Magic Below Stairs (3 page)

“I agree.” Mr. Kimball's long face changed completely when he turned to smile at Frederick. “And this the finest kingdom in the world.”

As they walked along, Frederick marveled. London's streets were crowded with people from every walk of life, rich merchants to poor beggars, and lined with all manner of buildings, from crumbling slums to private homes as grand as any palace.

Mr. Kimball questioned Frederick now and then about orphanage life as they made their way through the city. Frederick answered as best he could. The miles went quickly. Soon Mr. Kimball led him down a street that opened into a square with a neatly groomed park in the center. Ranged around the sides of the square so that each overlooked the park, fine stone houses, tall and narrow, stood shoulder to shoulder as if crowding for the best view.

“You will work there.” Mr. Kimball gestured proudly to the finest house of all. “Schofield House.”

Again Frederick marveled so much, he could not keep his words back. “It's enormous.”

Mr. Kimball looked pleased. “It is the finest house in London.”

They came to the front door of Schofield House. “Servants' entrance,” said Mr. Kimball firmly. “We stay below stairs.” Ignoring the great glossy door above, Frederick followed Mr. Kimball down a flight of steps to a door tucked into the areaway beneath.

Mr. Kimball brought Frederick into an entry with gleaming floor tiles and the delicious smell of boiling cabbage. They went through the servants' hall, Mr. Kimball pointing out the kitchen, pantry, and larder as they went. In the laundry room, which was spotless and warm from the fire heating the copper boiler, Mr. Kimball showed Frederick a simple bed in the corner. “You'll sleep here for now. The servants' quarters are at the top of the house, but we're pressed for space with the staff his lordship has engaged.”

Frederick looked at Mr. Kimball to see if he meant it. Compared with the crowded, noisy sleeping quarters in the orphanage, the narrow bed seemed too good to be true. “I could sleep here? Alone?”

“Unless another lad is engaged,” said Mr. Kimball. “Then the pair of you would be down here. We would find another straw mattress and a few more blankets, of course.”

Half dazed by his good fortune, Frederick nodded.

“You'll do as you're told, promptly and well,” said Mr. Kimball. “Try not to let yourself be seen by any of the family. If you are seen, it's unfortunate, but carry on with your work unless they ask you for something. Speak when you're spoken to and not before.”

“Yes, sir.” Frederick tried to take in his good fortune. He had a safe place to stay, even if it was in a wizard's house, and a bed both clean and warm. He had a position, honest employment. He was finding his way in the world. It had been a grand day, the grandest of Frederick's life so far, and all because he was the perfect size for a suit of livery.

In the long days that followed, Frederick learned his way around the big house. The very first thing he was shown was a door he was ordered to avoid. It was on the ground floor at the back of the house, far away from the grand rooms where guests were entertained, and it was a very important door indeed.

“This is his lordship's workroom. Mind you keep away from it.” Mr. Kimball scowled at Frederick. “That door is kept locked at all times. No one goes in without his lordship's consent.
No one
.”

It looked to Frederick like a perfectly ordinary door. “Don't we clean the room and keep it tidy for him?”

“Don't you dare so much as touch the doorknob,” Mr. Kimball said. “His lordship carries out his research in there.” At Frederick's blank look, he added, “His magical studies.”

“Magic?” Frederick remembered the gossip at the orphanage.

“Lord Schofield is a wizard. Thomas Schofield. The mysterious marquis, the gossips call him.” Mr. Kimball rolled his eyes. “You've never even heard of him, have you?”

It did not seem like a good time to mention what the big boys had said about Lord Schofield grinding people's bones to make his bread. Frederick said, “Not really.”

“Trust me, then. He's a very good wizard, respected by the king's own advisors at the Royal College of Wizards, but even the best of that lot have been known to be shockingly bad tempered,” said Mr. Kimball. “He takes odd notions, his lordship does. So be careful. Mind what I tell you, now. Stay away.”

Frederick kept a safe distance from the wizard's workroom. To annoy his new employer, a rich and powerful wizard, would be the last thing he wanted. If Frederick ever let his bones be ground up, Vardle would be very disappointed in him.

To Frederick, Schofield House was grand as a palace. The walls were hung with mirrors and paintings in great golden frames. The high ceilings were decorated with patterns of flowers and leaves and fruits and vines, all shaped out of pure white plaster. The windows were covered with curtains of silk, the borders touched with what looked like real gold. The floors were like yards and yards of polished bits of wood set at angles in a vast puzzle, and sometimes a big rug laid over it, woven in complicated patterns with shades of deep red and rich blue like a church window. The furniture was carved wood upholstered with silk in colors Frederick didn't even know words for. There were fat feather cushions embroidered with birds and flowers, all arranged just so on the chairs and settees.

Day by day, as he learned his duties, Frederick met the other servants on the staff. There were upper servants, who only served Lord and Lady Schofield personally, and there were lower servants, who worked for the upper servants as well as the Schofield family. The upper servants were far too grand to speak to the likes of Frederick except to give him orders. The lower servants seemed too busy looking down their noses at each other to notice Frederick even existed.

On Frederick's first morning at Schofield House, he met Bess the scullery maid as they were both waiting for breakfast. He soon learned that scullery maids did most of the dirty jobs around the house, scrubbing everything from kettles to the kitchen floor, but on that day, Frederick only knew that Bess was a brisk red-haired girl an inch taller than he was.

The cook, who was called Mr. Grant, had scraped the last of the porridge into the bowl for the girl ahead of him, so there was nothing left for Frederick. From his days at the orphanage Frederick knew what that meant—no breakfast for him. Dismayed, he turned away.

“Stay!” The girl caught his sleeve to stop him. She was at least a year older than he was, and strong enough to hold him fast. “Oats and groats, Mr. Grant, have mercy on him. He'll never get any bigger if he isn't fed properly.”

“Oh, is it you that gives me orders now, little saucebox?” The cook looked sharply from the girl to Frederick and back. “Or has the lad engaged you to represent him?”

“Grumpy, aren't we?” The girl handed her bowl to Frederick. “Here, have mine.”

“No!” Frederick backed away from the bowl. At the orphanage he had long since learned that when someone offered to do someone else a good turn for what seemed like no reason, there was always a true reason, something unpleasant. But the girl was looking at him as if he had gone mad, so he did his best to explain himself. “I can't take that. What will you eat?”

“Oh, I shall beg a crust from somewhere,” she said airily, “unless such grumpiness has become the custom of the kitchen.”

“Never anything but sauce from you, lass. You should respect your elders.” Mr. Grant seized a loaf of bread and cut a generous slice off the end. He held it out to Frederick. “I can't spare you a crumb more, so mind you don't whine for butter on it.”

Frederick took the thick piece of bread and smelled it, marveling. “But it's still fresh.” He had never known anyone to give away bread before it had turned as hard as a paving stone.

“It's yesterday's bread.” Mr. Grant still sounded grumpy, but he had begun to look amused. “Any other complaints?”

“I'm not complaining.” Frederick thanked first Mr. Grant and then the girl.

“Why are you thanking Bess?” Mr. Grant cut a slice of cheese and gave it to Frederick. “She hasn't done anything. Get that inside you, boy.”

Frederick thanked him again. “If you ever need your knives sharpened, I'll be glad to do it for you. I have the knack of it, I've been told.”

“Do you, now? I'll bear it in mind.” Mr. Grant turned to the girl. “What are the pair of you standing about for? I gave you that food to eat, not to admire. Off with you.”

When they were safely out of the cook's way, Frederick thanked Bess again. “I don't know how to repay you.”

“Just a taste of that cheese would do so nicely,” said the girl.

“I'm Frederick Lincoln. I'm the new footboy.”

“I know. I'm Bess Parker. I work for Fan mostly. She's the laundress. Trade you some of this porridge for a bit of your cheese?”

Frederick soon discovered how lucky he was to have Bess to show him how to go on in the great household. She had several aunts and cousins on the staff, and her younger brother, Clarence, although not yet in the employ of the household as a regular servant, sometimes helped to scrub the floors and clean the boots.

“Clarence doesn't say much,” Bess told Frederick, “but he is a right one. Aren't you, Clarence?”

The three of them were scrubbing the last faint traces of grime out of the dimmest corners of the laundry. Clarence only nodded and kept scrubbing.

“He's only eight, and he looks younger still, for he's a bit undersized. But when he's grown a bit, Mr. Kimball promised our pa he will give him the chance of a place on the staff.” Bess went back to scrubbing. “Mr. Kimball keeps his promises.”

Frederick tried to get Clarence to talk, but although he was friendly enough, he would only nod yes or shake his head no in answer to questions.

“He's a bit bashful,” Bess explained. “You're new here. And we don't want Fan to catch us chattering instead of working. That would never do.”

“Keep a silent tongue in a wise head.”
Frederick rinsed his brush and started scrubbing the next corner. “That's what Vardle at the orphanage used to say. He says it's a good thing for a servant not to talk much.”

“That's me out, then.” Bess scraped a stubborn spot with her thumbnail. “We aren't supposed to speak to Lord or Lady Schofield unless they speak to us first. Sometimes I think I may burst. I'd have a dreadful time if I wasn't to speak at all. I talk a lot. I like it.”

“Lucky for me you do. I have a lot to learn. There's Fan, for one.” Frederick kept his head down, scrubbing hard while he risked speaking honestly. “She scares me.”

“No need to be frightened,” Bess assured him. “But you'd do well to respect her. When Fan tells you to hop, you hop it. If you sauce her, she'll box your ears so hard they'll sting for two days.” She mimed a slap to the side of Frederick's head to show him what she meant, but she was just teasing.

Out of habit, Frederick ducked anyway. “Fan doesn't tell me anything. She doesn't speak to me at all, just points to show what she wants me to carry. Why won't she talk to me?”

“Oh, she's still fussed over the last bootboy. Georgie came from the orphanage too.”

“Georgie Biddle?” Frederick moved his bucket and began on a fresh bit of grimy floor.

Bess nodded. “Nasty piece of work.”

“What happened to Georgie? Did the wizard grind his bones to make his bread?”

Bess burst out laughing. “Did he what? No! Lord Schofield's not that sort of wizard at all. He's a bit strange perhaps, but he's not a cannibal. What gave you that notion?”