A Girl Called Foote Read online

  Dearest--Neither Hardy nor Glaser can be spared to accompany you home at the term’s end. You are 16 now. I look forward to seeing you--Mama

  The concise note sent a thrill down his spine.

  I’m to ride home all that way unattended?

  Jonathan was uncertain if he felt flattered at his mother’s trust in his ability to transport himself home or if he felt abandoned by her to whatever tragic fate awaited him out on the open road.

  Other students ride home alone all the time, but none of them live so far away as Whitehall. It’s not even the same county!

  He had traveled the way many times in the preceding years, but it was always either in a coach or with a grown man. He’d never thought to study the way in case he needed to cover the miles alone.

  Perhaps I could hire a man to escort me, he thought. No, I’d feel like a perfect idiot asking someone that and besides, it’s the end of term, so I’ve hardly any money left. I can do it alone…can’t I?

  Distracted, Jonathan did worse than usual on his final exams that week. He slept and ate little in the days before his journey home. He visited the library and studied whatever maps he could find. This didn’t help much because only county names and large towns were denoted, not the many small villages he was accustomed to traveling through with Hardy or Glaser clopping along by his side.

  Finally, the night before he was to leave, he privately approached Schoolmaster Townsend who taught geography and explained his situation, hoping his intense anxiety was not apparent.

  “What is the closest town to your home?” asked Townsend, his brow furrowed. Of all the schoolmasters, he was mocked the most by Heath’s students due to his beanpole like figure and his bad vision. He squinted severely and up close at whatever he was peering, even the faces of students.

  “Plimbridge, sir,” Jonathan responded, smelling the onions Townsend had had for dinner.

  “Hmm, never heard of Plimbridge. Name a larger town near it, Clyde.”

  “Wexhall, I suppose.”

  “Wexhall, ay? Hmmm…” He turned to a large map of England on the classroom wall, his nose two inches from its colorful surface and murmured again, hovering there for a moment. “Well, come with me.” The gangly man led Jonathan across the cricket green to the stables.

  “St. Clare? St. Clare?” Townsend called into the gloomy, earthy smelling building.

  “’Ere I am.” A short, hairy man in muddy trousers ran to them.

  “Sirs.” He nodded at Townsend and Jonathan who both towered over him, but his barrel chest hinted that he would win a tussle with either of them.

  “St. Clare, you worked on the railway construction for years in the midland counties, did you not?”

  Railway? Now there’s an idea! But no, I can’t leave Skip here for the summer and who knows how much it costs?

  “Yessir. I was a navvy.” The man thumped his chest proudly, smiling a gap toothed grin.

  “Did you work near Wexhall?”

  “Yessir. Wexhall rings a bell, it does.”

  “Clyde here needs to get to Plimbridge which is near Wexhall. What would be the best route from here?”

  St. Clare’s face lit up. Reaching up, he clapped his hand familiarly onto Jonathan’s shoulder. “Wexhall, ay? I’ll get ya there. Lemme think…”

  What the devil! Am I to be indebted to this stinking troll? Jonathan thought. Only his desperation to get home to Whitehall kept him from peeling St. Clare’s dirty fingers off of his shoulder and flinging the man’s hand away.

  “Le’see ‘ere.” St. Clare pursed his lips and squeezed his eyes shut as if a map was drawn on his inner lids. “You’ll be wanting to go north from here to Fillmore. Then you’ll want to take the Crossley Road. Once you’re in Crossley, head toward…Gilston…”

  He drew imaginary lines in the air with his free hand, his stubbly face screwed up in concentration. “No, no. It’s best to go the Peaslough way, not Gilston. Yes, Crossley to Peaslough. Once you get through Peaslough, it’d be best to turn yourself toward Huppingdon. Straight on through Huppingdon and you’ll be at Wexhall soon enough, then from Wexhall to Plimford.”

  “Plimbridge,” Jonathan corrected the man.

  “Yes, yes, Plimbridge.” St. Clare patted Jonathan’s shoulder. “You’ll get there jus’ fine, young man.”

  From ‘sir’ to ‘young man’ that quickly? And the directions are a bit questionable. Jonathan scrambled to remember the names that had been mentioned.

  He mumbled his thanks to the two older men who had launched into talk of the railways and jogged out of the stables to his room.

  He slept fitfully that night and, before the sun rose, he was in the stable mounting Skip, the steed he had brought from Whitehall.

  St. Clare was the groom on duty. His face, made even more ghoulish by lantern light, looked self-gratified as he reminded Jonathan, “Remember, take Peaslough, not Gilston. You’ll be fine, young man, though it’s good you’re starting early.”

  He’ll be calling me ‘son’ next, thought Jonathan, eager, though nervous, to canter off into the dark.

  The first half hour passed without problem. The road was close enough to Heath and nearby Heathton where the boys went regularly to be familiar even in the predawn. However, once through Heathton, Jonathan came to a crossroad.

  I believe we approached Heathton from this side last fall, didn’t we?

  Jonathan swung Skip around to see which perspective looked right.

  The troll said to go north to Fillmore.

  Jonathan positioned the now rising sun behind him.

  So that would be this way, wouldn’t it? He looked to the right and half-heartedly began to plod in that direction.

  Hours later, as the hot noon sun beat down on him, Jonathan lamented that he had not brought anything with him to drink. On the Crossley Road now, he was approaching a small village and decided to stop at the public house and spend his last few pence on his midday meal and a much needed pint. He was feeling a bit more confident about his journey now since he had successfully made it onto the Crossley Road going toward Peaslough.

  After his repast, he remounted Skip and continued on. Soon he came to a crossroad with a large wooden signpost.

  It was blistered from standing decades in the sun and rain. Several small arrow shaped boards were nailed to it. At one time, the boards must have declared names of nearby and distant places, pointing travelers in the appropriate direction, but the weather had faded them all to near oblivion. Jonathan studied them fretfully.

  “Shinford,” he read aloud. Of the six signs, it was the only legible one.

  Someone from Shinford must have taken the time to paint that recently. Where are all the idiots from Peaslough? Have they no civic pride? Where is blasted Peaslough?

  He searched in vain for the hint of a faded capital P.

  Perhaps I should wait for a passerby, he thought. But the passage of a lonely five minutes proved to be too much, so Jonathan chose a direction, the way toward Shinford, and started out.

  It was nearly half an hour later that he overtook a cart full of chickens. Jonathan pulled up alongside it and asked the driver, “This way to Peaslough?”

  “Beeslough?” the man asked, wrinkling up his face.

  “Peaslough.”

  “Never ‘eard of it.”

  Damn!

  Wheeling Skip around, Jonathan trotted off in the direction he had just come from, swearing under his breath.

  Upon arriving back at the useless signpost, he saw that the shadow it cast was lengthening and the sun hung lower in the sky.

  The fear he started the day with set in again as he looked around helplessly, passing the reins back and forth between his damp, gloved palms. His mouth had gone dry. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alone.

  Where am I?

 

 

  Kissing a Farmer, Aiding a Gentleman

  ~ Lydia, age 15

  Midwinter Farm

>   Paul and Lydia entered the barn at Midwinter Farm.

  “There he is,” the boy said.

  “Where?” asked Lydia, her eyes adjusting in the dim light. The air was thick with the scents of manure and hay as a swarm of flies hovered overhead.

  Paul laughed, “It’s a bit hard to see him. His dam and sire are both bay, so that’s what we were expecting, but the wee beast came out black.”

  “Oh, he’s just lovely,” breathed Lydia as the small form came into focus. The little foal was reclining in the hay, his spindly legs tucked up around him.

  Oh, to stroke his fuzzy little head, thought Lydia, reaching fruitlessly over the pen wall. The mare beside the colt was alert, her head erect.

  “S’alright, Zelda,” Paul murmured. “We mean no harm.”

  “When did she foal?”

  “Night before last. I came out to feed her and she was down in the hay, moaning with a hoof hanging out her back end. I called me dad out and it was all over in half an hour.”

  The two young people stood silently leaning on the pen wall, regarding the new little colt.

  We’re touching, thought Lydia, wondering if Paul had intentionally moved closer to her. She stood very still, focusing on the sensation of his broad shoulder against her own and wondered if he could hear the hammering of her heart. The rough cloth of his sleeve brushed her arm as he leaned a bit forward.

  Keep talking.

  But I don’t know what to say.

  Think of something.

  “Will you keep him or sell him?”

  “I don’t know what Da’s plans are. They’re always changing. I think he’ll watch to see how he grows. Maybe we’ll keep him and breed him. I hope so for his sake. Midwinter’s a nice place to be.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Do you really think so?” Paul turned to face Lydia.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He’s looking at me. Lydia stared hard at the foal.

  “You like it here?” he asked, quietly.

  “Mm hmm,” Lydia murmured.

  He’s still looking at me. Turn to him.

  Waiting another moment, she forced herself to breath evenly.

  Face him!

  She mentally counted to three and then turned slowly to face him. Their eyes met.

  Lydia’s eyes searched his face. It couldn’t be described as handsome, but it was winsome with its youthful masculinity. She’d admired his manly gait across a farmyard for years. The beginnings of a beard pushed its way out of the boy’s chin, short and coarse. It was a bit darker than the hair upon his head.

  She felt that her eyes could tell him what she really felt, how he was her first thought each morning, how she sometimes had to shut the book in her hands because memories of him pushed the fictional characters aside on their own stage.

  But she wouldn’t allow them to, fearful that the fierceness that might manifest itself would seem silly.

  Don’t make a fool of yourself. Think on lighter things.

  His hair is in need of a cutting. It’s always falling into his eyes.

  She smiled slightly.

  The corners of Paul’s mouth turned up faintly in response and he leaned toward her.

  Stay still, Lydia commanded herself.

  Her breath caught in her throat as Paul’s lips brushed against her own. He pulled back, his eyes delving into hers, and started to lean in again.

  In that instant, a fly circled Lydia’s head and landed on her nose.

  Paul drew back and snickered.

  Stupid fly, thought Lydia, though she herself tittered and turned back to look at the colt. The dampness of the kiss tingled on her lips.

  “He’s right in ‘ere,” boomed a voice from the yard.

  The bulky forms of Farmers Midwinter and Smythe filled the barn’s entrance.

  “There ‘e be.” Midwinter motioned toward the pen. “Hey, Zelda. ‘Ow are you this morning?”

  “Aww, he’s a right little fella,” said Lydia’s father, squinting into the darkness.

  “’Ow d’you like our newest bit o’ livestock, Miss Liddy?” Midwinter asked, his face beaming.

  “I think he is positively resplendent, sir.” Lydia’s voice was soft as she gazed again at the colt.

  “Oh? Ha ha! I think that’s good!” chortled the farmer as he patted Lydia roughly on the back.

  Paul shook his head, smiling. “That’s Lydia, always saying things no one can understand.”

  Oh? Do I? Lydia faltered and said aloud, “He’s…beautiful.”

  “Yes he is,” offered Farmer Smythe. “Ready, Liddy? I’ve got to get back to Hillcrest before dark and I know you wanted to stop at Farington’s on the way.”

  ***

  An hour later, Lydia sat beside her father in the cart, silently moving toward Hillcrest, a book clutched in her hand. She could still feel the light brush of Paul’s lips on hers.

  Why was he so intent on knowing if I like it at Midwinter Farm? He can’t possibly be thinking about marriage, can he? Her heart began to hammer again.

  I’m only fifteen and he’s seventeen! It would be years before that could happen. And who says he’d even want to marry me, anyway?

  “Why aren’t you reading?” Farmer Smythe asked, nodding at the book in her lap.

  “Oh, um…It’s such a beautiful day. It’s nice to just sit here and look around.”

  “Ha! I’ve never known you to choose anything over a book. And a book that’s new to you at that! What is that one?” He tilted his head to see the cover.

  “Uhhh…The Vicar of Wakefield,” she said lifting it for him to see.

  “About a vicar is it? Hmm…doesn’t sound too exciting. So you liked Midwinter’s colt, did you?”

  Lydia nodded, smiling at the memory of it.

  “Whatever he decides to do with it, I hope for his sake that he makes back the money on the stud fee. The sire’s pretty well sought after and the price proved it. Ho, what’s this?”

  Several yards down the road, near a dilapidated street sign, was a man mounted on a horse. His fine clothes and the quality of his steed declared him to be a fine gentleman even from a distance. He stood stock still, staring at the approaching farmer and his daughter.

  Lydia sensed a hesitation in her father’s driving of the cart horse. He glanced around at the tree lines on either side of the road as the cart slowly drew nearer to the rider.

  Why, it’s just a boy, realized Lydia as she took in the smooth, unlined face under the top hat. But what’s the matter?

  The young gentleman’s mouth hung slightly open as his worry-filled eyes focused on Farmer Smythe.

  “Excuse me,” he spoke in the clear, genteel manner of the upper class, his words crisp. “I hope to get to Plimbridge near Wexhall before dark. Have you any advice?”

  Lydia suppressed a smile. He speaks like I imagine Mr. Darcy to.

  “Ha ha!” Farmer Smythe’s easy laughter spilled out. “Take a room for the night in Glover. That’s me advice. You won’t be getting to Plimbridge by dark. That’s for certain.”

  Lydia watched as the boy’s face grew more anxious.

  “But how should he proceed, Father? Do you know the way?”

  “Aye, I take livestock past Plimbridge on my way to Wexhall for the auction, but he’s not making it there whilst there’s light.” Smythe looked up to the lowering sun and shook his head.

  The boy’s mouth tightened into an ugly knot, a strange appearance for one so finely dressed.

  I believe he may cry, marveled Lydia.

  “Is the way complicated, Father?”

  “Not at all, just far. Take this road to Glover, then North through Ramfeld and before you get to Wexhall you’ll see the Sharington Crossroad marker. That’s a nice big stone marker with the town names carved into it. It’ll point you in the way of Plimbridge.”

  The young man’s brow smoothed slightly. He pointed. “So this way to Glover, North through Ramfeld to the Sharington Crossroad?”


  “That’d be it, young sir.”

  “Thank you very much,” he said to the farmer. His eyes flitted in Lydia’s direction as he lightly touched the brim of his hat. Then he was gone, cantering down the road toward Glover.

  Smythe clicked to the horse and the cart started on again, steady and slow.

  “I thought that young dandy was part of an ambush when I first caught sight of him. I nearly whipped Dromio into a gallop. I wonder what’s at Plimbridge for him.”

  “I wonder how he lost his way. What’s he doing out by himself so far from where he wants to be? He couldn’t have been any older than Jack.”

  “That was a beauty of a horse he was riding.”

  “Hmm, I prefer Old Dromio,” Lydia said.

  Her father laughed. “That’s good, Liddy because Dromio’s about as nice a horse as we’re likely to ever have.”

  Lydia smiled easily. “Quite likely.”

  Unless, perhaps someday I’m mistress of Midwinter Farm.

 

  Walking the House

  ~ Wells, age 9

  Whitehall

  “So this we call ‘walking the house’,” said the woman called Ploughman as they exited the kitchen. Her voice, which had been directing Beatrice all day on the upkeep of Whitehall, had lost its cheerful tone. Beatrice knew the sound of exhaustion in a person’s voice when she heard it. Her mother always sounded like that at the day’s end.

  Slowly, they padded down the hall past many darkened windows to the largest staircase. At its base, Ploughman sighed and gripped the handrail to begin the ascent.

  “We’ve already tended to the Family’s bedrooms, so now we walk the house to check each room. Make sure the fires are dampened and the lamps and candles are all snuffed. Though the house is stone, there’s plenty inside it that could burn.” She turned to look back at Beatrice, who was two steps behind, a small gentle smile on her face, her eyes looking worn.

  Though her meal with the other servants had been hours earlier, Beatrice was still thinking about the yeasty bread they’d eaten, the smell of it, the chewy resistance of it between her teeth. It had been the best thing she had tasted in her nine years of life. No one had looked at her reproachfully even when she had reached for a third thick slice.

  Arriving at a door, Ploughman opened it to see nothing but darkness within, so they moved on to the next one. Beside it on the wall was a mirror. While Ploughman opened the door, Beatrice caught sight of her own face, illuminated by the lit candle she carried.