The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  Peg is awake as I rinse my sour mouth and splash my face. She must have heard me retching into the slop bowl.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks, swinging skinny shanks from our bed and squinting at me.

  ‘A bellyache.’

  ‘I seen them bellyaches before.’ She scratches anxiously at her neck. ‘That’s not the first morning you have spewed your guts. You know what it likely means?’

  I know enough, from the infants my mother had, alive and dead. Chalke has done even more harm than I thought. I will be unable to hide what I have become. Fingers will point at me for a whore. And that precious job at the inn will be an impossibility.

  ‘Help me, Peg.’ I turn to her, for who else do I have? ‘I cannot have a child. I will be disgraced.’

  My friend looks troubled, as well she might.

  ‘It is said drinking a brew of crushed rue, morning and evening can help. Or pennyroyal sometimes brings a monthly bleed.’

  I stare at her. Am I really thinking of killing a child, if one is lodged inside me?

  ‘It takes money to buy,’ she says.

  I go to my carpet bag and fumble out coins. To add to my misery, this will eat into my scanty savings.

  ‘You might still be all right,’ Peg says. ‘Women drop babies all the time. From heavy work.’

  She is right. It is a hope to cling to.

  ‘Or maybe those friends of yours will move back from York soon. After the daughter’s child is born.’

  ‘And if they do? Would I be welcomed?’ I place my hands on my belly. Flat, yet containing something shameful.

  She gives me a sideways glance. ‘A quick marriage would serve you best. That farmer likes you mortal bad.’

  I flinch. ‘How could I do that? And how hide what has happened?’

  ‘There are plenty does it. Let some fellow have his way with you, swear they have got you in the family way, then rush them to the preacher. When the child comes early, pretend you had a fall.’

  She sees my disapproval.

  ‘Men cheat women all the time, Hannah. It is only fair for them to be at the receiving end sometimes.’

  ‘No, Peg. You must buy those herbs.’

  There is no time for despair. If I am with child, I will not be able to accept that position at the inn. As soon as my condition was suspected I would be shown the door, destitute, in the unfamiliar countryside. Perhaps forced to sleep under a hedge.

  But if Peg can help me lose my unwanted burden, everything might still work out.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Later in the week, I stand where the plain wood leading to the attics begins to be covered with patterned carpet and peer down the stairs. Above is my world of bare boards, broken furniture and mildewed walls patterned with damp. Further down, the treads become narrow again, and dark, though they are so familiar to my feet that I can climb them with no light at all.

  Peg’s herbs have done nothing. Nor does pummelling my belly with angry fists. My body has been stolen from me along with my hope of escaping this evil place.

  My heart beats as if I had run upstairs with a heavy load. Indeed, I have tried carrying heavier and heavier burdens: double buckets of slopping water, sacks of root vegetables I have no business taking away from the kitchen, even lugging around a cumbersome trunk full of old riding boots. Nothing shifts what is lodged inside me. My body looks no different, though I suspect I am thinner than before, because of my morning sickness. But that intruder is still in my belly.

  It is a long way down. I must not kill myself as I fall, since self-murder is the worst sin of all. Although an escape, it would condemn me to eternal hellfire. I would not even be allowed the shame of a pauper’s grave. Suicides are shallow-buried at the crossroads, like dead dogs.

  Afraid, yet determined, I stare past bannisters and newel posts whose wood gleams from my industry and smells faintly of lavender-studded wax. A boss smooth as an apple is beneath my palm. I am still young, with my whole life ahead. If I can lose my hateful burden and start working for Martha, I might be able to pick up my life again.

  The fingers of my hand tremble. I must not let myself think about pain, in case my courage fails. Nor can I simply step off the top stair, for that would likely break my neck. Instead, I kneel, turning sideways in order to roll my way to the bottom, hopefully doing just enough damage, but not too much. I screw my eyes tight and launch myself downwards.

  There is a blur of hurts as I bump down, banging head, shins, shoulders, ribs and knees as I tumble. There are buffets from all sides, as if the staircase is punishing me. Yet it is quick and I have the fleeting thought that I should have chosen the lower stairs, ending at the stone flags of the cellar floor. To make the outcome more certain.

  Then, as if I have been thrown from a moving coach, I land with a thump that sucks the breath from me. I lie in a heap, taking shuddering gulps of air, thankful I am not dead.

  No bones feel broken. The house is silent save for the ticking of the hall clock and muted sounds from the street.

  I run a hand over my belly. Why no griping pains? Perhaps it is too soon. I cautiously hoist myself up and yelp as my foot takes my weight. A bad sprain. Then I limp into the kitchen and force down a few mouthfuls of small beer, to steady myself. There are Master Chalke’s ruffled shirts to attack with the smoothing iron and I must busy myself with them, and hope, as my visit to the farm – and that meeting with Martha – is only days away.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  When Peg returns from scrubbing the floor of the necessary house she is cross.

  ‘You could have ended up like me,’ she chides. ‘A cripple.’

  I cannot argue, but I am desperate. If nothing happens after that fall I will need to lie to Thomas about the job.

  Yet although I am covered with purple and yellow bruises and have a sprain that makes walking painful, I am still with child. Still on the brink of disgrace and destitution.

  For a young woman dismissed for lewd living there is no respectable way of earning bread. I turn my mind from thinking of what most girls in my position are forced to do. Make their bodies available to men.

  Death would be preferable. Carriages and heavy carts lurch and rumble past the door, frequently fast and reckless. What if I threw myself in front of one? Yet I shiver at the thought of being mangled by iron-shod wheels.

  Another means of escape is not far: the evil-smelling presence of the river laps at my consciousness. I picture plummeting down, clothes billowing. Imagine the shock of the cold water. The struggle for air. Then oblivion. It is said drowning is painless. I do not believe it. For me, nothing in life has ever been painless. Why should death be different? But I cannot do the river. I am afraid of the dark water. And the fires of hell.

  I am tempted to sob as I finish ironing Chalke’s shirts. I do not want the life inhabiting my belly. I resent it and loathe thinking of how it came into being. But tears achieve nothing. I will have to tell Thomas tomorrow that I have changed my mind about that job and he will think me fickle or deranged.

  Later, as Peg and I snatch a rest in the kitchen while the master is out and the mistress upstairs muttering over her accounts, I tell her what I mean to do.

  ‘Tomorrow I will tell Thomas that I do not want that position. And that we cannot go to the farm on Sunday.’

  Peg looks up from the stale crust she is gnawing and shakes her head. ‘You know what I thinks you should do.’

  There is silence in the kitchen apart from the noises Peg makes sucking at the bread.

  ‘What will happen when my belly begins to show?’

  ‘The old witch will throw you out.’ A greasy rat’s tail of hair escapes Peg’s cap and she thrusts it from sight with a dirty finger. ‘Like I say, make cow’s eyes at your farmer while you still can.’

  She retrieves a dropped fragment from the floor and swallows it, smacking her lips. Her reverence for the smallest fragment of sustenance is sobering.

  ‘I have heard rumours of other ways of l
osing a child.’ I stare into the heart of the fire. ‘Don’t crones, up dark alleyways, know things to do?’

  ‘Nothing you would want to try. And if the constables found out, you would be in worse trouble.’

  She places a scrawny hand on my arm. ‘You have been my only friend, Hannah. If you will not go with your farmer, you should be able to manage a couple more months here, then go to the place I used to lodge. It is only a cellar, but you would have a key to your door. And it’s cheap.’ The rat’s tail has escaped again, but she ignores it. ‘Afterwards, when you are not pregnant no more, you might be able to find a yourself position somewhere.’

  She is right, of course. No respectable house will hire a maidservant with a bastard in her belly. But if I hide my condition as long as I can, wait out my time in that cellar, then have the child and rid myself of it, I could pretend it never happened. Take up my life again.

  ‘I refuse to expose it,’ I say. Child of that hated man or not, leaving a living creature to die in the street is wicked. I do not want this wretched infant, but it deserves better than that. It is as innocent as I am.

  ‘There is a place you can leave a baby,’ Peg says. ‘Near Lamb’s Conduit Fields.’

  I remember my outing with Jack. That distraught woman.

  ‘The Foundling Hospital?’

  ‘Aye.’ Peg fishes a knuckle bone from the stock pot with her fingers and blows on it, to cool it. ‘Though I still think you would make a good farmer’s wife, if you played your cards right. Then you could keep it.’

  ‘Why would I want to keep it? Or be anyone’s wife?’

  ‘One man is better than a score. Without a reputation it is hard for a girl to survive, except on her back.’

  I let out a groan. This bastard child will come, whether I wish it or no, and then I will likely starve.

  If I lace myself tight and hide my condition until I am six months gone, that would still leave three months’ rent and food to find. I might earn a few coppers somehow, but not enough. I am careful with the money that I have, but have no confidence it will be enough.

  ‘You are young and strong,’ Peg sucks noisily at the bone. ‘You will likely manage.’

  What alternative is there? Work at the inn is impossible if I am pregnant. Should I do what Peg urges, and persuade Thomas to marry me? Even if I could bear the thought of a husband, what respectable man would accept a ruined girl? And what return would it be for that good man’s unfailing kindness? To deceive him?

  Peg recites what I need to do, like a catechism. ‘Stash away scraps of rag and sew a quilt for the winter, since you won’t be able to afford kindling. Mend your clothes while you still has needles and thread. And fatten yourself up as much as you can.’

  I know her to be right. I might manage without heat, without clean linen or comfort, but not without shelter or food. Both of which will cost more than I have saved.

  ‘This is the cellar where you used to sleep?’

  ‘Aye.’ She pulls a face. ‘I would not put a dog there, but ’tis not for ever.’

  ‘Have I silver for better?’

  ‘The landlord is a piece of shit. But you will have a key to your door.’

  I shrug my shoulders, struggling to hide hurt at falling so low. A roof over my head. A door I can lock. Something to sleep on. The occasional crust of bread. I can expect no more.

  I thought myself poor before, now I am at risk of becoming a beggar. Every farthing will count.

  But I refuse to resort to despair. The mistress remains impossibly mean. The meat, the cheese, the milk, are all carefully measured out, but the evil old witch cannot always be watching and I will become a mouse, nibbling corners from joints of meat. Trying to store fat against the lean times that will come. And I must think of ways to earn some money.

  I return to my room and lay out my possessions on the pallet bed, for I have had an idea. My best petticoat was one of Mistress Buttermere’s, barely worn and edged with lace. There is enough soft fabric to cut up and fashion into lavender bags using the dried plants hanging, forgotten, from the kitchen ceiling.

  I will make as many as I can until the lawn is finished, then stash them away in my bag. People like to put such things with their linen to make them smell sweet and to deter moths. There is thread in the house and needles. Even some scraps of old embroidery silk. Perhaps I could even make a little business from them after I go into exile.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ‘Have you chosen your new man yet?’ I ask Thomas. Soon he will stop bringing the milk. He talks of it, but nothing happens and I am glad, for soon I will be in that cellar and friendless. Except for poor Peg.

  He, of course, expects me to be seeing Martha at the end of the week and arranging to work in her inn kitchen. Instead I am taking care how I stand so he will not notice the bulge beginning to show under my apron.

  ‘I have a lad in mind. Ruben is the eldest of seven. His father is crippled with arthritis, so a regular wage will answer their prayers.’

  ‘I no longer pray.’

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘I do not believe Heaven exists for people like me.’

  ’You are charitable and good. How could you not go straight to Heaven? Though hopefully not for many years.’

  Hector noses at my skirts, wanting his morning ear-scratch.

  ‘More years in which to sin.’

  ‘Come, now. What sins can a girl like you commit?’ He looks amused. ‘How old are you, anyway, Hannah?’

  ‘I had my sixteenth birthday last week.’

  ‘I thought you older. You make me feel like Methuselah.’ He studies me as I ruffle the dog’s fur. ‘Do you never think of marriage? You are young yet, but when you meet the right man, would a loving husband not be better than the hard life you lead?’

  ‘Exchange one servitude for another?’ I hear revulsion in my voice. Husbands and wives share a bed until one of them dies, with the man having the right to do what he wants to the woman’s body. With the Church’s blessing. ‘What woman would be a wife, who could be free?’

  I am silent again, wondering from his stare if he senses the change in me. When I tell him that I cannot come to the farm and will not work for Martha, I would hate for him to suspect what is behind it.

  The sky is dark, with prickles of rain in the air. At least it is not snow. In our garret under the roof the water in our jug freezes overnight.

  ‘You think that badly of marriage?’ he says. ‘Of husbands?’

  ‘It may suit some. Not me.’

  ‘Do not dismiss the idea, Hannah. I would like to think of you finding happiness.’ He clinks the coins in his pouch and frowns. ‘I am, of course, much older than you and have paid too high a price to risk that path again. But in a year or two, you might meet a young man with prospects and a kind heart. You are wasted labouring in a kitchen that is not your own.’

  He talks as if marriage were something to wish for. But loving is a sweaty invasion involving pain. No wonder it is done in the dark.

  I know little of husbands and wives. Mistress Buttermere was a widow and gave the impression she was more than content to be so. Mrs Lamb was a maiden lady. My own mother must have found union with my father hard, with that temper like a red-hot poker. After her death he drank too much, then forgot her and married an unfeeling woman with three offspring of her own.

  Yet I believe he loved her. Or, perhaps, loved having a beautiful woman in his bed.

  Must love be coupled with such thrusting violence? Well, I want none of it. I cannot now help thinking of bitches in the street pursued by a pack of eager dogs, with a disgusted housewife hurrying to throw a pail of cold water over them.

  ‘Wedlock is a game of chance.’ Thomas’s eyes have softened. ‘But many couples take strength and companionship from one another. Some even find joy.’

  ‘Joy!’ I struggle with my face. It is different for men, of course. I have seen the satisfaction they get from mastering horses with whip and spur.

/>   Thomas exhales. ‘Well, some are not meant for it and I see you are one of them. We cannot all be the same.’

  He makes another attempt.

  ‘But country life should be good for you. Martha’s establishment is full of laughter as well as work. She is really looking forward to meeting you on Sunday.’

  ‘I cannot come. I have sprained my ankle. I am sorry.’

  ‘Sprained your ankle?’ He looks at me and I limp a few painful yards, to prove it is true.

  ‘Has that woman been beating you again?’

  ‘The house stairs are steep and dark. It is easy to miss your footing.’

  ‘A sprain need not stop you coming.’ His brows knit. ‘I would collect you in the trap and drive you straight to the inn. You do not need two sound limbs to talk and reach agreement with Martha. She will know your hurts will soon heal.’

  ‘I have been thinking,’ I clutch my milk jug to my chest, wishing I were a more inventive liar. ‘The countryside is too quiet, compared with London. Here, if I am lucky, I might get a good position in one of those grand houses in the square.’

  Thomas looks at me and from his frown I see that he is struggling to understand.

  ‘Please tell your friend I am truly sorry.’ I lean against the wagon, to take the weight off my ankle. ‘That I hope I have not let her down.’

  ‘This is a puzzle, Hannah. You were adamant that job was what you wanted. Tell me you are not being pressured by someone. Or something.’

  ‘Only by my wish to better myself.’

  He expels a breath and I know he is about to question me, so I turn on my heel and limp quickly inside. To what comfort I can find from the kitchen fire and embroidering another lavender bag.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  ‘What is wrong, sweetheart?’

  I flinch as Jack takes the latest batch of proofs from me. It is like handling hot coals. But why is everyone behaving as if nothing has happened? Why have the constables not shuttered up the bookshop and that terrible place next door? Why have they not even knocked on Chalke’s door?