The Rules of Gentility

by Mullany, Janet

  When I’ve put the kettle back on the fire, I turn my attention to a pile of dishes in the sink. I could take more from the half-packed crate under the table, but consider this would only make more mess. I scrub cups and saucers as best I can with a vile yellow soap that smells of farmyards and leaves my hands red and raw.

  I am not a total fool around the kitchen, but my experience has been making pastry and other delicacies, and someone else, like this skinny child with her reddened hands, scrubs the pots after I’ve finished. I have always been surrounded by deferential servants who take care I do not burn myself or work too hard.

  I add a little more coal to the fire, and, later rather than sooner, find an apron to wear. I am quite filthy. I wonder if they have medicine for Will, or whether we should give him some boiled water, or milk.

  I find the milk in a jug in a large crock, and it smells quite sweet. Not so the butter, greasy and with a fly struggling in it. There is a loaf of bread I hack apart—I did not realize it was so hard to slice bread thinly—and spread with marmalade. I suspect neither Inigo nor Fanny have eaten much while their child is sick. There is little food in the house, and I think it likely Fanny orders from one of the cook-houses on the street.

  And all the while, above my head, Will cries and cries, and Inigo’s feet pace up and down.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  I did not think I would ever smile again, not after these two days and nights willing my son to live.

  But the sight of Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg, with a black smear of coal on her round face, carrying a tea tray and a kettle of boiling water does that. Her hair has gone into spirals in the kitchen heat, she has tucked her skirts up into the apron ties to manage the stairs, and beams with pride at her accomplishment. She finds the tea caddy and makes tea, pausing to polish the cups and spoons clean on her apron. “I didn’t wash them very well,” she says. “I think I should have used hot water. Shall I take Will, Inigo?”

  I can’t bear to let someone else hold him, tortured as I am by his cries and my powerlessness to help him, but I hand him over. She tries to not let me see the horror on her face, at how hot and insubstantial he feels, and at that moment I love her more than anything in the world—except Will.

  Fanny and I are both dazed and half-mad from lack of sleep and worry, and Philomena, I think, senses this. She does not try to talk to us, or ask about Will’s condition, which is all too obvious. She pours some water into a saucer, and I show her how we try to feed Will with a teaspoon. He barely has the strength now to swallow, and we offer him drops on our fingers as though he were a kitten. Fanny has tried to get him to take her breast for two days, and he turns his head aside and cries, too feeble to suck.

  When the doorbell rings, Philomena hands Will to me, and goes to answer it.

  “Inigo, do not threaten to kill this one,” Fanny says.

  The doctor comes into the drawing room, with Philomena behind him. From the look on her face she has never before had a jumped-up tradesman enter a room in front of her, and clutches his hat, gloves and bag with a helpless look on her face.

  Dr. Silver, recommended by the baker a few doors down, is quite different from the other savages who have seen Will in the last few days. He is thin and dark, and speaks with a foreign accent.

  Philomena stares at him with great interest, and I realize she has probably never seen a Jew before. He catches her gaze, and smiles. “Ah, your maid is not clever, I think? But a good girl, I can tell.”

  He examines Will with great gentleness, and asks us how long our child has been ill, the usual questions, and then covers him up again. “You must make him drink. Keep him warm. Let him take the breast if he will.”

  “That’s all?” If I were not so tired I would throttle this so-called man of science. He is as great a charlatan as the others, if not more so, for this is what we have done for over two days, and watched Will fade from us.

  “Sir, if you wish to have your child bled or purged, there are plenty in my profession who will oblige you, but I think he suffers enough.”

  “Inigo, do not bully him,” Fanny says. We are both aware of what I have threatened to do to the other doctors who have wanted to inflict these treatments, or worse, on my poor child.

  “Yes, but, devil take it, surely there’s something that can be done?” I have been hoping for some magic potion, a miracle, and I see now none is forthcoming.

  “You may bathe him in warm water, but do not let him get chilled. And pray, sir. It will not be too long, I think.” His words could have sounded harsh, but from this man they have a certain comfort.

  Fanny weeps, hunched up on the sofa, holding Will again at her bare breast. His head rolls away from her.

  Dr. Silver stops in front of Philomena and she releases his hat and gloves. “Look after your master and mistress,” he says with a kindly smile. “They should eat and rest.”

  “Yes, sir. I made them tea, sir, all on my own, but I did not wash the dishes very well.”

  “Very good.” He pats her on the head and waits for her to open the door for him, which eventually she does. He gives us a smile as he leaves, apparently in appreciation of how good we are to take on this simpleton as our maid. I wonder if we shall ever be able to laugh about this together.

  Philomena, her voice muffled, announces she is going downstairs, and I suspect she is going to cry where she will not distress us. I hear some banging about, and the sound of a plate or some such breaking. Fanny and I take turns walking up and down with our son in our arms, feeding drops of water in his mouth, and I am not sure if she prays, but I know I do.

  After a while Molly comes upstairs, yawning and ashamed that she has slept, but not particularly surprised at the presence of an inept maid in her kitchen. Like me and Fanny, she is too tired to take in much. Miss Wellesley-Clegg has taken it upon herself to go to the cookshop, it appears, and charged Molly with bringing up water in which to bathe our son.

  Philomena comes in, rather pink about the face, with a large pie, and I realize the unseemliness of a gently-bred woman going on such an errand. I ask her if she is all right.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, a little too brightly. “Some of the gentlemen in the street commented on my—my ankles, and one of them said I was a plump chicken ready for plucking. At least, I think that is what he said.”

  Her ankles, with her skirts still tucked up to negotiate the stairs, are indeed on display, and I wish I could appreciate them more. “Philomena, you must go home. Please. This is not a proper place for you to be. I am exceedingly grateful, but you should not be here. It’s getting late. Please, my love.”

  She looks at me oddly. “Don’t be a ninny, Inigo. Besides, I have sent word home that I am with a sick friend, so do not worry about it. Now, you must eat.”

  She bathes Will while Fanny and I pick at the food, and then we light the lamps and settle in for another night.

  After we have eaten, Philomena and Molly go downstairs into the kitchen, and I hear a loud scream. Philomena, skirts held up to her knees, rushes back upstairs. “Huge black beetles!” she announces. “Oh, I’m sorry, but I cannot go down there.”

  “It’s all right, miss,” Molly calls up the stairs. “You get used to them. They won’t hurt you.”

  “I’ll go down in the morning,” Philomena says, “Molly says they don’t come out in daylight. But, if I may, I’ll stay up here.”

  “Philomena, dearest,” Fanny says, “we did not intend to banish you to the kitchen. And you’re sure you won’t go home?”

  “Not if you want me to stay.”

  “I am so grateful…” Fanny breaks down in Philomena’s arms, weeping as though her heart is broken, which indeed I think it is.

  Chapter 21

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  It is a dreadful night. We take it in turns, myself, Fanny, Inigo, and Molly, in walking up and down with Will. He has a cradle that gives him the continual movement he craves, but seems greatly distressed if he is
placed there. Inigo tries to persuade Fanny to sleep, and she him, but neither can. Both of them are now so tired they will fall asleep if they sit, and then come awake, roused by their own fear.

  And to think they have borne this for two nights already. Church bells chime the quarters, and time becomes distorted—sometimes it is as though a whole night passes between the chimes, and other times only seconds seem to have passed.

  I send Molly to bed at midnight. She sleeps among the black beetles, which horrifies me, but she assures me it is what she is used to.

  And gradually there is a change in Will’s condition. He drinks a little more water, and then cries for more. When we bathe him his eyes open and he gazes at Fanny, with his poor little chapped lips turning up in a smile. He even nurses for a few minutes, before falling asleep, his skin finally cooled down, and it may be my fancy, but he begins to look more like a living child.

  When four o’clock strikes, the four of us stagger into Fanny’s bedchamber, I carrying a cup of water and a spoon in case Will wishes to drink more, and Fanny and Inigo swaying like a pair of drunks. Fanny sinks onto the bed with her child and falls asleep immediately.

  “Inigo,” I say, and I blush like a rising sun, and am glad it is still dark, “this is most improper, and I am so sorry to ask you, but could you unlace my stays? I should like to lie down on the sofa for a little.”

  He laughs and unfastens my gown and then my stays with a startling deftness that suggests he has had some experience with women’s clothing. “Stay here. I’ll keep you warm.”

  And he does. He encircles me in his arms and I lie against him and try to stay awake to savor the wondrousness of this moment—his scent (somewhat sweaty and smoky from being inside for so long, but still delicious), the slow, steady beat of his heart, the mystery of male sinew and muscle and bone. But I can’t. I am too tired and too content to do anything but fall asleep.

  When I awake it is almost light, and I am struck by the extreme impropriety of what has just occurred. I am glad I did not realize it at the time, but Inigo has dispensed with his trousers and wears only his shirt and a pair of cotton underdrawers, something I find fascinating in a dreadful kind of seventeen shillings and sixpence way (if I still maintained the fund). Worse still, his arm is draped across me, and his hand is right inside my shift.

  It has nothing to do with milking cows. Nothing at all.

  “What’s wrong?” he mumbles and pulls me closer. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the burns I suffered during my brief stint as housemaid.

  “Inigo, I have to go home.”

  “No, you don’t. Not yet.” He rolls away from me, to my relief, and looks at his son.

  Will has extricated one of his mother’s breasts and sucks away with great energy.

  Inigo cups his son’s head for a moment, and then turns back to me. “Please don’t marry Blackwater. Even if I’m entirely wrong about him, which I assure you I’m not, you can’t marry him.”

  “But I promised I would. My mama and papa expect it. Everyone does. Besides, are you sure you are not mistaken? You were rather foxed that night.”

  “Not that foxed. I love you, Philomena. Marry me.”

  “Inigo, this is most irregular. We are in bed with your mistress and your natural son and you cannot propose here.”

  “Oh yes he can, and he should. Accept him, Philomena.” Fanny is awake now. She frowns and scratches her mop of hair. “Will is wet. I’d best see to him.”

  “I’ll take him.” I struggle into my gown, pick Will up, and kiss his cheek. I can hear Molly banging around in the kitchen and consider it probably safe from black beetles now.

  Inigo follows me.

  “Sir, pray put on your nether garments!” I rush out of the room with Will damp and cooing in my arms.

  “Philomena”—he is trying to button his trousers and negotiate the stairs behind me, and I fear we shall all fall down—“if you wish to be honorable, then pray break off the engagement before accepting me. I’ll get a special license—ah, there’s my boy, what a fine big c—k he has indeed.”

  “Oh, do have some propriety, Inigo.” I look up from the kitchen table, where his son grasps his appendage and laughs as though he has never been at death’s door. That, I suppose, says much about men in general. “I promise, I’ll speak to Hor—Blackwater. I’ll talk to Mama, and Papa too when he comes back. How can I make a promise to you when I’m promised to another? What would your family think?”

  “Oh, the devil take my family,” he says as I fight to swathe the wriggly baby in cotton. I finally leave Will in Molly’s more capable hands.

  I rush around the house collecting my shoes, pelisse, gloves and bonnet. My stays are discarded on the floor and I roll them up tightly under one arm, hoping no one will guess what I carry. Without them I feel most peculiar, and my dress looks like a sack, but I will not ask Inigo to lace me into them. It would be dreadfully improper.

  Inigo follows, generally getting in the way, and puts his own coat, stockings and boots on. “I can at least summon you a hackney,” he says. “You’re sure I can’t escort you home?”

  I know he is torn between leaving his son and accompanying me, and I tell him to stay with Fanny and Will. I shall have to make a discreet entrance into our house, and I certainly do not want to arrive home with a debauched-looking gentleman as my escort.

  When I get back to the house I enter through the servants’ quarters, hoping I will not see any black beetles. What I do see is Hen, with curling papers in her hair, and some of the other staff having breakfast. They stare at me, and then their chairs scrape back as they rise.

  “It’s all right. Please don’t get up.” My hands are suddenly weak and clumsy, and to my shame, I burst into tears as my stays tumble onto the floor. I know I cry from relief and exhaustion, but heaven only knows what they think.

  “It’s all right, miss.” Hen scoops up my stays and guides me upstairs, murmuring of hot baths and breakfast while I weep uncontrollably.

  I fall asleep before my bathwater is brought, and then fall asleep in it. Hen puts salve on my burns, tut-tuts at the state of my gown, but asks no questions. She feeds me tea and toast before I tumble gratefully into my warm bed and sleep again.

  “Miss Philomena, Miss Philomena! You must wake up!”

  I struggle out of a deep sleep, where I have been wandering through dim passages trying to find a crying baby. “Hen, what’s the matter?”

  “The captain’s here, miss.”

  “But it’s only ten o’clock. What does he want?” I am quite stupid with sleep. Meanwhile, Hen bustles around the room, pulling out finery.

  “You know what he wants, miss. Up with you, now.”

  And then my mother rushes into the room, and there is no peace. “Come why are you in bed still I hope Miss Blundell is well now it is a pity you came home so late for she could be a bridesmaid but Lydia and Charlotte will suffice I think the ball gown with the long sleeves from the merino Hen my the Captain is in a great hurry he swears he will have you today before he dies of love—”

  “Mama! Mama!” I run to her. “You mean the captain wants to marry me today?”

  “Indeed yes it is as you arranged why you cunning vixen he told us how you meant to run off with him and I was so grateful he was more mindful of your reputation than you were miss I should be angry but love is a wondrous thing indeed and he is so tall and handsome—”

  “I will not marry him!” I roar in the voice I usually reserve for Charlotte and Lydia. “Tell him to go away! I never arranged to elope with him. It is a wicked lie. I don’t love him!”

  “Too late, miss,” Hen says. “He’s downstairs claiming he’ll throw himself in the Thames if you do not take him.”

  “Let him!” I dash to the window and fling it open in the hopes that Inigo waits below on a white charger, but there is instead a man with a dancing dog playing a fiddle, that is the man plays the fiddle, not the dog. “Help!” I shriek before Hen pulls me away.r />
  “Now, miss, everything will be all right. Don’t you worry—”

  “Vile deceiver!” I say to Hen as though I were one of Fanny’s tragic heroines and scream loudly again. I regret to say there is something quite enjoyable in all of this. “Papa didn’t mean this to happen. I will not marry him! I never made him any such promise!”

  “Miss,” Hen hisses into my ear, “you’re engaged to him, and if that’s not a promise to marry, what is? Besides, if you do not marry him you’ll be ruined after last night, and your sisters with you. Shame on you!”

  Loud, booted male feet clump up the stairs. “Where is she, ma’am?”

  “—oh pray sir this is most irregular you cannot come in here why see how she blushes oh Philly my dear cover yourself oh and here are my two youngest all dressed and ready to be bridesmaids my dears you do look well Lydia do you wear the yellow ribbon it is no matter although what I shall do when Philly is gone to tell you apart I do not know—”

  “Get out!” I scream to the room in general and hurl a certain china receptacle in the direction of the doorway. I regret it is not empty.

  The captain swears mightily and retreats, as do all the others. I rush to lock the door, then scramble up onto the bed, wrap my arms around a bedpost, and burst into tears of humiliation.

  Outside there is a whispered conversation I cannot hear properly, and then blessed silence.

  After a while, there is a timid knock on the door. “Philly, may I come in?”

  “Which one of you is it?” Even I can’t tell from their voices.

  “Charlotte, sister.”

  “Are you alone?”

  A giggle and a scuffle. “Yes.”