‘I am just tired.’
‘It is not that. You have lost your lovely bloom.’
‘I spend my days gutting fish and scouring pots. In a basement. How should I look?’
‘I know the work you do. But nobody would ever think you a kitchen drudge.’ He looks disgruntled. ‘I wish it were otherwise, but you are too often on my mind.’
He is like a beautiful boy eyeing a hobbyhorse he cannot have. I could almost feel sorry for him, for he is in his uncle’s power as much as I am in that of the Chalkes. But my daydreams of him are dead. I only have to think of those ugly books and what happens behind those shutters next door.
‘How could there have been a future for us, Jack?’ The very thought is now distasteful to me.
‘You are right. Uncle would forbid it. And the Chalkes will have plans for you at the end of your year.’
‘Let them have plans. When my twelve months are up, I will run away.’
Far sooner, of course. But I must not mention that. Jack might say something to his uncle, who would likely tell my master.
‘You can try.’ He strokes my cheek with a soft finger and I back away, shuddering at being touched. ‘Perhaps I should help you.’
His concern seems genuine and friends are what I desperately need, especially now I cannot escape to Martha’s inn.
‘I am in such trouble, Jack.’ I tremble. The words are out.
‘Trouble? Is it Mistress Chalke? I know the woman is a brute to her servants.’
I struggle to form words. Fail.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘Tell me.’
‘I cannot. It is too…shameful.’
‘Shameful? How so?’
I feel my face grow hot under his scrutiny.
‘Has something happened? Is it Chalke?’ His eyes narrow. ‘Has the old goat laid hands on you?’
I drop my eyes and know that speaking was a mistake, for Jack smacks his fist against his thigh. ‘God damn him! Chalke has had you. Hasn’t he?’
I wish the floorboards would crack open and swallow me.
‘I should have known the rogue would not wait.’
Why did I think Jack might help me? He will know about The Maids’ List. Will be part of everything.
He studies me. ‘Take care, Hannah. The Chalkes tend to hurt girls who cross them. And that woman is a jealous old bitch.’
After that earlier flush of heat I am suddenly cold and shivery.
‘The trouble was not of my making.’
‘Sweetheart, you are a child no longer. If you do not want to be broken, you must learn to bend.’ He touches my arm. ‘I could help you slip away somewhere before your year is up. There could be profit. For us both.’
I edge away. ‘Must everything be about profit?’
Jack’s nostril’s flare. ‘I am telling you how it is. Look at yourself. To be poor is to be downtrodden and taken advantage of. My Uncle does not wear silk stockings from selling sermons.’
‘I know what he does. He deals in female flesh.’ I make a sickened noise, for though Jack clearly knows everything, there is no sign of guilt on that handsome face. ‘I had a higher opinion of you than that.’
‘He owns me, Hannah. I am not a free man. The bread that goes into my mouth, and that of my old mother, comes from him.’ He plays with a loose button on his coat. ‘And selling women is a trade, like any other. We buy things. We sell them. Whether they be leather-bound books or strumpets in satin petticoats.’
‘Are tiny children strumpets? I met little Suzie. I know what happens over the snuff shop. It is evil.’
‘I told you.’ He spreads his hands, as if displaying a bolt of cloth. ‘We are no more than dealers. We never touch them.’
‘But you provide them for others. And they are so young.’
‘Do not think to stop something that’s happened since Roman times, and probably before. Those girls would likely starve to death without Chalke and my uncle. This way, at least they get to eat. Some of them eventually make a fine living for themselves.’
He eyes me speculatively. ‘With your looks, by next Lady Day the Chalkes will have lined you up with some fine gentleman with a taste in virgins. Though old Chalke has spoiled that, hasn’t he?’ Jack ignores the revulsion in my eyes. ‘Second-hand goods fetch a second-hand price. Though you are pretty enough to still tempt buyers.’
‘I am not an animal. To be sold.’
‘You are wrong about that, Hannah. We are all animals underneath. And what other options have you? A life of patched clothes and wretched labour?’
Through the window I see people strolling by. The world about its business, while Jack speaks of me being traded like a newly broken mare.
‘The trade is wicked. It should be stopped.’
‘There is too much money involved. Too many powerful men with powerful appetites.’ He places a fingertip speculatively on my bodice and I back away, shuddering. ‘And Chalke cannot afford to stop. He sends half his income to that useless boy in Virginia and without what he gets from my uncle his creditors would lose patience. A debtor’s prison would not suit him one bit.’
He studies me. ‘Anyway, Chalke’s family would never permit a public disgrace, so we are safe enough. You had better learn to give a little.’
His finger hooks into the laces of my bodice. ‘I think I deserve more than a kiss, now you are no longer an innocent. Why not come into the back room with me?’
‘For shame, Jack!’ It sickens me to have suddenly become a girl who is considered easy. A girl who would welcome a man pressing his body into hers.
‘Did you not enjoy your tumble?’ He laughs. ‘I cannot imagine Chalke being much of a lover. You would like me better.’
My tears are of indignation and revulsion. I decide I hate him.
‘I thought you cared for me.’
‘I do.’ He sighs. ‘But I am no rich guildsman with money for your keeping. Though I have daydreamed of it.’
‘You wanted me for your mistress?’
‘Did you hope to wed me?’ He purses those fleshy lips together and I wonder that I ever thought him handsome. ‘Do you not think I could do better than a poorhouse brat?’
He laughs, then slides his arm around my waist.
‘Come, admit that you like me.’
‘Leave me be! I am no whore.’ I struggle, afraid he will force me, but his blows come as words.
‘Yet that is what you have become. Though through no fault of your own.’
If we were beside the river, I would jump straight into the water. Never mind the preachers. Never mind the flames of hell.
Jack releases me with a shake of his head. ‘It grieves me that you will end in some gouty old roué’s bed. For another man’s gain.’
I recoil against the wall. How can I have thought he had a heart?
‘Use that clever brain of yours, Hannah. You are just a chit of a girl. Comely, but devalued by your master. Know your place. Put some rouge on your cheeks. Profit from those looks while you can.’
He is between me and the door or I would run into the street.
‘Let me go, Jack.’
‘For another tumble with Chalke?’ There is a sneer in his voice, but he steps aside.
As I run from the shop, I decide that I loathe Jack as much as I do the Chalkes and wish I knew how to curse. To wish ill-fortune on every one of these people.
I am only sixteen, but even were I grown I could do nothing, for it is men who rule. Yet having those papers gave me a choice and I am glad I took it. My action could bring danger, but for once even a servant, and a woman, might make a difference.
Chapter Forty-Six
Someone is trying to break the door down and I think immediately of constables, come at last with a warrant. Yet when I pull the bolts a tall gentleman thrusts a fur-lined cloak at me and sweeps past with long-legged strides.
‘Is my brother home?’
Everything about him speaks of entitlement and importance. A fine coach with liveried ou
triders is standing at the kerb and a retainer has followed him inside, a brass-bound wooden case under one arm.
I realise who this man must be, but not what to do, for he is already half-way along the hall.
I raise my voice.
‘Sir? May I say who is calling?’
But I am invisible as he mounts the stairs, two at a time, his man close behind.
‘You fuckwit, William! Show yourself.’
The book room door opens.
‘Valentine? What are you doing here?’
I have crept after our visitor under the pretence of awaiting orders, but really to hear what happens. This must be because of my letter.
‘Come into my book room,’ the master says, and I see the sheen of sweat on his face. ‘The stair is no place for private business.’
Then the parlour door opens and Mistress Chalke appears. For once she is speechless, but she edges forward as if meaning to join them.
‘Bridger?’
‘M’lord?’
‘Get that drab out of my sight. If she objects, throw her through the nearest window. Into the street.’
The mistress shrinks against the wall, but Bridger grabs her and bundles her back into the parlour before slamming the door and returning to stand guard beside the book room doorway.
I am still frozen on the stair, my eyes glued to the pantomime reflected in the great mirror opposite the open door.
‘This is ungentlemanly of you, Valentine. My wife and I deserve respect. You only hold your title, remember, because you beat me into the world by a paltry half hour.’
‘Respect?’ There is a sneer in the man’s voice. ‘Our father had hopes for you, before you met that slut. I should have had the bitch thrown in a ditch years ago. I still might, since it will be her fault if my name appears in the London scandal sheets.’
‘Come, brother. We have been worried by troublemakers in the past. But they have always been silenced. It may have cost you, but you are hardly short of a few guineas.’
‘A respected magistrate is not a nobody. Have you not heard? Evidence was laid before the authorities. How could I have my brother standing up in a public court? When I have the ear of our king? Our current sovereign takes a narrow view of immorality. I doubt he even knows a trade as foul as yours exists.’
‘Then give me the income from one of your Irish estates, and a decent house to go with it, and my wife and I will cease to trouble you.’
‘It is too late for that, William. Too many people know too much.’
He gestures to his man, who places the polished case on the desk and flips it open.
‘Duelling pistols! You want me to fight you?’ Chalke lets out a high-pitched laugh. ‘If you fear a scandal, don’t you think a duel between a marquis and his younger brother would set the city’s tongues wagging?’
‘I have no intention of fighting you, brother. Since this business is your own doing, I require you to salvage the family honour by putting one of these pistols to your head.’
‘What!’
‘You heard me. You must remove yourself. Permanently. It is the only way to get this disgusting business discreetly buried.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
‘Does your household celebrate Christmas? Might you have a feast and a gift?
Thomas wears knitted mittens on this December morning, with a scarf tucked into his coat. It is bitter standing by the milk cart and I hug my wool shawl around me, watching the horse’s nostrils puff smoke into the air. Winter is hard upon us and the bulge under my apron is growing.
The Chalke household remains tense after that visit from the marquis brother. The case of duelling pistols is still in the study, thrust under the Chinese cabinet. Unused.
Time passes and I daily expect something more to happen. But nothing does.
‘They will have hashed mutton and a roasted goose,’ I say, despondently. ‘Followed by seed cake.’
‘To share with you and Peg?’
I cannot prevent a grimace. ‘We will get the remains of the carcass to pick over.’
‘No lengths of dress fabric?’
I think back to the excitement of the female Buttermere servants on Christmas morning. Waiting to be given lengths of material with which to make themselves new gowns.
‘A cuff round the ear is more likely.’
‘Well, Betty will make one of her ham and rabbit pies for me to bring you. People need full bellies in this weather. I think there will be snow. If the milk freezes, I will not be delivering.’
‘Why are you always so kind to us?’
‘Why should I not be? Are we not friends?’
I have never had a proper friend, which seems a sad thing. But girls are not meant to have friends who are men. Not virtuous girls, anyway.
With no answer to make, I stamp my feet to get feeling in them. At least my ankle is mended. My boots are wearing thin, but it would be extravagant to have them repaired. My saved coins are too precious.
I am still careful not to stand sideways where my increased bulk might show. The swelling caused by Chalke’s bastard horrifies me with its determination, its growing prominence.
‘Why will you not come back to the farm?’ The farmer’s brow puckers. ‘Surely you and Peg would enjoy a good helping of hot roast beef, in front of a roaring fire?’
I shake my head. ‘Perhaps in the spring.’
‘Now is when you need to come. There are shadows under those eyes. What you need is clean country air and a hearty meal.’
I pat Hector, avoiding a reply. There will be disgust in Thomas’s eyes when he finds out about me. I used to welcome our morning talks, but now I am afraid to linger in case he notices my changing shape.
‘I thought you enjoyed your visit in the summer.’
I don’t help him. How can I?
‘At least tell me why you changed your mind about going to work for Martha. I do not understand. You seemed so excited at the prospect. Yet you are still here working for those hard-hearted people.’
I hang my head. Silent. Within weeks my disgrace will be plain for all to see. If I had gone to work at that inn, I would have been dismissed as a loose woman by now. Staying here was the wisest thing. Time has passed, my store of embroidered lavender bags has grown, and each passing day is one less on which I will have to find rent money.
‘I thought you liked the countryside? Did you really decide it would have been too quiet, after London?’
‘I did,’ I lie.
‘But have you asked the nearby maids if they know of another position?’ He glances at the other houses in the street, far more prosperous-looking than ours. ‘Their mistresses might understand you not being given a character.’
‘I will. Soon.’
I picture the thickset woman next door who warned me. It might have been worth trying if I did not have this bastard in my belly.
‘You really should come back to Broad Oak. Betty often asks after you. Her boy is starting to crawl.’
‘Not this side of Christmas.’
And by the New Year I am likely to have been discovered and turned out. With the weather so cold, I huddle my shape under my shawl, indoors and out, but my luck will not hold much longer. Not only has this thing Chalke implanted in me swollen my belly, my gait has become graceless. Not for one moment will it let me forget its presence.
‘If you could work up a liking for the country,’ Thomas says, stamping his own feet against the cold, ‘there is another vacancy you could fill.’
The look in his eye makes me quiver. Is he going to ask me to sleep under his roof again? I would have loved to make his cheese – if I had not had that fear of him wanting more from me than help with expanding his dairy. Though the child inside me makes everything impossible, I wish he could simply stay my friend. Then I might feel able to turn to him if things become too hard.
Thomas removes his tricorn hat and takes a step closer, smelling faintly of his farm and the sprig of dried rosemary in his buttonhole.
‘There is something I must say, Hannah. I hoped you would come to Broad Oak, where we might have privacy, but no matter.’
He is desperately serious and I cannot think how to stop him, short of walking away.
‘I could have spoken earlier. But I was really conflicted. You are so young. And you seem to have an aversion to marriage. What was I to do?’
My mouth has gone dry. This is unexpected.
‘You said you would never wed again.’
‘That was what I believed. But duties towards others give life meaning. I find I still have love to give.’
I stare at my boots and see the stitching around the welt is unravelling. Like my life.
‘So be it. I must ask my question here.’ Thomas twists the hat in his hands and glances to left and right. There is no-one near. ‘I am older than you by ten years, but I think you like me. That you consider me a friend. But I more than like you. I have deep feelings for you, Hannah. And I worry that your life is so hard.’
I continue to stare at my feet. These are words that cannot be unspoken. Words to which he will expect a response and my heart lurches with regret that the time when I might have welcomed them – before that dreadful night – is long past.
He twists the hat again.
‘I could give you a comfortable life. Though no farmer’s wife is a stranger to hard work.’
He has said what he wanted. It is no plan of seduction, but something I thought never to receive. An honourable proposal of marriage from a man of property who is neither old nor ugly. Now he is waiting, hoping, and I feel the power of his expectation. This good and generous man thinks me something I am not. A pure maid. And I could weep for it,
Here is what I desperately lack. A husband. All I need do is deceive him. He would discover the truth soon enough, but with a wedding ring on my finger and vows exchanged before a priest, he could do nothing. Beat me, of course, which I would deserve, but I would be safe on his farm and I doubt he is the kind of man to turn me onto the street.
It is tempting. Every morning I could look into those brown eyes and know he would look after me and care for me. Only he would not, would he? Even if he did not turn me from his door, I would disgust him.
The Servant Page 17