A Girl Called Foote



  Copyright © 2015 Aimee Walnofer ~ all rights reserved

  Cover designed and formatted by Tony Huang

  Visit the author’s web page: https://aewalnofer.weebly.com

 

  Frightening a Maid

  ~ Jonathan, age 8

  Whitehall

  It was not an unusual occurrence for Jonathan Clyde to urinate into one of his home’s many fireplaces. Nor was it unusual for one of the servants to walk into a room, sniff the air unhappily and decide that the baronet’s son had urinated into the fireplace. What was unusual was for Jonathan to be caught in the distasteful act, and that is precisely what nearly happened one morning in late June at Whitehall.

  On this particular day, he had been sitting on the library floor, drawing a picture inside of a difficultly-obtained copy of Sir Walter Scott’s Castle Dangerous. The title had caught his eye as he had pulled various books from their places on the shelf and he thought he would do well to improve the volume through his own efforts.

  Everyone knows that all the best books have pictures, he told himself, and besides, I’m the best artist in the family.

  As his drawing of a soldier lighting a cannon developed, so did his need to empty his bladder. At times, if an appropriate vessel was available, Jonathan would relieve himself into it and leave it for Ploughman, the aging parlor maid, to empty when she made her rounds. Not seeing a suitable receptacle on hand on this day, Jonathan made his way to the fireplace and proceeded to urinate, drenching the dark, sooty cavity.

  I’m wary not to hit the rug, he rationalized, and the rest burns off when the fire’s lit.

  At this moment, Ploughman entered the room. Had she not been bungling with an awkward and overloaded bucket of cleaning supplies, she likely would have seen Jonathan standing before the fireplace hurriedly fumbling with the front of his trousers. However, she was busy bumping into the doorjamb and keeping the tin of black from falling onto the floor. After settling her burden upon a table and straightening her cap, the slightly podgy woman selected a cloth and shuffled over to the bookshelves.

  Is she going to climb the ladder? Jonathan wondered, peeking out from behind an upholstered chair. She’ll snap any rung she steps on!

  To his delight, he watched as the maid positioned the ill-fortuned ladder and ascended it, grunting as she climbed. Her left hand clutched the ladder’s side as she started wiping down the top bookshelf with her right hand.

  Jonathan felt a familiar rumbling in his lower gut and was struck with what most boys would consider an ingenious idea. Hoping Ploughman was thoroughly engrossed in her task, he quietly climbed onto the settee and positioned himself as if he was napping there. To increase the delicious absurdity of the situation, he stuck his thumb in his mouth as if he was sucking it. He watched Ploughman through barely opened eyes and waited until he felt assured of maximum output. Then, as loudly as he could, he expelled a prodigious amount of gas.

  The result was fantastic.

  Ploughman let out a cry and gripped the ladder as if her life depended on it. She whipped her head around, frantically looking over both shoulders. Her wild eyes settled on Jonathan who bit his thumb furiously, stifling his laughter.

  Just as the fit passed, Jonathan sat up, yawning loudly as if newly awakened, looking as bright eyed and refreshed as he could.

  “Why hullo, Ploughman,” he said, stretching dramatically and rising from the settee.

  “Master Jonathan.” She nodded, dislodging her mob-cap from atop her head.

  Ploughman resumed her dusting with as much dignity as a frightened woman atop a rickety ladder could as Jonathan casually sauntered out of the library, reining in the peals of laughter which threatened to escape.

  Her face! Too bad Will didn’t see it, he thought, though he would have likely laughed and ruined it.

 

  Impressing Grown Men

  ~ Lydia, age 7

  Hawthorne House

  Ugh. He’s telling that horrible story again.

  Lydia tried not to glare at her father as she nibbled the sweet biscuit Mr. Farington had given her.

  “She kicked me again, and me down there with my face near her backside. I reached out and swiped at her legs. She fell--BOOM!” John Smythe clapped his meaty hands together. “Just like that!”

  “Fell a cow with one swipe, did you, Smythe?” Mr. Farington laughed wheezily. He was a very thin man who, Lydia had noticed, had difficulty opening heavy doors.

  “How big was the cow, Father?” asked Lydia.

  The broad man looked down at his daughter, the remnants of a prideful smile still on his face.

  “What’s that, Liddy?”

  “Was it a full grown cow?” she asked.

  Her father’s face shifted uncertainly. “Uh, perhaps not…”

  Lydia scrunched up her little nose affectedly and asked, “Wasn’t that the calf that the knacker took away because you broke two of its legs?”

  Both men looked at the girl who sat at the table, calmly examining the crumbling biscuit in her hand.

  The face of the large, rough man broke into an embarrassed grin. He pulled on the scratchy collar of his shirt. ”Lydia, you’re blowing all the glory out of farming.”

  You oughtn’t be telling stories of poor little broken-legged calves, Lydia countered silently.

  “Ah, she’s an intelligent young girl, Smythe. You can’t inflate your stories with her around.” Mr. Farington laughed and pushed the plate of biscuits closer to the farmer and his daughter.

  “Sharp indeed, she is. You ought to hear her read,” Farmer Smythe said, clapping his hand on Lydia’s shoulder.

  “Ah, you know your letters now, do you?” Mr. Farington asked, peering at Lydia through his spectacles, a kind smile on his face.

  “Oh no, Farington! She’s known letters since she was three. This one’s reading words as long as your arm.” He stuck out his own long, bulky appendage.

  “Really?” The older man asked and stood up from the table. “I have some things from my teaching days. Let me go get one of them.”

  Farmer Smythe winked at his daughter who set down the biscuit.

  She suppressed a smile, thinking, I shall surprise him as I do everyone.

  A moment later Farington returned with a paddle shaped piece of wood and handed it to Lydia.

  A thin layer of horn was tacked onto the paddle and words had been carefully scratched into its surface. Hiding her disappointment at the simplicity of the poem before her, Lydia determined to read with fluency and animation. She began:

  “For want of a nail the shoe was lost.

  For want of a shoe the horse was…”

  “No, Farington, none of those silly hornbooks!” interrupted Farmer Smythe. “That book there. Hand that to her.” He pointed at a thick brown volume resting on the far-end of the table.

  “Wordsworth? Really, Smythe?” Mr. Farington smiled and lifted his eyebrows at Lydia. “Would you like to try to read some Wordsworth, Child?”

  Lydia nodded, delicately brushing crumbs from her fingertips, thankful for once for her father’s brashness.

  “Very well.” Farington cracked open the book. “Let’s try the first stanza of The Daffodils. That’s from here to here.”

  He held the book open before her, pointing out the first six lines with his crooked, aged index finger.

  The book thunked to the table and Lydia pinned the pages down with her small hands, breathing in their distinctive wooden smell.

  Even this looks rather easy, she thought.

  Clearing her throat, she read:

  “I wander’d lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd
,

  A host of golden daffodils;

  Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

  Fluttering and dancing in the breeze…”

  Stanza after stanza she read, pausing only once at the word ‘jocund’ in the third stanza. She pronounced it with an ‘s’ sound for the ‘c’. Mr. Farington corrected her quietly as she internally vowed to never mispronounce it again.

  “Excellent!” Mr. Farington cried, clapping his hands at the poem’s conclusion.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Lydia murmured as she began to flip through the pages. Settling on The Thorn she began to read silently.

  “How old did you say she was, Smythe?”

  “Only seven!”

  “Truly, Smythe, for decades I was a schoolmaster, and very rarely did I hear a child of seven read with such ease and fluidity. Child?”

  Lydia looked up from the book to see a pair of eyes glowing appreciatively at her.

  “To such a reader as yourself, I open my library of books. Any book you want to borrow, you may. Just promise you will keep it safe as I love nothing as I love my books.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lydia smiled genuinely. She turned her eyes back to the open book before her as the conversation between the two men began anew.

  Counting Windows

  ~ Jonathan, age 9

  Whitehall

  “12 and 13 for the blue parlor

  14 and 15 for Papa’s study

  Just 16 for the drawing room as it only has one window…”

  There was a slight chill in the air as the dazzling sunlight pained Jonathan’s eyes. He sat in the crook of his favorite cherry tree, counting the windows of the building he called home. Having visited a few other stately homes, he knew Whitehall was impressive, not as large perhaps, but very grand.

  Papa would often give tours to visitors though Mama insisted this should be done by the housekeeper as was done at other great homes.

  “But no one knows the place as I do,” Sir William would respond, a pleased glint in his eyes. “I know every inch of it and now that I’ve restored every rotunda and hidey-hole, I want to be the one to show it! Do you honestly think Old Smithy-Pot would be able to answer anyone’s questions?”

  At this, Lady Clyde would shake her head, though a little smile played on her lips.

  Jonathan watched this slightly playful exchange between his parents quietly. It was a rare occurrence and made him feel pleasantly warm.

  Old Smithy-Pot, he chuckled to himself, thinking of the dour housekeeper who frowned at him whenever she saw him sliding down the bannister.

  He accompanied his father many times on these tours of the estate, silently anticipating when people would ask about this paneling or marvel at that chandelier. Always, the tour’s climax was when Papa gathered the group at a specific spot in one of the upstairs hallways and surprised them all by moving a small writing desk. Doing so unblocked a small door in the wall. Once the group had ducked their heads and filed through it, they ascended a narrow staircase to emerge on Whitehall’s roof within an open belvedere. From there, one could see for miles to the northern rolling hills. The “Lake”, which was really a large pond on the Clyde’s property, glinted in the sun. On the southern edge, past the forests and fields, the tallest buildings of Wexhall sprouted up toward the skies. Little villages dotted the landscape.

  The guests would exclaim at the beauty of the expanse, squinting in the breeze which sometimes grew into an unpleasant gale, causing their eyes to tear.

  Once as Jonathan stood alone in the hallway eyeing the desk, Sir William had come along. Kneeling down, Papa had firmly gripped Jonathan’s arm and stared into his eyes. Speaking in a voice Jonathan had never heard before, Papa asked, “Remember how high the roof is, Jonathan? You would die if you fell from there. That’s why I block the door with the desk. If you ever move it, I’ll have Glaser beat you with a riding crop until the blood runs down your back.”

  As his father’s fingers bit into Jonathan’s arm, the little boy knew that he would never disobey the order. His stomach lurched at the idea that he had the power to open the small door and ascend the steep staircase up to the roof. He could do it, but he never would, especially since the notion of it transformed his father into a threatening stranger. After that, he always felt a sense of relief once the tour group was inside the house again, and his father was moving the small desk back in front of the narrow door.

  “22 and 23 as I believe that is my room

  24 and 25 for Sophia’s room…”

  The uppermost story was more difficult to determine. It contained a row of smaller windows, just under the roofline. He thought that was where the servants slept.

  One of those tiny windows must belong to Old Smithy-Pot herself and one to Cook and one to Ploughman. But which ones? And who looks out of those biggest ones at night?

  Built symmetrically, the two final windows at either end of the row were larger than the rest. Jutting past where the others were situated, they were quite prominent.

  I’m going to find out. Why should the servants know when I don’t? Maybe Will will go with me. He bit his lip thoughtfully. No, I’ll tell him when I’m done.

  Dropping from the tree, he headed toward the house. Careful to shut the front door quietly behind him, he stepped across the entryway. Displeased at the loudness of his steps, he slipped off his shoes and proceeded down the hall to the dining room.

  “Jonathan?” came a voice from behind him.

  Whipping around, he saw his little sister, a puzzled look on her face.

  “Why are you…” Sophia began.

  “Shhh!” he urged, glancing around.

  She ran on slippered feet to his side.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide.

  “I’ll tell you afterward,” he murmured back, starting again toward a door at the end of the dining room. It was a swinging door with no handle. At every meal, the servants would emerge from it, their hands full of serving platters and bowls. Then it would swing back into place behind them.

  “But you can’t go in there!” Sophia insisted, reaching for his sleeve, her voice trembling in its rough whisper. “Who knows what they’ll do to you?”

  His heart beat quickened at her words, but the boy pushed his sister’s hand away and brought his finger forcefully back up to his lips. “Shhh…”

  Pushing the door open just enough to see what lay beyond, Jonathan was relieved that none of the servants was there. Letting himself through, he crept down the hallway, past a room with a large table and paused in the doorway of the kitchen itself.

  The broad backside of a woman faced him from the stove.

  Cook, he thought, that beastly, contrary woman.

  She was stirring something in a large steaming pot.

  Jonathan looked around, taking in the row of gleaming copper pots dangling from a rafter and the many shelves crammed with boxes and bottles.

  Is this the right way? How do they get up there at night?

  There were three doors on the far walls. One, Jonathan saw, led outside. Another was shut, remaining mysterious. The third was slightly open. Jonathan positioned himself to see beyond it.

  Stairs. That must be it.

  Hoping it wouldn’t creak, Jonathan crept toward the door and prepared to ease himself through, making himself as narrow as possible. He had to push it open another few inches, but the oblivious woman simply reached for a bottle on the shelf overhead.

  Up the confining staircase he went, carefully, slowly, his heart beating in his throat.

  Will won’t believe I did this. In fact, how can I prove to him that I did? He paused, thinking.

  I know!

  He felt around in his trouser pocket and pulled out a top that Will had given him earlier that week. He ran his fingers over the marred wooden surface, noting how the paint was chipping off.

  It’s broken anyway. I’ll leave it in the window and then he’ll see it and know I’m telling t
he truth.

  Up, up he stepped, expecting at any second to be hit over the head by a dripping ladle from behind. At the stairs’ end was a hallway. Creeping down it, he quietly pushed open the few doors and peeked inside the rooms, his pulse wild until he saw that even the last door concealed nothing more than a bed and a few pieces of shoddy furniture.

  He climbed atop the bed in the last room to peer out the window.

  This must be one of the little ones, he thought, gazing down at the cherry trees. But where are the large windows? One must be just on the other side of this wall.

  Stepping back into the hallway, he saw that it had ended. There was nowhere to go but back from where he had come.

  But where are the largest windows? Where will I place the top? Ugh…now Will won’t believe me.

  He ran his hand over the wall, wondering if there was a hidden door. His search was fruitless.

  Disappointment and frustration turned his wary stepping to a careless tread as he headed back down the hall and staircase. Taking two steps at a time, Jonathan descended the stairs and burst into the kitchen to see Cook, her eyes wide with surprise, her ugly mouth a little ‘o’.

  “Well, there’s certainly no hidden treasure up there,” he announced peevishly and ran out of the kitchen. Rushing through the swinging door, he left it swinging in his wake, back and forth, and ran past where Sophia waited, her little hands clasped over her chest.

  “You’re alive!” she cried.

  Where’s Will? he wondered, careening past her. He probably won’t believe me.

  Will did believe him, but he was no more impressed than usual.

  “That’s just where the servants sleep, you idiot,” he said, sorting through his new set of toy soldiers on the front lawn. He shoved a heavily decorated figurine into Jonathan’s hand.

  “Here, you be Spain, and I get all the horses this time.”

  ***

  Days later, as they were in the drive climbing into the carriage, Jonathan looked up and remembered the windows.

  “Papa? Whose windows are those?” he asked, pointing at the top story.

  Holding back the curtain to peer out of the carriage, Sir William answered proudly, “Those are my windows.”

  “Well, of course, just as Speed’s stable is yours and Cook’s oven is yours, but who looks out of those large windows on the end there? Who sleeps in those rooms?”