CHAPTER 9.
When I wasn’t tiptoeing around Colonel Havelock, I was writing letters to Eileen and trying to get someone at Scotland Yard to speak to me. I gave up after a month with no reply. Disheartened at ever finding out what really happened the night my brother died, I tucked my useless letters back in my drawer.
Mrs. Hutchins noticed I was despondent and invited me to go shopping.
“It’ll do you good to get out of this crypt, dearie,” she said, preparing to go on her weekly jaunt. She usually waited until we were out of everything for an excuse to make the trip. “It’s your day off, isn’t it?”
I nodded warily, too tired to argue. The day before, Colonel Havelock threw a bedpan at me.
I hadn’t emptied it yet.
“You’re not still upset over what happened yesterday, are you?”
“Should I be?” My hand drifted up to my hair. I spent the better part of a day scrubbing urine out of my hair. “It still smells,” I grumbled. “And I rinsed with vinegar. Twice!”
“Apple cider, dearie. That’ll do the trick.”
“Mr. Anson hasn’t tried to find a replacement,” I informed her, chagrined. “I don’t know why he doesn’t hire a nurse. I’m way over my head, Mrs. Hutchins.”
She glanced around to see if Mr. Anson was lurking about and lowered her voice. “He tried. Once they found out who the colonel was, they stopped sending the girls to interview for the position.”
“All or some?”
“All and then some.”
“Well,” I said, reaching for an orange muffin. “I don’t blame them any. I suppose I should have asked around.”
“How could you have known?” She frowned, clicking her tongue. “Though I think it’s terrible Mr. Anson lied to you. The colonel can’t take care of himself.”
“I know.”
She waited until I’d finished my tea to drag me out into the sun. “Goodness,” she huffed, loading the wagon with wooden crates. “You look like one of them vampires!”
“That’s not funny, Mrs. Hutchins.” I hopped aboard feeling as if I had just made parole. “I don’t know why they don’t just shackle me to the wall.”
“Don’t take on so, dearie,” she chuckled, climbing in beside me. She gave the reins a little slap and off we went. “Have you written to your aunt like you said?”
“Um… yes.” I’d written about coming to stay. Begged like a dog was more like it. I waited for weeks until I received a coldly worded reply telling me I’d made my bed and to lie in it. Eileen was doing well in school and my aunt would prefer to keep it that way.
“She needs no interference from the likes of you,” my aunt had written. “We pay good money for her education and your presence would be… unwelcome.”
“What did she say?”
“She told me I should sleep with the dogs.”
“Your aunt said that?”
“The family did not approve of my mother’s marriage,” I explained, wishing I had train fare to Timbuktu or wherever I might disappear. “Sometimes I wish I could fly away. Ever feel like that, Mrs. Hutchins?”
“All the time.”
“I’m going to try to find a teaching position,” I declared suddenly, surprising myself. “I know I haven’t much experience, but there are places out west that need all the teachers they can find. Do you think that would be… prudent?”
“You’re asking me?” Mrs. Hutchins let out a rueful sigh. “I only work for the colonel because I need the money. Dudley didn’t leave me anything when he popped off.”
“What’s it like being a widow?”
“Oh, I can’t complain. I’ve got the bed all to myself, I don’t have to watch my figure, and I can eat fish on Sundays.”
I turned in my seat. “Why couldn’t you eat fish on Sundays?”
“Mr. Hutchins hated the smell. And if he couldn’t eat it, neither would I.”
“Goodness! Are all marriages like that?”
Mrs. Hutchins nodded. “I never should have married him, but my father insisted.”
“Then I’m never getting married,” I swore, fiddling with my purse. Mr. Anson had finally seen fit to pay my wages, though most of what I’d earned was taken for ‘ancillary’ expenses.
“You understand,” he said while counting out the bills.
I didn’t and knew he was underpaying me. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was saving what I could until I had enough to return to New York. From there, I’d decide if I wanted to head out west. “I’ll give them another month,” I decided. “If they haven’t found someone by then, I’m leaving no matter what. Do you think that’s fair?”
“You don’t need my permission, dearie. You’ve earned a medal in my eyes.”
I squirmed in embarrassment. I was never one for false praise. Most of what I did was for purely selfish reasons. I needed to eat and have a roof over my head. So what if I had to dodge bedpans and the lobster claws of a deranged old man? At least I’d have a meal at the end of the day.
“I am a dreadful coward,” I blurted, causing Mrs. Hutchins to burst out laughing. “Why do you laugh?”
“Because I think the same thing about myself. Most of us do.”
“Is there a cure?”
“Not in this life.”
Unsettled at her response, I held my tongue until we reached the village.
* * *
The village should have been teeming with people, but it was not. I glanced around, startled by the vast emptiness of the main thoroughfare. “What happened? Don’t people shop anymore?”
“That’s the way of most villages when the shops close.”
“But I thought they were doing well.”
“Not that one. They moved the textile mill further north. Took all the jobs and the people with it.”
“What about the landed gentry? They own estates that need people to work the land.”
“Some people don’t want to pay rent on cottages full of damp and mold. They’d rather live in their own cottages, walk to the mills with their family members, and earn money that doesn’t line a fancy gentleman’s pockets.”
“I’m sure the textile owner is doing very well,” I commented dryly. “We have textile mills in New England. The work is dangerous, and the pay is poor.”
Mrs. Hutchins shrugged. “To each their own.”
“I suppose.”
We entered a general store that had seen better days. I made a beeline for the sewing supplies, having expended my supply of white thread. I hadn’t had money to purchase material to make new petticoats, and mine were full of holes. I cast a longing glance at the bolts of white cambric. Back in Rhode Island, it would have been no problem purchasing a few yards for several camisoles and drawers. I’d even have enough left over for a nightgown.
Not so today with my meager salary.
I would have to make do with what I had. Mrs. Hutchins offered to give me a pile of old bedsheets to use. I politely declined. I wasn’t averse to the donation. I just didn’t care to don underwear made of fabric someone tossed and turned on for years.
I wandered past the bolts of fabric, making my way to the spice aisle. Since I prepared most of the colonel’s meals, I kept a small pantry full of items I knew he liked. Mrs. Hutchins added elbow pasta and blocks of mild cheeses so I could make up a baked macaroni and cheese on Sundays. The first time I made the dish, I was mildly surprised he devoured the bowl.
And asked for seconds!
I was out of dry mustard and nutmeg, both of which were required for the dish. The nutmeg was usually under lock and key because it was so expensive. Colonel Havelock gave me an allowance to purchase what I needed for his private pantry. If I had money left over, I was free to use it as I saw fit.
I placed the coveted tins, along with paprika, into my basket. I added salt and pepper. You could never have too much of those. A tin of dry chili powder. I only used it if I made a dish of polenta which tended to be bland if I didn’t season it to death. Turmeric. Ginger. Cardamon. I couldn’t help myself. I knew I couldn’t afford them, but was compelled by a desire to prepare a dish I had never tried to make.
Butter chicken.
Why now, do you ask?
Because I was seized by a sudden desire to make it. In my mind, I could see pictures of regal young women in brightly colored saris savoring the rich yogurt-based sauce. A list of ingredients came to me, and I added the cashews and whole butter. Mrs. Hutchins was astounded by my overflowing basket. “What have you there, dearie? A feast?”
“Er… I thought I’d try to make butter chicken,” I answered with my usual self-deprecating humor. “Perhaps I’ll get myself sacked if I do. The colonel hates spicy food.”
“He also hates butter chicken,” she warned, counting out her bills and deciding to add my basket along with hers. “But if you want to live dangerously, I say have at it.”
“Think the odor would carry?”
“Do bears hibernate in the woods?”
Frowning as the shopkeeper wrapped my purchases, I thought I could make the dish in Mr. Anson’s cottage. He usually took Fridays and Saturdays off, so I’d have the cottage all to myself. “If I used the stove in the caretaker’s cottage and was very careful, do you think anyone would notice?”
“Butter chicken, dearie? The odor will linger for days.” She let out a wicked chuckle. “Do it. It’ll serve Mr. High and Mighty right. Thinks he’s better than us.”
We walked outside just in time to see an automobile speed past. In the driver’s seat was the young man who had driven me home that day in the rain. Beside him was a beautiful young woman with rouged lips and teeth so glaringly white the sun was envious. “Who was that?” I breathed.
“The lady or the gentleman?”
“Er… both.”
Mrs. Hutchins loaded the wagon with our purchases and helped me up into my seat. She climbed in and took the reins. “That is His Lordship Percy Evers IV and his paramour, Stella Heatherton.” She rolled her eyes. “She is also one of the richest young women in the country.”
“Do tell.”
“Not much to tell.” Mrs. Hutchins gave the reins a gentle slap. Soon, we plodded along to our destination. “He drove you home that day, did he?”
“I was so upset I didn’t notice what he looked like.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“It was rude of me, actually.”
“Stay away from him,” Mrs. Hutchins said sharply, making me jump in my seat. “He’s no good. And the colonel despises his whole family. Nothing but lechers and drunkards in the rotten lot.”
“I only wondered who he was. He was most kind.”
“That’s the thing with you, dearie.”
“What is?”
Mrs. Hutchins spat over the side of the wagon. “You’re too trusting. Like a little turtledove with those wide eyes of yours. He probably thought you’d be fun to play with.”
“Play?” I repeated, not comprehending what she was alluding to. “I don’t know how to play anything… aside from chess. Oh, and a mean game of backgammon.”
She shook her head at me.
“That’s not the kind of game he plays.”
My mouth dropped open. “You mean he—”
“That’s right. He’s got them scattered through the countryside. Some say his father pays for them to be sent away to London.”
“H-how many?” I managed through a lump in my throat. “What of their mothers?”
“His father makes them go away,” Mrs. Hutchins said dryly. “You can make anything disappear if you throw enough money at it.”
“That’s—”
“It is. But that’s the way of the gentry. I just thought I’d warn you in case you ever see him again.”
My fingers dug into the wooden seat. “Yes, well—” I glanced over my shoulder with a shudder. “Thank you for the warning. I shall exercise caution in the future.”
“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Hutchins clucked before she took the left fork in the road. “That’s what they all said.”
We said little on the way back to Briarwood. I was beset by a feeling of such utter despair that I promptly burst into tears. I could not stop weeping, no matter how much Mrs. Hutchins tried to comfort me. That night, as I lay in my lonely bed, I was assailed by the feelings of another woman’s loss and suddenly knew what it was to bear and lose a child. I knew things I shouldn’t. I knew she liked patchouli oil and the color red. I even knew her name.
Her name was… Anjuli.
