes has a cheeky grin and looks resourceful.

  ‘How would you like to earn a halfpenny?’

  He squints at me, puzzled.

  ‘What are you playing at? You are a girl.’

  ‘Nothing you need worry about.’ I do not want him frightened off, so I smile. ‘I just need a letter delivered.’

  ‘It looks big. For a letter.’

  The package is bulky, from the enclosures. From that notebook.

  He wavers, fingers flexing. Imagining closing around my halfpenny.

  ‘Why not do it yourself?’

  ‘My father disapproves of girls meddling in men’s business. It is only a petition. Signed by concerned citizens. For a public pump. To provide water for washing.’

  He shrugs, indifferent to such things.

  ‘All you must do is hand it to the footman who answers that door over there and say you have been asked to deliver it. By a young gentleman. I will stay over here.’

  He picks idly at his nose, clearly uncertain, before nodding. The halfpenny is too tempting.

  ‘Give it me, then.’ The boy grabs and bites the coin to check it is real, before swiftly disappearing it into his shapeless jacket.

  ‘Tell him a fine-dressed gentleman has just given it to you.’ I smile encouragingly. ‘You can point to me, if you like. You might even get another coin from the footman for delivering it.’

  I do not believe this, not for an unexpected package brought to the door by an unwashed urchin. But I cannot risk going to the door myself. The footman might remember me and I am already fearful enough that the package will cause me mischief. What if the Chalkes guess who has revealed their secrets? What if Jack tells them I have an education? That I might be a nobody, but I am
not illiterate?

  I watch the boy cross the street, jaunty with his errand and no doubt planning what he can buy with a halfpenny to fill a hollow stomach.

  I have meant to do something like this ever since I took that evidence from the book room. Now I wait under a bare-branched tree as the lad rises on tiptoe to strike the gleaming knocker with a thump audible across the road. Then he speaks to the tall footman who answers the door. In the last months of my stay at the Buttermere house I remember that young man giving me tender looks and being scolded by Mrs Lamb for his presumption.

  An argument seems to be taking place, with the footman gesturing at the scruffy boy to clear off, and my heart grows heavy. This was my great hope of doing some good. Of helping Suzy. Must my efforts and risks come to nothing?

  But my courier is made of stern stuff. He stands his ground. Argues. Holds up my package, gesturing and waving it under the footman’s nose. There is a pause as the young man takes it into his hand and scrutinises it. Can the footman read, I wonder? But even if he cannot, he will surely recognise the quality of the parchment. I hold my breath. The footman’s gaze ranges over the street, uncertain, then hesitates at the sight of a fine dandy disappearing around the corner. He looks questioningly at the boy who, clever lad, nods vigorously. Even points after the man. Moments later, the footman carries my missive inside the house.

  It is done. Now all I can do is wait and pray that some action comes from it in time to save Suzy. And that it does not have repercussions for me or for Peg.

  Chapter Forty-One

  I am not well. Perhaps it is the worry about Suzy and my letter. And not sleeping. Or maybe I have eaten bad meat since Peg and I are expected to finish scraps, even if they are turning green. I gnaw the hangnail on my thumb till it bleeds and try to turn my mind from what I fear.

  But as time passes, I know it is nothing I have eaten. My breasts feel strange and tender. In the early morning I hurry to the slop bucket and vomit in spasms until I retch up nothing but the bitterest bile. I shudder at what it must mean.