A Pair of Sharp Eyes

by Kat Armstrong

  As Mrs Tuffnell goes towards the door her back is turned, and I risk a glance at Abraham. His face remains expressionless. So why do I detect something I am sure is amusement in his eyes?

  Outside the chamber a housemaid polishes the banisters. As we troop downstairs I decide that this young woman, in contrast to the scullery maid, is amiable, for her eyes are grey and mild, and she does not look askance at my plain attire but smiles pleasantly and steps aside to let us pass.

  ‘You may leave my chamber for today, Grey,’ Mrs Tuffnell tells her. ‘Make sure you sweep your garret, mind, and turn both beds, not just your own. We don’t know when I’ll find a replacement for Hannah. I may at any time.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  Nothing could contrast more sharply with our reception from Miss Pot-Scrub as we enter the kitchen. She thumps down a heavy dish so hard she makes the table shake.

  ‘Scrub!’ Mrs Tuffnell is outraged. ‘It shall come out of your wages if your master’s pewter goes to the workshop to have the dents removed. And if you mark the table you will have the pleasure of sanding it ‘til the marks are gone.’

  Mrs Tuffnell’s reprimand does nothing to improve the sour expression on Pot-Scrub’s face. If she could do so without her mistress seeing, she would poke out her tongue at all of us.

  Unawares, or caring nothing for the scullery maid’s opinion, Mrs Tuffnell hums with pleasure as she unlocks a small door in a corner of the kitchen.

  ‘Come on, don’t be shy.’ She gestures for me to enter.

  Mrs Tuffnell spoke the truth upstairs. Her still-room would interest any visitor. The deep, wide shelves, the wood scrubbed and scoured as clean as if it were a dairy, are filled with dozens, perhaps hundreds, of jars and pots, some larger ones earthenware but most of fine white porcelain, as well as several glass vessels of various shapes and sizes. There is a marble pestle and mortar, a grinding stone of polished granite, a pair of scales and a set of tiny brass weights such as druggists use, and most curious of all, a cabinet whose wooden drawers are labelled with mysterious legends. Tinct. Pl. Tinct. Pl. Alb. Traganth. Gum Arab.

  ‘Are these herbs, Madam?’

  Mrs Tuffnell gives a droll laugh. ‘This isn’t a shop for turning out common remedies or drying blackcurrant leaves for cottage tea. My preparations are for the use of gentlewomen.’ She unlocks a drawer and reveals a tray filled with a white, chalk-like substance, the larger pieces neatly wrapped in paper. Mrs Tuffnell tips a small quantity onto a saucer, then sets it aside and unlocks each drawer in turn, scanning my face as she does so.

  Every drawer contains some coloured mineral or preserved ingredient which, from the strong, musky aromas rising from them, include civet, perfumed bark and something she calls orris. ‘Made by grinding the root of a particular flowering plant,’ she says. ‘Irises—you did not have those in your father’s garden.’ We had irises aplenty, but I shake my head in agreement. Sliding shut the drawer, Mrs Tuffnell reaches for a small stone jar, touching her fingertips to a dusty-looking lump of reddish clay, and rubbing the resulting powder on her hand. It produces a smear of deep crimson. She looks at me in triumph. ‘Can you guess? No? It is rouge, Mistress, such as ladies wear on grand occasions.’

  ‘I saw ladies wearing rouge in Bath,’ I exclaim, then wish I had not brought Mrs Buckley to mind.

  She nods. ‘Indeed. It is also worn on less grand occasions. That is, when the ladies can afford it.’ She takes down a small, shallow pot from the shelf above her head and lifts the lid carefully to reveal the contents. ‘Go on. It is rose of attar. One of my trade secrets, you must not tell anybody that I add it to my rouge. Put some on your cheek there. What we term your “apples.”’ She offers me a looking-glass. It is heavy, the handle made of chased metal, and bright as silver.

  I blink at my reflection. I look like someone other than myself. Older; wealthy.

  ‘Tip your head back.’ She uncorks a tiny vial, and before I can protest, drops something cold and wet into my eye. ‘Keep still. Let me do the other.’ My sight is blurred; I put my hand out for the counter. Again, she flourishes the looking-glass.

  ‘Do you see what has happened? Look how huge and beautiful your eyes are. To gentlemen, they are irresistible. Don’t be afraid, girl. It does no harm or half the ladies in this town would be blind.’ She dabs a fine limner’s brush in the saucer, and using the looking-glass to guide her, applies the powder to her own face. Then she looks up expectantly. ‘Say you have worked too hard, helping your father with the harvest, and your face is brown and weathered. My white lead restores your complexion in an instant.’

  Her face is as snowy as her page-boy’s shirt collar. It looks like a mask made of paper for a mummer’s play.

  ‘I don’t suppose a farm-girl could afford white lead. But you look … lovely, Madam. Very pretty. I never saw fairer.’

  She preens. ‘This is only the beginning. One must also use rouge, mixed with a little almond oil, and paint a red paste to the lips, and before that, pluck away the eyebrows and replace them with ones made from soot and wax, or shreds of mouse-skin. And I like to add a patch or two, it is the way in high society, you know. Hannah, for all her faults, had the nimblest fingers when it came to cutting patches.’ She shows me a small box filled with miniscule black circles, hearts and half-moons. ‘I wear them here,’ she says, placing a finger on her cheek. ‘Mr Tuffnell likes me to wear one here.’ She selects a tiny black silk heart and holds it to her bosom.

  She sees my eyes slide to her page-boy. ‘Oh, do not trouble about Pug. He knows all the secrets of a lady’s dressing-room. I caught him playing with my plumpers the other day.’ A wag of the finger. ‘Plumpers are placed inside the cheeks, to improve the profile.’

  ‘It is all most interesting, Madam. I expect you have a great many customers.’

  ‘I do. Now you’ve been initiated into my Temple of Beauty you needn’t be fooled when you go about Bristol and see some fat grandmamma with a face as delicate as a virgin’s. She’s one of my ladies, for certain. It’s done discreetly, of course. I wouldn’t dream of tittle-tattling about those who buy my preparations.’

  She begins to put her pots and jars and packages away, lost in thought. Then she stops. ‘Though I’m in some difficulty at the present time. Grinding powders and distilling are time-consuming, exacting tasks, and I lack a maid to help me, as I explained.’

  ‘My mother used to say she didn’t know how she’d run the house without me, Madam. I did all the work of salting cheese, sieving meal and grinding spices.’ In truth our fare at home was plain, but Mrs Tuffnell is not to know. However, she remains doubtful.

  ‘Yes, yes. These aren’t the accomplishments I require. Could you weigh a drachma? Use an alimbec? Describe a tincture?’

  ‘I’m a quick learner, Madam. I used to mix Cousin Mary’s draughts. I made her poultices and salves, and purges, and the physician said he never saw a cleaner sick-chamber.’

  ‘Purges,’ Abraham giggles. His smile vanishes at Mrs Tuffnell’s hard stare.

  ‘Pug thinks it a joke,’ she says, cuffing him so hard tears spring to his eyes. ‘You might think he’d take a lesson from Hannah’s dismissal.’ To my dismay she grips the boy’s collar and pulls him close, speaking softly. ‘You and Hannah chose to help yourselves to my still-room, and daub your faces, and Hannah paid the price for your insolence.’ She releases him none too gently, and turns to me. ‘He’s a child, and I told him I’d forgive him. Hannah should have known better. I whipped her and turned her out of doors.’

  This story, if I had not spent the last interval delivering letters in the wind, assuring Liz between-times that I could do better than join her as a weeding-woman, might prompt me to remind Mrs Tuffnell politely of the time, and depart Barbuda House vowing never to set foot there again. But I can manage Mrs Tuffnell and her moods, and her little page will be a sort of companion. I do like her still-room, with its scents and secrets. If I stay here awhile I may learn enough to make face-paints of my own to
sell, or at the least, find work in an apothecary’s shop.

  ‘Please, Madam, consider me. I should like to work for you.’

  She runs her tongue over her teeth, scrutinising me as if some falsehood may lurk behind my words. Then she straightens her shoulders. ‘Good. Very well, you may begin as my maid forthwith, with special duties in the still-room.’

  My heart patters now there can be no gainsaying the deed. ‘I hope I shall please you, Madam. I do work hard. I’m quick.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, her eyes darting to Abraham, in a reference to the mishap with the coach. ‘Therefore, can you go quickly to wherever you’re lodging, pack your things, and return by five o’clock? My husband and I have an engagement this evening. It suits me very well if you were here to dress me.’

  I laugh a little out of nervousness. Then I catch sight again of the shelves with their enticing pots and potions, and a smile breaks out across my face as warm as the sun that peeps in at the still-house window. ‘It suits me too, Madam. I’ll be here directly. Thank you, Mrs Tuffnell. Thank you very much indeed.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Intent on walking through the kitchen with my head held high, I am caught unawares by Abraham, who slips into the yard ahead of me.

  ‘Good-bye, my friend,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you when I bring my box. Will you greet me? Or will you be abed?’

  ‘Not I. When Mrs Tuffnell dines out Nell Grey lets me sit up late.’

  ‘I hope you take yourself off before Mrs Tuffnell comes back, then. She’s a strict mistress, is she not?’

  ‘She’s a liar,’ he says calmly. I glance upwards; the air is still and I pray the lady cannot overhear us.

  ‘Don’t swear, Abraham, or I shan’t talk to you.’

  ‘It’s true. Hannah was sent away not for stealing, but because Mr Tuffnell tried to kiss her on the stairs.’

  ‘Abraham, if Mrs Tuffnell were to hear she’d do worse than cuff you.’

  ‘I don’t need telling what she’d do.’ He turns and lifts his shirt. From his shoulders to his waist, his narrow back is covered in small welts.

  I draw a wincing breath. ‘I see I must be obedient and civil when I am Mrs Tuffnell’s maid.’

  Abraham shrugs, and tucks in his shirt. ‘We did sneak into the still-room that afternoon, Hannah and I. We thought she was out visiting. We were only play-acting.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Hannah made herself over as an old duchess with purple cheeks and bright red lips. I plastered my face with white lead. People here put on blackface. Why should I not do something alike?’

  ‘A good question. Though it was not your white lead.’

  He pouts. ‘She has enough to paint the privy outhouse if she wanted. She only found out because Suke Cross told her where to find us.’

  ‘Be comforted, master. I’m here now, and that makes two of us to wreak revenge on Suke Cross.’ But the lad does not smile or otherwise acknowledge the joke, and I leave him sulkily kicking a tennis-ball about the yard.

  ***

  The wind is cruel and the sky darkening as I walk back to All-Saints’-yard. Today is the last day of October and I feel blessed to have found a place by wintertime. Barbuda House will be a great deal warmer than Bill Eardley’s draughty makeshift hut.

  That shiftless hulk of a brother-in-law is hunched on a stool by the house door when I turn into the yard.

  ‘Good day, Brother. I’m only come to fetch my box. If you could be kind enough to tell my sister I’ll be back to see her on my first half day?’

  ‘Oh ho, ho.’ He chuckles nastily. ‘Been offered the post of lady’s maid to the mayor’s wife, have you? Thought not. What is it? Pot-washer in a hot-meat shop, with a pile of straw to sleep on?’

  It is a moment of sweet triumph. ‘You were closer to the truth the first time. Maid to Mrs Tuffnell of Barbuda House, Wine-street.’

  Bill’s mouth opens. His thoughts seem to rearrange themselves. Then he slaps his thigh. ‘Well done, girl.’ He apes a gentlewoman’s fluting tones. ‘“Barbuda House, Wine-street.”’ Another chortle. ‘You’re made, girl. Get your feet under the table, save your wages a year or two, the three of us will set up shop together.’ He sticks out a hand.

  I tuck my own behind my back. I shall not shake on any deal, and Bill can think twice if he expects to gain from my good fortune.

  ‘Thank you for your kind wishes, Brother. I must fetch my box.’

  ‘No, no. I wouldn’t dream of it. I shall fetch it for you, Miss Amesbury of Wine-street.’ He sets down the trap he was oiling, and goes inside.

  Bill had success last night, for there are three traps laid out on the ground for cleaning and re-setting, as well as a heap of the knives he uses to skin his catches. Some are thin-bladed, others broad and heavy. One in particular with a polished handle looks familiar.

  ‘Here you are.’ Bill reappears with my travelling-box under one arm. ‘I expect you’ll want to leave Liz a little something for her hospitality.’

  It is hard not to give in when he speaks so insolently and cheerfully, but he would never pass on any money supposing I were fool enough to trust him.

  I smile. ‘I have a gift, yes. Perhaps you would be kind enough to give it to her for me, with my love.’ I take my box and lift the lid. A small card lies on top with three pair of new silk buttons stitched to it. ‘Cousin Mary gave me these when I left Salisbury. I know Liz is fond of blue.’

  He scowls. ‘She’s fonder still of ready money.’

  ‘I offered her money and she refused. She’s proud, my sister. She knows how little I have.’

  Even Bill looks ashamed. He picks up a knife, peers at it, and looks about for his whetstone. Then he sets to sharpening the blade, frowning and examining it as if the business is an important one and I am forgotten.

  I could depart at once, but there is a question I must ask.

  ‘Bill? That knife there, the big one with the handle made of horn. It’s not the knife Liz found in the bothy? Liz said she had given it back to Mr Elliott, in case the magistrates came for it.’

  He pauses, knife in one hand, whetstone in the other. His thick, hairy fingers are black with grit and dirty water. ‘Do you accuse us of thieving from Mr Elliott? That’s my knife, girl. They’re all my knives. Liz never spoke of any knife to me, and if she had I would have said to give it back.’

  There are but ourselves in the yard. The neighbours are at work, and Mrs Jervis’s door is shut. Even the barefoot children have been driven inside by the biting wind.

  ‘Of course you would, Bill. I thought it a little like the one we found, but when I look closer it has a different handle altogether. And the blade is longer.’

  He nods. ‘Good.’ A pause, and he resumes work.

  ‘Well. Remember me to Liz, won’t you?’

  Bill grunts. It is plain he is glad to see the back of me. And I him; I would not ask to lodge beneath his roof again if no other house were standing.

  However, I must try to call on Liz as soon as possible to remind her to return the knife to Mr Elliott. I am certain it is the one we saw, and I would be sorry indeed if Mr Elliott or the magistrates accused my poor sister of stealing it. Or of something even worse.

  ***

  I was right when I judged the Tuffnells’ maid good-natured. She appears in the kitchen as soon as I return, and I am sure she has been listening out for me.

  ‘Miss Helen Grey,’ she says, offering her hand. ‘Nell Grey will do.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Nell Grey.’ It feels very sober to introduce ourselves like grown-up folks. ‘Miss Coronation Amesbury. Friends call me Corrie.’

  ‘Follow me.’

  We climb two pair of stairs, and Nell Grey throws open the door of an attic room with a narrow window, a set of hooks, a wooden chest, and two bed-steads, on each of which there is a tolerably thick feather bed, a wool blanket, a small pillow, and a counterpane. ‘That one’s yours,’ she says. ‘You’ll need your own pair of sheets.’ A char
coal drawing of a dimpled, round-faced woman in a mob cap looks down on the wall above her own bed.

  ‘We’re allowed a fire on the coldest days so long as we gather and carry in the wood ourselves,’ Nell Grey continues. ‘Only when it snows, mind. The shutters fit tight, see?’ She closes them, and although the room is dim, the rush-light she brought with us casts a warm and friendly glow. ‘It’s dark, to be sure, but then it’s nearly sundown.’

  ‘Does Abraham sleep here?’

  ‘Not he. He has a little room off Mrs Tuffnell’s bedchamber.’

  ‘And is he there now? He told me he intended to stay up tonight. I’m surprised Mistress allows it.’

  Nell Grey’s face falls. ‘He’s usually sent to bed at six. But tonight Mr Roach locked him in the cellar.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For throwing stones at Mr Tuffnell’s horses.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Not on purpose. You know what boys are like. I think Mr Roach was angry with Pug for another reason. Pug claimed Suke Cross and Mr Roach were kissing. We servants are forbid to court one another, as you may suppose.’ She flushes.

  ‘Does Mrs Tuffnell not object to Mr Roach punishing her darling?’

  ‘Her darling? She is somewhat … changeable, is that the word? She loves Pug but she was busy deciding what to wear.’

  My hand flies to my mouth. ‘She bid me help her dress. I’d better find her straight away.’

  Nell Grey grimaces. ‘Rather you than me. All Hallows is the most important feast of the year for the Society of Merchant Venturers. Watch out she doesn’t thrash you with her hairbrush if her dress fits ill. The handle is made of ebony, and very hard it is.’ Lowering her voice, she leads me back downstairs and turns left. ‘Here’s our mistress’s chamber. Good luck.’ Wishing Nell Grey had not left me so abruptly, I knock softly and announce myself.