Elizabeth Mansfield (12 page)

For those times when the girls were not together, Pippa found herself another friend. It was the footman, Thomas, who (if he could be found without a pressing chore to do) would give her a good game of Hearts, make up riddles or tell her the most surprising tales of strange, exotic places like Barbados, Portugal, or India. On a particularly rainy, cold day in late November, when it became clear that Lady Sturtevant and Sybil would not be paying a call, Pippa roamed the house looking for her
second-favorite companion. She found him in the warming room, a little room off the large dining room where the food which had cooled on its way up from the kitchen was reheated before being served. The room had a large fireplace, two warming ovens, a number of cupboards in which the large silver serving pieces were stored, and a long worktable at the center. It was at this table that Thomas, busily polishing an appalling number of trays, teapots and candlesticks, was found. “Are you very busy, Thomas,” Pippa asked from the doorway.

Thomas looked up and grinned at her. “Busy? What a question, Miss Pippa. Of course I’m not busy. All I need do is say ‘Rumplestilskin,’ and a little gnome will come and finish all this polishing in a twinkling.”

Pippa giggled. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could? Then you’d be free to play cards with me.”

“It wouldn’t be wonderful at all,” Thomas said severely. “I already owe you six hundred and forty-nine pounds for games I’ve lost to you.”

“Six hundred and seventy. You’re forgetting the twenty-one pounds I won yesterday.”

“Six hundred and seventy, then. Do you realize, my lass, that if I spent not a penny of my wages, it would take me thirty-three-and a half years to pay you what I owe?”

“Oh, pooh! The debt is only pretend, as you very well know. Besides, you may be the one to win the next rubber or two, and our situations might well be completely reversed.”

“That’s true,” Thomas agreed, rubbing at the rounded belly of an ornate teapot with energy. “I’m almost sorry, then, that our gambling is only pretend.”

Pippa walked thoughtfully to the fire. “Thirty-three-and-a-half years?” She took off her spectacles and shut her eyes. “That means your wages for the year are twenty pounds.”

Thomas stopped his work to stare at her admiringly. “That’s very
good
, Miss Pippa!”

“Good? It seems to me to be a very paltry amount.”

“I don’t mean my wages. I mean the way you did that sum in your head.”

“Oh, that.” She put on her spectacles again and smiled at him. “That’s nothing worth speaking of. I’ve always been very good at sums, you know.”

“I
didn’t
know. But I should have guessed. That’s probably why you do so well at cards. But as for my wages being paltry, I’ll have you know that I make three pounds per annum more than Lady Sturtevant’s first footman, and I’m only an under.”

“No, you’re not. Mama says she doesn’t approve of firsts and unders. But how can it be that my father left me twenty
thousand
pounds per annum while your wages are only twenty?”

Tom smiled ruefully. “It’s the way of the world, Miss Pippa. But you shouldn’t worry yourself about it. You should be pleased that you’re such a rich little girl.”

“Am I?”

“Indeed you are. I’m fair tempted to run off with you and wed you for your fortune.”

Pippa studied him seriously. “No, I don’t think you’re the sort to make a mercenary match,” she decided after brief reflection.

“Am I not? What makes you so certain? How, at your age, have you become so expert in these matters? Has someone tried to run off with you already?”

“What a jokester you are, Thomas,” she giggled. “I learned from books, of course. There are many stories in which wicked men try to wed innocent damsels for their wealth. But those men aren’t like you. They have narrow, glittering eyes, you see.”

“Oh.” He narrowed his eyes and leered at her. “Like this?”

She gurgled in amusement. “Not at
all
like that. You just aren’t the sort.”

He gave a lugubrious sigh. “Too bad. My one chance to become rich … gone through having the
wrong sort of eyes!”

“But you have the right sort of eyes for gaming,” the girl said with inspiration. “If you play cards with me, you may
win
yourself a fortune.”

He made a face. “Only a pretend fortune. And I have all these very real trays to do.”

“Can’t you put off polishing some of them until tomorrow?” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Miss Pippa, but tomorrow’s taken with other chores. Mr. Hicks has given us a daily schedule. I have it here.” He put down his polishing cloth and took from his pocket a closely written sheet. “Let’s see now … Thursday … Thursday … ah, here it is. Afternoon, after clearing away the luncheon, there’s the stair rods and the brasses.”

Poor Pippa’s face fell. “Do you mean there’s something on that list for
every
afternoon?”

“I’m afraid so. Monday the lamps, Tuesday the glassware, Wednesday the silver and so forth …”

“It’s quite unfair! Why should
you
be required to do all the work? What about Mary, or Gladys, or Daniel?”

“They’ve all got their own lists, you know. Daniel, at this moment, is waxing all the oak. Now, don’t look so crestfallen. You wouldn’t wish me to neglect my duties and get the sack, would you?”

“Oh, you won’t get the sack. In my opinion, you’re the very best of all the servants.”

“Thank you, Miss Pippa. Now if we could only convince Mr. Hicks and your mother of that very obvious truth, we’d have nothing to worry about. We could probably hide in here and play cards all day long.”

“But I don’t think I can manage it,” Pippa admitted, turning with flagging steps to the door. “I don’t think either one of them thinks as well of you as I do.”

“I’m aware of that. But how did
you
know it?” Tom asked, looking at her curiously.

“I overheard them discussing you. They think you’re too bold.”

Tom grunted and returned to his polishing. “Hmm. Boldness … that’s a lamentable flaw in a footman, you know.”

The child paused at the door and looked back at him. “Yes, I suppose so. Though it sounds rather heroic to me.” She sighed. “I hope there will be
some
time in the week when you can play with me, Thomas.”

“Don’t worry, lass, we’ll manage something. Meanwhile, if you’ve nothing better to do, you can stay here and listen to me spin a yarn. I can talk and polish at the same time, after all.”

The child’s face brightened. “Oh, that will be
famous
! I love stories as well as cards, you know.”

“Good, then. Here, let me lift you up on the table. It’ll be more comfortable than standing about in the doorway.”

He cleared away an area on the table to his right and lifted her up. She dangled her legs happily from her elevated perch. “Where are all the chairs?” she asked curiously. “Have they all been taken away somewhere?”

“Oh, there are no chairs in the warming room, ever. This is a workroom, you see. Chairs don’t do in a workroom, because their presence might encourage a servant to sit down while working, and that is strictly forbidden. But never mind. You’re comfortable up there on the table, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes, it’s quite lovely up here,” she assured him, picking up a polishing cloth and absently rubbing away at a tray. “What yarn will you spin today?”

“Have I told you the one about the stowaway? No? Well, it begins many years ago, on a schooner called the
Surprise
, when one of the crew who was laying up rigging heard a cough that seemed to come from under the taffrail, where the jollyboat was tied …”

The story was well along when Camilla appeared at the warming-room door. “Oh,
there
you are,
Pippa,” she said in surprise. “I’ve been searching for you all over the house.” She took due note of the tray and polishing cloth in her daughter’s lap and the cozy intimacy of the scene before her. It was a scene which struck her as completely inappropriate, and she stiffened in irritation. “Come down from there at once!” she said sharply. “
Ladies
do not perch themselves on
tables.
”

“But Sybil would perch on a—”

“Never mind about Sybil. Perhaps Ethelyn is right, and you
are
seeing too much of that child.”

“It was my idea to put Miss Philippa up there, ma’am,” Tom ventured. “There isn’t a single chair in here, you see—”

“Never mind. Just take her down,” Camilla said coldly. “And in future, Thomas, I’d be greatly obliged if you’d do your
own
polishing without my daughter’s help!”

“He didn’t enlist my help,” Pippa said quickly. “You’re not being fair, Mama. I was only holding the tray in my lap. I don’t think Thomas even noticed it.”

Thomas, furious, clenched his fists. “Miss Pippa knows I don’t approve of her polishing,” he said sarcastically. “I only permit her to carry logs for me.”

Pippa giggled, but her mother flushed. “Well, never mind. Just help her down. I want her to come along with me at once.”

“But may I not stay for a few minutes more?” Pippa asked as Thomas helped her jump down from her perch. “Just to find out what the Captain did to the stowaway?”

“No, you may not.” Her mother took Pippa’s hand and stalked to the door. “I don’t think that fellow will ever learn to have a civil tongue in his head,” she muttered. “Irritating rudesby!”

Pippa, just before she was pulled from the room, looked back at the chastized Thomas.
You’re just too bold
, she mouthed with a teasing glint.

Thomas grinned and winked.
Much too bold
, he mouthed back.

Dear Ethelyn, I have your letter of 2 December before me, and I regret to have to refuse your kind invitation to return to Wyckfield for Christmas. Pippa has been invited to spend Christmas day at the home of her new friend (who, as I told you, has four siblings of assorted ages) and is quite looking forward to spending the holiday in the company of so many lively children. I, too, have been invited, of course, and I must admit that I share Pippa’s eagerness to experience this new sort of holiday celebration. I hasten to assure you that there is nothing godless in the way our new London friends live. Lady Sturtevant, the hostess in question, is a person of whom you would surely approve
.

I am sorry that the holiday will find us apart, but in any case, Ethelyn, I do not believe it would be wise to attempt such a long trip so soon after we’ve settled in, especially when the weather at this season is so uncertain. Please accept our very best wishes for your good health—and Oswald’s, too, of course—and remember that I remain your most devoted, etc., Camilla
.

Camilla reread the letter, chewing the tip of her pen worriedly. It was a poor letter in every respect. In the first place, it was awkwardly phrased. Her wording did nothing to hide the bald fact that both she and Pippa preferred to spend the holiday with their new acquaintances rather than return to Wyckfield. And, secondly, she’d added two other excuses—that the trip was too long and the weather uncertain—and anyone with an ounce of sense knew that three lame excuses were not nearly as effective as one good one. Ethelyn would be livid when she read this missive.

But Camilla had already written three earlier drafts. This was the best she could do. Perhaps there was no good way to phrase a refusal. But an acceptance was out of the question.

It was not that the London life was so completely joyful. On the contrary, there were many problems she had to face. She was still very insecure at playing the role of mistress of a household in
which she had to make decisions for more than a dozen people. Her daughter was changing before her eyes, and Camilla was not sure the changes were all for the better. And, although she was making friends, she still felt lonely most of the time. No, things were not perfect. Life was teaching her that happiness, even in the best of circumstances, was not easy to achieve. But she did feel hopeful; she did feel alive; she did feel
free
. Those were feelings she’d never had at Wyckfield Park.

She’d had a bad dream just the other night which had made her even more firm about refusing her sister-in-law’s invitations. She’d dreamed that she’d returned to Wyckfield and was walking along a hedgerow in the garden, noting again, with distaste, the orderly decorousness of the hedge’s shape. Not a twig nor leaf stuck out to mar the even perfection of the trim. Suddenly, however, the leaves withered and dropped off, and the bare twigs began to grow out in frightening, gnarled offshoots—woodsy, misshapen fingers which began to reach for and clutch at her hair, her arms, her dress. She tried to break free of their grasp, but although the branches appeared to be brittle, they did not break. Before she knew it, she was being held fast. The branches continued to grow and thicken and wind themselves about her. The light was soon blotted out; the hedge became an impenetrable cage, and she knew that she could never, even if she lived a hundred years, claw her way out …

With a decisive abruptness, she folded the third draft of the letter and sealed it. No matter how deplorable her sister-in-law would find it, the letter was going to be posted just the way it was, and the devil take the hindmost. She couldn’t let it matter to her that her sister-in-law would be offended. She couldn’t let herself be weakened by repeated urgings to return to Wyckfield. She couldn’t let herself become disheartened, no matter how difficult life in London should become. She had to remember that London was freedom and Wyckfield a cage. No matter what happened, she was never, never going back to Wyckfield again.

There was no way in which the country-bred Camilla could have anticipated the excitement of spending the holidays in town. She was not prepared for the number of dinners, outings, balls, luncheons, fetes and routs which, under the aegis of Lady Sturtevant, she was encouraged to attend. By the time the new year had come, and the whirl of activities had finally subsided, Camilla and her daughter had gone through every item in their wardrobes, had been fully occupied every day for a fortnight, and were completely exhausted. It was Pippa who expressed aloud what Camilla felt: “Londoners are wonderful; they have time for everything but sleeping and reading.”