"You sure you've got everything?"
"Reckon so. I can just come back for anything I've forgot."
Meg nodded, staring vacantly as Clover heaved the old carpet bag up from the bed.
"It's going to be properly strange without you here."
Clover smiled wryly. "You won't notice the difference."
"Yes, we will."
"You'll like having your own bed," Maizey said. She was lounging on the middle bed, which was hers and only hers.
"Which of us are you talking to?" Meg said.
"Both." She reclined on her back and looked at the ceiling. "Reckon I'd like having my own room. No dolls. No Poppy."
"Don't," Meg said.
"But she's so bloody snobbish."
"She's young. She don't know no better. You need to be the grown-up."
"I'll start being a grown-up when she does."
Clover had started a light-footed exit while they'd been talking, but Meg noticed before she had reached the door. "Here, let me carry that for you," she said, reaching out and trying to take the handle of the carpet bag.
"Leave it," Clover said, tightening her grip and looking at Meg reproachfully.
Meg let go and looked down at her with hurt surprise. "Sorry."
"Don't hurry back," Maizey called as they left the room.
Outside the lasses' room the smial was humming with the usual pre-work bustle, with most of it concentrated in the kitchen. Clover put her head around the door, where her mother and a handful of siblings were making as much nose as they could. "I'm headed off now."
"Oh!" Mrs Delver put the bowl she'd been washing on the draining board and walked towards her, holding her dripping hands away from her body. "Come on, let me give you a hug."
"You don't have to," Clover said, grimacing.
"Yes, I do."
Clover arched her back as her mother hugged her, and kept her arms stiff at her sides. When she was released Mrs Delver smiled sadly at her. "I'll be counting the wages you bring us, and if I find you've been giving us everything I'll be disappointed. You need to keep something for yourself."
Clover half-smiled and nodded. "All right." She looked back to the gathered brothers and sisters, none of whom had stopped their conversations. "Goodbye, you lot."
A chorus of indifferent goodbyes rose up.
She scowled. "Charming."
Mrs Delver opened the parlour door. "She's off, Jon."
"Right." Mr Delver stepped into the doorway and looked down at Clover with folded arms and an expression that said he still hadn't forgiven her. "You're away then, daughter?"
"Aye."
"When'll you be coming back to us?"
"Friday, probably. I'll have my wages by then."
"So long?" Meg said.
"Six days ain't that long," Clover said, shifting her bag from one hand to the other.
"Well, have a nice time serving your betters," Mr Delver said coldly.
Clover glared at him. He wouldn't have spoken like that to any of her brothers or sisters, with the possible exception of Jack.
"Grumpy old bugger," she muttered under her breath.
Mr and Mrs Delver and Meg followed her to the door.
"We'll keep your chair at the table, and we won't get rid of none of the beds, so you can come back whenever you like," Mrs Delver said.
"I know," Clover said wearily. She opened the door and felt the cool, lively air on her face. She was so nearly out of the cage. "Bye, Mum. Dad. Meg."
"Oh. Goodbye, then. Remember to brush your feet," Mrs Delver called at Clover reached the gate.
"I will," Clover said. She smiled joylessly and closed the gate behind her, not looking back again.
"It's sort of nice to think of, ain't it?" Mrs Delver said, looking at her husband as Clover disappeared down the lane. "Our little lass hobnobbing with the gentlefolk."
Mr Delver growled and turned back into the smial.
Meg finally looked away from the lane to look at her mother. "What're we going to do?" she said.
"We get on," Mrs Delver said, going back inside. "Naught else we can do."
"There are five of us living here in all: myself, my mother-in-law and my three children. You will address me as 'madam' or 'Mrs Grubb'. If you ever need to differentiate me from the other Mrs Grubb you will refer to me as Mistress Campanula, and to her as Mistress Victoria. You will address my children in whatever way they see fit."
"Yes, madam."
"You're aware of my sons' business?"
"Registrars, madam."
"Correct. So we have clients coming and going during the day to register births and deaths, and to arrange weddings. Bearing in mind that it won't always be obvious which they've come to do, you will greet them courteously without being overly friendly. Then you will show them to Dalgo or Monno's studies. If they already have a client with them, then their door will be closed. If they are both occupied you will offer the client our apologies followed by a cup of tea, and you will leave them to wait outside one of the studies and resume your regular duties."
"Which study?"
"What?" Young Mrs Grubb stopped and turned to face Clover.
"Which study, madam? Mr Dalgo's or Mr Monno's?"
"I don't quite understand the question."
"If both studies are closed," Clover said wearily as she shifted her bag to her other hand, "which study would you have me lead the client to?"
Mrs Grubb turned away. "I'll leave that to your discretion. Now, we have the dining room, parlour, kitchen, Dalgo's study, the washroom…"
Clover trailed helplessly after Young Mrs Grubb as she pointed out each room as the passed it. Full bookshelves lined the hallway.
"…Monno's study, Monno's bedchamber, Abelia's bedchamber. At the very end there is the room belonging to myself and Victoria, and Dalgo's chamber is on the other side. And this—" Young Mrs Grubb opened a small door between Abelia's and Dalgo's rooms. "—is where you will be living."
It was a small room, and windowless. A bedside table, chest of drawers, washstand and narrow bed were the only furniture to be seen. The only decorations were a vase and a wall mirror with a plain wooden frame. A candleholder sat next to a neat little row of candles on top of the drawers. Her new uniform was laid out neatly on the bed. Matching ribbons were rolled up on the bedside table. Clover didn't see the chips in the jug and vase, or the scratches on the surface of the furniture. None of it mattered. It was hers. Only hers.
"Thank you, Mrs Grubb," she said sincerely.
"I'll leave you to unpack and change," Young Mrs Grubb said briskly. "Then you can come and find me to begin your training. I expect you to present yourself neatly with your hair pinned up at all times. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes, madam."
"Good."
She closed the door. Clover lit a candle, and realised her hands were trembling. It had been a long time since she'd felt like this—like she was in a situation beyond her control. She changed swiftly and as she finished pinning her hair up she regarded herself in the mirror.
The dress was made of a smooth emerald green material. Her apron was startlingly white, a contrast to her mother's aprons, all of which had faded to grey. She straightened her posture. Just as long as she looked confident…
She found Young Mrs Grubb in the kitchen, knelt above a steaming bowl of washing with an apron tied over her light mulberry gown. There was a smell of scones baking, and the kettle was on the stove. The kitchen was cosily neat. While all the surfaces were clean and uncluttered, there were also little things that showed this room was well-used and well-loved. An empty washing line stretched across the ceiling, and the chairs around the table were all askew. Someone had left a jar filled with paintbrushes on the central table. The doorpost was covered in little notches with notes like M—1'11", age 10 scratched in next to them.
"Ah. Good," Mrs Grubb said and walked around Clover to examine her dress. "Does it need any adjustments?"
"No, madam. Thank you."
"Do you have any other shifts?"
"Madam?"
"It's discoloured."
Clover looked down at the neckline of her shift, which was visible beneath the bodice of the uniform. It, like her mother's aprons, had turned grey with all the washings over the years.
"No, madam."
"A shame," Young Mrs Grubb said. "But I don't suppose there's anything to be done."
"What would you have me do, Mrs Grubb?" Clover said, hoping to change the subject.
"I want you to watch me, so I can show you how to wash the clothes."
"I've washed clothes before, madam," Clover said hesitantly.
"I am aware, but am showing you how we wash clothes here. I have a system, and I expect you to stick to it."
It was gruelling, and most of it was what Clover already knew, but Mrs Grubb showed her how to sort the clothes, how to soak anything that was particularly dirty, how much lye to add to the water, what order to wash them in and how to properly run clothes through the mangle. The fire for the water heated the room horribly and Clover's skin was soon sticky with sweat.
"And I don't want to find anything spread out over the hedges to dry," Mrs Grubb said as she pegged another shift onto the line. "I don't care how good the weather is, I'll not have—"
She was interrupted when the kettle started whistling. She went to lift it off the stove. "Here. You can bring Dalgo and Monno their tea while I take some through to Mother and Abelia. If their doors a closed you may knock and inquire if they or the client would like a drink."
"Yes, madam."
It was with trepidation that Clover carried the fully loaded tea tray. Nothing on the farm required such delicacy. The cups clinked together with every step, setting her nerves on edge. She could feel the shifting weight of the tea in the pot as it sloshed back and forth. She paused in the hallway. Only Monno's door was open. Even if she was allowed to knock, she would prefer to serve in front of only one person, and preferably without interrupting anyone registering a death in the family. Hopefully Dalgo's door would be open by the time she had given Monno his tea.
The study was nearly identical to the one she had been interviewed in, with full bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling. Inside there was a gentlehobbit, stood facing away from the door. Even with his face turned away this was obviously a different lad from the Mr Grubb she had already met. This one was shorter and stockier. Whatever he was, he was completely absorbed in the large, leather-bound book he was leafing through. He didn't seem to have heard her approach. Clover rapped on the door with a knuckle.
The lad jumped and spun around to face her. "Oh. Hello. Sorry, I didn't know you were there."
"Sorry for startling you, sir," Clover said. "Would you like some tea?"
"Uh… Yes, thank you," he said breathlessly. "Here, let me clear some of this." He set the book down, leaving it open on his page, and shifted the piles of paper on the desk to the side.
"Thank you, sir," she said, setting the tray down on the newly created space. She cast a glance at the open book. It was much bigger than the books shelved in the main hallway room, and the layout of the pages resembled Mr Boffin's ledger, which he kept open on his desk when handing out the wages. Everything was written in neat little rows and columns, with lines to separate them. She pulled her eyes away. "Do you take milk, Mr Grubb?"
He smiled as he picked up his book again. "'Mr Monno', please. It'll get far too confusing with two Mr Grubbs and two Mrs Grubbs."
"As you say, Mr Monno. Would you like milk?"
"Yes. Please. And one sugar." Clover squirrelled this information away for future reference as he sat down in his chair.
"You're the new maid, then," he said.
"I am, sir. Clover," she said as she added the milk.
He nodded to her. "Nice to meet you. I'm, uh… I'm sorry."
She raised an eyebrow as she handed him his tea. "For what?"
He sighed. "Just a general apology. Thank you for the tea."
"Very good, sir." She dropped a curtsey and picked the tray back up. Stepping into the corridor she found that the study of Dalgo Grubb was still closed. Clover took a moment to breathe before balancing the plate on one hand and knocking on the door.
"Enter."
Clover carefully turned the doorknob and pushed the door open with her shoulder. Dalgo was sat behind his desk. Open before him was a book identical to the one Monno had been looking through. Another Hobbit was sat across from him. Clover recognised him as Mr Hayes, one of the residents of East Warren Lane. His wife had just had their fourth baby.
"The Mistress wondered if you would like some tea, sir."
"Yes. Thank you."
She carefully set the tray down on the edge of the desk. She looked to Mr Hayes. "And you, sir?"
"He won't be requiring any," Dalgo said, not looking up from what he was writing in the book. "We're finished here. I'd be obliged if you would show him to the door."
"Yes, sir. Would you like to come this way, sir?" She gestured to the open door.
Mr Hayes nodded and rose from his seat. "Thank you for your time, Mr Grubb."
"Mm." Dalgo still didn't look up from his writing.
Mr Hayes and Clover exchanged a glance as they left the study. When they were far away enough from the door he smiled and said in a whispered voice, "I prefer the other one. He always says 'congratulations'."
When Clover returned to the study, having seen Mr Hayes out, it was to find that Dalgo had poured his own tea, and was now leaning back in his seat, sipping. The tea was dark and translucent, and none of the spoons had been used. No milk or sugar.
"Sorry you had to get your own tea, sir," she said, lifting the tray up.
"I'm quite capable, thank you," he said in a clipped, detached voice.
Clover did her best to match his tone in her expression. "I'm sure." She curtseyed and turned to go.
"What was the answer to your riddle?"
She stopped and looked back at Dalgo. He had placed his cup back in its saucer and was doing his best to look as disinterested as possible.
"My riddle, sir?"
"On the day you were interviewed you said there was a particular reason you spoke out of turn. It's not a matter of great interest, but you did say you would give the reason in exchange for the position, and I consider my part of the debt fulfilled."
Clover inhaled deeply. She had forgotten about this. Her true answer wouldn't do. Not if she wanted to keep this position. But his attempt to look indifferent was so… affected. If he truly didn't care about the answer he wouldn't have asked. This was irritating him, like a burning itch inside his skull. What he didn't seem to have realised at this point was that in asking this question he was giving her power. Not a great deal, but then she'd always done well enough with what little she could find.
"I don't recall, sir."
Dalgo looked up at her sharply. "You must. You said, quite specifically, that you chose to speak out of turn—that it was the same reason for my idiosyn… my turn of phrase."
"I'm sure a poor lass such as me couldn't understand a great mind like yours." She dropped a curtsey. "I must get back to work, sir."
Clover returned to the kitchen, stepping silently as a cat.
"Did all go well?" Young Mrs Grubb said, pegging the last of the clothes to the line.
Clover set the tray down on the table. Her hands were trembling slightly. "Yes, madam." She had no reason to be shaken. Nothing that could have gone wrong had. Not that it would have. She wouldn't have let that happen. Absolutely not.
"Good." She wiped her spectacles on her sleeve. "I'm sure I shall hear about it if not."
There was something deeply unsettling about the way Young Mrs Grubb let you know your place without the need for a raised voice or harsh words. There was no way Clover would be able to try anything with her. "Yes, Mrs Grubb."
Mrs Grubb untied her apron. "I need to go to the butcher's. This would be a good time for you to become acquainted with my mother-in-law, don't you think? I've left Abelia with her for long enough."
"Um…" Clover swallowed. "I'm not sure I can."
Mrs Grubb hung the apron on a hook on the back of the door. "Why ever not?"
Clover wrung her hands. "I don't know what care she needs."
Young Mrs Grubb smiled at her, kindly. "She's not incapable. She can walk a few steps at a time, if aided, and she's still in full possession of her faculties. I just need someone available to help her if I'm otherwise occupied or in need of a break. I tried enlisting Abelia, but she's still so flighty and it hardly seemed fair to—" She hesitated, and cleared her throat.
"Victoria didn't always need her chair, you see. She had a sort of fit after my husband died. Asking Abelia to look after her grandmother was a bit much in those circumstances. I'm not leaving you alone. The lads are here if there are any emergencies, and Mistress Victoria will certainly tell you if there's anything she needs. I shan't be long."
Clover nodded. "Yes, madam." She still wasn't sure she was comfortable with these circumstances, but what else could she say?
Young Mrs Grubb directed her to the parlour where the other two ladies of the house were sat. There were even more books in here and Abelia was reading one out loud, her head bent low. Her lips were coloured a deep red and her dark brown hair did not reach her shoulders. She wore a bright yellow dress with plenty of flounces, and a string of pearls around her neck. Two further teardrop pearls hung from her ears.
"Knowing that the ruse was over, Pavlo Maidstone leapt through the window, leaving his aunt and the Barker sisters squabbling in the par— Can I go now, Mother? It's so dull!"
Old Mrs Grubb scowled. "That, young lady, is one of the greatest comedies of our time."
"Then why isn't it funny?"
"I'd prefer if you stayed in the smial until I return from the market," Young Mrs Grubb said quickly. "But you don't need to sit with Grandmother anymore. Thank you for your help."
"No! It's not finished yet," Old Mrs Grubb said as Abelia gratefully flung the book aside and rushed over out of the room.
"Abbie has been very patient and she deserves a break," Young Mrs Grubb said, picking the book back up and putting it neatly away on a bookshelf. "I've brought your new attendant to keep you company."
Old Mrs Grubb sharply turned her head to Clover, as though only seeing her for the first time. "Oh. Yes. I remember you. Sit there," she said, pointing to a seat across from her wheelchair.
Clover stiffly walked over to the settee and sat down, feeling the sharp gaze of Old Mrs Grubb on her.
"I'm sure you'll get along famously," Young Mrs Grubb said dryly before taking her leave.
Clover and Old Mrs Grubb sat in silence for a time. The old lady was watching her with narrow eyes, still as a fox spying on its prey. Clover kept her eyes cast downwards to show deference.
"I suppose you think you're very clever," Old Mrs Grubb said eventually.
"Couldn't say, madam."
"Liar." Mrs Grubb leaned back in her chair and absentmindedly tapped the armrest. "Can't stand people like that. So I ask again: do you think you're clever?"
Clover raised her eyes defiantly. Old Mrs Grubb wasn't the sort of lady who would tolerate her affected subservience. "Yes, madam."
Mrs Grubb grinned evilly. "That's better. And do you think you're sharper than me?"
Clover considered her answer before replying. How honest did she dare to be? "Probably. But I can't say for sure seeing as I don't know you very well."
Abelia re-entered the room with a large scrapbook under one arm and settled down on the settee beside Clover.
"Decided to grace us with your presence, have you?" Old Mrs Grubb said. "I thought I was too dreary for you."
"The light in my room isn't good enough. I need a window." She opened the book and started to shuffle through sketches kept within.
Old Mrs Grubb took a noisy drink of tea and turned her eyes to Clover once again. "You think a lot of yourself for someone so small. Is it earned?"
"It will be. One day." Clover had been distracted by Abelia, who kept on glancing at her every couple of seconds. It was only now she remembered herself and added, "Madam."
"How old are you?" Abelia said, watching Clover with interested, innocent eyes.
"Ladies don't ask that of other ladies," Old Mrs Grubb said severely.
"I'm of age, miss," Clover said.
"You don't look it."
"It's my height," Clover said mildly.
The lass nodded slowly. She herself was a good six inches taller than Clover.
Mrs Grubb put her cup back in the saucer with a clatter. "And how old do you think I am, girl?"
"Couldn't say, madam."
"Guess."
Clover considered for a moment. "I suppose if I was to say no more than a hundred, you'd scold me for flattery?"
"Well done."
"In which case I'd have to say… More than eleventy-five."
"Close." She clapped her hands. "I'm one hundred and twenty!"
Clover smiled blandly. "You look well for it."
"Thank you." She settled back in her wheelchair. "You have me to thank for the position, you know. If it weren't for me Campanula would have taken in some simpering little slip of a thing. Like Petunia. She thinks I'm mad. Do you know why I chose you?"
"No," Clover said truthfully.
Mrs Grubb narrowed her eyes. "Are you being honest with me?"
"I am, madam. I reckon if I was in your place I'd have sent the likes of me off with a kick up the backside."
The old lady snickered. "That's frank enough. You'll catch flies, Abbie."
Abelia quickly shut her open mouth and made a show of focussing on her sketch. Old Mrs Grubb turned to Clover.
"When you're as close to death as I am you realise it's all meaningless. All of it. You spend half your life trying to appease others with etiquette and false niceties, and what does it come to in the end? I like a person who's not afraid to speak their mind. They've got the right idea. So don't try any more of that 'I'm sure I couldn't say, begging your pardon, madam' with me. I see through you, missy."
Clover wasn't sure what to say. Being seen through wasn't a situation she was familiar with, and she didn't like it. She was quickly having to re-evaluate her assertion that she was sharper than Old Mrs Grubb.
"I see."
Mrs Grubb said nothing more, leaning back and staring at the ceiling with a blank face.
After an uncomfortable length of time had passed Clover cleared her throat and said, "What would you have me do, madam, until Mistress Campanula returns?"
The old lady made a vague gesture with one of her hands. "Talk to me. Amuse me."
Clover folded her hands in her lap. Trying to think of what to talk about was one of the hardest things in the world. "So what you're saying, madam…" she said slowly, "is that you had an unfair dislike of your old servant, you summoned me because you find it funny that I'm a low-born lass who don't know my place an' you thought it would be nice for you if I could be your fool an' amuse you with my over-importance."
Old Mrs Grubb grinned. "That's the stuff."
The day continued. Young Mrs Grubb showed her how to wax the floors, where all the crockery and cooking utensils were kept and the proper way to serve in front of company, among other things.
Clover returned to the kitchen, which was like walking into a wall made of fire. "I've laid the table, madam, if it's to your liking."
"I'll take a look," Young Mrs Grubb said as she finished carving the lamb. She lifted the plate to take with her. "Could you take the carrots and potatoes?"
It took three trips for both of them, but together they got the table fully laid with food and drink.
Mrs Grubb sighed and put her hands on her hips as she looked over the half-full serving bowls. "Victoria shan't be happy. But what can I do if there's so little at the market?"
"Would you like me to stay and serve during the meal, madam?"
She tucked a damp lock of hair behind her hear. "No. No, that won't be necessary today." She fiddled with her apron strings. "If could just tell the others that dinner is ready, that would be a great help. I've left your serving in the kitchen."
With Young Mrs Grubb's children summoned, and Old Mrs Grubb wheeled into the dining room, Clover finally returned to the kitchen and the plate on the central table. There was a door connecting the kitchen and dining room and as Clover picked at her food she could hear strains of the family's conversation from the other room.
This might have been the only time in her life she'd eaten her dinner on her own.
When she had finished washing up Clover brought a full tea tray to the parlour, carefully opening the door.
Young Mrs Grubb was sat at the writing desk, while the lads were on the settee and Abelia was ensconced in an armchair, drawing.
Young Mrs Grubb cast Clover an aside glance as she set the tray down on the tea table. "Well done. You remembered."
Clover set about preparing the tea. She handed a cup to each family member while pretending she wasn't listening to the conversation Dalgo and his grandmother were having.
"Family traits don't work like that," Old Mrs Grubb said as Clover handed her a cup of tea. "If you'd given it any thought you would have realised you're only half-Grubb. As was your father. You're as much a Bolger as you are a Grubb."
"And you were as much a Bolger as you were a Clayhanger," Dalgo said dismissively.
"Why do you know that?" Abelia said, looking up from her drawing.
He shrugged a shoulder. "As someone who contributes towards the construction of family trees I take a professional interest." He saw Clover approaching him with a cup and said, "No milk or sugar for me."
"Yes, sir," she said, handing him the already prepared tea.
He looked at the contents of the cup and then back at her with an expression that said: How did you know before I'd told you?
"So what was Grandmother Clayhanger's maiden name?" Old Mrs Grubb said, grinning.
"Headstrong," Dalgo and Monno said in unison.
Dalgo's head whipped around to face him. Monno raised his eyes up from his book and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.
"How far back can you go?" Abelia said.
"Far enough," Dalgo said.
Abelia put her scrapbook aside and shifted so she was sat cross-legged in the armchair. "I clap my hands, and every time I do you have to go back a generation."
Monno set his book down and leaned forward in his seat, a bright smile on his face.
"Ready?" She clapped her hands.
"Gold," Dalgo and Monno said.
Clap.
"Banks."
Clap.
"Underhill."
Clap.
Monno winced and covered his face with his hands. "I know this…"
Dalgo smiled faintly. "Headstrong again."
Monno clicked his fingers. "Yes!"
Clover had finished serving the tea by this point, but couldn't quite bring herself to leave. She had no heritage that she knew of, and this conversation was unlike anything that would take place in her own home.
"Can you name any more?" Abelia said, looking at Dalgo.
"One or two, but the records stop after that."
There was silence. Then Abelia slowly turned her head towards Dalgo. "That's only one line. Do you know others?"
Dalgo picked up a book from an end table and started to flick through it nonchalantly. "A few."
"I don't believe you, you little know-it-all!" Abelia said, laughing.
"Are you waiting for further instruction, Clover?" Young Mrs Grubb said without looking up from her writing.
Clover started. She had forgotten she wasn't supposed to still be there. "Yes, madam."
"Well, you can make the beds, and then I think that will be all for today. Thank you for your work."
"Madam." Clover curtseyed and left the room.
"What do you think of her, then?" Young Mrs Grubb said, dipping her quill back in the inkpot. "Any issues?"
"Hmm? Oh, all perfectly fine, Mother. No problems," Monno said, smiling as looked up briefly from his book.
"Good. At least someone's being helpful." She scowled at Abelia and Dalgo, who had gone back to their drawing and reading respectively.
"Of course she was going to be helpful. She turned up the day after Petunia gave her notice," Old Mrs Grubb said. "Shows willingness."
"Yes… I'd still like to know how she learned of it," Young Mrs Grubb said. "I asked Clover about it and she said she heard of it through a Miss Hobble, though how she came to know of it I've no idea. Is she an acquaintance of any of yours?"
No one replied, and Young Mrs Grubb went back to her letter writing without asking any more questions. She didn't notice how Monno's posture stiffened or how he was staring very intently at the pages of his book.
When she was being shown around the smial Clover had wondered why the chambers for the master and mistress were at the very back. It was only now that she understood. The smial was so deep that it reached the other side of the bank, and the two rooms at the back had large, clear windows. Dalgo's curtains were only slightly parted and the dark was descending, and only a sliver of light came through.
There were two more bookshelves in here, and Clover cast her eyes over them as she laid out the quilt. The shelves had been entirely filled, and even more books were stacked haphazardly on top of the neat rows. Most of them were damaged in some way with creases along the spine or worn-away corners. It looked like the leather had completely fallen apart on some volumes, which were now only held together with string.
But her gaze kept on falling on a small stack of books on the writing desk.
They were all exactly the same size and bound with identical brown leather. Unlike the shelved books, their spines were devoid of any writing. Though there was some damage to these, they were nowhere near the state of disrepair that the other books were in. One of them was set apart from the others, directly in front of the chair. It had obviously been read recently.
Clover moved over to the desk and set her candle down there. Careful not to disturb the layer of dust, she lifted the cover of the book on the top of the pile. She was surprised when she saw that the words inside were hand-written. She was so distracted that she didn't hear the approaching feet.
"What are you doing?"
She snatched her hand away just as Dalgo brought his palm heavily down on the book cover.
"You are not permitted to look through our private things, most especially you are not permitted to read my father's journals!"
Clover backed away from him as the candlelight flashed in the lenses of his spectacles. She bent her head down in the hope this would show her contrition. "I'm sorry, sir."
"Do you even comprehend your good fortune?" he shouted. His figure loomed over her as he stepped closer. "That my family were so kind as to take you in, in spite of your impudence."
"I know, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"My grandmother suggested putting a shilling beneath a rug as a test of your integrity but Mother wouldn't hear of it. Perhaps she will change her mind when I tell her of this."
Without giving it much though Clover got down onto her knees.
The trick to being one's own master was making others believe they were the ones with the power.
"Please, sir, I beg your forgiveness. I'm a dull, foolish lass who din't know what she was doing." Dalgo changed at this. No longer confrontational, he hung back uncertainly. Clover took a deep breath as she continued. This was either going to go very well or very badly.
"I din't mean no harm, sir. I've never been among such finery before and I was curious as to why these books were of such obvious importance. I din't realise how much of a wrong I was doing, simple as I am." Clover ran her tongue over her top lip. The words had a bitter aftertaste, but they were necessary. She couldn't see Dalgo's face in the dark. "It'd be a great blow to my family if I returned home in disgrace after only a day. You've shown me a great kindness in allowing me to serve your family, an' I beg you to show me such kindness again. I know you are kind."
Dalgo swayed slightly where he stood. He walked around her, and leaned heavily on the desk. "Go," he said bitterly, "and take your candle."
Her skirt made a heady rustling sound as she stood and half-turned. There was a flickering golden outline to his profile, but she still couldn't see his expression clearly.
"Is my position safe, sir?" she said softly.
"It won't be if you don't leave me this moment!"
Clover took the candle and lifted it from the desk.
"Be careful of the wax."
"Yes, sir." She held a hand before the candle flame as she moved. "Good night, sir. And thank you."
When Dalgo failed to reply she turned away and didn't look back into the shadows.
Clover turned over in her bed yet again. Perhaps this was what death was like. There was the clinging, inescapable darkness. So dark she could hardly breathe. Time seemed to have stagnated. Maybe she had been awake for an hour. Maybe four. There was no way to tell. Then there was the perfect, awful silence. There were no reassuring sounds of breathing to tell her that she was not alone, to tell her that the others were safe. Perhaps she had died, but didn't know it yet.
No. Stupid idea.
But what was stupider was that she had longed for peace and a place that was only hers, and now she had both and wanted neither.
Clover turned her face into her pillow and started to cry.
Seven signatures were required for a Hobbit wedding: the registrar, the bride, the groom, and four witnesses. The witnesses could be anyone (family or friend) unless one or both of the couple were below the age of thirty-three. In that case at least one parent of the young party would need to be among the signatories, or the marriage wasn't binding under the Shire law.
This had been the case with today's wedding. The bride's father had shot a filthy glare at the groom's as he'd made his mark on the marriage certificate. The particular curve of the bride's stomach gave away the reason for the unseasonal and premature wedding.
Monno had made himself comfortable in the corner, sipping a cup of tea as the dancers did their best to strip the willow in the too-small parlour.
A lass came to stand next to him.
"Lovely ceremony."
"I thought we agreed not to speak in public," he said, still looking at the dancers.
Primrose scowled. "You agreed, I didn't."
He turned his head sharply towards her. "Did you tell people about our old maid leaving?"
"What?"
"The new maidservant told Mother she knew about the position through you."
Primrose sighed and rolled her eyes. "What's wrong with that?"
"It's a link. Don't you see?"
"Would you care to dance, Miss Hobble?" a lad said, approaching her and offering his arm.
"No. Thank'ee," Primrose said, and smiled. She watched as he went to find a different partner. "I'm not your dirty secret," she said when the lad was out of earshot.
"I never thought you were!"
Primrose glared into the chaos in the centre of the room as the couples arranged themselves for the next dance. "You make me feel like it sometimes. There's nothing odd about two wedding guests talking to each other."
Monno made to take her hand, hesitated and placed a hand on her back. "You're right. I didn't mean to be such an ass, I'm sorry."
"Mm."
He tried to smile. "You look nice."
"Thank you."
He glanced over at the bride and groom, who weren't dancing, and were wearing the same embarrassed and exhausted smiles they'd been wearing for most of the day. "I suppose they'll be seeing more of you soon."
Primrose pursed her lips coyly. "I'm sure I couldn't say."
Monno set the teacup aside. "I have time for one dance before I get back to the smial. Care to partner me?"
She raised her eyebrows slightly. "Won't people talk?"
He grinned boyishly. "There's nothing strange about two wedding guests dancing together."
The day had passed uneventfully. Clients had come and gone, six meals had been served Old Mrs Grubb tolerated with vinegar-laced smiles—the kind she seemed to like best.
And then Young Mrs Grubb had said Clover's duties were finished for the day.
So she had changed out of her new dress, and into an old, worn-out bodice and skirt. Now her feet were inevitably leading her down the well-trodden path back to the place of her birth.
She heard their laughter long before she saw them. Maizey, Danny and Martin were throwing the fallen autumn leaves at each other in the lane. Clover sighed as she approached.
It was Martin who spotted her first, dropping the leaves he'd been holding and jogging over to her. "Clover's back!"
Clover didn't stop or alter her pace, and he fell into walking beside her. "Hello, runt," she said coolly. "How's it down on the farm?"
"Me an' the twins was sent to get firewood. I was a badger."
Clover smiled. "Where's your stripes?"
"I wasn't really a badger. We were just playing."
"Ah. My mistake."
Maizey grinned at her as they approached, and brushed a few straggly curls out of her face. "Hello, Clove, you old misery."
"How old're you?" Clover said, casting an eye over Maizey's handful of leaves. "Ten, was it?"
"How old're you—eighty? Can't a person have fun?" Maizey said. She darted forward waving the leaves in Clover's face.
Clover recoiled and pushed her hand away. "No."
Danny grinned, and approached her from the other side. "Don't you like leaves, Clover?"
"Get away!" She dodged them and ran into the smial. She turned around to confront them. "Mum'll throttle you if you bring them inside. Actually, I'll throttle you."
"Clover?" Meg put her head around the kitchen door. She was drying a plate. "We weren't expecting you again 'til Friday."
Clover folded her arms and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I know. I just… wondered how you was all getting on without me."
Meg half-smiled. "I see. We're all right. You?"
"Good enough."
Meg nodded towards the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"
Clover nodded and followed her into the comforting familiarity of home. It would be a bit painful—her mother's clinging affection and her father trying to make his displeasure just a little too obvious. And Jack wouldn't let her forget this for a while. And the noise. And the mess. She hated herself a little bit for coming back so soon.
Not too much, though.