How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas (22 page)

Avery Sabine

“If the king's forces win, won't that mean the end for Avery Sabine?” I asked Elizabeth as we made our way through the town's streets toward the house of the mayor. “If he and his family have to flee, I supposed that's the end of your job, and Sara's chance to be a lady-in-waiting.”

“Somehow, I believe Mr. Sabine will do quite well no matter what,” Elizabeth said, looking to be certain Sara was too far away to overhear. “When you meet him, you'll understand. He's one of those people who know how to be a good friend to whoever is in power. He's with the Puritans now because he thinks they'll eventually win, but if it turns out that the king retains control, then Mr. Sabine will be His Majesty's most loyal, and most visible, supporter. Meanwhile, here we are at the house. Let's go through the kitchen in back, and I'll see if Mrs. Sabine is available.” She called sharply, “Sara, wait with Cousin Layla.”

The mayor's home was a sprawling brick structure, obviously very expensive to build. I stood in the kitchen watching people bustling around, carrying loads of food or clothes and talking to one another about the big dinner party the next day, and
would
the venison haunches arrive in time to be properly grilled before serving? But there was order to the bustle; someone ran this great household with efficiency, and soon enough Elizabeth returned with her. Margaret Sabine was a towering woman, almost six feet tall in an era when men seldom surpassed five and a half feet, and she was wide to match. Mrs. Sabine's dress was silk, rare for everyday wear, and her auburn wig was spectacular in both size and color.

“Elizabeth tells me you are her cousin who wants work,” she said briskly, her tone matter-of-fact without quite becoming rude. “We may have some for you. Sara, Sophia is upstairs and her lessons are about to begin. Hurry if you want to join her.” Sara hurried, and Mrs. Sabine returned her attention to me. “Please look directly at me, missus. Well, you've got an honest face. We have an organized household here. Phyllis, do
not
fold the towels that way. Here. Watch. See? Isn't that better? Well, Missus—Layla, is it? Odd name. I've had one of the washing women leave me at a
very
inconvenient time, since some of Mr. Sabine's suppliers from Portsmouth—very wealthy, influential people, all of them—are coming to dine tomorrow, then staying for another day, and we must impress them and everything from sheets to shirts needs cleaning. I'll take you on to help with the washing for a while. Two pennies a day is the wage. If you please me, we'll talk about a permanent position. Oh, and you get your dinners here in the kitchen. Elizabeth, take your cousin back into the washing shed and get her started, then come back and help me arrange things in the parlor.”

We watched as Mrs. Sabine marched from the room, barking out suggestions on how best the kitchen floor might be swept and
don't
let that pitcher of milk spill; Sophia wants two cups of it sent up to her room immediately.

“One cup of milk will be for Sophia and the other for Sara,” Elizabeth explained. “I know Mrs. Sabine seems gruff, but in her way she's very kind. Most rich employers wouldn't allow their children to mingle with the children of servants. Sophia treats Sara almost like a sister. Well, you're hired, so let's take you over to where you'll work. Washing is hard business, I know, but with luck you'll please Mrs. Sabine and she'll soon set you to more pleasant tasks.”

Like the kitchen, the washing shed was a bustling place. There were two huge wooden tubs, one for soaking and the other for rinsing. My job was the most demanding. There were dozens of sheets and lots of outer garments and underclothes and towels and pillowcases and every other imaginable item to be washed, and to accomplish this water had to be hauled in from huge vats in the backyard. I would lug wooden buckets to the vats, fill them with water, then bring the heavy, swinging buckets into the washing shed, where I would empty their contents into the tubs. A fire burned under the soaking tub, so the water could be heated, and all the clothes in there had to be scrubbed by hand with soap. It was hard work, but not as hard as hauling the water, which I was doing. Then, when the things in the soaking tub were considered finished, they were transferred to the rinsing tub and wrung out by hand again. Finally, they were hung on long lines in the backyard to dry in the sun.

I had wondered, before I began, if I would be able to work at much greater speed than everyone else. But I quickly learned I had no special powers as a washerwoman. Soon enough my arms and back began to ache from hauling the heavy buckets, and the heat from under the soaking tub made me feel sweaty and uncomfortable. By the time someone came in to tell us it was time to break for dinner—that was what the midday meal was called—I was having some difficulty standing up straight. I could not remember ever having worked so hard.

“Tie a little cloth around each palm, dearie, so you won't get no blisters from carrying the buckets,” an old woman who worked at the rinsing tub suggested. Her face, though deeply wrinkled, was very kind, and I asked what her name was. “I'm Janie,” she said, and remarked that she'd been working for the Sabines, mostly in the washing shed, for twenty years.

“What did you do before that?” I asked, mostly to be polite. My back throbbed horribly.

“Why, I helped my mother in the fields,” Janie replied. “Now that I'm thirty-five, I hope I'll stay healthy enough to keep working here a while longer. But it wears you out, it does.”

Janie

I was thirty-five when I met Nicholas and stopped aging. Janie looked haggard and ancient, old enough to be my mother or perhaps even my grandmother. I'd never really understood before how constant hard, physical work could age people. Though I was an enthusiastic gift-giver, I realized that, in my more than twelve hundred years, I'd never really had to do anything so exhausting before.

Elizabeth joined me at the long kitchen table as we ate the bread and cheese provided for our meal. It was good bread and cheese, and there was plenty of it. I asked why Sara wasn't eating with us, and Elizabeth said she usually ate with Sophia in her room. I valued the break from hauling water even more than I did the meal, which seemed to be over in minutes. Then Elizabeth went off to another part of the house and I trudged back to the washing shed. For the next five hours, I took water from the vats to the tubs, slowing considerably as the day wore on, but never completely stopping. Janie's advice about wrapping cloth around my hands helped, but I still wore blisters on my palms. Finally, though, the last sheet and shirt were hung up on the line, and everyone got ready to go home.

“You've tried hard,” said a voice behind me, and I turned to see Mrs. Sabine. “You've not done this kind of work before, have you?”

“It was quite tiring,” I admitted.

“But you kept at it, and that's commendable,” she said. “Because of your attitude, I have something better for you. So you're staying with Elizabeth and Sara? Elizabeth is a good worker, and little Sara gets along so well with my daughter. I like them both. Well, I'll need you here by sunup tomorrow, since the guests will arrive around noon. Lots to do, lots to do. Have you polished much silver before? No? By this time tomorrow you'll be expert at it. Now go home and rest.”

The walk back to the Hayes cottage seemed endless. Elizabeth had to slow down so I could keep up. Sara scampered ahead, not tired at all.

“They worked on sums today,” Elizabeth told me. “Sara likes to practice them, but I'm hopeless with numbers and can't help her much. Say, should I carry your pack for you? I'm sorry you're so tired.”

I could barely keep my eyes open. “Elizabeth, I can't understand how people can work so hard every day of their lives,” I moaned. “If I'm suffering so much after just one day, imagine how weary Janie must feel after twenty years! No wonder working folk are desperate to keep the few pleasures they have, like Christmas.”

“Eating is a pleasure, too, and we have to work to earn money for food,” Elizabeth replied. “People find the strength to do what they must, Layla. I saw you talking to Mrs. Sabine just before we left. She must have been impressed with you to take time for conversation. I'm to be at the house by sunup tomorrow. What about you?”

“She asked me to come then, too,” I said. “Something was mentioned about polishing silver before the guests arrive at noon. That sounds easier than hauling water.”

“Ah, the silver,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “Well, I'm sure you'll at least find it different from water hauling.”

Working-class people didn't have forks. No one in England did until the early 1630s. But the Sabines had hundreds of them—no exaggeration! —and hundreds of knives and spoons and fine plates and goblets, all of them tarnished and desperate for cleaning. I sat down in the kitchen a good hour before dawn, and didn't stop polishing until, finally, the last silver was shining brightly just as a carriage pulled up outside with the Sabines' guests. My fingers ached, and my eyes stung—the polish had a harsh aroma that burned as well as smelled bad. But the silver did look lovely, and Mrs. Sabine even complimented me on it as she bustled past to greet the men and women who suddenly filled her parlor. They were all Puritans, as evidenced by their sober dress. Mrs. Sabine wore plain black instead of the brighter silks I'd seen her in the day before. Her husband stood by her side, looking stout and prosperous in his formal black coat and trousers. The greetings were long and loud, with God repeatedly thanked for welcome guests and gracious hosts, and Mrs. Sabine said how everyone must be tired and hungry after their journey, and please come into the main dining room, where a little light refreshment had been prepared. The light refreshment would have fed a dozen families for a week. There were all sorts of rare, wonderful treats—things like tomatoes and grapes, and perfectly roasted venison, which had arrived in plenty of time. We servants were kept busy picking up this and moving that. The women guests praised the furnishings and the shining quality of the silverware—I felt proud—while the men huddled over glasses of wine and talked about the war.

“I hear Cromwell swears he won't fight again until his troops are ready,” one said. “Imagine that, a glorified farmer telling lords and real gentlemen how they're supposed to fight!”

“Don't underestimate Oliver Cromwell,” another responded. “There's a sense of destiny about the man. Say, Sabine, are your people here getting nervous about the royals' battlefield success? Can you keep your pro-Catholics in line?”

“My people will always obey me,” Sabine said confidently. “They're really good and God-fearing, I promise. We'll find a way to get the king whipped, and then we can really get this country straightened out.”

“Cromwell's been saying he doesn't want the king deprived of the throne at all,” the first man said. “He just wants him to learn a lesson about sharing power with Parliament. Be a shame to win the war and still have Charles and his Catholic queen.”

“Mr. Cromwell hasn't thought this through,” Sabine said. “It may be he isn't tough enough for leadership. But we have others who are sufficiently stern, and useful for keeping doubters in their places.”

“Blue Richard Culmer, perhaps? Is that who you mean, Sabine?” “Certainly, I mean Mr. Culmer.”

Sophia Sabine

The man sipped some wine. “Now, Culmer's one fellow I wouldn't want after
me
!” and the others laughed and agreed. I winced; with all my exhaustion from hauling water and polishing silver, I'd almost forgotten that I was one of the unfortunate ones Richard Culmer was pursuing.

After the guests had eaten and we'd cleared the dishes away, the Sabines brought down their daughter to present to the company. Sophia came dashing down the stairs, with Sara trailing quietly behind. The two girls were complete physical opposites. Where Sara was sturdy and blonde, Sophia was tall and slender and her hair was almost black. There was also another obvious difference—while Sara hardly ever talked, Sophia never seemed to stop. She ran from one guest to the next, chattering constantly, asking where they were from and what they'd seen on their journey and telling about her latest lessons—“Sara thought eight and three made eleven, but I told her they made twelve.”