Lady Clyde sneered slightly. “A farmer’s daughter? What is it that you have brought to me, Smith?”
“Please excuse me, Ma’am. She was a farmer’s daughter. He has died and left the family in a sorry state and so she has sought employment here.”
The Lady stared at the girl, who was looking at the ground. She sighed and turned back to the window.
“Very well,” she said. “I suppose that means she has every motivation to please her employer, but make it very clear to her that as long as she is employed by this house, she is not to think of herself as being above hard work, nor above the other servants. She must adjust to her new station in life and she shall behave as a servant in every respect of the word, regardless of the benefits she enjoyed in the past.”
“Certainly, Ma’am.” Smith bowed her head.
“You may go, Smith. Train her well.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Smith turned to go, silently motioning for the girl to follow.
Meeting the Other Servants
~ Lydia
“Oi! Shove down, Wells,” said the dark haired man. “This new li’l girl’s got nowhere to eat her dinner.”
There was some sliding around and a bare spot on the bench appeared.
“Thank you,” said Lydia as she took her place amongst the group of strangers, all of Whitehall’s servants.
Smith sat at the far end of the table in a chair.
At the other end sat the woman who had been standing at the stove earlier. Now her ruddy face was curled up in a look of mild disgust. Her florid complexion and bristly, colorless hair reminded Lydia of a breed of pig they’d raised at the farm one year.
On the benches sat the dark haired man, the older woman who had small blue eyes and a bulbous nose, the tall ginger-haired girl, and the older man who had carried Lydia’s trunk. He sat directly across from Lydia.
“What ‘ave you got for us tonight, Cook?” the dark haired man asked, passing his bowl down with the others.
“What do you think, Hardy? Roast venison with oysters,” Cook answered dryly as she ladled out a chunky soup.
Hardy laughed.
Where’s the delicious thing I smelled earlier? Lydia wondered, looking at the disappointing bowlful before her. Oh, of course, that must have been for the ‘Great Family’. Ah well, at least the rolls look good.
The sound of scraping spoons filled the small room.
The older man across the table nodded his head at Lydia.
“I’m Samuel Glaser, groundsman to Whitehall,” he said, sticking his hand out. His tanned face was a mass of wrinkles as he smiled.
“Lydia,” she responded, gripping his knobby hand. His forearm was also wrinkled, but the muscles underneath the flesh looked hard and knotted, capable.
“She is to go by ‘Foote’,” interrupted Smith, giving Lydia a slightly reproachful look.
“Foote? So are you kin to Sarah Foote who was in service here years ago?” Glaser asked.
“No.”
“You’re not?” queried Hardy. “I never knew there were so many Feet about!” He laughed heartily at his own joke.
Although she didn’t find it particularly amusing, Lydia smiled and went on to explain why Lady Clyde had changed her name to Foote and then said, “But I would prefer to be called Lydia.”
“Sounds a bit proud,” Cook interjected. “I’ve never balked at being called ‘Cook’.”
Yes, well you weren’t unjustly named after one of the smelliest parts of the human body, were you? Lydia thought, focusing on her soup.
“The Lady has decided that she shall be known as Foote,” Smith repeated, looking around the table as if to make certain they all heard.
“Where were you in service before Whitehall?” asked Glaser, tearing a roll in half.
“I’ve never been in service before,” Lydia answered, lifting her spoon to her mouth.
Surprise clearly registered on Glaser’s face as his hand paused in dipping his roll.
“Truly? I’ve been in service since I was eight. I was the littlest footman ever employed at Grafton House. What was your situation?”
“My father was a farmer. After he died, we couldn’t keep much of the farm. My mother sold most of the land on the condition that we could continue to live in the house and keep a garden and a bit of livestock.”
There was interest in Glaser’s eyes, though not the pity Lydia had seen in so many others’ eyes when she told her story.
But why would he pity me? She thought. I’m temporarily at the level he’s lived at all his life.
“A farmer, was he?” asked Glaser. “It’s a shame he didn’t have a son to work the land.”
“Oh, I have a brother, but he…” Lydia broke off.
“He what?” Cook asked, her sullen face suddenly suspicious.
“He broke his leg when he was fourteen, and afterward the left one continued to grow, but the right one never caught up. It makes farm work difficult.”
Cook guffawed at this explanation, though Lydia couldn’t imagine what was funny about it.
Hardy spoke up. “I came into service when I was seven. On my first day, the housekeeper had me follow her and handed me a china bowl. ‘Empty that,’ she says to me. It were the finest dish I ever had me li’l hands on, all white with blue flowers painted on it and I were scared to death I’d drop it. ‘Go on,’ she says. ‘Out to the hall with you and empty that in the bucket.’ Well, I went careful-like, wondering what fine food was inside. Half way down the hall, I lifted the lid and stopped right where I was. ‘Oi!’ I hollered back to her. ‘Oi! There’s piss in this pot!’”
A few others laughed at this, though Hardy laughed the loudest. Lydia tried to mask her own embarrassment by smiling slightly and focusing again on the rolls and soup before her.
So it’s to be pot-humor at the dinner table with this set, is it? Never mind, I can tolerate that for a few months, I suppose.
Lifting her roll, she cut it in half with a knife and looked around the table. She stopped as she noticed Cook was eyeing her.
“You look as if you’re searching for the butter with your knife in hand and your roll split open,” Cook laughed then picked up her own knife to imitate Lydia, glancing up and down the table, an expectant look on her plain face. She laughed again as Hardy joined in.
Giving Lydia another reproachful look, Smith said, “When there is a shortage of butter at Whitehall, we servants go without.”
Lydia felt herself flush as she put down her knife and took a small bite of the dry roll.
I will not cry.
***
The mattress under her was thin and lumpy. Although her own down mattress at home had the occasional feather-point sticking through, it was at least soft and full. Worst of all was her new pillow, if it could be called such. It, too, was thin and so heavy that Lydia wondered what it could possibly be stuffed with.
Dried peas, perhaps, she thought. It was at this moment that she began to cry.
Quietly, quietly, she told herself.
She dragged the edge of the strange blanket over her eyes. It was rough and smeared the tears around instead of absorbing them. Realizing that even this most basic comfort of being able to dry her own tears was beyond her reach filled her eyes again.
“Do you miss your home?” A voice rose out of the darkness from the prone body lying next to her.
Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. She felt embarrassed, but was comforted by the sound. She considered the question for a moment, not wanting to confess what was actually upsetting her and replied, “I can’t believe I’m to be called…’Foote’.”
Wells didn’t seem to recognize Lydia’s attempt at a joke and said, “The Lady changed my name as well when I came here. She said ‘Wellington’ was too fine a name for a servant, so everyone was to call me ‘Wells’.”
“How long have you been here?” Lydia asked, wanting to distract herself.
??
?Since I was nine, so four years ago.”
Lydia marveled, She’s been away from her family since she was a young child.
“Being at Whitehall isn’t so bad. There’s plenty of food and at least you won’t be shut up in the hot kitchen all day with Cook.” Wells sighed into the darkness. “I’d be glad to be called ‘Thumb’ if it meant I could get away from her.”
Lydia chuckled. “Is she really so bad?”
“She’s horrible.”
“She did seem quite rude during dinner,” said Lydia.
“Oh, that was nice for Cook. Just wait, you’ll see. Nobody likes her. I’m glad she has her own sleeping quarters. I’d be miserable if I had to be with her all day and night.”
“Is the soup always that bad?”
Wells laughed quietly. “She gets tired of being careful while making meals for the Family, so by the time she puts together meals for the servants she is a bit sloppy. Of course if I made soup that way she’d have my head on a platter.”
From across the room came the continued even breathing of the room’s third occupant. The sound of it gave Lydia the confidence to whisper, “What about Ploughman? Is she as horrible as Cook?”
“No, she’s alright, though she’s not happy about you coming here.”
“What? Why?”
“She thinks you’re here to take her place.”
“Why would she think that?”
“Because it’s true. She was the parlor maid, but her legs have gone bad. She can’t do much more now than sit in the kitchen and shell peas and stir pots. Anyway, she’s a nice enough old thing.”
There was an awkward silence as Lydia thought through Wells’ words, wishing she hadn’t been caught weeping.
“Thank you, Wells,” she said sincerely, somewhat comforted by the disembodied voice in the dark.
“’S’alright,” came the reply as the girl rolled over.
Well, Ploughman’s not happy about me being here, but at least she hasn’t tried to strangle me in my bed…yet.
Dictating a Missive
~ Jonathan, age 19
Jonathan entered the parlor, holding a letter.
“Oh, good. Here you are,” he said seeing Sophia at the writing desk, plume in hand. “Only you could enjoy this as much as me.”
“What is it?”
“Listen,” said Jonathan clearing his throat. “Dear Sir Jonathan--Many happy greetings for you out of Hamburg.”
“Ahhh, the strange German?”
Jonathan held up a finger in response and continued to read, “I hope this missive find you good. You remember me, yes? My name is called Herman Heldmann and I met at Museum the Louvre in September. We talked of history of art. Now I am by my home in Hamburg. I did ask you to read my missives of English therefore I can learn it and you said yes. Please to read this and write a missive for me. It is important for me learn good English. I want to speak of art to you again. Much regards--Herman.”
“He was the fellow who kept circling you as you looked at the paintings, wasn’t he?” Sophia asked.
“The very one! He asked how he could contact me, but I didn’t expect him to do it.” Jonathan laughed. “If you think this is poorly done, you should have heard him in person. ‘You…mmm…likes the…mmm…the arts, sir?’”
Sophia giggled. “Herr Herman Heldmann of Hamburg. How harmonious!”
“You will help me, of course, to respond to this, won’t you?” Jonathan asked.
“What?”
“You are the Germanic expert of the family.”
“Oh, yes. Who else in this house can count to zwanzig and translate important sentences such as ‘I have a red hat.’?” Sophia waved her hand dismissively.
“Precisely. I expect you will soon be appointed ambassador to Germany by the crown, but in the meantime, won’t you help me pen a missive in response to our dear Herr Heldmann?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to write back in English? If you respond in German, he may giggle with his sister in their library over your pathetic attempts at communication. Besides, he wants to improve his English, not worsen his German.”
“Hmm,” Jonathan rubbed his chin. “You may be right. Alright, English it is. Still, will you at least write out my reply? If he’s struggling with English, my poor penmanship will only make it more difficult for him.”
“Your penmanship is only poor because you don’t take the care with it that you do with your drawings.”
Jonathan put his hands together, pleadingly. “Please?”
“Oh, fine then.” Sophia lifted a creamy new sheet of paper from the stack on the desk and held the plume ready.
Jonathan cleared his throat and began to dictate. “Hello Mr. Heldmann-I thank you for your letter. Yes, I remember when we met in the Louvre and I have been waiting to hear from you. Your conversation was fascinating and your letter is even better…”
Sophia paused, looking up from the paper, her eyebrows raised. “Really, Jonathan?”
Her brother cleared his throat and continued in a theatrical voice, “Please come visit me the next time you are in England. In fact, my mother will be hosting a ball on the first Saturday in August. I ask that you would be my honored guest for dinner and dancing. With friendly regards—Sir Jonathan Clyde.”
Sophia shook her head as she finished writing. “You’ll never be rid of him now.”
“Excellent! Actually, I’m hoping he will come to visit and become determined to make you his wife so that I will forever have a source of amusement near at hand.”
Sophia sighed. “That’s not likely.”
“One can hope.” Jonathan rubbed his hands together dramatically.
“Well, I imagine that anyone I manage to charm will be a great source of amusement to you.” The brightness was gone from Sophia’s voice.
“You know I’m joking,” Jonathan laughed uneasily, sensing there was more to her statement than the simple wording.
Oh, no, he thought as he saw tears in her eyes.
“Sophia, what is the matter?”
She shook her head.
Dear God, who can understand sisters and who can keep from offending them with every other word?
“Certainly you don’t think I actually want you to marry a stupid German…or a stupid Englishman for that matter!”
“That’s probably what I’ll end up with.”
“What? A stupid husband?”
“Maybe not stupid, but whatever sort of person I do attract, he won’t please Mama.”
“Don’t bother yourself with what she wants. We all know we’ll never satisfy her.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’ve already succeeded.” The bitterness in Sophia’s voice surprised him.
“Succeeded? What can you mean?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. “I balk at anything the woman suggests.”
“You’re the succeeding baronet! You’ve nothing to prove! You could do nothing more than hunt pheasants for the rest of your life and that would be enough for her as long as others called you ‘Sir Jonathan’.”
She’d prefer they call me Sir William, Jonathan would have stated aloud had Sophia not burst into a fresh round of tears. Instead, he waited for an uncertain moment and began to pat his sister’s shoulder ineptly.
“Never mind, Sophe. She’ll never be truly happy with anything. Accept it and move on. Don’t upset yourself like this.”
The girl pressed her lips together and, dabbing her eyes, looked up at her brother. She said quietly, “Of course you are right.”
Jonathan gazed down at her.
“And, besides, I’d never let you marry an idiot. Now come, Sophia.” Jonathan reached for his sister’s hand. “I saw from my window this morning that the peach trees are just beginning to blossom. Let’s find Elliott and all have a walk through the grove together.”
Starting Lessons
~ Lydia
“Where did you get that?” Wells asked.
<
br /> “Get what?” asked Lydia who was sitting up in bed, a book propped open on her lap.
“That book.”
“A man called Mr. Farington gave it to me.”
“What about those?” Wells pointed at the neat row of five books on the floor, which were leaning against the wall.
“Those, as well.”
“Are they the only books you’ve read?”
I’d like to get back to my reading, Lydia thought, but answered, “Oh no. I’ve read many, many books.”
“How did you learn?” Wells asked.
The question surprised Lydia. “My mother taught me when I was little. So you don’t…know how?”
Wells’ eyes narrowed. “Of course not. When and how would I have learned?”
“Does anyone in your family read?”
“My brother, Joseph, learned a little at a dame’s school, but then he became a groom over at Beverly Park. He’s probably forgotten it all by now. Did she use that book to teach you?”
Lydia glanced down at the page. Seeing the words apprehensive and congenial, she chuckled.
“Certainly not. That would have been a bit overwhelming. She started with just the letters, teaching me their sounds. She’d trace them in flour on the table when we were baking or write them in the dust on the windowsills just before she’d clean them. Then she’d show me pages of the Bible and tell me to point out certain letters. Eventually, she showed me how words are just letters linked together and how I could sound them out.”
By the look on Wells’ face, Lydia could see that she did not understand.
“Look,” she said.
Wells sat up and looked where Lydia was pointing at a capital T in the book. “That is a T and it says, ‘tuh, tuh’. Do you see any other Ts?”
Wells scanned the page, her brow furrowed. Smiling, she pointed at the only other capital T. “There. So this one says, ‘tuh, tuh’, too?”
The word Wells was pointing out was ‘The’.
“No, actually since it’s followed by an ‘h’, it says ‘thh’.”
“What?” Wells sounded disappointed.
“Some letters make more than one sound. Find another ‘T’.”
Wells studied the page for a moment. “But there aren’t any others.”
The fact that there were many lower case ‘T’s made Lydia realize she had to explain the differences of the cases.
This is proving to be rather difficult, Lydia thought ruefully.