The shady passage was a welcome respite from the heat outdoors. I gratefully removed my hat. Somewhere within, Ivy was singing. Her voice was not strong but her song was artless and it filled the cottage with a sweetness that made me feel its lack before. I walked into the parlour, smiling, and saw Helena looking back at me from her chair by the window.
She was thin-faced and silent, but she responded when I greeted her and even gave a small smile. Her eyes were dark and a little sunken, and yet she regarded me with such sorrowful sweetness, as if to lament over the distance between us and rejoice in the restoration of peace, that it occasioned much relief on my part. I felt her renewed warmth and it occurred to me that for all her effrontery and nonsense, the wise woman’s herbs may have had some auspicious influence. But then, if her fairy cure had taken some effect—what did that imply about my wife?
Even as I thought these things, Helena rose to her feet. She proclaimed herself in need of a little more restful solitude and she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. I sighed. Of course, the “cure” had done nothing. Even if it had any efficacy, I had had too little of it, and I had altogether lacked the words of the charm.
I shook my head over such fanciful notions, wondering what the parson would think of me, and listened to her step upon the stair. For a moment there was silence, then another snatch of song emerged from the kitchen and Ivy appeared in the doorway, a rag rug draped over one arm, a carpet-beater in the other. She was startled to see me, but at the sight of another human being I felt only a new relief which I altogether failed to conceal.
She gave me a look; I could not tell if it was knowing or innocent. I wondered if she had been speaking with Helena in my absence, and if she had, what they might have said.
But the girl simply bade me good day and informed me that there were chops, with potatoes and cabbage she had dug from the garden, and I realised I could smell it; I felt both famished and yet disinclined to eat. I had to force myself to thank her pleasantly, and said, “We shall soon be spick and span with your help, Ivy. I must thank Mrs. Calthorn for lending you to us for a time.”
She seemed surprised. “’Appy to ’elp, sir, I’m sure, but I can’t do no more after today. Mrs. Calthorn can’t spare me longer. Din’t she tell you?”
I was not a little dismayed. I wondered if Helena had known—Mrs. Calthorn must have informed her—but I did not wish Ivy to see that we had spoken so little to one another that she had not passed on such particulars to me.
“’Opefully that’s all right, sir, wi’ t’ mistress feelin’ more herself, an’ all.”
“Of course. Thank you, Ivy.”
I expected her to go about her duties, but she simply stood there, the heavy rug still draped over her arm, the beater grasped in her capable fingers, and her eyes unfocused as if she were thinking deeply on some unknown subject, or had passed into the land of dreams. She stirred herself and met my eyes, then looked away.
“What is it, Ivy?” I spoke kindly. If she had something to impart, I had no wish to frighten it from her before she could tell it.
“It’s just, I dun’t know if I should say, but there is someone in t’ village if you still need a lass.” She actually blushed. “’Appen I might get in bother for sayin’ owt. But she’s a friend o’ mine, an—”
“Indeed, I shall ensure you do not. We do have the most pressing need for a maid, as you will have seen.” Even as I spoke, I remembered my resolution to remove from this place—but we could not leave yet; not until Helena was entirely recovered.
“Well, sir, it’s Essie Aikin, see. She was at t’ Grange before me, an’—Well, sir, she lost ’er place, as I ’spect you’ll ’ave ’eard, an’ I dare say she wun’t say no to another. ’Er fambly in’t rich, an’ she can’t stop idle, not no more.” She closed her lips firmly together, as if to prevent another word escaping.
“Does she not work in the fields, then?”
“She’s not up to it, sir, not yet. It’s not long since—” Again, there was that abrupt curtailment; the white-pressed lips and reddened cheeks.
I did not need to press her; I knew at once why the girl had lost her position. I had read of the sorry affair in my cousin’s diary. I thought of the impropriety of having such an unprincipled girl under my roof—that must have been the reason, after all, why Widdop had not deigned to mention her to me when I had asked after a maid. Then I bethought of the condition of the kitchen before Ivy had come, unclean and musty, the washing in need of dollying and rinsing and wringing, the fire needing to be swept and laid, the water to be carried from the pump . . . and it occurred to me that Christian forgiveness, after all, was of greater importance than punishment for a girl who had suffered such an unfortunate lapse of judgement.
“Very well,” I said at last, “perhaps you could send her to me.” There would be a further advantage in such a girl: there would be no complaining of the cottage being unlucky, or of its isolated situation, nor indeed any lingering horror at the more recent disaster that had occurred within. She could have little choice, after all, in the matter of her employment.
“Oh, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I can’t do that. Me mother’d fetch me a kelk if she knew I’d even said owt about ’er, let alone spoke to ’er.”
“Ah. It’s all right, Ivy. In that case, could you tell me where to find the girl?”
“Well, sir, she lives down t’ bottom o’ the village, past t’ beer ’ouse an down t’ next road—Dog Lane, it is. ’Er ’ouse dun’t ’ave a name or owt, none of ’em do, but it’s t’ one after t’ one wi’ all t’ roses.”
“And her family’s name—it is Aikin, you say?”
“That’s it, sir.” She thought. “’Appen you dun’t ’ave to go down there though, sir, if you dun’t choose. I s’pose you might see ’er in church tomorrer, if she shows ’er dial, anyroad.”
I stared at her until her uncomfortable squirm alerted me to the fact, and then I nodded and let her go about her work. She scurried away like a rabbit to its burrow. I had not realised that another week had passed. Once again it had come as a great surprise to me that the following day was Sunday.