“My plan is to find work,” Joan said flatly. “I’d advise you to do the same.”
Inwardly Margaret cringed. She would have to find some way to pay for lodgings, but she had no idea what sort of work she was equipped to do, unless one counted ornamental needlework. She had been an only child until Caroline and then Gilbert came along years later, and her father had treated her more as a prized son than a housebound female.
The second son of wealthy parents, Stephen Macy had gone into the church after his elder brother inherited the estate. He had raised Margaret to enjoy everything he did—well-bred horses and well-trained dogs, serious discussions, and helping people in need. Her mother had drawn the line at cigars. While at girls’ seminary, Margaret had learned to enjoy a few typically feminine pursuits, like watercolors and fashion. But when she was home, her father continued to take her riding and on parish calls. But no one would pay her to paint or ride, she guessed, nor to visit the sick with food baskets.
At the thought of food her stomach growled. How Margaret wished she might walk into the Star Hotel, pay for a meal and room, and sleep for days. She sighed. “I suppose finding work is the only option.”
Joan pointed down the busy street. “I’m guessing the hiring fair lies in that direction.” Joan turned and walked away.
Margaret matched the maid’s brisk stride as they followed the flow of the crowd. In the midst of the wide, cobbled High Street, a cupola-topped town hall stood like an island between two rows of facing storefronts. The open marketplace between was filled with milling shoppers, stalls and carts of every description, and noisy fishmongers and hawkers touting the superiority of their goods and services.
“White turnips and fine carrots, ho!” chanted a lad, his donkey laden with baskets on each side.
A man straddled a grinding wheel. “I’ll grind your knives for three ha’pence a blade. Knives and scissors to grind, oh!”
The shops on the High Street had opened wide their doors, merchandise spilling forth to add to the color and variety of the marketplace. A baker’s shop brought out baskets of aromatic golden buns, spicy-sweet gingerbread, and loaves of every description.
The window of Betts’, the butchers, displayed hanging geese, hogs, and sausages. An aproned lad stood out front, selling meat pies to passersby.
The front of the chandler’s shop was lined with crates of cabbages, gooseberries, and early apples.
Margaret’s stomach growled again.
Her head swiveling from side to side to take it all in, Margaret nearly collided with a man with a barrel on his shoulder, begged his pardon, and realized she had become separated from her maid. She quickened her pace.
At the top end of the High Street, she once again caught up with Joan, who gave her the merest glance and pointed to an open area ahead, cordoned off by ropes hung between barrels. Several people stood within. Two ginger-haired girls leaned against broom handles, talking together and giggling behind their hands. An older woman stood stiffly, a red ribbon pinned to her bosom and carrying a spoon, staring stoically ahead. An old man sat on one of the upturned barrels, whittling. Beside him on the ground sat a scrawny lad of no more than eight or nine, in need of a haircut and a good meal.
“What are they doing?” Margaret whispered.
“Waiting to be hired. Have you never seen a hiring fair before?”
Margaret shook her head. The scene vaguely reminded her of the slave markets she had read about in abolitionist pamphlets. She said, “I thought you would search the newspaper advertisements, or... I don’t know, knock at the doors of fine houses and ask if they need another maid.”
“At every door in town? Not terribly effective. And have you money for a newspaper?”
The old man must have overheard their conversation, for he rose from the barrel and pulled something from his pocket. Reaching over the rope, he handed Margaret a stained and folded copy of theMaidstone Journal.“Ain’t many listings, but you might give a look.”
Margaret thanked him and unfolded the broadsheet, and together she and Joan studied the employment column.
After a few moments, Joan sighed. “Nothing. Nothing suitable.” She lifted the skirt of her blue dress and stepped gracefully over the rope and into the cordoned square. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Well? Are you coming or not?”
Margaret hesitated. “I don’t think any employer would allow you to bring me along.”
“Of course not. You shall have to find your own place.”
It felt like a slap. “But... I am only suited to be a governess or perhaps a companion. What are the chances of someone coming here to fill such a post?”
“Very slim indeed.”
Margaret knew this. These positions—the only acceptable ones for gently bred females, were most often acquired through acquaintances or poor relations, and occasionally through agencies or advertisements.
“What else am I fit for?”
Joan rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know.” Then she added begrudgingly, “But you are clever, I grant you, and could learn most anything you put your mind to.”
Joan opened her valise and from within withdrew a large utility brush of some sort. Margaret glanced from it to the spoon and brooms held by the other hopeful hirelings. What had she to announce her abilities, whatever they were? Margaret was fairly well educated, but beyond her father’s New Testament had no book to announce that fact in hopes of catching the eye of some parent in need of a governess. What would a lady’s companion carry? In her current state of dress, she doubted she would convince anyone she was a gentlewoman fit to educate their children or accompany their elderly relation.
“What about a lady’s maid?” she asked Joan.
