“SHE LIKES YOU, Miss Welles,” Mary confided one night as the young women slipped out of their simple brown dresses and into the muslin nightshirts that Lady Wickham constantly reminded them she had so generously provided.
Mary blew out the stub of a smelly tallow candle, and they both slipped into the narrow bed.
C.J. remembered that the first time Mary ignited one of the small gunpowder pastilles commonly used to mask the odor of the burning tallow, she had fairly jumped out of her skin from the explosion. She doubted she’d ever become accustomed to such detonations, but Mary cautioned her not to complain to the mistress, or Lady Wickham would surely put a stop to her generosity. “The servants weren’t never permitted whole candles, even tallow ones, before you came, Miss Welles,” Mary had told her.
In the darkness of their cramped bedchamber, the long day’s exhaustive tasks finally at an end, C.J.’s mind would turn to thoughts of home. Although she was not alone, this was the time when she dreamed she could not get back to the twenty-first century, no matter what or how hard she tried. Had her landlord slapped an eviction notice on her door? Had another actress been hired for By a Lady? Had everyone there forgotten her?
Tonight her fears got the better of her, and C.J. was unable to control the hot tears that flowed silently down her cheeks. She choked back the sobs so that her bedmate might not hear.
“’Tisn’t just her ladyship what likes you, you know. I like you too, Miss Welles,” Mary said softly, draping a thin arm across C.J.’s recumbent body. “This house hasn’t been so terrible since you came here. Lady Wickham is much nicer to me now.” But C.J. was too immersed in her own thoughts to accord her full attention to Mary’s stream-of-consciousness rambling. “I hope you stay here forever,” the scullery maid murmured, and drifted off to sleep.
“MISS WELLES, you will accompany Mary on her errands this morning,” Lady Wickham announced as C.J. finished polishing an elaborate silver candelabra. “It is time you learned how to make the household purchases.” C.J. followed her employer into the parlor and retrieved paper and quill with which to make a list. Lady Wickham began to dictate. “Wax candles—six in the pound. I should like two pounds. The candles should last about six or seven hours apiece. The nights are getting shorter; therefore, we will shift from the four-to-a-pound candles to the six. There will still be ample light to read by, Miss Welles.”
C.J. wrote out her ladyship’s instructions in the penmanship she had mastered during the past few weeks of practice with quill and ink. Her first forays had been a disaster and resembled Rorschach tests rather than correspondence. Lady Wickham had been quite sharp with her for wasting good parchment and blotting paper. Still, C.J.’s fingers bore telltale ink stains that she feared would never completely wash off.
“Fish is too dear, so we shall dine on mock turtle soup again on Sunday. You shall purchase two pounds of mutton for the week, and a calf’s head for the stock. Game is scarce, as the hunting season is long over. You should be able to locate pigeon or sparrow, though. I prefer the pigeon as there is more meat on the bones. Purchase four birds. We shall forgo the chicken this week. Ask Mary to show you where to pick up a fine hare.”
C.J. dropped the quill, thus creating an enormous ink blot on the sheet of cheap foolscap. She had forced herself to stomach the mock turtle soup and the pigeon pie, even after learning of the ingredients, but eating bunny rabbit was one concession to Georgian cuisine that she was ill prepared to make. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—do it, although harmless woodland creatures were regular fare in 1801. And people were grateful to get it.
Lady Wickham regarded C.J.’s sloppiness with evident distaste. “I have asked Cook to make a rice pudding, so you will need to fetch rice, of course, and eggs. We will need a sugar cone as well. I am told that we still have butter, and I do not wish to make excessive expenditures.”
C.J. finished her list, and after waiting for her to securely close the brass inkwell, Lady Wickham rapped her sharply across the knuckles with her fan. Had the inkwell been open, the writing desk would have been ruined, as the blow caused C.J.’s hands to fly up from the surface and fall back against it with some degree of force.
“What was that for, your ladyship?” C.J. asked, her eyes welling with tears. She kneaded her sore knuckles.
“For handling your quill in such a slovenly manner. I confess that I continue to remain astonished at how a young lady with such an evident sensibility for literature can be so inept with its essentials. Paper and ink do not come cheaply, Miss Welles, and you squander my materials like a drunken sailor!”
Lady Wickham handed C.J. a small purse. “I know to the farthing how much money is in this reticule, Miss Welles. And I have calculated the cost of each item you have listed. I expect you to return the purse to me with one pound, six shillings inside. Anything more, and you will receive my thanks for being an astute shopper. Anything less, and I will punish you for the thief you revealed yourself to be on the day that I found you and so magnanimously offered you a position in my establishment.”
C.J. descended into town with Mary trotting along like a spaniel at her heel. One item on Lady Wickham’s list had caused her particular distress. “Wherever can we find a sugar
