“Hmmm? Smythe.”
“No,” Jonathan began. “I meant your Christian name.” He felt his tongue thicken as he awaited her response.
Good God, man. It’s not as if you’ve just requested to see her in her shift.
Foote cleared her throat and responded, “My mother named me Lydia after her sister who died at the age of four.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Jonathan said, lamely realizing that it sounded as if he was sorry her name was Lydia. He nearly began to explain himself, but didn’t, fearing it would only make things more awkward.
“Sir Jonathan?” Foote said.
“Yes?”
“I fear that we are low on meat and other foodstuffs. I’ve a joint for tomorrow’s dinner and a side of bacon, but beyond that we are without meat.”
He asked, “What would Cook do to acquire more?”
“Well, she would send word to the butcher…which I did.”
“And?”
She paused. “He says he will send no more until he is paid for both the last delivery and the newest order.”
“Alright, I will see about it.”
He recalled how adoringly she had looked at him when he said he knew where the laudanum was for Ploughman. He envisioned her regarding him similarly in a few short hours when he returned with a large slab of bacon.
Just then, Elliott reemerged with a short stick and jogged up to them, breathlessly.
“Watch this, Jonathan!” He hurled the stick across the yard.
Sassy tore after it, gravel spraying out from under her rapidly flying feet. She soon returned, the stick clenched in her jaws, slime dripping from either end.
“Eww,” said Elliott. “You can keep it, but here is your treat.”
“Well done, Elliott.” Jonathan patted his back. “Truly, very well done.”
The little boy beamed.
“And you as well for teaching him, Lydia.” Jonathan said the name as casually as he could, but it rang in his ears as if he had said ‘darling’. Somehow he managed not to cringe.
At this sentence the two young adults looked at each other straight on, and quickly glanced away.
However, it was not before Jonathan noted a pleased glow in her eyes.
***
Within an hour, Jonathan had saddled Achilles and was riding toward the butcher in Plimbridge. Having paid Smith with money from the sale of the horses, he had grabbed a few of the remaining coins for his jaunt into town.
When he was a child, he had seen the gutted piglets hanging from the porch’s rafters. There were other dangling carcasses, some quite large, but none as easily identifiable as the piglets. Therefore, from an early age he had thought of that place as the Dead Pig Shop. It was later that he learned it was the butcher’s and that much of the flesh he ate passed through there before landing on a platter at Whitehall.
Plodding down High Street, Jonathan passed the haberdashery, the milliner and the coffee house. These were all places he had visited by himself or with Sophia. Inside the butcher shop, however, he had never been.
After dismounting and securing Achilles to a post out front, Jonathan entered the shop, stepping past a young girl. She was scrubbing a stain on the wooden floor with a brush and wet sand.
There was a thick, sickly smell of blood filling the room. Spots of it were everywhere, on the walls, splattered on the open shelves before him. The fresher smears were bright red and the older were brown.
Why bother? wondered Jonathan as he saw the girl was scrubbing at the particularly large stain.
The shelves held crudely hacked large joints and finer cuts which had been more carefully carved.
Jonathan stood for only a moment, when the girl with the brush abandoned her task, and came to stand before him.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, her eyelids drooped as she ran her hands down her apron.
“Yes, I’d like to have some beef and pork delivered to Whitehall.”
“One moment please, sir,” she said and walked behind the shelves. There, perched on a little table, was a large book. The girl flipped through many pages, which were edged with bloody fingerprints.
“Whitehall, did you say?” She stopped at a page and stared at it a long time, biting her lip.
Come on then, thought Jonathan, longing for fresh air.
“One moment please, sir.” She disappeared through a doorway at the back of the shop.
Jonathan stood awkwardly, sickened by the heavy scent in his nostrils and wondering how many stains his clothing would have once he left.
Soon, the girl returned. Seemingly reluctant to meet Jonathan’s eyes before, now she focused completely on her own feet and informed him, “I’m sorry, sir, but my father says Whitehall must pay before you get anymore.”
“Of course,” responded Jonathan. “How much is owed?”
“Two pounds, six shillings,” announced the girl, still staring at the ground.
What? That’s quite a bit. Good thing I brought as much as I did. He counted out the coins carefully into the girl’s palm.
“And how much for three more joints of beef and a rash of bacon?”
He flinched as she told him the amount.
“Uhh…just one joint of beef for now, I suppose,” he said, tallying up the remaining coins in his hand before passing them to her.
“The carter will deliver it tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan turned and left the shop.
As he rode away, he glanced toward the doorway and saw the man who must be the butcher himself. His heavy leather apron was the bloodiest item of all. In his hand he held a large cleaver. There were smears of gore across his face and a malevolent smirk as he watched Jonathan depart.
The air of it was grossly unsettling to Jonathan.
He might have at least put down the cleaver, he thought, perturbed that someone so obviously disliked him. He was used to similar expressions on faces of boys at school whom he had bested with a prank, but a muscular man from the working class holding a sharpened tool had never dared to glare at him so forebodingly.
And why was the unpaid bill so high? Where’s all the cursed money? He wondered, thinking for the first time in a couple of weeks about his dismissal from Heath. What the bloody hell is happening?
I meant to go see the Lady about it immediately, but first there was everything with Ploughman…then Heldmann’s arrival, and now…
Jonathan realized he had no valid excuse to put off his trip to London any longer, though recollections of the previous evening made him hesitate.
To sit again tonight in the parlor, talking with Lydia until we drift off to sleep on the settee…
He smiled. Though he’d had a crick in his neck all day from the previous night’s discomfort, he could think of no way to spend an evening in a more pleasant manner.
Yet, Lydia will still be here when I return. Hopefully the Lady won’t return with me…
As he circled back onto High Street, some words painted on a window caught his eye:
Anthony Harris, Attorney of Law and Solicitor
“I’ll have to take that up with Harris.”
The words, stated by his father’s voice, echoed in his memory. Sir William had said them many times to the Lady over dinner.
Ah, yes, Harris. I haven’t thought of that name in years! I’d no idea he was right here in Plimbridge. Perhaps he will have some answers for me. In fact, he probably knows considerably more than the Lady, thought Jonathan, stopping in front of the building.
Paying him a call just might save me a trip to London.
Explaining How Things Are
~ Harris
The door’s bell jangled, announcing a new arrival.
“Hello?” a voice called.
“Yes. I’m back here,” Harris called from his back office.
The narrow body of a tall young man filled the doorway. “Mr. Harris? My name is Jonathan Clyde. I believe you might be able
to help me.”
Ah, the young Clyde has come at last, thought Harris, suppressing a groan.
“Yes, yes. Please sit down, Sir Jonathan,” said Harris, proffering a chair.
Still dressed in finery, I see, thought Harris, eyeing the dark blue vest under Clyde’s frock coat. Apparently the creditors have not run out of patience. Not yet, anyway…
Once settled, the young man held his hat between his hands and jiggled his knee.
Hmm, yes, let’s get this over with, thought Harris.
“What can I do for you today, sir?”
“Are you…aware of my family’s financial situation?” Jonathan asked, stumblingly.
“Yes,” was the unadorned answer with a slight nod.
“Can you…explain it to me?”
Of course his fool of a mother has left it to me to tell him.
Harris prepared himself for the regrettable transformation he had witnessed multiple times in that very room.
So many of the upper class are thinly veiled animals who at the mere mention of reality turn into either enraged bulls or whining dogs. Which sort of beast will you become, Young Clyde?
Oh, get on with it.
He cleared his throat and began.
“Obviously there was great wealth associated with the name of Clyde at one time. I did not begin to handle your family’s financial affairs until about twenty-five years ago, so I’m not aware of anything beyond the paper records that exist. Studying these several years ago, I saw that the troubles started when Sir William Clyde the Third began selling the estate’s farm land.”
“The troubles?” the young man interrupted him.
“Well, yes. At first it was just a few acres on the north side to settle some debts, but eventually he sold the entire portion as well as the eastern section. This eliminated a vast source of your family’s yearly income. Thus the expenses remained to maintain the grand home and its customary lifestyle, but there were fewer and fewer ways to fund them.”
The young baronet blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open as Harris continued.
“At the transfer of your mother’s dowry, your father acquired a great deal of money, your mother being the daughter of Miles Fanshawe. Your father and I met to discuss various options of what to do with it. I recommended investments, but he was set on restoring Whitehall to its former glory. This took more than ten years and cost the vast majority of what Lady Clyde brought into the union.”
Young Clyde held up his hand, asking, “Is…is she aware of all this?”
“Your mother? Hmm, yes. I sat with her shortly after your father’s death and explained to her the state of affairs. She informed me that you, as the heir, would take care of matters once you were of age, and that I needn’t bother her. As you know, that was more than five years ago. Since then, each of my letters requiring an audience with her has been unanswered. Might I ask, sir, are you yet twenty-one years of age?”
Jonathan’s eyes focused on the floorboards, his brow knit tightly together. “Uh, no, not for another thirteen months, actually.”
Hmm…well with everything falling apart, perhaps the Lady won’t stand in the way if he takes the reins…Harris thought.
“But, Mr. Harris,” Jonathan continued. “I don’t understand. How was I able to make my Grand Tour…how do we still have a house in London?”
“How your Tour was funded, I’ve no idea. Perhaps your mother sold some jewelry? As for the London property, it was never transferred to your father’s name and was, thus…” Harris nearly said ‘safe’, but caught himself, “…retained by your mother.”
At least Old Fanshawe had the forethought to require that contingency at his daughter’s marriage.
“Are you telling me…there’s no money left?”
The older man pursed his lips, pleasantly surprised at the calm delivery of such a question.
“No, there is some. The exact figures, I would have to read up on to determine, but there are a few investments that earn interest each year, which is why I’m still involved at all. I collect it every quarter and deliver it to your mother. However, the only thing of considerable value is Whitehall itself. Your father spared no expense in restoring it, ensuring that it would stand solid and sound for decades to come. Truthfully, I am surprised that you’ve all maintained the baronet-lifestyle as long as you have. I thought your mother would respond to every one of the letters I sent once she realized money was running low. May I ask what has happened that brought you here today?”
Harris listened unblinkingly as Jonathan relayed to him his dismissal from Heath, the empty stables and his recent trip to the butcher.
“Now we come to it, Mr. Harris…” The young man took a deep breath. “What should I do?”
Harris studied the person before him.
Hardly more than a boy, yet more rational than either of his parents. Perhaps he will be alright…if he follows my counsel.
“I fear you will dislike my recommendation, but honestly, I see no other option.”
“Carry on.”
Harris stared intently at Jonathan, sighed heavily and explained the exact course of action that he had suggested to the boy’s father nearly two decades earlier, recalling that it had been met with haughty ridicule.
At its conclusion, Harris was bemused as his client sat silently, chewing on his lower lip.
“Hmm…” Jonathan murmured, sitting for a moment longer before rising to his feet. “Well then, thank you for your time and advice, Mr. Harris.”
Neither a whimper nor a roar? Harris reached out to firmly shake the hand extended to him.
Well done, young sir.
Speaking with One’s Eyes
~ Lydia
Of the countless tasks she could have performed that afternoon, Lydia chose to clean the windows at the front of the house. They afforded the best view of the front drive.
The dust on the furniture was far thicker than the grime on the windows’ glass, she knew. Still, it was with great care that she wiped every inch of the panes, watching always for the sight of Jonathan’s black top hat upon his return from Plimbridge.
Much earlier, she had left Elliott happily employed with teaching Sassy to roll over, and now she saw him climbing a small tree on the edge of the lawn.
Alone in the hallway, her heartbeat quickened again at the thoughts she had been previously pushing down.
Don’t think so much of yourself! Such arrogance!
She felt her face warm.
But I know it’s true. The way he’s been speaking to me…and looking at me. I know genuine appreciation when I see it in someone’s eyes.
Turning, she saw the paintings of ‘those Clyde fellows’ staring out at her from their places on the wall. She abandoned her post at the windows to study them more closely, looking for any resemblance to Jonathan in their features.
Would you fine gentlemen be horrified at your young descendant’s leanings?
Only William Walter Clyde the Second seemed to gaze at her disapprovingly. The First and Third looked disinterested altogether, while the Fourth nearly appeared jolly at the prospect.
Dead relatives are of little consequence, Lydia told herself. It’s the living ones who are scandalized.
An image of Lady Clyde stepping into the carriage after surveying the servants on the day of her departure filled Lydia’s mind. It was a sobering thought.
But he’s not like his mother, she assured herself. He didn’t flinch at the broken vase. He says nothing that smacks of snobbery.
Still, her presence would forever be a dark cloud over our life.
“Our life”? The thought jolted her. Am I so bold as to think of ourselves as intertwined?
Steady, Lydia. Steady. You may be disappointed…and gravely so.
But there’s no mistaking it! His feelings are clear…
As are mine…
Stop it! You ridiculous girl! You were setting your cap for the Ger
man only days ago.
But I didn’t know the man, whereas, Sir Jonathan has lived his life clearly before me for months. I’ve seen his constant and genuine affection for his siblings, which is a testimony to his character…and he’s exceedingly clever!
She thought back over the previous evening, how exhaustion had laid hold of her, but she had refused to excuse herself to bed, unwilling to end their evening in the parlor together. Instead, she had sat with Elliott’s little head on her knee, her backside numb from immobility, until the next thing she saw was Smith’s scornful face lit by early morning light, looming in the doorway.
Oh, but the disappointment that may come! Losing that boor, Paul, to Anne Triver would be nothing by comparison…
Stop it. Think about something else, you silly fool.
Her eyes drifted from the paintings and rested on the little door, blocked by the writing desk, ten feet away.
The mysterious, narrow door. That’s a worthy distraction, she thought, moving toward it. What secrets do you hide, little one?
She heaved her weight against the oddly placed desk. It moved with a screech of protest, its thin legs resisting the slide across the floor.
Turning the oval shaped handle, she felt a surprising click and the door swung open, towards her. Behind it was a staircase, even steeper and narrower than the one leading up to her sleeping quarters. Peering into the darkness, she saw sunlight sharply outlining a door about twenty steps up.
It leads outside! But surely that door will be locked.
Her foot slipped slightly on the dust of unknown years which had settled on the wooden steps. There was no handrail. She wiped cobwebs from her hands and face as she ascended. Upon reaching the top step, she patted around where she imagined the doorknob would be and found it much higher than expected.
Grasping it, she breathed in sharply, steeling herself for the letdown she was sure would come. To her delight, the knob turned and she pushed the door out, letting in the piercing light of the sun.
She stood in the small doorway, squinting for several moments until her eyes adjusted to the light-filled world before her. A wind blew, flapping her skirt and apron. Slowly, she stepped outside under the belvedere.
The roof!
Unsheltered, she was now fair game to the wind which whipped at her clothes and stung her eyes.
This was a far finer view than the one afforded her in the servants’ chamber, and she gazed out on it, transfixed, for several moments. The whole of Whitehall’s grounds lay below her, verdant with the slight growth of a dawning season. Beyond, she could see the High Street of Plimbridge flanked by its stone buildings of commerce. The Plim flowed past them, straddled by its humpbacked bridge, the sun glinting off of its ebbings. In another direction, she saw acres and acres of newly furrowed fields and laborers, small as ants, preparing them further for crops. The fields were bordered by hedges which ran straight and thick, dividing the world into distinct sections. Multiple small villages dotted the landscape, their church steeples pointing to the sky. Turning, she saw in the distance, the encroaching woods abutting the fields, the many trees blending to form a dark green border on the horizon.