conceit exposed, and straightaway trod on the hem of my gown. I stumbled and fell to my knees. My face flamed with embarrassment, my vanity well and truly punished.
Eliza burst into laughter. I looked anxiously in Mrs Waterland’s direction. I couldn’t bear for her to see me look a fool.
But she was completely absorbed in her letter. She was gazing at the page in her hand with an expression of deep satisfaction or even a kind of euphoria.
The Servants’ Hall
March, 1758
For months Mrs Edmunds had guarded our store of candles with such ferocity you might think the world was running out of tallow, but from the moment that Mrs Waterland unsealed that letter, the moods and interiors of Sedge Court grew lighter. There was a fizz in the air as if great changes were abroad. In fact, that very evening Eliza was invited to dine with her parents, which was a noteworthy event in itself, and Miss Broadbent and I were asked to take our dinner downstairs.
We arrived in the servants’ hall to the merry sight of candle flames in abundance, reflected in the glass of the water bottles set upon the table and in the copper pots hanging on the wall, and there was a hearty fire flourishing in the grate. Even Downes looked more or less thawed. Miss Broadbent appeared below stairs infrequently – we usually dined in Eliza’s dressing room – and I wondered if there might be some demurring at her company, because she did not properly belong to the basement, but Mr Otty welcomed her with bonhomie, saying, ‘Draw yourself up cosy, Miss Broadbent, for it is crisp out tonight.’ He was the picture of informality with coat flung aside, neck-cloth untwined, and paunch liberated by an untrammelled waistcoat. I am not sure of his age. His whiskersare white and he has a face that has been blasted by all kinds of weathers during his career as a driver – it is as rubicund and wrinkled as an overwintered beetroot – but he is sprightly on his legs for an old man. Actually Miss Broadbent seems to carry a greater burden of years, although she is probably scarcely in the middle of her thirties.
At the head of the table, Mrs Edmunds was carving a joint. With something very close to a smile she said to me, ‘No need to stare like a throttled earwig, wench,’ and, pointing her knife at Downes, ‘Ease up, missus, and make room for the lass.’ Rorke arrived with a plate-basket of dirty dishes and said that they were drawing out their dinner upstairs. Then he winked at me and said, ‘They won’t begrudge us our junketing down here tonight. After all, it has passed more than a twelve-month since we were given our wages.’
This was not the first time I had heard of the wages being long delayed, but since I myself was not paid in coin, I had not appreciated the seriousness of this state of affairs.
‘Abby!’ Rorke shouted. ‘Come now and bustle off these plates.’
Abby was making conversation with Andy Croft, an ungainly, good-natured boy with big-knuckled hands and a speckled complexion, but she followed Rorke into the scullery, and I did as well, for I was keen to know what was afoot in the house.
Rorke said, ‘It has been stark bad right enough. The master was well nigh jigged up and we were all feared for our situations.’
‘What do you mean, jigged up?’
‘Near to bankrupt. Has Miss Broadbent taught you the meaning of that or is it all dancing and folderol upstairs?’
‘I know that bankruptcy is a miscarriage of money.’
‘You are not wrong there. The prospect of it has put the terrors on us.’
Now I understood the cause of the house’s anxiety. The rumours of the master’s languishing income were true. Miss Broadbent had been right to attribute his prickliness to the worrisome responsibilities associated with this and I felt abashed at having mentioned my fear of eviction to her. Recalling the overheard exchange between the master and mistress in the light of this news, I began to see that I had leapt to
Eliza burst into laughter. I looked anxiously in Mrs Waterland’s direction. I couldn’t bear for her to see me look a fool.
But she was completely absorbed in her letter. She was gazing at the page in her hand with an expression of deep satisfaction or even a kind of euphoria.
The Servants’ Hall
March, 1758
For months Mrs Edmunds had guarded our store of candles with such ferocity you might think the world was running out of tallow, but from the moment that Mrs Waterland unsealed that letter, the moods and interiors of Sedge Court grew lighter. There was a fizz in the air as if great changes were abroad. In fact, that very evening Eliza was invited to dine with her parents, which was a noteworthy event in itself, and Miss Broadbent and I were asked to take our dinner downstairs.
We arrived in the servants’ hall to the merry sight of candle flames in abundance, reflected in the glass of the water bottles set upon the table and in the copper pots hanging on the wall, and there was a hearty fire flourishing in the grate. Even Downes looked more or less thawed. Miss Broadbent appeared below stairs infrequently – we usually dined in Eliza’s dressing room – and I wondered if there might be some demurring at her company, because she did not properly belong to the basement, but Mr Otty welcomed her with bonhomie, saying, ‘Draw yourself up cosy, Miss Broadbent, for it is crisp out tonight.’ He was the picture of informality with coat flung aside, neck-cloth untwined, and paunch liberated by an untrammelled waistcoat. I am not sure of his age. His whiskersare white and he has a face that has been blasted by all kinds of weathers during his career as a driver – it is as rubicund and wrinkled as an overwintered beetroot – but he is sprightly on his legs for an old man. Actually Miss Broadbent seems to carry a greater burden of years, although she is probably scarcely in the middle of her thirties.
At the head of the table, Mrs Edmunds was carving a joint. With something very close to a smile she said to me, ‘No need to stare like a throttled earwig, wench,’ and, pointing her knife at Downes, ‘Ease up, missus, and make room for the lass.’ Rorke arrived with a plate-basket of dirty dishes and said that they were drawing out their dinner upstairs. Then he winked at me and said, ‘They won’t begrudge us our junketing down here tonight. After all, it has passed more than a twelve-month since we were given our wages.’
This was not the first time I had heard of the wages being long delayed, but since I myself was not paid in coin, I had not appreciated the seriousness of this state of affairs.
‘Abby!’ Rorke shouted. ‘Come now and bustle off these plates.’
Abby was making conversation with Andy Croft, an ungainly, good-natured boy with big-knuckled hands and a speckled complexion, but she followed Rorke into the scullery, and I did as well, for I was keen to know what was afoot in the house.
Rorke said, ‘It has been stark bad right enough. The master was well nigh jigged up and we were all feared for our situations.’
‘What do you mean, jigged up?’
‘Near to bankrupt. Has Miss Broadbent taught you the meaning of that or is it all dancing and folderol upstairs?’
‘I know that bankruptcy is a miscarriage of money.’
‘You are not wrong there. The prospect of it has put the terrors on us.’
Now I understood the cause of the house’s anxiety. The rumours of the master’s languishing income were true. Miss Broadbent had been right to attribute his prickliness to the worrisome responsibilities associated with this and I felt abashed at having mentioned my fear of eviction to her. Recalling the overheard exchange between the master and mistress in the light of this news, I began to see that I had leapt to
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