A novel of London, 1662
Shutters slammed open and
shut. Something very heavy boomed and
crashed down the lane. Above the din,
Beatrice heard cries of anguish, and she sucked in her breath. She hoped no one had gotten hurt.
Beatrice looked about the high
person’s room. Rubbish rained heavy,
making everything filthy, including an already untidy desktop. She looked up to see if the ceiling were
caving in, and saw patches of plaster break away. Dust rose from the floor planks, and in
between blasts of wind, she heard rats squeaking. How she was to scrub a chamber with this
clangor raging inside and out, she could not think, and Beatrice set down the
bucket.
She must go find a broom.
Later, as the gale beat heavy
against the house, trampled across the lanes, and down alleyways, Beatrice
strove to sweep up the dirt that continually made its way into the man’s
office. Wind whistled down the chimney,
spewing coal dust into the chamber.
She’d already cleaned the hearth, but it hadn’t done a bit of good. This house needed a chimney sweep. Whatever strides she made were abruptly cut
short by new gusts of wind, and more dust flying.
With not one chamber getting
cleaned, she would not be paid that shilling.
In a pet, Beatrice plopped onto the chair at the desk. She wanted to kick something, but swept away
some ceiling debris instead. Leaves of
paper went with it, deepening her ire.
She got up to retrieve them, and noticed strange writing scrawled across
the papers. Very odd.
The man who owned this house must
not expect his servants to read, but she knew how. Her papa said she excelled in it, and he
often shook his head, exclaiming, “Lass, if you were a lad, you’d do well in
this here harsh world.”
Taking a candle from the
mantelshelf, she placed it on the desk to study the writings. She loved riddles, puzzles, and the like, and
thought these could be easily solved.
With the weather causing all sorts of fits wherein she could not clean,
she may as well take a moment to look at it.
It wouldn’t hurt nothing, would
it?
The leaf ran full with groups of
numbers. She counted the numbers, trying
to separate the meanings. Beatrice
lengthened her arm to gain a full picture of the page. With eyes squinted, the number groupings
brought words to mind.
Words meant letters.
She brought the leaf closer, and
studied the numbers. Within the
groupings, they went from number one upward to twenty-six. She reckoned the numbers spoke of the
alphabet, and Beatrice scoffed. For
certain, she’d broken the riddle right easy.
She searched for a blank leaf, took up the quill, and began to write
down the letters in relation to the numbers.
The numbers told a tale of
skullduggery in London City, very horrid, and a plot to kill the king. Did the fellow of the house understand of
what the letter spoke? Was he a part of
this terrible deed?
She rested her elbow on the pile
of papers, and felt something wobble underneath. Raising a corner of the pile, she saw a dish
of white liquid. Oo-ee, that would cause
all sorts of bother should it spill, and she smelled it. Milk.
How very strange.
She moved the dish to a safer
corner of the desk, then once again picked up the paper that was filled with
cunning deceit. As she raised the leaf,
candlelight shined through, along with scripted notes in the margins. Her breath caught, and she brought the paper
closer to her.
The handwriting along the margins
disappeared.
Beatrice cried aloud, “What?” And
she swung the paper back to the candle.
The writing reappeared, most
astonishing. She moved the paper this
way and that until she saw sentences.
She bent her head to read them.
Wind battered the house, and all
sorts of things crashed along the lane.
With the noise outside, and very engrossed in the mysterious
handwriting, she never considered reading the man’s letters would do her ill. The conceit of it tantalized her brains, and
she wondered why such a prosperous person would dally in treason.
Unless he was a teller of tales,
and was in the midst of writing a book.
If it were printed in a book of penny merriments, it would be a
thrilling read. She must go to St. Paul’s
Yard and buy one of these little books.
Mayhap, she could find a playwright to put it into a play, most lovely,
and Beatrice smiled. She fell into a
gentle moment of woolgathering...
Suddenly, a balled fist slammed
on the desktop, causing her skin to shrivel right off her bones. Beatrice squawked, and shot off the
chair. The leaf flew out of her hand to
land in the bucket of suds-flattened water.
Her heart pounded in her throat, and she went all a’ sweat.
A man, still in his hat and
cloak, hollered, “What the bloody hell art thou doing prowling through me desk
and reading me letters?”
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