Polly
“Will you wash these?”
I jump when Mr. Springton tosses two dresses at me. One is blue, and one is brown, but both are a better cut and finer cloth than I could ever afford or have ever owned.
“Yes, sir!”
I’ve marveled round this flat for a few hours while Mr. Springton’s been out. It’s not so small as I thought, with two bedrooms, a little square dining room with a hatch through to the kitchen as well as a door, a sitting room, a kitchen, and even a proper privy built inside with a bath long enough for a man to lie down in! There is a plumbed sink in the kitchen and the bath, and a cupboard with a cistern, and next to the airing cupboard (a grand, wide one), there’s a tiny room without a window that must be for the cook or maid. Mr. Springton is very rich, indeed.
When I look out of the windows, the streets around here are cleaner, and more people travel in cabs than on foot. It didn’t feel like we traveled far, yet I feel as if I’m in another world while still in London.
“Wash them thoroughly ,” Mr. Springton instructs as he leaves the kitchen.
“Yes, sir! When will your wife be arriving?”
Mr. Springton stops and turns.
I hate when he looks right at me. Something in me shrinks. Something else in me swells. Everything pounds. I squeeze my fingers tight into the dresses to stop my hands from shaking.
“I have no wife. Those are for you. You left without your belongings, and therefore, they must be replaced.” He nods once, and he’s gone faster than blinking.
I uncurl my hands, but everything is still pounding. Blood in my cheeks. My chest.
I work for him. Rich people treat their servants better than Mr. Bunson treated his... slaves. I struggle to think of other words, but the calm, silent cheer of yesterday was shattered last night, and now I let myself think of things I could never bear to dwell on before.
New things, too.
Like the fact that Mr. Springton is both the most generous and most brutal person I’ve ever met. “Thank you, sir!” I call, scrambling back to work, cursing myself for my rudeness.
He doesn’t answer.
I WASHED CLOTHES IN boiling water on the stove, but it wouldn’t surprise me if rich people used the big long baths in the privy as washtubs. I expect that, in time, I’ll get used to the way a proper servant should do things. I’ll meet the other maids in the area in the market or the shops, and we’ll get to be friendly.
My heart stings suddenly, wondering how all the little ones are getting on without me, how the older ones are doing running things without either Mr. Bunson about.
I wish I could help them somehow without fear of the police. I wonder how Mr. Springton fared with the police when he went out, but I imagine it’s not my place to ask.
It’s not your place to sit at the table with him, either, but he wants you to do that.
That thought brings back the pounding in my temples, and I clutch the wet clothes I’m carrying down to the small strip of back garden. What will we talk about? Is steak and kidney pie enough, and suet pudding for afters? That’s as fine a dish as I know how to make. What if he sacks me?
It’s almost dark. What earthly use is it to hang these to dry in the damp night air? Go and dry them in front of the fire, you cloth-eared cabbage.
I trudge back up the stairs—three flights and not a sound in this fine house. It must have at least six flats, and all but one stands empty.
That doesn’t seem right.
“Ah!” I round the corner and jump at my own shadow.
I shake my head and fairly run up the final flight of stairs.
I’m far safer than I ever was at Bunson’s. When I was first there, I faced cruel girls and black-hearted matrons and overseers. Then I grew, and he and his brother apparently couldn’t wait to take what’s mine, and there have been big lads and bullies there my whole life.
I’m far safer here.
But Mr. Springton unsettles me.
“THAT SMELLS DIVINE .”
Mr. Springton smiles at me across the rectangular table with its white cloth. I aired the linens today and spread it on fresh just a few minutes ago. The rooms have gas lamps, the kind built into the wall where you turn the little metal key on the bottom and hear the gas hissing into the little glass cup before the match catches. You’d think rich folks would never get tired of having enough heat, enough hot water, enough light—but they must, for Mr. Springton came in with a tarnished candle holder with four candles in it and placed it in the center of the table.
“I hope you like it, sir.” I serve the pie to him, the whole pie, with a knife and fork so he can slice it. I don’t know if I’m supposed to do that or if the master of the house should do that and serve his guests. But I’m the servant and the guest. I bite my lip and walk back to the door that swings on soft hinges and leads to the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” His voice is soft, but it pins my feet as if someone pushed nails through the toes of my shoes.
“I... To the kitchen? Sir.” Please just let me go to the kitchen and wash the dishes. I know how to do that.
Mr. Springton rises. In the dimly lit room, I can see how pale his skin is, even his hands without his gloves. They move like white birds, flying too close to me, sliding through my arm, and leading me back to the table. “I will not force you to do things; that was our agreement. But would you like to dine with me and tell me about London? You said you would.”
Blimey, I did say that this morning. “I went to the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park once!” I blurt. “Mr. Eric Bunson took twelve of us with some rich charity lady who wore black and a veil and patted our heads every few seconds. She gave the home a lot of money and never came back to see how it was used. That’s what I think. Because we had that one trip and one nice meal where there was fresh milk and bread, and that was it for the lady in black. Didn’t see Mr. Bunson for months after that. Mr. Eric Bunson.”
“Ah. The Crystal Palace. I went one night. They were having a wonderful performance. So much singing and laughter. I met the man who I—I purchased this flat from at that performance. A stunningly well-dressed fellow with a very irritating wife.” Mr. Springton smiles, and his teeth snap shut over the words.
“Oh. I see. You bought up the other flats, too?” Am I allowed to ask that? Is that impertinent?
“In a manner of speaking, I took temporary ownership of all of them, yes. I like my privacy and have no wish to share the building at this time.”
He likes his privacy, but I’m in the room just up the hall from his. “I could stay elsewhere in the building, sir.”
“You are not an irritation. You are useful. Would you like to remain here, with me? You are not a prisoner. You can run if you like—the way you were running when you fell into my lap.” Amusement glitters in his eyes, and he smiles. He slices into the pie without looking at it. His eyes never leave mine.
My mouth is dry as flour, and I shake my head as he pushes a plate with a wedge of pie across the table to me.
“You don’t want to stay?” One dark brow arches, rising to his glossy curls.
Never seen a man who has such beautiful hair, clean and shining, not full of grease to make it look slick and limp.
I shake my head again.
“You do want to stay?”
I freeze, my fingers latched to my knees, rumpling my dark skirt. I have nowhere else to go. One day in safety reminds me what it’s like to be hungry, cold, dirty, and afraid of what will happen the second Bunson decides you’re done. At least if I work here for a bit, I believe Mr. Springton will give me a reference. I can say I kept house in a fine part of London, which will be sure to impress someone who needs a maid.
I nod at last, neck cracking in the silent room as I dip my chin in acceptance.
“So flustered, pretty ,” he murmurs, and his fork slips into the thick golden crust and slides out with a chunk of kidney dripping in gravy. His lips close over it, and I...
I must have a fever. I feel those lips wrapping around me, pulling me in, swallowing me whole—and he simply smiles.
“This is very good. Pleasant and warming. It’s... It’s not a recipe we have where I’m from.”
“I see, sir. Where are you from?” Will you be returning?
“A little place farther south. Very uninhabited. A bit tyrannical for my tastes. London suits me. I wouldn’t mind Paris. New York. Florence, perhaps. Anywhere with bustling streets and dark corners,” he laughs, sitting back farther in his chair, one calf flung up on the very corner of the table as he sucks the tines of his fork.
God help us.
That’s bad manners. Not how you sit at supper. Not how you sit before a lady. I suppose I’m not a lady, and this is his way of reminding me. Making me feel small.
And yet... There’s a niggling little feeling that says this is a very dangerous man, but I’m safe. Like walking past the caged beasts in the zoo.
“Your boots are in need of a good clean. I’ll polish them after supper, sir.”
“You won’t. No one touches my boots. Thank you.” The leg drops, and Mr. Springton sits up stiffly in his chair, putting his fork across his plate. He catches me staring.
“Pudding, sir?” I can barely whisper.
He stands. Stalks around the table and by my chair. His arm brushes mine.
An accident.
Then his hand closes over mine, his fingers playing with mine. Narrowed eyes squint as he examines every digit with perfect control. Ownership.
I can’t breathe over the scream rising in my throat. I’m not in any pain, I’m just... I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and the feeling of going mad is consuming me.
“You barely ate.”
Barely ate? I haven’t even lifted my fork. “I... I never ate with someone like you before,” I croak. “A fine gentleman.”
“Oh?” Mr. Springton kneels next to me, elbow on one knee while the other rests on the floor. “And what are you, ?”
“Me? Nothing, sir. No one.”
There’s a flash of fury in his eyes that I can’t place. I thought that was the right answer.
“You’re a lady, . A finer lady than I am a gentleman.”
“What? No, sir, I’ve no parents, no money, no—”
“None of that actually matters. Humans are all the same. Strip off the fancy dresses, empty their silly purses and pockets, and they’re just... Meat. Meat and blood and bones.” He taps his forehead. “This is the bit that sets them apart. Words and thoughts and deeds. You are incredibly amusing, .”
“Thank you, sir,” I wish he’d stop kneeling. Stop staring at me. I’ve gone all pink and flustered, and I can feel sweat starting to slide down the back of my neck. I wonder if I stink to his fine nostrils. I wouldn’t to the folks down Bunson’s way, but here... I swallow again.
“You don’t talk much, , but I rather wish you did,” he purrs, one finger running up my forearm.
“Not my place to talk, sir.”
“Oh, but it is. It’s part of your duties. Cook, clean, shop, sweep, lay the fires, and join me at the table and in talking. A companion. I’ve heard of people having companions.”
“Men can’t have women companions, sir. Unless he’s very, very old and she’s his nurse. You’re strong and young. Healthy. I could only be a companion to a woman, and a very dull, stupid sort of woman at that, for I don’t know much about the world and art. I couldn’t talk on the finer things.”
“Hmm.” Springton rises, hands thrust behind his back and clasped there, down low where his trousers meet his waistcoat. “It would break the rules, would it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And running off from Mr. Bunson? Did that break a rule?”
I don’t want to think about last night. “I don’t know if running off breaks a rule of law, but Mr. Bunson would say anyone doing anything he didn't like was bad behavior, sir,” I confess.
“Killing Mr. Bunson probably broke a rule, too. Murder. I’m sure I wasn’t supposed to do that,” Mr. Springton says, cheery as a lark, now fussing at the mantlepiece, touching a silver pint pot on the mantle.
“What’d the police say, sir?” I blurt.
“They’ll contact me later if needed,” he waves a careless hand and grabs the poker by the fireplace.
What does that mean? What did he say? I struggle to ask what I want and fall silent.
“You’re still not eating,” Mr. Springton turns and frowns at me, poker swinging idly in his hand now.
“Nor are you.” I bite my tongue against my cheek. Shouldn’t have said that. Sounds saucy.
“I had a busy day and a large... tea. You’d call it tea.”
“Well... Why’d you stop out for tea if I was making you supper?” I demand, forgetting my place. “All this food, wasted.”
“And that concerns you?”
“It bloody well does! Some days, I fed the children at Mr. Bunson’s nothing but boiled water and potato peelings and called it soup,” I hiss.
“Bunson was a rather round individual. Surely there must have been food.”
“For him. Not for us.” Words I’d never say to Mr. Bunson bubble out of my mouth. “He was a greedy man, selfish and mean. I don’t even know who will think to go and buy food for the little ‘uns now. Once you’re old enough to work a job, you get out and don’t come back. Well, some have, but only to take another one away. Kitty did that. She got a good position as a kitchen maid in a big house with lots of servants, and they wanted a scullery maid, so she came back and took Hannah. I don’t suppose any of that matters. I’ll clear, sir.”
“Sit.”
I stop pushing myself up from my seat and slowly sink back down. The shadows dance around behind him from the fire, and the warm air carries the scent of cooking. I could be cozy and fat here, even if Mr. Springton is a peculiar, foreign gentleman. I have to stop running my mouth so bloody much before he decides a companion and housekeeper isn’t the ticket.
“Where do you buy enough meat to feed all of these little ones?”
“Oh. I suppose... Meat? Meat enough for everyone?” My eyebrows pop high on my head, and my mouth forms an “o” of amazement. “The butcher’s, sir. Or maybe fresh from the Smithfield Stockyard.”
He paces, and the fire throws flickering shapes. In one moment, he almost looks like some painted devil, with his pretty black and white curls formed into horns by the shadows. “How much am I paying you?”
The noise I make isn’t ladylike at all. It sounds like there’s a fishbone stuck in my throat. “Room and board, sir. Plus clothing.”
“No money of your own?”
The sweat that trickled down my neck is streaming now. The back of my dress feels wet, and I realize I won’t be able to get the damn thing off without help.
He saves me from speaking. “You’ll never get away, out on your own, without money.”
That’s true, but life at Bunson’s doesn’t teach a girl to think much ahead. You think about living until tomorrow. “I had no references, sir. When you move to one of them other big cities, you’ll give me a reference saying I was a hard worker, clean, sober, respectable, and a good cook.” Please, God. “And the next job, I shall have wages.”
“Or...” he suddenly sits, dragging his chair close to mine with a screech of wood. “You could take your wages and buy things for those urchins at the home. You needn’t go back. I’ll see that they’re delivered. I... I have quite a bit of business down that way.”
“But—But it must cost pounds and pounds to buy meat for all of them. I’m not worth that. Why would you do that, sir? If you please, sir.”
Mr. Springton sits back and looks genuinely puzzled for a bit. He stares at me for a long time without speaking.
I feel like there’s not a dry inch on my body. I wish he’d send me back to the kitchen and leave me alone.
Except that part of me wants to cry and cling to him in gratitude for even thinking of feeding the children left behind, for rescuing me from Bunson and whatever he had planned for me.
“It might be cheaper than paying you wages,” he finally says.
I nod eagerly. Yes, it might, and that’s a good explanation that a poor girl can understand. It always comes down to money.
“And if I ease your mind, you’ll be content here. You might even decide to travel with me when I leave this city,” he says. “Would you like to see Paris, ? Or America?”
“Oh, America, I think, sir, if I had a choice. I don’t speak French, but I’ve heard they speak English pretty well in America.”
“Hmm. My appetite is back. You see? You make an excellent companion.”