“No!” cried C.J., protectively bringing her hands to her head.
“’Twould be a pity for certain, but leastways the hair will grow back in time and no one will be the wiser if you keep your cap on.”
C.J. heard footsteps on the stairs and gave Mary a look of panic. The scullery maid handed her the itchy woolen blanket and C.J. held it before her, creating a shield between herself and the intruder.
The pockmarked youth entered without so much as a request for admission, a bundle of brown fabric under his arm. “These was Fanny’s livery,” he said, tossing them indifferently to Mary. “Lady Whip-’em wouldn’t spend so much as a shilling on a dress for the new one,” he added, nodding in C.J.’s direction, “while these was still in fine condition.”
“Mind your stupid tongue, Tony,” Mary scolded. “You’ll scare Miss Welles away.”
Tony grinned, ignoring the poor maidservant. “Did Whip-’em get you from the assizes too? It’s where she gets all her servants. No paying fees to the statute halls for her, no sir. And if she hadn’t needed a man to do the heavy work, she never would have forked over the guinea tax to His Majesty for the hiring of a male servant.”
C.J. opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by her new protector. “Never you mind where she came from. Stick to your own business.”
“And which business might that be, Mary?” the young manservant asked mockingly. “Would that be tending the coal fire, or fetching her ladyship’s parcels from the shops on Milsom Street, or polishing the silver, or sweeping the chimney, or serving the guests what come for supper, or sticking together the bits of candle what burn down in the parlor so as you and Cook and me can have some light in the evenings, because Lady Whip-’em is too cheap to let us buy tallow? Which business would that be, Mary?” Tony scratched open a pustule on his chin, releasing a quantity of viscous yellow fluid, which he wiped away with the back of his hand.
“Just wait ’til you’ve got to scrub the greasy pots and pans, girl. Or clean out the jakes when they clog. Or get on your hands and knees in the street with a wire brush and scour the sidewalk in front of Lady Whip-’em’s doorstep. You’ll wish you’d been convicted instead. In the jail, at least you’re the one being served—not doing the serving yourself. Now that Fanny’s gone, you’ll be given her duties for sure.”
C.J. swallowed hard. Had she not just been reminded of each servant’s compartmentalized tasks and restrictive station? “Lady Wickham said in open court that she was taking me to be her lady’s companion, so I doubt that she will be expecting me to fulfill the obligations you have mentioned.” Tony’s derisive laugh sounded like the wheezing of an asthmatic horse. Even the timid Mary covered her mouth with a grimy hand to stifle a giggle. “Tell me something, Tony,” C.J. continued. “Why do you refer to the mistress of the house as Lady Whip-’em?”
Mary shot the manservant a desperate look, as though she feared C.J. might bolt posthaste if he answered, but the pockmarked youth ignored her warning. “Fond of the lash, she is. And her walking stick. And the back of her hand . . . if she can reach you. Once climbed up on a wooden crate to box Fanny’s ears.”
“Mary! Tony! Cease dawdling this instant!” Lady Wickham’s voice caused even her swaggering manservant to jump to attention. Mary’s face paled. “Now we’ll be whipped for sure,” she whispered to Tony. He scrambled down the stairs with Mary scurrying after him. Suddenly itchy, C.J. wondered if she had in fact been infected with head lice. Mary had been interrupted before she could render a verdict on the state of her scalp.
After lifting herself up out of the hip bath, C.J. slid the deadbolt across the door, then grabbed her yellow figured muslin, the red silk shawl, and all of her period-accurate undergarments, and plunged them into the tub, scrubbing them with the ball of scented soap.
When she finished washing her costumes, C.J. wrung them out as best she could, and re-donned her damp underthings. The heat of her body would have to finish drying them, but the garret was drafty and at first she shivered a little from the wet clothes. She spread the shawl, which now resembled a wrinkled rag, over the top of the folding screen and pressed the yellow gown between the woolen blankets in the metal footlocker. If she could have been sure that no one would find the dress, she would have laid it across the iron bed rail to dry properly, since she was worried about mildew ruining it, but she had no choice. It was better to dry it as much as possible and then hide it, rather than risk its discovery. She’d be hard pressed to explain the zipper to people who were still fastening their clothes with cotton ties.
ONE RAINY AFTERNOON, C.J. tried to count the days she had been in Lady Wickham’s employ thus far. One week? Two? She was worked so hard that the days blended into one another. Mornings began at five-thirty with lighting the coal fires and heating the ovens, then she and Mary scrubbed the town house from top to bottom. Silver was polished twice a week. Linens were changed daily and washed in tubs filled with boiling water filtered through sand—a system that also rendered water potable for tea. A five-legged wooden contraption that was cranked by hand functioned as an agitator. Never had C.J. so missed a washer and dryer.
On the rare occasions when Lady Wickham had guests, Tony, Mary, and C.J. were expected to serve the food and help Cook wash up. The fine china was kept in a cabinet off the pantry, away from direct light, as it was
