Turning the Stones by Debra Daley Page A

conclusions. The master had spoken of a child, yes, but was I indeed the child in question? Mulling it over again, I wondered if he had been referring to one of the servants – Abby, perhaps? In truth, I am so minor as to be beneath remuneration, my position as Eliza’s companion being compensated for in perquisites rather than pay. How vain of me to think that Mr Waterland gave any thought at all to my existence. Of course Miss Broadbent had been too kind to observe that only a nonentity with a runaway imagination and an altitudinous opinion of herself would presume that she, and not his debts, had rattled the master’s composure.
    ‘But we are all safe now, don’t you know,’ Rorke said, and sallied out with his platter.
    I took my place at the table next to Miss Broadbent, and Hester hastened the pease pudding towards us, and the gravy boat. Mr Otty asked Croft to fetch more beer. ‘And cork the barrel well,’ he shouted after him, ‘else all the virtue will go out of it!’
    ‘Thank you, Hester,’ I said, helping myself to pudding. ‘I am glad to dine here. It is much jollier than in Eliza’s apartment.’
    Downes said, ‘How fortunate that you feel that way, miss, for I wager you must get used to the servants’ hall. The mistress will be looking to put you out of the way, I warrant.’
    ‘What do you mean by that? I wonder,’ said Miss Broadbent. ‘The child knows full well that Mrs Waterland finds her very obliging.’
    Downes pursed her lips. ‘I am only saying that if this young lady is not careful she will vex the mistress by showing up Miss Eliza’s wants.’
    ‘Ah, here is Croft,’ said Miss Broadbent, making a point of ignoring Downes. ‘Shall we raise a toast to the young master, Mr Otty?’
    I could not help feeling unsettled by Downes’s remarks and resolved to be on my guard against any inadvertent eclipsing of Eliza. Everything about my conduct – whether I stepped forward or hung back – was qualified by Mrs Waterland’s opinion.
    We stood then and cried the good health of Johnny Waterland and when we had sat down again, Mr Otty made a rather rambling speech. I gathered that after a long and nerve-racking delay, the mistress’s uncle, Sir Joseph Felling, had agreed to sponsor Johnny for a future at the bank of which he was a principal and there was even hope that Johnny might be favoured as Sir Joseph’s heir. This was the news imparted in the letter Mrs Waterland had received, although the servants seemed already to know most of it. The intelligence, I later found from Hester, was owed to the combined efforts of theservants, their individual differences notwithstanding – Downes, for instance, poking into the correspondence tucked away in Mrs Waterland’s secretary-desk, Rorke doing likewise with the master’s, and Mrs Edmunds and Mr Otty drawing on a network of connections developed over their long years of service in the respective families of the mistress and the master. They worked together for the common good in this regard, since their fates were, naturally, bound up intricately with their employers’.
    Croft charged our cups again. The beer was sour and tasty and made me feel as if I were leaning slightly to one side. Another toast was made, this time to Sir Joseph. Abby asked, ‘Now but who is he, though?’ and Mr Otty explained, ‘Sir Joe is the spigot who augments the flow of cash. He is the uncle of our mistress, head of the Felling family and a man bowlegged with brass.’ Mr Otty speared a flap of mutton and used it to emphasise his remark that it would be a strange thing if young Johnny did not get a legacy when Sir Joseph shuffled off. ‘A handsome one it will be too,’ he said, ‘and when that comes to pass not a cloud will darken Sedge Court never no more.’
    ‘I would not count your chickens, Mr Otty. The Fellings were always right snooty about the Waterlands.’ In response to Miss Broadbent’s enquiring gaze, Mrs Edmunds added, ‘The