Chapter 7: The Boxing Day Ball

Despite being dismissed in good time and with extra leave, Jessica still found herself running late by the evening. Her experience (His experience? No, no no.) with Lord Ashwater had brought to light some implications she found too troubling to be left alone with, but too confounding to share with anybody else in the house, so she had hurried off to her potting shed, buried herself in a furious practice, as best she could alone, of the dance steps the other maids (The maids? The chambermaids, such as they currently were.) had endeavoured to teach her. She had become so engrossed in a quite fastidious pursuit of perfection in this field that it was only when a rap on the door announced the arrival of Mr Rathbone, who had come to see where she had got to at the request of her friends, that she realised she had quite lost track of time and would have to rush getting changed for the ball.

“Will we be seeing you at the ball, Mister R?” She said by way of an awkward attempt at conversation as the two colleagues (The two men?) made their way back up the garden path to the house.

“I’ve never felt it quite appropriate, Hocking.” Mr Rathbone answered in his sallow manner. “I’m not from the village, originally, and although I do, in the most technical sense, live here and have done for as long as I’ve been in service, I rather consider that men of my class have considerably more difficulty integrating into the local colour of such places than men of yours.”

Jessica took a hurried moment to remind herself that indeed her class, as long as one didn’t get too granular about it, certainly did contain men, and she needn’t think too hard about what Mr Rathbone might have meant by that.

Once she was inside, she greeted the maids, who were already in the middle of dressing up. She’d seen all their gowns before of course, except Hattie’s which turned out to have been a “present from Norm” and had arrived just that morning. Her own, obviously, would not be appropriate for her current appearance even if it weren’t so old it was nearly worn through and two sizes too small. She began to panic, realising that she hadn’t actually put a great amount of thought into what she was going to wear to the Boxing Day ball. Standards in the village hall were not high, but they were higher than just turning up in her work shirt. She made some mumbled excuses about it not being appropriate to change in the kitchen with the maids and fled upstairs to her room, rather expecting a full-on attack of agitation to set in.

When she got there, however, she was surprised to discover that her room was not as she had left it. On the foot of the bed lay a neatly folded (and obviously brand new) handsome tweed suit, seemingly sized for a small, slight man, and a coordinated red tie. They did not seem terribly expensive in the grand scheme of things, but nevertheless Jessica estimated that even the illustrious Norm, whose comfortable salary Hattie would surely retire to be kept on in a couple of years, might think twice before accepting the expense.

Sitting on top of the suit were two envelopes, one cream-coloured and one white, both addressed to “Samson” and a small black wooden box. Jessica took hold of the cream envelope with some trepidation, and lacking a tool to do much else, tore it open with a little difficulty. She took the handwritten note inside over to the light to read it.

“Dear Samson,” It began.

“Before I begin, allow me first of all to thank you for whatever it is you did during your conversation with my husband this morning that has invigorated him so. He would not divulge what it was, saying only that it was ‘a gentlemen’s matter’, but this morning I have received quite possibly the most fulfilling degree of attention from the man that I have had the opportunity to enjoy in the last decade.

In our conversation, however, he has made me aware that I have taken a great many liberties that are unbecoming of a woman of my position with regard to your employment here, and indeed caused for you a quite unchristian amount of distress and disorder. Please accept my apologies, my assurance that I truly appreciate the sacrifices you have made and the burdens you have shouldered in service to me these past few months, especially given their highly unusual nature; and my delight and gratitude that you have apparently nevertheless decided to stay on as our gardener.

I shan’t be calling on you again in the manner of that more prurient imposition I burdened you with during the Christmas period, and I daresay that if you can keep working your magic on my husband, however it is achieved, I won’t need to call on you again for some time.

In any case, I feel so terribly guilty for my unfortunately necessary indiscretions, so I rather hope you’ll accept this little gift. I managed to get out of Catherine the chambermaid that you intend to spend your boxing day evening off at a dance in the village, and I thought in your current state you might be rather starved of something appropriate to wear. Hopefully this is smart and gentlemanly enough to satisfy the townspeople’s modest eyes for fashion without veering too far into the genuinely exquisite that your peers accuse you of ideas above your station.

Lady Eleanor Ashwater”

Jessica stood in silence for a moment before crossing to the bed again and opening the white envelope.

“Dear Samson,

Here is the safety razor I promised you as part of our little arrangement. Shopping establishments are of course all still shut, but when I learned that Eleanor was sending Mr Rathbone out of doors on an urgent mission to lean on a friend in the department store business for a favour, I had him append my own personal request. I have given Eleanor herself a stern talking to, and hopefully she shouldn’t be bothering you again. Enjoy your afternoon.

Lord Edward Ashwater”

Jessica opened the box with some renewed curiosity. The contents were just like Frank’s razor, in fact she suspected it was probably the same brand and model, complete with a packet of blades. A bar of soap that she presumed must be the special soap Frank had spoken of had evidently been added to the box after the fact, as it nestled a little awkwardly in a tight part of the package that Mr Gilette’s company would likely not have used in such a way for neatness’ sake.

As she caressed the box, the last rays of the setting sun passed through the window onto her hand, and the sensation of panic at her lateness returned instantly. She sloughed off her work jacket and unhooked her braces in a mad rush, tossing them onto the chair in the corner (she would no doubt be chided for it later by Mrs Breadworth, but it could hardly be helped) and began working to change into her smart new suit as quickly as possible.

When she finally got herself dressed and made her way back downstairs, however, she discovered she had still been quite too late. The maids had already left, and the kitchen was empty.

Well, almost empty.

“Thought you might have chickened out.” Grace the scullery maid stood up from where she had been leaning against the sideboard and sidled over to Jessica with something of an enigmatic scowl. “Come on then, if you’re coming. Nice suit by the way.”

Jessica looked at her blankly. She didn’t know Grace that well, and the girl hadn’t exactly been particularly friendly since the chambermaids’ arrival.

“They left me to wait for you.” Grace said thinly. “And I agreed because I want to talk to you. Now has her ladyship made enough of a man out of you already that all you can do is gawp like a fish, are you coming? We’re late.”

Jessica was mystified, but fearing that further inaction might invite additional insults, she stepped over to close the gap with Grace and the two of them turned to stride on out the servants’ entrance. They walked in silence until they were off the Ashwater property, after which Jessica turned and opened her mouth; but without making eye contact Grace spoke first.

“Interesting to see that men being useless and dense to the point of rudeness apparently isn’t something they’re just born with; it’s inherent to their condition, it seems.”

Gobsmacked, Jessica tried to form words. “I… um… what?”

“It’s rather excruciating having to watch you stare into space over the heads of the rest of your little class.” Grace continued. “Rather like watching a particularly stupid dog ignore a delicious three course meal in its bowl that you can only dream of eating.”

“Have I done something to upset you, Grace?” Jessica tried to hold her nerve and meet the disrespect head on. “I’m afraid don’t really know you that well, to be frank, so I’m so terribly sorry if you’ve born some kind of grudge that I’ve been too ignorant to realise, but I’d like not to be spoken to quite like this if you can at all manage that.”

“I’ll speak to you any way I like off his lordship’s property as long as you carry on being such an idiot, Hocking.” Grace turned and for the first time shot Jessica something of a smile. It was more a smirk, if one was being quite honest, but it was still a further mystifying response.

“Well then if I am so dense, perhaps you had better enlighten me as to my crimes, or whatever it is.” Jessica scowled. “And stop being quite so cryptic.”

“Very well.” Grace’s expression softened. “Perhaps I’m too hard on you, to tell you the truth. You could just be rather… sheltered. What some might call a curse of my… condition is that I tend to become frustrated when not everybody around me is attuned to the same… attitudes, of the women around them, as I am.”

“Your condition?” Jessica could feel a headache beginning to form.

“I’m what you might call a tribadist, Hocking.” Grace was definitely smirking now. “At least, that’s what I like to call it.”

“I don’t know what a tribadist is.” Jessica felt her face getting a little hot. “So please explain, unless the point of all this is just to humiliate me for something I still don’t understand.”

“Presumably by this point you’ve been told what’s peculiar about his Lordship?” Grace mused. “What am I saying- of course you have. And been shown, no less. Lottie could hear you in his study this morning. No idea what she was listening to, wee innocent girl, but I did when she told me about it.”

Jessica flushed. “What if I have been? What has that to do with anything?”

“I’m of a kind with his lordship, you see.” Grace said in a kinder tone. “Well, of a kind, and yet opposite, if you catch my drift.”

Understanding washed over Jessica in an instant. “OH.” She exclaimed.

“Now you get it.” Grace smiled and rolled her eyes. “Goes without saying of course that the other maids don’t know, and you won’t tell anyone if you know what’s good for you.” She made eye contact again. “But I hardly think you of all people need persuading to keep a secret like that for someone who knows your own. Maybe more than one of them, to be honest. The others seem not to have caught on to what our esteemed employers both have been taking advantage of you for.”

“Right.” Jessica squirmed uncomfortably as they rounded a street corner. “Then why tell me at all? Unless you’re…” her face knitted into a mournful frown.

Grace looked confused for a moment and then recoiled. “Ugh! Absolutely not. Not for me, no thank you, sir. And besides, even if I were taken leave of my senses on that front, I know where you’ve been. And who you’ve been with. Hardly want to stick my hand in that particular den of snakes. No, I do not, don’t you worry about that. But that doesn’t mean nobody does.”

“Oh?” Jessica had been discomforted by the firm finality Grace’s tone on the word ‘sir’ had had, but the dangled bait of gossip pertinent to her put it out of her mind.

“It’s polite at these dances for the gentlemen (and those ladies taken to playing the role after all the gentlemen are paired up because there’s always more women at these things, now especially) to ask the ladies to dance.” Grace said matter-of-factly. “And in your case I highly recommend you ask such, polite as you like, innocent as you please, of your little set you came in, and pay close attention to who’s a little too eager to accept when it sounds genuine and not a trick.”

“I see.” Jessica squirmed a little in her suit. Was Grace saying what she thought she was saying?

“What you do with that information after is your own lookout.” Grace said frankly. “I’m just very tired of you being unable or bloody unwilling to see what’s right in front of my face and I don’t know if I could stand watching another six months of it until the summer ball.”

“Well then.” Jessica said, straightening up. “Thank you for the advice. I’ll be sure to do that, and I shan’t be telling anybody about you being a triumvirate or whatever. But I rather hope if I can manage to stop irritating your delicate nerves quite so much as I’m apparently doing that you could see your way to being a bit nicer to me, Grace.”

“Oh, I probably could.” Grace nodded. “Though really if it’s authenticity you’re after in all this business…” She gestured vaguely at Jessica’s body. “You should take it as a compliment. Someone in my particular position tends to develop a very low opinion of handsome men in smart suits who make way more than her succeeding despite being useless. It’s altogether very convincing.”

Fuming, Jessica nonetheless couldn’t think of an appropriate retort, so she just snorted and shut up.

---

“And now, ladies and gentlemen.” The vicar, who was acting as master of ceremonies, raised his voice over the trailing out music. “For those who prefer a more traditional experience but are not part of a group for the quadrille tonight, the next dance will be the waltz! But first, as this is a couple’s dance, there will be a brief pause whilst those unattached gentlemen who might wish to participate find themselves willing partners. We will begin in two minutes, two minutes ladies and gentlemen!”

Jessica felt her palms go sweaty. This had seemed a lot simpler when Grace was just talking about it. She wondered if she had the guts to go over to her friends and just… proposition them that way?

Don’t be silly. She tried to tell herself. “Proposition them”- it’s dancing! You’ve lain carnally with both your employers on separate occasions! What’s asking to dance with your friends?

Unfortunately, for whatever reason her own voice in her head didn’t sound all that convincing. It was just so… strange to imagine herself, Jessica Hocking, going over and asking the girls she’d finished school with who would like to dance.

But, said the voice again, with a slyer tone. It’s not strange for Samson to ask, is it?

Jessica didn’t like that thought, but she was right. It wasn’t. She looked over at the maids. Norm had, thankfully, been able to turn up, so Hattie was already occupied on the dance floor. But that still left three of them. How long ago had the vicar’s announcement been? If she was going to do this… if he was going to do this, it was now or never…

Sam straightened his tie and strode with as much confidence as he could muster over to the three young women. He cleared his throat in front of them, catching Marcia and Lottie’s attention immediately and prompting Catherine to slowly turn her head from her no doubt gossip-laden conversation with Cynthia the grocer’s daughter.

“Would any of you ladies care to dance?” He inquired, trying to keep his voice as deep and steady as possible.

“Yeah all right.” Catherine shrugged, making to step over.

“NO!” Marcia squeaked suddenly and seemingly rather louder than intended. Sam and the other two girls turned to look at her in surprise.

“Um… I mean… you’re taller than Sam, Cath!” Marcia continued nervously. “It might look a little silly, you dancing the Waltz with him. Besides, I think Jack Belton wants to ask you to dance, if he can ever come up with the gumption. Might be an idea to go and drop him a lure?” She gestured at the lanky young postman leaning against the south wall of the hall, who seemed entirely uninterested in anything going on.

Catherine looked back at Marcia with an eyebrow raised, but then realisation crossed her face. “Ahh, right. Yeah I’ll go and drop some hints, see if I can’t hook him.” She stepped away to go and bother the unsuspecting boy while Marcia closed up the distance between her and Samson.

“But I’ll dance with you, Sam!” She said brightly, smiling at him with an innocence that certainly suggested a belief that her scheme was less obvious.

Sam felt odd. It didn’t seem surprising, somehow, that it was Marcia. Perhaps the surprise had been expended up front, in Grace’s revelation about the others. And yet, it still felt appropriate (in as much as such a thing could be) that it was romantic, silly Marcia who had somehow fallen for the ridiculous false straw man that he obviously was.

Samson tried very hard not to think about how insincere a characterisation of himself that felt in the moment, and instead extended his arm. “In that case, Miss Trembley, I would be honoured if you would let me have this dance.”

Marcia stifled a giggle, though not one with quite such a mocking tone as Sam expected, and took his hand. “Why what a gentleman you are, Mister Hocking. I certainly shall.”

The two of them made their way to the middle of the floor as the final couples paired up. Looking around, Sam saw Grace firmly clasped in the arms of a muscular and strong-jawed farmer’s daughter, having presumably been “left spare” after all the men partnered in a scenario he imagined she (and maybe her companion) had great experience in engineering. She met his gaze and gave a single approving nod.

“Well then!” The vicar called. “If everybody is ready and in position, we shall begin!”

The piano player began, and the room slid into movement. It took Sam a moment to place the piece being played (Debussy’s Valse Romantique, a minor favourite of his mother’s) especially as he was concentrating hard on carefully and gracefully leading Marcia around the floor. As they span, halted and reversed, he caught a glimpse of Catherine, striding about in the arms of a nervous and confused looking Jack Belton and glaring thinly over his shoulder at Marcia, and of Lottie, nervously grimacing in the grasp of one of the older (and smaller) church ladies.

When he looked back at Marcia, her face held an expression of such true contentment by comparison that he almost stumbled the change.

---

With the dance over, the attendees filed out of the hall and began to wend their way home. Marcia and Sam, still holding hands, stepped outside and ambled over to a bench on the side of the town square fountain. The moon was full and bright, but the night was silent. Sam spied Hattie and Norm leaving together, and the other three maids exiting in a gaggle. Grace looked over at him, then at Marcia, and raised her eyebrows briefly before returning to whatever conversation the girls were engrossed in.

Sam looked over at Marcia and noticed she was shivering and gritting her teeth.

“Here.” He said, trying to keep his nerve as he took off his suit jacket and draped it around her shoulders. It was bracing cold for him as well, but he knew he’d be warmer than her naturally anyway.

“Thank you.” Marcia replied in a small voice. She sat alone for a moment, trying to feel the warmth of the jacket alone, but quickly tipped over and leant on his shoulder.

“So…” Sam’s voice caught in his throat.

Marcia didn’t say anything, but Sam felt her little hand wend its way around the crook of his elbow.

“You seemed very eager to dance with me, Marcia.”

“Did I?” Marcia raised her head a little, like a kitten disturbed from sleep. “Perhaps I did. Well, you’re a good dancer. I saw how fast you learned with Lottie.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Sam blushed a little. “But come on, Marce, why me?”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you find it an odd thing to do? Mayhap I’m convincing enough as Samson- god knows enough folks have told me so- but you knew me as Jessica for four years. Isn’t all this Samson business rather queer for you?”

Sam looked down at Marcia’s face, which had flushed a little red.

“Well, perhaps it is a queer business, what of it?” She demanded, a little defensively. “I happen to think Mister Samson Hocking is a very handsome young man and being as I’m familiar with who he is at other times, I’d ‘preciate being forgiven my efforts to make sure he’s not quite such a miserable one.”

Sam broke off eye contact. “Well, maybe…”

“And besides-“ Marcia sat up, emboldened. “-weren’t it you who asked us to dance? Don’t see you’ve any right to complain when one of us says yes, especially since those of us in the know can see that dancing with Mister Hocking’s likely to be a limited time offer.”

“Why’s that?” Sam asked, suddenly concerned.

“Well, I s’pose we all assume once you go, or you can get her ladyship off your back or something, you’ll be going back to Jessica, won’t you?” Marcia replied. “Always seemed like that was your intention.”

Sam’s face felt hot and red and his stomach turned. He twisted uncomfortably on the bench.

“What’s wrong?” Marcia squeaked.

“I…” Samson’s mouth seemed to be drying up faster than he could croak out the words. “I could’ve stopped, Marce. His lordship found out everything, this morning. He offered to set me free. Big severance package. My box is already pretty huge because of it. I could’ve got out, walked away, gone back to being Jessica again.”

The pair sat in silence for a few seconds.

“And you didn’t.” Marcia intoned.

“And I didn’t.”

“Is it my place to ask why not?”

Sam frowned. “It’s not just the man-thing that she’s had me doing. It’s… other things, too. Horrors like out of books, like Catherine said. And that was in the deal I struck with his lordship, was in exchange for doing him a little favour of the same kinda sort once, he’d make her needle in my side go away. And you know, I probably could have asked for more but it just seemed like…” He breathed out. “Well… when it came time actually to ask for it, I just felt like as long as that stuff stopped, I didn’t really mind so much about being Sam. At least not for the moment, not while I’m here. And I wanted to be Jessica again, but not as much as I’d thought. And I was scared of the transition back. So I just… decided to stay this way, for now.”

“How long do you think ‘for now’ will be?” Marcia snuggled up against him again.

“Dunno. For the foreseeable future I suppose. Not in a hurry to give up the thirty pounds now, am I? Why do you ask?”

“I want to know how much longer I can see that handsome face at work.” Marcia giggled. “Look, Sam, as Jessica you were one of my best friends, it’s true. Still are, not much has changed. But my you make a handsome young man. One I shan’t mind seeing more of, for now.”

Sam flushed pink and gently put his hand on hers. “Marce, are you a… are you a troubadour?”

“A what?”

“A female homosexual, to put it indelicately. Least I think that’s it.”

“Oh.” Marcia looked thoughtfully upward. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, don’t think I’d like to be doing that sort of stuff with other women even if it were proper. But it’s a complicated question isn’t it? In your case. Cause if you’re asking if you decided to stay like this forever, would I laugh in your face if you asked me to be Mrs Samson Hocking…” She met Sam’s gaze, her eyes like great brown pools. “…why, I certainly wouldn’t. On the contrary, it’s the kind of question I’d have to give a great deal of thought.”

Sam faltered a little and adopted a tone of slight mockery. “And what makes you so sure that Mrs Samson Hocking is a title you’d be offered? Awfully presumptuous of you all told, Miss Trembley.”

“It was an example!” Marcia flushed. “I didn’t mean… that is…”

“How would that even work, anyway?” Sam continued. “I mean, sure, I’ve managed a handsome moustache and a hairy chest, but I’m not properly equipped to give you a child no matter how much we wish it. Not that folk’d know, at first, but they’d talk after a while.”

“Oh I don’t mind if people talk!” Marcia protested, but then her face fell, and when she spoke again it was in a graver tone.

“But anyway, not to give you the idea I’ve thought about this sincerely, you understand Sam, but I’ve a mite feeling and the others agree with me, Mrs Breadworth too, that little ones gone spare who need homes, and gentlemen who’ll ask you not to gossip about their tragic deformities and wounds, are both things we’re gonner see a big increase in.”

Sam said nothing, embarrassed to have, in the brief joy of the boxing day ball, forgotten all about the war.

Marcia stood up, took off Sam’s jacket and handed it back to him.

“I’ve to be back before midnight, and so do you.” She said sadly. “But think about it, Sam. If you wanted to go back to being Jessica, if that felt right for you, then I’d be happy for you. But don’t go thinking if you stayed like this, you couldn’t land yourself a pretty wife.”

“And that’d be you, would it? My pretty little wife?”

“Maybe.” She said. She leaned down, took Sam’s forehead in her hands, and delivered a gentle tender kiss upon it. “But that depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“I’m little for sure, Mister Hocking.” Marcia smirked as she stepped back onto the village green. “But am I pretty?”

“Of course you are, Marce.” Sam stood up to join her. “You’ve always been beautiful, you know that.”

“Well then.” Marcia held out her arm for him to take. “I don’t expect you’ll turn down the chance to walk a pretty girl home.”

With butterflies in his stomach, Sam took her arm in his, and the two of them began ambling back out of the middle of town, back to the Ashwater estate.