Chapter Thirteen
When Will and his companion returned from the village, they came in by the back door.
Cynthia heard Will’s low voice and Mr. Fielding’s ready laugh.
She went into the kitchen as Ruby was swinging the kettle over the fire to make tea.
Will was putting coins from his pocket into the money purse kept in the kitchen drawer.
“Sold it all,” he said, “acoz of Mr. Andrew.” He jerked his thumb back to Mr. Fielding, who was sitting at the kitchen table.
“’E told ’em all ’ow the veg from our garden saved ’is life. ’e said ’e was near death but the soup brought ’im back. Made eighteen pence we did. I bought meself some baccy, and… well, you show ’em, Mr. Andrew. Show ’em what yer brung em.”
Mr. Fielding reached into the capacious pocket of his hand-me-down coat and took out something wrapped in a large handkerchief.
He unwrapped it to reveal greasy paper, which, in the manner of a conjurer, he opened up - and there, in all its glory, was a lardy cake, glistening with sugar and raisins.
“My goodness!” cried Cynthia! “How were you able to get that? The baker doesn’t make it very often, and when he does, he charges a fortune for it!”
“We could smell it as we rode into the village,” said Mr. Fielding, “and I couldn’t resist. I had to negotiate with the baker. He said he was saving it for the Big House. He needed some persuasion.”
“Yer should’ve ’eard ’im,” said Will. “Talk the birds off the trees, he could.”
For me, it’s a special childhood memory,” said Mr. Fielding with a smile.
“The servants…” Then he stopped and began again.
“My mother wouldn’t have it on the table.
She thought…” He stopped again. “Anyway, someone gave me a piece and it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. So I told the baker it was all I needed to make my recovery complete, and that it would be a great charity to let me buy it. His reward would be in the afterlife where the angels would sing his praises. I paid him well, too, of course, but I think it was the image of the angels that did it. Angels do make everything better.” He smiled at Cynthia.
“I thought we should have it to celebrate my recovery.”
They all sat at the kitchen table, though Ruby said that Miss Cynthia and Mr. Andrew should go in the dining room.
When they both protested, Cynthia was surprised to see Ruby taking out one of their good tablecloths and the second-best plates and cups for their tea.
Not the best set, which had belonged to Cynthia’s grandmother and were so fine you could read the newspaper through them, and which they never used, but the next best, a definite step up from the heavier crockery they usually had in the kitchen.
That tea party would always be one of Cynthia’s fondest memories: sitting at the kitchen table, spread with the good china, laughing at Mr. Fielding’s stories and his made-up conversations with Teacup.
She, needless to say, leaped on his lap at the first opportunity.
She turned up her nose at the lardy cake, but drank milk from one of their good saucers, as if it was what she did every day.
That evening after supper, it was Mr. Fielding himself who brought up the question of his continued stay with them.
He and Cynthia were now eating their meals in the dining room.
This had been the subject of some discussion.
As long as he was bedridden, Cynthia had eaten with him in his bedroom-office, but once he was on his feet, the question had been whether he should eat in the kitchen with Ruby and Will, as Cynthia had been doing before he came, or should he and the mistress of the house use the dining room?
Ruby, who had long recognized that the invalid was a gentleman, no matter what his current occupation might be, was adamant that he and Miss Cynthia should not remain in the kitchen.
It wasn’t right, she said. She was sure her dear mother would say the same.
Miss Cynthia had only been using the kitchen because it was a sad thing to sit alone at table.
But now she had company, they should do what was proper.
Cynthia saw that keeping the distinctions of class suited Ruby and Will.
They had never been really comfortable with her in the kitchen.
And in fact, it solved the conundrum of what she should call their visitor.
He would continue to be Mr. Fielding to her, and Mr. Andrew to the others.
As for their visitor himself, Mr. Fielding said he would eat anywhere someone would feed him, especially if the someone was Ruby, who must be the best cook in all England. Ruby flushed with pleasure.
“I’d like to talk to you about the future, if I may,” he said as they were finishing their simple supper at the dining table. “I realize I have overstayed my welcome, but I’ve been so happy here, I’ve been unable to bring myself to contemplate moving on.”
“You have not overstayed your welcome to the slightest degree,” responded Cynthia.
“What was at first, I admit, a Christian duty to look after you, became a real pleasure for us all. You have brought laughter into our lives. And what about Teacup? I have no doubt she would follow you if you left, so we would be bereft of not only your pleasant company, but also of that of a spirited animal, who makes us laugh as much as she vexes us.”
“I’m delighted to hear you say that, Miss Rowley,” Mr. Fielding smiled, “even if I only partly believe it. But I cannot continue to trespass on your hospitality. I should like to propose a formal arrangement. I shall pay you room and board as a lodger. I can continue to tramp around plying my trade. I can travel out as if along the spokes of a wheel, with you as its hub, returning here as often as I can. Being outside in the rain and damp is no doubt what made me end up with the inflammation of the lungs. You remember, we had all that rain in the spring. I had to sleep in a ditch more than once when I found myself too far from the next village or town. I developed that cough and could not shake it off. I do not want to risk that again. If I may, I shall stay here permanently once the cold and damp set in.”
Cynthia’s heart had fallen when he mentioned continuing as an itinerant artist, but risen again when he outlined his plan.
“We should be delighted to have you make us your hub, as you call it,” she said, “and you must certainly spend the winter with us. I will not hear of you sleeping in ditches ever again!”
“Then it’s agreed. I shall pay you quarterly in advance.”
“But you must not pay us for lodging when you aren’t here!” she exclaimed. “That wouldn’t be right!”
“On the contrary, it would be right to reserve my room so that I could come back whenever I chose. After all, someone else might come along and want it.”
Cynthia laughed. “Oh yes! We have men coming by all the time demanding to sleep on a miserable sofa next to the kitchen. But, seriously, Mr. Fielding, you know you are welcome here any time. You do not need to pay us.”
“Nonsense, Miss Rowley. You must be business-like! I may decide to simply laze around all day as I have been doing, and eat your whole asparagus crop in the spring.”
Knowing his limited appetite, she laughed again. “Since we none of us are especially fond of it, you would be welcome!”
She thought for a moment. Remembering the vicar’s wife comment about the sleeping arrangements, she said, “It would be best if you remain in your current room, but as an official, paying lodger, you must have a real bed.”
“You need not put yourself to such trouble,” laughed Mr. Fielding. “I have become accustomed to fitting myself around the bumps in the sofa. It’s quite an old friend.”
But Cynthia had made up her mind. “We shall leave it there, in case you suffer from nostalgia,” she declared, “but you shall have a proper bed. We will bring down papa’s from upstairs, and move his desk up there.
No,” she said, as he began to remonstrate, “my mind is made up, and you will find I am quite as intransigent as Teacup.”
Mr. Fielding laughed. “My dear Miss Rowley,” he said, “you are so concerned with my comfort, you forget that we haven’t discussed terms. The delightful accommodation you describe might be more than I can afford!”
Cynthia blushed. “I have no idea what to charge you, Mr. Fielding,” she cried. “I have no experience of this type of thing at all. You must decide for yourself.”
He laughed again. “What happened to being business-like? But luckily I have some experience, and I can tell you, you would be a fool to take less than eight shillings a week.”
“Eight shillings a week?” Cynthia was scandalized. “That cannot be! We don’t spend that much in a week for the whole household.”
“I know for a fact that is what it costs in London.”
“Oh, London!” said Cynthia scornfully. “I can well believe it. From what I hear, the capital is full of thieves and criminals. We aren’t like that here. I won’t take a penny over four shillings, and that will include board and laundry.”
Mr. Fielding protested it wasn’t enough. Cynthia retorted it was too much, and in the end they agreed on five shillings.
“This is the perfect time to begin our new arrangement. It is the first of September tomorrow. I shall pay ￡3 for the fourth quarter until the New Year.”
Ignoring her outraged protests that she would not know what to do with such a large amount of money, he went into his room and extracted three sovereigns from the repaired pocket in his coat.
He returned and placed the money on the dining room table. Bowing, he said, “It’s a pleasure to do business with you Miss Rowley. And also a pleasure not to have to dig through the gap in my pocket to the hem of my coat to find my worldly goods. I know whom I have to thank for that, too.”