The Servant

by Maggie Richell-Davies

  I had not expected to have deep feelings again for anyone but my daughter. Yet this man stirs my emotions in ways I do not understand. Because of him we will soon collect Thomasina, and I crave to gift him something fitting in return. It is clear that he desires me. Perhaps I could even give him a son. Which is what every man wants.

  He blows a thin stream of smoke towards the fire and smiles across at me. A log falls, threatening sparks to the rug, and he pushes it back with his foot. ‘Time for bed. I have an early start tomorrow, to take in our Petition. You take the candle. I know my way around the house in the dark.’

  ‘You are unbelievably good, Thomas. Taking a bastard under your roof. Giving her your name.’

  He frowns.

  ‘Never use that ugly word. Or I might consider becoming the kind of man who thrashes his wife.’ He lays the pipe on the hearth. ‘The child is your flesh, Hannah, and I do not give a single damn who fathered her. I consider her mine already.’

  I rise and take the half step to his chair. Lean down and touch my mouth to his. Yet he holds himself still, only responding by stroking my cheek with a finger.

  ‘Let us go up,’ I say, taking the candlestick.

  At the bedroom door, I place a hand on his sleeve to prevent him going to his own room. I am close enough to feel his warmth, smell his now familiar scent. My heart is pounding. My mouth so dry I can hardly swallow. Whether from fear or desire, I cannot tell. ‘Do not go,’ I say. ‘Stay with me tonight.’

  His eyes glint in the candlelight. ‘I am a patient man, as all farmers must be. And we have a lifetime ahead of us, Hannah. Are you sure?’

  I cannot think what to say, but use my grip on his sleeve to take him with me. The candle flame trembles as I lead the way into the room. Into his own chamber. Up to his own bed, that he has not slept in since our marriage.

  To my surprise I realise that I need him to hold me. To kiss me. To put his hands on me. I do not want the other thing, but that will only last a few minutes and perhaps be less painful this time. I will close my eyes tight and wish it over quickly. Yet there is a curious ache inside me that makes me want our union to happen.

  ‘Help me,’ I say, fumbling at my laces. My gown does not require a lady’s maid, but I have to say something, for he looks as if he might still leave and his closeness makes me strangely breathless.

  ‘I know how difficult this must be for you,’ he says, as his big hands fumble with the gown, ‘but remember how precious you are to me. That I could never hurt you. That I love you.’

  ‘Thomas…’

  ‘Shhhh. Do not speak.’ As he lets down my hair, no lady’s maid could be more gentle. With a serious, unsmiling face he kisses the top of my head, my brow and my eyelids with slow deliberation, then steps away. ‘We will simply climb into our bed and sleep in one another’s arms. If anything happens between us, it will only be because you have reached for me first. When I know that you are ready. And unafraid.’

  He will not hurt me, for I am precious to him. But I feel his need, like a kettle simmering on a fire. As the gown slips to the floor I tell myself: I can do this.

  I find I want to. That my body needs his. As he whispers my name against my skin, fear slips away. Folded into his arms, I discover my husband to be not only tender and giving, but a teacher of amazing things. We fit so precisely, and I am astounded by waves of physical pleasure. It is a world away from my imaginings.

  The dawn is a pale smudge through the bed curtains as I feel Thomas untangle himself and slip quietly from the bed. Thinking me still asleep, he folds my gown tidily onto a chair and walks to the window to look out at his fields and the morning. He is naked, all loose-limbed grace, his muscular chest lightly covered in dark hair that arrows downwards. A truly beautiful man.

  Afterwards I cannot stop touching him, even if it is just to brush the sleeve of his shirt with my fingers or to bury my face in his chest so that I can breathe in his scent.

  This must be what is meant about love between a man and a woman. What the poets write about. A joining of heart, of soul and of body – which will be mine for our whole life together.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  There is one last thing to do. Though when I tell Thomas I want to visit Mrs Roberts, Sir Christopher’s housekeeper, he fixes me with that perceptive gaze that I have come to love.

  ‘What, my darling wife, are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I promise myself this is the last lie I will ever tell him. ‘But servants always know their masters’ business. There must have been below-stairs gossip. About what happened.’

  My husband runs a hand through his thick hair. ‘I wish you would look forward, dearest. Not backwards.’

  I put my arms around him knowing that if I am patient, he will give in to me.

  ‘Well. If you are determined.’ He sighs, kissing the top of my head. ‘But I am going with you.’

  I reach up to rub the dark stubble on his chin. He usually shaves at night, because he rises so early, but I find I like the way it rasps under my fingers.

  ‘Mrs Roberts would never speak freely with you there. Take me to the house. In the trap. Then come back for me, an hour later.’

  ‘And you are not planning to try to see the magistrate?’

  I smile up at him. ‘Even if he is there, why would Sir Christopher go anywhere near his housekeeper’s room? It will just be two women talking over a dish of tea. And I want their French cook’s recipe for ragout of rabbit. Mrs Lamb said it was the best she had ever tasted.’ I meet his eye, unblinking. ‘You know how partial you are to rabbit.’

  Thomas knits his dark brows. ‘You belong here now. Not in London, with its intrigues.’

  ‘Humour me, husband. Drop me at the house. Then hunt down some of those seed catalogues you find so irresistible.’

  The red-cheeked girl who answers the kitchen door is nonplussed at finding a lady at the servants’ entrance. Behind her, I see Mrs Roberts scurrying to take charge. Under a velvet pelisse, my gown is plain grey, but of silk. My hair braided under a stiff-crowned straw Bergère, tied with a broad ribbon under my chin. My town shoes of kid.

  ‘Can I help you, ma’am? You will be wanting the mistress…’

  ‘Mrs Roberts…’

  ‘Hannah?’ Her eyes grow round. ‘It is never you.’

  .I remove my left glove and hold up my hand with its shiny gold ring. To let her know my dramatic change in fortune was not earned from forgetting myself.

  ‘You are married!’ She beams, having always been soft-hearted. She scrutinises me. ‘And married well.’

  ‘I am a gentleman farmer’s wife now. He is the finest man and I am more than lucky.’

  ‘Then I am pleased for you.’ She takes my arm and ushers me inside. ‘The tea went up to the master not ten minutes since. Will you share a dish with me?’

  We walk to her room, like old friends, and over the refreshment I tell her what I want. To speak to Sir Christopher.

  She stares. ‘Hannah, you may have risen in the world, but he would never see you.’

  ‘Tell him the person is here who wrote to him anonymously in February. About a monstrous crime. I think you will find he feels differently.’

  She took some persuading, but eventually slipped away, leaving me to wonder if coming here might make my happy world unravel. But how else will I know what happened to little Suzy?

  Eventually I hear murmuring voices. The bang of a nearby door. Footsteps. The rustle of Mrs Roberts’ starched petticoats.

  Soon afterwards, I am in Sir Christopher’s study, standing before his desk. He is a small man, with a strong angular face. Weary and cynical looking.

  He does not offer me a chair, but I notice a doll lying on the window seat and a familiar stripy cat curled in one of the wing chairs by the fireplace. I tell myself I am not in the dock. That I should not be trembling.

  ‘Am I to believe you responsible for that extraordinary letter?’ This will be how he sounds on the bench. ‘That yo
u composed and penned it yourself?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  He lifts a book from the desk. A Bible. Holds it out.

  ‘Read for me.’

  I realise he is testing whether I have the education to have written to him and seek out a passage I have always loved for its beauty. Then I read it, slowly:

  Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

  Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

  Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in truth.

  ‘Enough.’ He gestures for me to return the Bible, but I keep it in my hand.

  ‘I swear by this holy book, Sir Christopher, that my letter contained nothing but the truth.’

  Stern eyes under bushy grey brows study me.

  ‘I know it to have been the truth, Mistress Graham. From my enquiries. But who delivered it for you? My footman told me he saw a young gentleman.’

  I do not know where to look, not daring to lie to him, yet fearful of what he might think of a servant girl dressed-up in breeches and her master’s wig.

  Then the cat jumps off her chair and comes to rub around my ankles. She remembers me.

  ‘Well, perhaps it is best to pass over that detail.’ He looks at the cat, his gaze thoughtful. ‘I assumed what I was sent came from someone crossed in an illicit transaction. A gentleman resentful over a bad debt. Perhaps even – these things occasionally happen – someone with a guilty conscience. But never that it might have written by a young woman.’

  ‘Why should my word not be good? If I had proof in my hand?’

  ‘Why not, indeed, Mistress Graham. But you were wise enough to realise it would carry more weight if it appeared to originate from someone other than a servant girl.’

  The magistrate rises from his chair, scoops up the cat and sets it by the hearth, where it arches its back and settles down on its elbows, rump to the warmth.

  ‘I will not ask how you came by those documents.’ He motions to me with his arm. But come and sit with me by the fire. Please.’

  My legs are still quaking, so I am relieved to accept the invitation.

  ‘Mrs Roberts tells me you have married,’ he says when we are settled opposite one another.

  ‘My husband has a dairy farm. He is a churchwarden.’

  ‘You have done well for yourself, Mistress Graham.’

  ‘I have been lucky. He is the very best of men.’

  ‘Tell me. Does he know you are here?’

  ‘He believes me to be visiting your housekeeper. Which I was.’

  The magistrate’s eyes crease. He laughs.

  ‘I live in a house dominated by females, Mistress Graham. And am daily amazed at how they can make me do whatever they want.’ He reaches down to touch the cat’s back and she yawns, at ease with him, displaying whiskers fine as kipper bones. ‘And your interest in coming here today… is what?

  ‘There was a child in that evil place called Suzy. No more than six years old. I hate to think what might have happened to her. If it is known where she is, my husband and I could offer her a good Christian home.’

  Thomas knows nothing of this hope of mine, but has a heart warm enough to agree to it.

  ‘I recall the name.’ He ruffles the cat’s fur. ‘She was one of those tracked down. But she carried measles into the house of her protector. Several people died, including the scoundrel who had bought her. Yet somehow the child survived. She is in the care of some charitable institution. If you wish, I will arrange for you to be sent a letter giving details, together with my permission to remove her.’

  I study my gloved hands, trying not to think of what she must have gone through. Telling myself crying achieves nothing. Telling myself that Thomas and I will have two daughters now to love.

  ‘Yet those evil Chalkes walk free.’ I shake my head.

  ‘They do not, Mistress Graham.’

  He stares into the fire. ‘Jarrett and both of the Twyfords are currently on the high seas, bound for the New World and a harsh period of well-deserved bondage. They were committed for running a common bawdy house and put up no defence when told that revealing the depravity of their trade would have earned them the rope. It gave me no small pleasure to see them convicted.’

  A log crumbles, exploding in tiny sparks.

  ‘As for Chalke, his brother clearly knew what the man was doing, but did nothing as long as the business was discreet.’

  He shakes his head. The grey eyes have turned dark. Impenetrable.

  ‘But when the traffic threatened to come into the public domain, his Lordship could not have him questioned in open court. With such a stain on the family honour, the King would no longer have received him.’

  Outrage makes me forget myself.

  ‘Honour! From men worse than beasts...’

  He holds up a hand.

  ‘You believe a magistrate to be a man of power, Mistress Graham. And it is true that men and women’s lives often lie in my hand. But I cannot always follow my private wishes.

  ‘Those in power do not want the common people taking to the streets because their innocent daughters are being despoiled by the aristocracy. A mob is an ugly thing, eager to pillage the great houses of the town.’ He lets out a sigh. ‘I am the King’s servant. It is my duty to preserve the peace.’

  ‘So, Chalke goes unpunished?’ My guts twist with anger.

  The grey eyes fix on mine.

  ‘You appreciate that this conversation is not taking place? That it must never be mentioned outside this room?’

  I incline my head. What else can I do?

  ‘That man could not be allowed to walk the same earth as his distinguished kinsman. But some sores are so foul they need to be cauterised in private.’

  I see from Sir Christopher’s face the distaste he feels.

  ‘The family have an estate on the coast of Ireland. The Chalkes were supposedly being banished there when the boat carrying them from ship to shore capsized and sank. Unusually, the two sailors manning the little vessel were strong swimmers, while the Chalkes were not. A suspiciously convenient accident.’ He studies me from under those bristling eyebrows. ‘The aristocracy can be ruthless, even to their own. And I cannot find it in my heart to feel sorry for those drowned.’

  He blinks and smiles. A bleak smile.

  ‘Time has made me a realist. When I was new to the bench, I presided over a trial at the Old Bailey. A tutor who taught young girls had taken advantage of their innocence.

  ‘A doctor stood up before us and testified to the damage that had been done to their young bodies. One of the children was produced and questioned. She was the only daughter of a shopkeeper, a man of neither influence nor education, but who had enlightened ideas and hopes about his girl. It was her mother who gave evidence, since the father could not trust himself in the same room as the man accused.

  ‘Yet, inexplicably to me, the jury found the tutor innocent. They could not bear, I decided, after a sleepless night, to look into the darkness dwelling in some men’s souls. And dismissing a child’s evidence – especially that of a poor and young girl – allowed them to convince themselves it could not possibly have happened.

  ‘And that vile man, Mistress Graham, was a nobody. Not a member of the aristocracy whose brother has the ear of our sovereign. A sovereign, moreover, known to have inconveniently high moral standards.’

  He nudges a log that threatens to topple onto the rug further back on the fire with his boot, careful not to disturb the cat.

  ‘Yet I have also seen juries refuse to convict men guilty of theft. To do it because they considered the value of a man’s life greater than that of a sheep stolen to feed a hungry family.’

  The grey eyes flicker and he straightens his shoulders. ‘So, I tell myself there is always hope.’

  Puss curls up, deciding nothing exciting is happening. We are simply two people she is comfortable with,
talking in front of a fire.

  ‘You have been fortunate, Mistress Graham, to escape the attentions of people who might have found it expedient to silence you.’ The grey eyes flicker. ‘Mrs Roberts says you’re something of a blue-stocking. In future it would be safer to remember the teaching of the ancient Chinese general, Sun Tzu, who advocated only fighting battles you know you can win. Concentrate, instead, on your domestic concerns. Leave serious matters to your husband.’

  ‘Yet perhaps I did manage to win, sir. With your help.’

  He stifles a laugh as he reaches for the bell. ‘Then perhaps you will take a glass of canary with me, Mistress Graham. To toast our modest victory and hope for better things in the time to come.’

  After half an hour, the footman ushers me out through the front door, his eyes confused at recognising me. I smile and give him a coin before making my way down the steps and towards my waiting husband.

  I know that Jarrett, Jack and his uncle are on their way to the Americas, to prevent tongues wagging and to expiate their crimes with hard labour. That the Chalkes were given the ultimate punishment, far from the public eye. The great ones of the land having decreed no good would be served by having their filthy linen publicly displayed.

  And that little Suzy can soon be enfolded into our growing family.

  Sir Christopher is right. There may be battles for me in the future, but for now I must concentrate on the welfare of my husband and those who work for him. And on the two little girls who will soon be safe under our roof.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  The waiting time was wearisome. Thomas delivered the Petition to the General Committee, although he was unable to see anyone except the clerk who took the paper from him. He then went back to London, to answer enquiries about our circumstances, taking with him our marriage certificate, a letter from the vicar, and a document from his lawyer setting out his land holdings and investments.

  He tried, unsuccessfully, to keep that information from me, for it spelled out what a shoddy bargain he is getting in acquiring me for a wife.