With Face Aflame
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Born with a red mark emblazoned across her face, seventeen-year-old Madge is lonely as she spends her days serving guests and cleaning rooms in the inn her father keeps.
One day, she meets an unusual minstrel in the marketplace. Moved by the beauty of his song and the odd shape of his body, she realizes she has made her first friend. But he must go on to the next town, leaving her behind. Soon after, while she herself is singing in the woods, she is startled by a chance meeting with a stranger there. Though the encounter leaves her horribly embarrassed, it proves she need not remain unnoticed and alone forever. However, this new hope is shattered when she overhears a few quiet words that weren’t intended for her ears. Heartbroken and confused, she flees her home to join the minstrel and his companion, a crass juggler. As they travel earning their daily bread, Madge secretly seeks to rid herself of the mark upon her cheek, convinced that nothing else can heal her heart. Set in England in 1681, With Face Aflame is the tale of a girl who risks everything in hopes of becoming the person she desperately wants to be. |
Chapter One -- The Little Wife
‘Twas boots I stared at most often as our lodgers were usually traveling men who wore sturdy footwear. But I also saw the shoes of the upper class, unscuffed and shiny, and the occasional frilled pair of ladies’ wear.
That’s what I saw before me on this day as I answered the bell’s ring. On the left were the feet of a gentleman while, on the right, the dainty tips of a lady’s slippers peeped out from under the yardage of a fine, long skirt.
“Welcome to the Gander’s Wing of Trivington,” I murmured, my face burning.
Why must I be the one to greet them? I wondered as I dipped into a shallow curtsy and allowed the prepared greeting to roll off of my tongue. “For a shilling deposit, I can show you to a fine private room, or a bed in the Commons for a penny per guest.”
They said nothing back to me.
I could just hear Babs yammering in my ear as if she’d been there right beside me.
“Lift your head, Madge. Look them in the eye.”
But I didn’t, of course, as that was back when I didn’t do such things. Still, their silence stretched on that I began to wonder if they were from afar off and hadn’t understood my words, so up I glanced.
The man, a bit younger than Pappy, was dressed in a fur-edged cape. He had an eerie little smile on his face and his eyes looked hungry. They were staring at my face as hard as I always stared at shoes, and it made me feel as if I was wearing nothing at all.
Though I hated it when anyone gawped at my birthmark – which happened with each new acquaintance – this man’s stare was even worse than most. Usually, people looked startled at first and then feigned as if it was the most common thing in England. All the while I had to bluff as if I didn’t notice.
Not this fellow. He even stepped forward and tilted his head as if to view my face from every angle, that smirk ever there, as if the color on my left cheek amused him.
I glanced at the woman then, hoping to find safety in the gaze of a member of one of God’s gentler creatures. What I saw, startled me. The woman, though tall as any adult, had the face of a very pretty child, but it had an unnatural whiteness of the cheeks and forehead which nearly glowed below the wave of her dark hair. Her lips were painted bright pink and on her cheek was a black beauty patch, a small crescent moon, of the sort that fashionable ladies sometimes pasted upon their skin. There were the swellings of a new bosom pushed above the neckline of her embroidered gown, held there by some binding undergarment. She was looking at me, and though I saw sadness in her eyes, there was also a stirring of interest.
Who are these before me? I thought, dropping my eyes to the floor again.
“Hmm,” the man said, as though he had decided something about me. “And what is your name, lovely?”
His voice was low and smooth.
“I’m called Madge,” I replied, not used to feeling as if I’d said something naughty whilst answering that query. I wished again that Pappy was there. My face still burned as I cleared my throat and asked, slowly, “Might I show you to a room, sir?”
He flung open his cape and answered, “Yes. You might.”
I heard the jangling of coins and then he held one out to me.
Ugh. My heart sank as I saw it.
“So sorry, sir,” I bobbed my head. “But have you a lesser coin? I fear I cannot make change for a crown.”
“No need for change,” he said quietly, holding it out to nearly under my nose.
Ah. He’s one of those who likes to show that money means little to him.
Slowly, I lifted my palm that he might drop the coin onto it, but he did no such thing. He wanted me to take it from his grip, which I did, feeling his eyes still on my face the whole time.
Do you want to sleep here or do you want to just gape at my mark?
The anger I felt made me grab at the coin more roughly than I ought to have. He held onto it for a second longer, then let me have it.
After, he said something that made me feel truly ill indeed.
“Make it the finest of your rooms as that is what my wife is worthy of.”
His wife? Is that what he said?
Somehow, I was able to bob a little curtsy. “Yes, sir. This way, please.”
This way to our finest room where you can shut yourself in with this girl who looks younger even than my seventeen years, you smirking sod.
The man grabbed his valise with one hand and his wife’s hand with the other and pulled her along. His hard soles, clicking on the wooden floor, sounded as if they were chasing me all the way up to the second story.
Why was I the one to hear the bell?
The clear ting of it would hang in the air, beckoning one of us – usually Pappy or Babs – any time a guest rang it. Whenever I heard the bell ring, my stomach would turn for fear that I would have to greet the guests waiting in the entry. The actual sound of it was quite pleasant. In fact, Pappy, had chosen a costly bell because he wanted a delicate ringing to be one of the first things guests experienced when they entered the inn.
“The finest attracts the finest, and that’s what we want here at the Gander’s Wing,” he would say. I suspected that his love for finery was why he didn’t often require me to greet the guests.
The sight of my face might frighten off the finer patrons.
Never did I ask if he feared that, as he would just shush me and Babs would bleat about me pitying myself on account of a birthmark.
On that morning, I had to answer the bell’s call as Pappy was away seeing to new signage for the inn’s front, and Babs was suffering one of her horrible headaches. When her head was throbbing, nothing short of an invading army would draw her out of her dark, cool room where she sat with a cold bottle of wine pressed against her temple.
And of course, Lottie was of no help with guests anymore as all she did was sit in a corner of the kitchen either dozing or babbling at nothingness.
Ha ha! Maybe I ought to have sent Old Lottie at the bell’s ring to scare away this Smirking Sod. Although, he’s such a curious fellow, staring at my mark, that it may please him to watch the string of spit dangling from her lips.
The thought almost made me smile as we approached the door of the Looking Glass Room. It was our best room, the one with a large mirror that Pappy had bought for cheap after the Great Fire in London many years before.
Lifting the latch, I pushed it open wide, murmuring, “Supper is served at sunset in the dining room.”
He had followed me in though the girl remained in the hall.
“The crown will, of course, cover both meals and drinks. Please ring the bell at the desk below stairs if you have need of anything.”
Most guests would stand to the side, fiddling with their valise or looking about the room when I said this, but not the Smirking Sod.
He was watching me, standing halfway blocking the door. I saw I’d have to brush past him to get out.
“When will the coach toward Spirely come through tomorrow, Madge?” He sounded lewd when he said my name and I wished I’d lied about it when asked.
Pappy often drilled me to see if I remembered the various times and pick up points of the coaches passing through Trivington. He said travelers often felt lost and any help we at the Gander’s Wing could give eased their minds immeasurably.
“Shortly after sunrise, sir. You can board it just a block up High Street from here at the corner of Water Street.”
“Hmm, clever girl,” he said, gazing on me a moment longer before pulling his Little Wife in through the doorway.
I’d heard such praise before from guests but said nothing in reply. Usually, I would have asked if they needed anything before I left, but seeing he was out of the way, I hurried to make my escape.
Glancing at the girl one last time as I turned to go, I saw she was leaning against the wall, her head resting on its door frame. She looked back at me and her eyes told me, I’ve got to stay here with him.
I’m so very sorry, I thought back at her.
And then the queerest thing happened.
She smiled. Though small and sad, it was a smile nonetheless, and aimed at me. It stayed upon her lovely, sad face as I stepped through the doorway and the man shut the door.
I heard him chuckle from within the room and my feet felt fastened to the hallway floor.
Where is her father? Does he not know of this?
I wanted to fling the door open, throw the golden crown in the Sod’s face and tell him to take his vile self to another inn, as we only wanted the finest at the Gander’s Wing. I wanted to grab the girl’s hand myself and drag her down to the kitchen where I’d let her sniff all the little spice bottles and pick at the sugared almonds, and we’d talk – about what, I didn’t know.
But as I stood there wishing, I knew it was only making me feel ill, so I took a deep breath and went back down to the kitchen, thinking, I shall make certain she gets a goodly portion of roast tonight.
‘Tis all I can do.
And it sickened me to think it.
‘Twas boots I stared at most often as our lodgers were usually traveling men who wore sturdy footwear. But I also saw the shoes of the upper class, unscuffed and shiny, and the occasional frilled pair of ladies’ wear.
That’s what I saw before me on this day as I answered the bell’s ring. On the left were the feet of a gentleman while, on the right, the dainty tips of a lady’s slippers peeped out from under the yardage of a fine, long skirt.
“Welcome to the Gander’s Wing of Trivington,” I murmured, my face burning.
Why must I be the one to greet them? I wondered as I dipped into a shallow curtsy and allowed the prepared greeting to roll off of my tongue. “For a shilling deposit, I can show you to a fine private room, or a bed in the Commons for a penny per guest.”
They said nothing back to me.
I could just hear Babs yammering in my ear as if she’d been there right beside me.
“Lift your head, Madge. Look them in the eye.”
But I didn’t, of course, as that was back when I didn’t do such things. Still, their silence stretched on that I began to wonder if they were from afar off and hadn’t understood my words, so up I glanced.
The man, a bit younger than Pappy, was dressed in a fur-edged cape. He had an eerie little smile on his face and his eyes looked hungry. They were staring at my face as hard as I always stared at shoes, and it made me feel as if I was wearing nothing at all.
Though I hated it when anyone gawped at my birthmark – which happened with each new acquaintance – this man’s stare was even worse than most. Usually, people looked startled at first and then feigned as if it was the most common thing in England. All the while I had to bluff as if I didn’t notice.
Not this fellow. He even stepped forward and tilted his head as if to view my face from every angle, that smirk ever there, as if the color on my left cheek amused him.
I glanced at the woman then, hoping to find safety in the gaze of a member of one of God’s gentler creatures. What I saw, startled me. The woman, though tall as any adult, had the face of a very pretty child, but it had an unnatural whiteness of the cheeks and forehead which nearly glowed below the wave of her dark hair. Her lips were painted bright pink and on her cheek was a black beauty patch, a small crescent moon, of the sort that fashionable ladies sometimes pasted upon their skin. There were the swellings of a new bosom pushed above the neckline of her embroidered gown, held there by some binding undergarment. She was looking at me, and though I saw sadness in her eyes, there was also a stirring of interest.
Who are these before me? I thought, dropping my eyes to the floor again.
“Hmm,” the man said, as though he had decided something about me. “And what is your name, lovely?”
His voice was low and smooth.
“I’m called Madge,” I replied, not used to feeling as if I’d said something naughty whilst answering that query. I wished again that Pappy was there. My face still burned as I cleared my throat and asked, slowly, “Might I show you to a room, sir?”
He flung open his cape and answered, “Yes. You might.”
I heard the jangling of coins and then he held one out to me.
Ugh. My heart sank as I saw it.
“So sorry, sir,” I bobbed my head. “But have you a lesser coin? I fear I cannot make change for a crown.”
“No need for change,” he said quietly, holding it out to nearly under my nose.
Ah. He’s one of those who likes to show that money means little to him.
Slowly, I lifted my palm that he might drop the coin onto it, but he did no such thing. He wanted me to take it from his grip, which I did, feeling his eyes still on my face the whole time.
Do you want to sleep here or do you want to just gape at my mark?
The anger I felt made me grab at the coin more roughly than I ought to have. He held onto it for a second longer, then let me have it.
After, he said something that made me feel truly ill indeed.
“Make it the finest of your rooms as that is what my wife is worthy of.”
His wife? Is that what he said?
Somehow, I was able to bob a little curtsy. “Yes, sir. This way, please.”
This way to our finest room where you can shut yourself in with this girl who looks younger even than my seventeen years, you smirking sod.
The man grabbed his valise with one hand and his wife’s hand with the other and pulled her along. His hard soles, clicking on the wooden floor, sounded as if they were chasing me all the way up to the second story.
Why was I the one to hear the bell?
The clear ting of it would hang in the air, beckoning one of us – usually Pappy or Babs – any time a guest rang it. Whenever I heard the bell ring, my stomach would turn for fear that I would have to greet the guests waiting in the entry. The actual sound of it was quite pleasant. In fact, Pappy, had chosen a costly bell because he wanted a delicate ringing to be one of the first things guests experienced when they entered the inn.
“The finest attracts the finest, and that’s what we want here at the Gander’s Wing,” he would say. I suspected that his love for finery was why he didn’t often require me to greet the guests.
The sight of my face might frighten off the finer patrons.
Never did I ask if he feared that, as he would just shush me and Babs would bleat about me pitying myself on account of a birthmark.
On that morning, I had to answer the bell’s call as Pappy was away seeing to new signage for the inn’s front, and Babs was suffering one of her horrible headaches. When her head was throbbing, nothing short of an invading army would draw her out of her dark, cool room where she sat with a cold bottle of wine pressed against her temple.
And of course, Lottie was of no help with guests anymore as all she did was sit in a corner of the kitchen either dozing or babbling at nothingness.
Ha ha! Maybe I ought to have sent Old Lottie at the bell’s ring to scare away this Smirking Sod. Although, he’s such a curious fellow, staring at my mark, that it may please him to watch the string of spit dangling from her lips.
The thought almost made me smile as we approached the door of the Looking Glass Room. It was our best room, the one with a large mirror that Pappy had bought for cheap after the Great Fire in London many years before.
Lifting the latch, I pushed it open wide, murmuring, “Supper is served at sunset in the dining room.”
He had followed me in though the girl remained in the hall.
“The crown will, of course, cover both meals and drinks. Please ring the bell at the desk below stairs if you have need of anything.”
Most guests would stand to the side, fiddling with their valise or looking about the room when I said this, but not the Smirking Sod.
He was watching me, standing halfway blocking the door. I saw I’d have to brush past him to get out.
“When will the coach toward Spirely come through tomorrow, Madge?” He sounded lewd when he said my name and I wished I’d lied about it when asked.
Pappy often drilled me to see if I remembered the various times and pick up points of the coaches passing through Trivington. He said travelers often felt lost and any help we at the Gander’s Wing could give eased their minds immeasurably.
“Shortly after sunrise, sir. You can board it just a block up High Street from here at the corner of Water Street.”
“Hmm, clever girl,” he said, gazing on me a moment longer before pulling his Little Wife in through the doorway.
I’d heard such praise before from guests but said nothing in reply. Usually, I would have asked if they needed anything before I left, but seeing he was out of the way, I hurried to make my escape.
Glancing at the girl one last time as I turned to go, I saw she was leaning against the wall, her head resting on its door frame. She looked back at me and her eyes told me, I’ve got to stay here with him.
I’m so very sorry, I thought back at her.
And then the queerest thing happened.
She smiled. Though small and sad, it was a smile nonetheless, and aimed at me. It stayed upon her lovely, sad face as I stepped through the doorway and the man shut the door.
I heard him chuckle from within the room and my feet felt fastened to the hallway floor.
Where is her father? Does he not know of this?
I wanted to fling the door open, throw the golden crown in the Sod’s face and tell him to take his vile self to another inn, as we only wanted the finest at the Gander’s Wing. I wanted to grab the girl’s hand myself and drag her down to the kitchen where I’d let her sniff all the little spice bottles and pick at the sugared almonds, and we’d talk – about what, I didn’t know.
But as I stood there wishing, I knew it was only making me feel ill, so I took a deep breath and went back down to the kitchen, thinking, I shall make certain she gets a goodly portion of roast tonight.
‘Tis all I can do.
And it sickened me to think it.
copyright © 2018 Aimee Walnofer
A Girl Called Foote
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Young Jonathan Clyde causes mischief for everyone at Whitehall, the stately home of his privileged ancestors. As he matures, however, he comes to despise the vanity and conceit surrounding him.
Misfortune requires Lydia Smythe, an exceptionally clever farmer’s daughter, to seek employment at Whitehall. As a parlor maid, she feels stifled and harried by those over her. Still, she refuses to relinquish her independent mind and spirit. From the moment Jonathan catches Lydia reading the books she is supposed to be dusting, he is intrigued by this unusual servant. Thus begins a clandestine relationship that is simultaneously amusing, confusing and enlightening. Just as it is evolving into something neither of them expected, an unforeseen truth comes to light, and the two wonder if their unconventional bond will be forever lost. Set in England in the mid-eighteen hundreds, A Girl Called Foote is the coming-of-age story of two similarly impressive people leading very different lives. |
An excerpt from A Girl Called Foote
Due to a scuttling rat in the floorboards of his bedroom, Jonathan had not slept well the night before. Following breakfast, he wandered into the library for his sketchbook but soon found himself curled up on the settee.
Ah yes, the old napping place, he thought, grabbing a nearby decorative pillow. Hello. You’ve cradle my weary head before. In fact, I do believe that’s a spot from my drooling mouth from ages ago. Ah, soft as ever.
What seemed like only moments later, the cramping of his knees and the sound of a door closing awoke him from his light nap.
Who’s that? he thought dully.
The newest servant girl came into view.
Ah, the Retriever of Fallen Teeth.
She went directly to the bookshelf ladder, dust rag in hand, and ascended it.
Servants, Jonathan considered, looking at the girl through barely opened eyes. They appear magically when one tugs the bell pull…or simply to awaken one from a much needed nap.
Jonathan thought back on the times he had played tricks on various servants, recalling how sometimes they were amused along with him, and other times seemed angry in a silent, constipated way.
Most of the servants employed at Whitehall were either mere children or, what Jonathan considered, old. Once he had heard his mother say that young men ate far too much and young women were a distraction to the men so neither would be chosen to serve in her home.
Yet, here is a girl about the age of Sophia, newly hired. Perhaps the Lady supposed this particular girl would not tempt the men of the household. Though I’m not sure why, thought Jonathan. She’s reasonably pretty.
A number of his classmates at Heath had bragged about conquests they’d made of their families’ various maids, both attractive and plain. Most of the stories were, Jonathan thought, based on the unimpressive nature of their tellers, highly exaggerated at best and completely fictitious at worst, but a few were plausible.
This girl had dark hair and a figure that was slender without appearing juvenile. Though Jonathan had not seen much of her face, which was presently turned away from him, he recalled it having a nose that was a little short and a chin that was a little broad.
Groggily, Jonathan watched as she put down the dust rag and proceeded to do something very strange. His eyes flew wide open, though he remained lying still on the settee.
Did she just take a book from her apron pocket and return it to the shelf?
His interest piqued, he watched intently to see what else she might do.
The girl hummed a tune quietly as she resumed dusting shelf after shelf. Suddenly, she stopped, saying, “Oh!”
She lifted another book which Jonathan recognized, flipped through several pages and began to read, perched on the ladder. A few years earlier, he had looked through the same book. Upon opening it, he had had little motivation to comprehend the poems. The inscrutable Scottish dialect had muddled his brain.
Jonathan held his breath, aware even of the sound his eyelashes made against the pillow as he blinked, watching for several moments, delighted and astonished.
A servant girl who reads Robert Burns?
The girl turned a page and quietly giggled.
Is it possible she understands and likes that jumble of words?
Taking something small from her pocket, she put it between the pages and returned the book to its place. Two shelves later, she lifted another book and began to flip through it.
Amused, Jonathan could stay silent no longer.
“Getting the dust from between the pages?”
Her reaction was similar to what Ploughman’s had been to the flatus he passed many years earlier in the very same room --a frantic clutching of the ladder and wild turnings of the head.
When she had regained composure, she replied, stiffly, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s quite clear.” He sat up and stretched enormously.
She pushed the book, which miraculously had not dropped from her hand, back into place and resumed dusting, vigorously. Silence prevailed as she finished cleaning the final bookcase.
As she returned the book ladder to its place, Jonathan asked, “Do you really understand the poems of Robert Burns?”
The girl assumed the uncomfortable air that servants often did when Jonathan asked them questions. They would answer him politely, but with a steeliness under the words and facial expression that made him think they just wanted to be done with him.
“I’m able to discern enough to find enjoyment in them,” she replied after a brief pause.
Jonathan felt the corners of his mouth twitching.
Did this parlor maid just use the word ‘discern’?
“You’re the ‘new Foote’, aren’t you?” He studied her and saw he had been correct about her face. None of the features were noteworthy, but none were unfavorable. Her eyes were light, though he couldn’t tell if they were blue, gray or green from the distance. He also noticed two moles on the left side of her face.
“So says the Lady,” she said, then bit her lip and quickly added, “Sir, would you like me to go until you’re finished with this room?”
Slightly taken aback, Jonathan said, “Yes. Yes, I would.”
Quickly, Foote gathered her cleaning materials and left.
After the door had shut behind her, Jonathan sat for a moment longer, marveling.
‘So says the Lady’? Sounds as if she’s been familiarized with the Lady’s charms. But what an odd servant--stowing books in her apron and marking pages of poetry! What page was that that made her giggle? he wondered, standing and moving toward the shelf.
Holding the book loosely in his hand, it fell open to where a torn scrap of paper had been placed.
Why, it’s the haggis!
He nearly laughed.
That was the only poem in the book that I somewhat enjoyed as it celebrated something so vile.
There in the margin, next to the title “Address to a Haggis” was a little sketch of a platter overwhelmed by a hulking, steaming sheep-gut. Just beyond was a man’s overly large grotesque face, split with a wide grin. In his raised hands, he held a knife and a fork as if he was about to greedily devour the entire sausage-like bag.
Ahh, yes, I remember drawing this. I’m still quite pleased with the rendition.
He silently read the first two lines:
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
Hmmm…he pondered. Was it the poem or my drawing that made her laugh?
He shut the book and returned it to its shelf, a small smile on his lips.
***
Out in the hallway, Lydia bit her lip. Is he always going to catch me looking through books?
The thought was interrupted by the sound of quick, punctuated footsteps coming down the hall.
Ugh…Smith, always treading about…
Setting the bucket down roughly, Lydia grabbed a rag and began to dust the frames of the William Walter Clyde portraits, or ‘those Clyde Fellows’ as she had come to think of them. Her heart was still pounding from her exchange with the young baronet.
Did he see me returning Rob Roy to the shelf? A shiver of fear ran through her stomach. What if he did dismiss me?
Don’t be ridiculous! He didn’t seem bothered in the least. In fact, he seemed… entertained. Is that the right word? Maybe, but whatever it was, it wasn’t anger or disgust. This thought settled her a bit as Smith’s footsteps grew louder.
Can’t he go nap in his room? Isn’t that what a bed is for? I’ve been looking forward to dusting those books all week!
Lydia hadn’t expected Smith, who was always rushing around in every direction, to halt right next to her. She stopped dusting and looked up. Smith’s attention was normally engaged on anything but the person to whom she spoke, so Lydia found it strange to be staring into her lightly lashed blue eyes.
“Foote?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Thursday,” Smith said in a low voice.
The words hung in the air meaninglessly. Having no idea what her expected response ought to be, Lydia repeated, “Yes?”
Smith’s mouth puckered sourly as she pointed at the door nearest them. “It’s library-and-study-day, not hallway-day. I’m sure there’s plenty to be done in there.” She began to reach for the doorknob.
“The baronet desires to be alone.” Lydia regretted saying the words instantly, imagining Smith bursting in on the young man and having her own awkward interaction with him.
That would have been fun to watch.
“Oh…” Smith’s hand fell to her side and her mouth opened and shut a couple of times.
Ha! You’ve nothing to say to that, have you? Lydia could feel the smugness of her thoughts squaring and lifting her shoulders as she faced the elder woman.
Seeming to sense it, Smith sniffed and looked Lydia over head to toe.
“Where is your mob-cap, Foote?”
“My mob-cap?” Lydia felt her confidence wane. Where is that hideous thing?
She felt around and pulled the limp, crumpled hat from a small pocket on her bodice.
“Because you’ve been caught improperly attired, you will lose your free afternoon this Sunday.”
“What?!” Lydia gasped, her mouth hanging open.
Smith continued quietly, “It is vital that you represent the family well by wearing the designated uniform.”
“Yes,” Lydia spat, holding her hands out to indicate the empty hallway, “in front of this vast array of witnesses.”
“Don’t make it two Sundays, Foote.” Smith’s voice was low and fierce. “There’s plenty of silver to be polished again and again. Now put that on and get to work.”
Her quick, clipped footsteps began again, sounding down the hallway and rounding the corner.
Lydia stood aghast. How can she…? I didn’t know she’d…Ugh!
She pulled the hat onto her head hard enough to hear a stitch give.
It’s just going to fall off without the pins. She found one pin, digging it out of the same pocket and turned to the frame on the wall habitually as if it were a mirror.
Sir William the Second looked back at her, painted as if he smelled a slightly unpleasant odor.
Instinctively, she sneered back and began to rub the rag over his frame, noticing that the caricature face had been removed. A few fibers of paper were stuck to the paint.
I’ll probably be required to clean those off, too, she thought, peevishly.
Just then, the library door opened and Sir Jonathan emerged. Not even glancing in her direction, he walked past, straightening his coat and went down the hall, out of sight.
Flustered and angry, Lydia returned to the library with her supplies. Once inside, she shut the door and looked behind all the furniture and in every corner.
Is the little one tormenting a dormouse under the table? Perhaps the Lady is crouching behind the end table, ready to pounce on anyone whose name displeases her.
Satisfied at the room’s emptiness, she walked past the settee where Sir Jonathan had been napping. His sketchbook now occupied the place. It was open, but she stayed far enough away as to not see what was on the page.
Is this an invitation or a trap?
She envisioned Sir Jonathan lurking for a moment at the other side of the door and then bursting in, bellowing, “Unhand that book, underling!”
I won’t do it, she decided, turning her back on the book, then gasped. The man with the haggis! He must have drawn that as well!
She giggled at the remembrance of the rapturous look on the man’s face.
Well, even if he is a bit pompous and sly, Sir Jonathan is entertaining. She sighed. But back to work.
Lydia tended to her cleaning tasks, though she kept glancing at the settee and the book it held. Once she had finished with the parlor and returned her supplies, except for a single dust rag, to the bucket, she looked toward the door and cautiously approached the book.
He wouldn’t have put it here if he didn’t intend for me to have a look. She halted, stunned in delighted surprise.
On the page before her was sketched an elderly man with puckered lips, his mouth an empty black hole. A young woman in a maid’s garb stood before him, one hand presenting him with a silver platter, the other hand lifting the large silver lid. Upon the platter was a set of teeth as white and gleaming as the cream-colored paper would allow.
That’s me! She chuckled silently, studying the sketched maid. Never before had she seen a drawing of herself, at least not from the hand of a talented artist. She recognized some likenesses, but the focus of the drawing was the elderly man. The look of delight on his saggy face was accentuated by the way his hands were thrown out to the sides. His eyes were lit up with unmistakable joy.
What a lovely antiquated suitor…and those untethered teeth!
A feeling Lydia had not experienced for months warmed her, filling her with a quiet sense of excitement. She ached as the long-absent sentiment of understanding another’s amusement washed over her.
Words ran through Lydia’s mind arranging and rearranging themselves as she continued to stare and giggle. Realizing she would soon be expected back in the kitchen to serve the noon-time meal, she sighed and walked away from the book to leave the room.
It was hours before she realized she had forgotten to slip another book into her apron pocket.
Due to a scuttling rat in the floorboards of his bedroom, Jonathan had not slept well the night before. Following breakfast, he wandered into the library for his sketchbook but soon found himself curled up on the settee.
Ah yes, the old napping place, he thought, grabbing a nearby decorative pillow. Hello. You’ve cradle my weary head before. In fact, I do believe that’s a spot from my drooling mouth from ages ago. Ah, soft as ever.
What seemed like only moments later, the cramping of his knees and the sound of a door closing awoke him from his light nap.
Who’s that? he thought dully.
The newest servant girl came into view.
Ah, the Retriever of Fallen Teeth.
She went directly to the bookshelf ladder, dust rag in hand, and ascended it.
Servants, Jonathan considered, looking at the girl through barely opened eyes. They appear magically when one tugs the bell pull…or simply to awaken one from a much needed nap.
Jonathan thought back on the times he had played tricks on various servants, recalling how sometimes they were amused along with him, and other times seemed angry in a silent, constipated way.
Most of the servants employed at Whitehall were either mere children or, what Jonathan considered, old. Once he had heard his mother say that young men ate far too much and young women were a distraction to the men so neither would be chosen to serve in her home.
Yet, here is a girl about the age of Sophia, newly hired. Perhaps the Lady supposed this particular girl would not tempt the men of the household. Though I’m not sure why, thought Jonathan. She’s reasonably pretty.
A number of his classmates at Heath had bragged about conquests they’d made of their families’ various maids, both attractive and plain. Most of the stories were, Jonathan thought, based on the unimpressive nature of their tellers, highly exaggerated at best and completely fictitious at worst, but a few were plausible.
This girl had dark hair and a figure that was slender without appearing juvenile. Though Jonathan had not seen much of her face, which was presently turned away from him, he recalled it having a nose that was a little short and a chin that was a little broad.
Groggily, Jonathan watched as she put down the dust rag and proceeded to do something very strange. His eyes flew wide open, though he remained lying still on the settee.
Did she just take a book from her apron pocket and return it to the shelf?
His interest piqued, he watched intently to see what else she might do.
The girl hummed a tune quietly as she resumed dusting shelf after shelf. Suddenly, she stopped, saying, “Oh!”
She lifted another book which Jonathan recognized, flipped through several pages and began to read, perched on the ladder. A few years earlier, he had looked through the same book. Upon opening it, he had had little motivation to comprehend the poems. The inscrutable Scottish dialect had muddled his brain.
Jonathan held his breath, aware even of the sound his eyelashes made against the pillow as he blinked, watching for several moments, delighted and astonished.
A servant girl who reads Robert Burns?
The girl turned a page and quietly giggled.
Is it possible she understands and likes that jumble of words?
Taking something small from her pocket, she put it between the pages and returned the book to its place. Two shelves later, she lifted another book and began to flip through it.
Amused, Jonathan could stay silent no longer.
“Getting the dust from between the pages?”
Her reaction was similar to what Ploughman’s had been to the flatus he passed many years earlier in the very same room --a frantic clutching of the ladder and wild turnings of the head.
When she had regained composure, she replied, stiffly, “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s quite clear.” He sat up and stretched enormously.
She pushed the book, which miraculously had not dropped from her hand, back into place and resumed dusting, vigorously. Silence prevailed as she finished cleaning the final bookcase.
As she returned the book ladder to its place, Jonathan asked, “Do you really understand the poems of Robert Burns?”
The girl assumed the uncomfortable air that servants often did when Jonathan asked them questions. They would answer him politely, but with a steeliness under the words and facial expression that made him think they just wanted to be done with him.
“I’m able to discern enough to find enjoyment in them,” she replied after a brief pause.
Jonathan felt the corners of his mouth twitching.
Did this parlor maid just use the word ‘discern’?
“You’re the ‘new Foote’, aren’t you?” He studied her and saw he had been correct about her face. None of the features were noteworthy, but none were unfavorable. Her eyes were light, though he couldn’t tell if they were blue, gray or green from the distance. He also noticed two moles on the left side of her face.
“So says the Lady,” she said, then bit her lip and quickly added, “Sir, would you like me to go until you’re finished with this room?”
Slightly taken aback, Jonathan said, “Yes. Yes, I would.”
Quickly, Foote gathered her cleaning materials and left.
After the door had shut behind her, Jonathan sat for a moment longer, marveling.
‘So says the Lady’? Sounds as if she’s been familiarized with the Lady’s charms. But what an odd servant--stowing books in her apron and marking pages of poetry! What page was that that made her giggle? he wondered, standing and moving toward the shelf.
Holding the book loosely in his hand, it fell open to where a torn scrap of paper had been placed.
Why, it’s the haggis!
He nearly laughed.
That was the only poem in the book that I somewhat enjoyed as it celebrated something so vile.
There in the margin, next to the title “Address to a Haggis” was a little sketch of a platter overwhelmed by a hulking, steaming sheep-gut. Just beyond was a man’s overly large grotesque face, split with a wide grin. In his raised hands, he held a knife and a fork as if he was about to greedily devour the entire sausage-like bag.
Ahh, yes, I remember drawing this. I’m still quite pleased with the rendition.
He silently read the first two lines:
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face
Great chieftain o the puddin’-race!
Hmmm…he pondered. Was it the poem or my drawing that made her laugh?
He shut the book and returned it to its shelf, a small smile on his lips.
***
Out in the hallway, Lydia bit her lip. Is he always going to catch me looking through books?
The thought was interrupted by the sound of quick, punctuated footsteps coming down the hall.
Ugh…Smith, always treading about…
Setting the bucket down roughly, Lydia grabbed a rag and began to dust the frames of the William Walter Clyde portraits, or ‘those Clyde Fellows’ as she had come to think of them. Her heart was still pounding from her exchange with the young baronet.
Did he see me returning Rob Roy to the shelf? A shiver of fear ran through her stomach. What if he did dismiss me?
Don’t be ridiculous! He didn’t seem bothered in the least. In fact, he seemed… entertained. Is that the right word? Maybe, but whatever it was, it wasn’t anger or disgust. This thought settled her a bit as Smith’s footsteps grew louder.
Can’t he go nap in his room? Isn’t that what a bed is for? I’ve been looking forward to dusting those books all week!
Lydia hadn’t expected Smith, who was always rushing around in every direction, to halt right next to her. She stopped dusting and looked up. Smith’s attention was normally engaged on anything but the person to whom she spoke, so Lydia found it strange to be staring into her lightly lashed blue eyes.
“Foote?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Thursday,” Smith said in a low voice.
The words hung in the air meaninglessly. Having no idea what her expected response ought to be, Lydia repeated, “Yes?”
Smith’s mouth puckered sourly as she pointed at the door nearest them. “It’s library-and-study-day, not hallway-day. I’m sure there’s plenty to be done in there.” She began to reach for the doorknob.
“The baronet desires to be alone.” Lydia regretted saying the words instantly, imagining Smith bursting in on the young man and having her own awkward interaction with him.
That would have been fun to watch.
“Oh…” Smith’s hand fell to her side and her mouth opened and shut a couple of times.
Ha! You’ve nothing to say to that, have you? Lydia could feel the smugness of her thoughts squaring and lifting her shoulders as she faced the elder woman.
Seeming to sense it, Smith sniffed and looked Lydia over head to toe.
“Where is your mob-cap, Foote?”
“My mob-cap?” Lydia felt her confidence wane. Where is that hideous thing?
She felt around and pulled the limp, crumpled hat from a small pocket on her bodice.
“Because you’ve been caught improperly attired, you will lose your free afternoon this Sunday.”
“What?!” Lydia gasped, her mouth hanging open.
Smith continued quietly, “It is vital that you represent the family well by wearing the designated uniform.”
“Yes,” Lydia spat, holding her hands out to indicate the empty hallway, “in front of this vast array of witnesses.”
“Don’t make it two Sundays, Foote.” Smith’s voice was low and fierce. “There’s plenty of silver to be polished again and again. Now put that on and get to work.”
Her quick, clipped footsteps began again, sounding down the hallway and rounding the corner.
Lydia stood aghast. How can she…? I didn’t know she’d…Ugh!
She pulled the hat onto her head hard enough to hear a stitch give.
It’s just going to fall off without the pins. She found one pin, digging it out of the same pocket and turned to the frame on the wall habitually as if it were a mirror.
Sir William the Second looked back at her, painted as if he smelled a slightly unpleasant odor.
Instinctively, she sneered back and began to rub the rag over his frame, noticing that the caricature face had been removed. A few fibers of paper were stuck to the paint.
I’ll probably be required to clean those off, too, she thought, peevishly.
Just then, the library door opened and Sir Jonathan emerged. Not even glancing in her direction, he walked past, straightening his coat and went down the hall, out of sight.
Flustered and angry, Lydia returned to the library with her supplies. Once inside, she shut the door and looked behind all the furniture and in every corner.
Is the little one tormenting a dormouse under the table? Perhaps the Lady is crouching behind the end table, ready to pounce on anyone whose name displeases her.
Satisfied at the room’s emptiness, she walked past the settee where Sir Jonathan had been napping. His sketchbook now occupied the place. It was open, but she stayed far enough away as to not see what was on the page.
Is this an invitation or a trap?
She envisioned Sir Jonathan lurking for a moment at the other side of the door and then bursting in, bellowing, “Unhand that book, underling!”
I won’t do it, she decided, turning her back on the book, then gasped. The man with the haggis! He must have drawn that as well!
She giggled at the remembrance of the rapturous look on the man’s face.
Well, even if he is a bit pompous and sly, Sir Jonathan is entertaining. She sighed. But back to work.
Lydia tended to her cleaning tasks, though she kept glancing at the settee and the book it held. Once she had finished with the parlor and returned her supplies, except for a single dust rag, to the bucket, she looked toward the door and cautiously approached the book.
He wouldn’t have put it here if he didn’t intend for me to have a look. She halted, stunned in delighted surprise.
On the page before her was sketched an elderly man with puckered lips, his mouth an empty black hole. A young woman in a maid’s garb stood before him, one hand presenting him with a silver platter, the other hand lifting the large silver lid. Upon the platter was a set of teeth as white and gleaming as the cream-colored paper would allow.
That’s me! She chuckled silently, studying the sketched maid. Never before had she seen a drawing of herself, at least not from the hand of a talented artist. She recognized some likenesses, but the focus of the drawing was the elderly man. The look of delight on his saggy face was accentuated by the way his hands were thrown out to the sides. His eyes were lit up with unmistakable joy.
What a lovely antiquated suitor…and those untethered teeth!
A feeling Lydia had not experienced for months warmed her, filling her with a quiet sense of excitement. She ached as the long-absent sentiment of understanding another’s amusement washed over her.
Words ran through Lydia’s mind arranging and rearranging themselves as she continued to stare and giggle. Realizing she would soon be expected back in the kitchen to serve the noon-time meal, she sighed and walked away from the book to leave the room.
It was hours before she realized she had forgotten to slip another book into her apron pocket.
copyright © 2015 Aimee Walnofer
A Girl Called Foote is presently available for purchase on Amazon and at other book selling sites in both eBook form and paperback.
