by Leah Moyes
I wiped the tears off my face and blew my nose on my sleeve. Why wait until morning to face humiliation in the daylight? I could not bear to see Lizzy and Abby’s beautiful faces in agony. Unless . . . unless they believed the Maggot too? Could they honestly believe that I could deliberately hurt their brother? Someone I deeply cared for?
Sleep evaded me as I contemplated my predicament. Without options, the truth of a swift departure came clear. I needed to leave now. I chose my dress, a decent working dress, and slipped quietly down to the kitchen for a handful of biscuits. I stuffed them into my knapsack, along with my few possessions, and ducked out into the darkness. The anger I felt became a good diversion to the bitter chill.
I stepped onto the dirt road that led away from the only life I knew here, but I was a New Yorker. I have braved the unknown before. I was a terrorist attack survivor at 6 years old. I lost one uncle and a cousin in 9/11, and I faced immeasurable agony when I lost Jeff over a year ago.
I sighed dejectedly as I took one long gaze back at the daunting silhouette of Charlock Manor in the moonlight, and then my emotions reached their peak.
“You won!” I cried out loud, knowing the closest neighbors were miles away. Eerie silence surrounded me, even the insects stopped chirping. “Are you happy now?” I screamed as ominous clouds hovered across the path of the only source of light, a crescent moon. Unaware of who or what deserved my wrath, I continued to curse my life and its latest twist. I walked for hours until the sky turned the pale gray color of a pending dawn.
“Why me?” I begged. I could taste the salt from the tears on my cracked lips as I stumbled from exhaustion, “why me . . .” the words rolled off my equally parched tongue barely a moment before I fell to the dirt road. With no will to go forward, I allowed my eyes to close.
Chapter Twenty-seven
November 1878
The night they released me from the Gilfords, I wanted to give up. My desire to curl up and die arose so great, I nearly gave in. With no hope or reason, I faltered, blinded by my limitations. Though I didn’t have the unfortunate fate of a cage, similarities to a trapped animal came to mind. Yet, somehow, I continued. I tottered aimlessly westward, with no direction, and no plan.
I used the river as my compass. I took cover under thick hedges at night as the temperatures dropped. Twice, I snuck into barns, and slept in the warm hay until the stable hands found me and kicked me out. I used my last remaining coins on food by the fifth day and went another two without eating. I neared both emotional and physical defeat when a miracle happened.
On the edge of the road outside of the village of Kemble, a woman of no special consequence went shopping for new shoes. With nothing unusual about her, she shared similar appearances to all the other women and men who had passed me by without a blink of an eye. Now part of the forsaken vagabond, I became one of many beggars along this route.
Why she stopped and spoke to me was puzzling . . . and lifesaving.
“Miss?” The kindness in her voice was foreign to me. In the last few days only malice and derogatory remarks reached my ears. My eyes lifted barely enough to see her hands. She cupped a fresh roll. The smell filled my cavities and brought hope where none existed. “Please accept this,” she encouraged and held it close enough for me to touch.
My chin angled upward, and our eyes met. Then something clicked. She must’ve seen something or felt something because even after she gave me the food, she sat down next to me.
“What’s your name?” She insisted on having a conversation. Humiliated and broken, I didn’t see the point, and though I questioned her motive, I devoured the bread.
She continued despite my silence. “Where is your home and your family?” I didn’t answer. “I, myself, grew up near here, not far, about twelve kilometers to the East. It’s a beautiful place.” She pulled her legs up underneath her dress as if she planned to stay awhile. “Currently, I serve the Attwoods, a respectable family nearby . . . are you acquainted with the name?”
She’s a servant?
Weary and hungry, the elements took a toll on my intellect. I struggled to understand why she cared or stayed. Yet when she spoke, the kindness that emerged, and the gentle manner in which she attended me, brought forth a wide array of feelings.
Her hand went to my arm with a soft touch. “What do they call you?”
“Katharine,” I whispered.
“Nice to meet you, Katharine, I’m Joanne.”
I glanced at her in spurts, attempting not to linger long in jealousy of her good fortune. We seemed close in age, only she appeared well cared for, and while the harsh elements of hard work can take a toll on young women in servitude, her beauty maintained astonishing well. Her golden curls fell gently over her shoulders and not in a tight bun like most help. The lines in her face around her mouth curved upward to show she rarely frowned, and her wide blue eyes revealed enormous compassion.
“Thank you,” I mumbled, amazed at what a small act of charity could do to one’s soul. Especially when that one soul teetered on the edge of collapse. Joanne sat with me for nearly an hour of her own time and made me feel like I was worth it. Her hand of friendship saved my life.
“Are you employed, Katharine?”
“No.”
“I see.”
She most likely expected this, but when I opened my mouth again, surprise blanketed her face. “I was recently released from Charlock Manor.”
“Char—Charlock Manor?”
“A week ago, I believe, or maybe it’s been longer.”
She squeezed my hand despite the dirt that caked on my skin. “Oh, dear, you’ve been a dosser ever since? How dreadful.” Her voice grew weak, and her demeanor turned timid. “What did you do at Charlock?”
“I—a, I was a maid.” This was the first thing that came to mind, and I truly didn’t know why I said it, but in my current state, the word governess would surely be questioned.
“Maybe I can help.” Her eyes beamed. “My employers had a recent vacancy. Would you consider returning home with me?”
“Why me?” The question seemed reasonable. I was not the only homeless person living outside of town, although I may have been the only one our age.
“Because,” Her eyes took a far-away look, “there was a time in my life, I didn’t have anyone else and a simple act of kindness made all the difference in the world for me.”
“But you could choose to help anyone here,” I pointed to others along the road.
“When I passed by earlier, I saw something in your eyes. It touched me.”
“Fear?”
“Maybe . . . or something else.”
I stared at her. She smiled and held out her hand. “Katharine, come home with me.”
I reluctantly agreed. I needed a place to go desperately, but really, I only wanted to go home, my home in the future.
Once we arrived at the Attwood’s, she ushered me to a guest room unseen—or so we thought. There, with the help of Grace, another maid, Joanne cleaned me up and put one of her own frocks on me before she presented me to her employers.
What I didn't know then, but later found out, was that Heath, the pompous valet, spotted us on arrival and confronted Joanne about her intentions with me. This was when I learned of her magic touch. She soothed unease in a way no other could. Through her insistence, he retreated, but not before he made it clear he didn’t like the fact that they were bringing “rubbish” in as help. This was something he reminded me of every day from that time forth.
I seldom saw the family I worked for, the Attwood’s. They comprised of Jotham, the father, Mary the mother, and two older children that attended boarding school most of the year. They didn’t have as large a house as the Gilfords, but identical social status almost certainly linked an association. Thankfully, the Attwood’s kept to themselves. No large gatherings or balls, simply intimate dinner parties with close acquaintances.
Joanne, Grace, and I became fast friends. If it weren’t for their guida
nce, I wouldn’t have lasted these four weeks. They taught me what to do and not to do and defended me often from the constant criticism Heath spewed. In his eyes, I could do nothing right. Although to his credit, my servant knowledge was limited to, what I’d seen Ana, and Chelsa do.
Joanne worked for the Attwood’s the longest out of the three of us since they acquired the home four years ago. She recently took the position of the lead housekeeper’s assistant, overseeing myself and Grace and two houseboys. Mrs. Attwood adored Joanne, and many times requested her to attend to her personally.
Grace’s responsibilities included the side of the house opposite the master suite, which fit her perfectly because the farther away she stayed from the Attwoods, the better. She accomplished her job satisfactorily, but at seventeen, her energy and immaturity peaked. She talked too much and complained at all the wrong times. I was positive Joanne was the only reason Grace remained employed at the Atwood’s.
My duties in the household covered half of the lower level rooms, including a guest room that housed a ponce cousin who seemed to have his eyes and hands in the direction of any female servant. Within an hour of my acquaintance and an inappropriate pinch on my fanny, he learned quite fast what happens when you try to mess with the wrong girl. My brothers taught me at an early age how to defend myself, and as I grabbed his hand and twisted it painfully backward, I zeroed in on his face and nasty foul breath.
“I’ll happily cut off your bollocks if you ever do that again,” I hissed, “and if you ever tattle about this squabble, I’ll cut out your tongue as well.”
Thankfully, my threat was taken seriously. He could have easily had me removed, but instead avoided me at every turn.
With five months deep into my “twilight zone”, I finally reached a point in my make-believe world, that I would no longer tolerate people like him, Heath or Margaret and their unyielding schemes to cause injury. I had little to lose.
At the Gilfords, I’d been relatively sheltered and protected from the outside elements of the shadier side of nineteenth-century life. Blessed to have been associated with a family of high morals, I missed much of my former employ. The friendships I developed with Merritt and the girls left a hole in me so great that when I walked in those early mornings around the Attwood’s grounds, my thoughts often went to them. What are they doing now? Studying, playing? Had Mrs. Gilford succumbed to her illness? Did Merritt marry Margaret? They were hard to forget.
“Joanne, may I accompany you to Kemble today?” It was the village we met in, only a couple of kilometers from the estate and not large by any means. However, it met the basic needs of any residence nearby without the need to travel a farther distance to Molesey or London. It offered a mercantile, a modiste, ironmongery, pub, café, boarding house, butcher, and coster cart.
While I usually passed up the weekend jaunt into town, I needed to find a shawl or a cover very soon. The long sleeves on my new dress provided minimal comfort with the bitter bite of winter approaching. It didn’t take long for me to remember I owned no coat. I didn't exactly plan for this or to be here this long. Before my trip to England, I purchased a nice leather jacket for the curator job, but like everything else, it remained somewhere in twenty-first century “Lala” land.
With the companionship of Joanne and Grace, the walk towards Kemble seemed less arduous. In fact, it felt like I was back at college with my roommates. Like Kelly and Maria at ASU, Joanne, Grace, and I were all different, but together, we fit. Joanne’s calm temperament teetered like a balance beam between us. The younger Grace, with her thick British accent, limited education, and speed, rarely took a breath when she spoke and never hesitated to speak her mind. Then add my western words to the mix, and this made for a comical experience.
“I’m right knackered.” Grace plopped down near the closest tree.
“We're not that far,” I pointed over the hill. It had to be all that natter that exhausted her. When she spoke, she bounced like the Energizer bunny.
The other staff continued with the small cart, but Joanne took her place next to Grace, though she didn’t seem tired at all.
“Okay, fine,” I said, as I dropped down with the other two. When I did, my ring necklace ricocheted forward, and with a bright flash, Grace saw the diamond.
“Well, all be, ‘tis shiny rock I thinks ‘tis?” She clamored to reach for it as I slipped it underneath the neck of my dress. Surprised at my rebuff, she coiled in rejection.
“Well, aren’t yer starched up with piety. We don't all ‘ave op’tunties liken the toff folk to eye prop’ty like that.” She pointed at my neck. “Not gunna nick it, jist wanna peep.”
“It’s personal,” I whispered, and covered it with the palm of my hand.
“I daresay, sumbodys a highbrow.” Grace snipped, offended.
I turned my back and pulled my knees tight against my chest. I didn’t want to start this subject today.
Her huff surfaced brash. “Not wirth a tiff.”
Joanne changed the subject quickly. “Let's be about our way, ladies.” She tapped me on the shoulder and stood to her feet. “I have no intention to set forth on our return after dusk.”
Grace immediately forgot why she pouted and jumped upright, ready to gossip more about the new stable hand she hoped to ‘chat up’ with. I remained quiet for the rest of the way. I didn't need to be closed off with Grace or Joanne. They showed me kindness in a time I felt all other doors were shut.
The token I wore faithfully around my neck had grown to be more like a scarlet ‘A’ than an adornment. A symbol of immense pain and loss instead of an exclamation of hope, but it meant the world to me. My ring was the only item that confirmed to me that my life in 2010 was real, and so was Jeff.
As Grace babbled on, Joanne skillfully moved closer, “Katharine, are you well?” Her hand grabbed mine softly at our sides.
“I will be. Thank you.” I squeezed her hand.
My thoughts wandered to a favorite movie of mine as a teenager when I crushed on Mel Gibson and watched all of his films over one summer. In the movie, “Forever Young,” a young, handsome pilot (Gibson) was deeply in love with his beautiful girlfriend, but she got hit by a car and was in a coma. He was led to believe she would die, and in response, his scientist friend froze him so he would not experience the pain of her death. He was only supposed to be frozen for one year, but due to the unplanned death of the scientist, it ended up being for fifty years. When Gibson awoke, he found out that his one true love actually recovered, and he missed out on fifty wonderful years with her because he was scared.
The story always made me sad. Now I was certain Jeff was dead, he wasn't in a coma somewhere waiting for me to return to him, he was buried and gone. So why am I staying frozen?
“A coach?” Grace squealed as she pointed out an upscale black phaeton parked on the outskirts of town.
“Tis spec yu don't see evry'day!”
She was referring to it being in Kemble because her own employers owned two similar carriages themselves. And while there were many wagons and horses in the vicinity, none were of this particular quality. I stretched my neck to get a better view. The carriage appeared vaguely familiar. The driver seated comfortably up top had fallen asleep, with an empty buggy behind him. I stopped in my tracks and scanned wildly in all directions. Joanne paused next to me; her face squinted to my erratic behavior.
“Katharine?” She inquired. “You look gutted.”
The local slang grew on me. “No, I’m dandy,” I fibbed. Turning to Joanne, I handed her my small drawstring purse. “Would you please get me a tippet at the ladies’ store?”
“But—” Joanne protested, “I couldn’t possibly know what you fancy?”
“Anything warm and sparing,” I pleaded, “please . . . I’ll owe you.” My eyes begged the favor until Joanne conceded and clasped both our purses in one hand.
“Where might you be off to?” She questioned. Her eyes revealed suspicion.
“Merely an inquiry.
”
“For what?”
“Nothing to worry about, I promise.”
“Very well,” She hesitated. She seemed to know something was off but took Grace by the hand anyway and departed. I waited until they disappeared into town before I approached the carriage. I didn’t want to bother the sleeping man but needed confirmation.
Drat! Exactly, what I thought.
What was I going to do now? Suddenly many thoughts and feelings fought their way to the surface. I stealthily maneuvered my way from building to building unseen. My emotion ranged from anger and emptiness to sadness and pain. How could I have not seen him yet, and how, has he cleverly avoided my view? This town is not that big!
Maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me. I no longer understood the boundaries of fantasy and reality. My subconscious may have conjured up an illusion out of longing. Maybe I yearned for this so much, I fantasized the possibility—until I heard his voice.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Miss Katharine?”
Standing only meters away, a man appeared in formal wear as if he was attending a dinner party—a dark gray waistcoat, black cravat, and a top hat. His black gloves were gripped in one hand. He looked striking. Except for his new accompaniment—a cane. I cringed at the sight of his less than perfect form. I, alone, was responsible for his new companion.
“It is you! Miss Katharine!” Merritt made no attempt to conceal his delight. It was a bit unnerving. My silence presumed I’d seen a ghost. “I am most delighted to see you!” He exclaimed as if he ignored my apprehension.
Confused, I glanced behind me to see if he was talking to someone else, but I was the only one present.
“Are you certain you have the right Katharine?” My reply overflowed with cynicism.
He laughed. I had not seen that in ages. My insides caved, but outside I held firm.