Boris. Part Two.
I’d to break off in my account of this last’s week’s goings-on on account of Mrs.A interrupting me. But now I shall continue where I left off with my tale.
So, to return to Boris and the fine pickle I was in to hide him for a week from the eagle eye of Mrs. Ainslie, the new Housekeeper: -
Twas only late the night I brought him in that Mary-Ann, m’ladies Maid, came down to see him and we was told he be not “a” boris, but that “Boris” be his name, and that he be a Ruskie dog!
At that we all did exclaim — for never did anyone see so small a creature to be a dog. A terrier be the smallest breed of dog that had graced England’s shores. Yet this Boris would make them look like a breed of giant-dogs, set side by side!
The reason Mary-Ann knew this of Boris was because, of late, she hath befriended the ladies-maid of the very Lady from whom the tiny animal had fled. This Lady and her husband be of the Russian Court says Mary-Ann with a sniff, on business with King George The Fat; and they considers every kind of living creature — from servants, to animals, to Gentry of lower rank — to be all lumped together as beings of an order beneath their contempt. And the Lady now be holding court from her bedchamber, with smelling-salts and oh dee cologne, swearing some English barbarian hath insulted the Russian Court by hiding-of her doggie.
“It hath all the makings of a Diplomatic Incident” says Mary-Ann, “With her haranging the King to search the town from top to bottom.” F or, although he be indolent, and not easily stirred to action, Fat George always were naught but putty in the hands of a weeping woman. It would be no wonder if he did set his men going door to door in order to find the thief.
A a gasp went up from the kitchen-staff — for the punishment for stealing any of the King’s possession be death — and no doubt death would be the punishment levied on any who did cause a Diplomatic Incident!
“Well I care not” I stated stoutly. “Rather should death be the punishment for any who did behave to a living creature the way that nasty harridan did to this little scrap!”
Divested of his silly garb, and having been bathed and combed, the scrap under question did indeed look a poor, thin, shivering creature, and as he had moved about the kitchen we had all seen that his back leg was lame, and one eye all swole and cut.
“Nor I” said Daft Mollie to my surprise, considering she had leapt upon a chair at his arrival. “B’aint right, missus.” she instructed me, as if twas I who were lacking wits and not her.
Tom coachman, lighting his pipe by the fire said, in his slow, sure way “I know of no stolen Gentry dog in this house” . He puffed a little to get it going and continued “All I knows is our kitchen be full of stout, honest folk, who all earns their keep by hard work…which one of of ’em does by keeping down the rats which plague each household. No pampered freak of nature abides in this good English kitchen.”
The others all looked relieved at this, and I knew not one of ’em would breathe a word did all the Kings horsemen come a-knocking. Until a sudden thought assailed me.
“Mrs. Ainslie” I groaned. “The preachers daughter!” For though I did not think she would tittle-tattle to anyone outside, it were certain-sure if she was asked direct, she would consider it her duty to answer straight; or else imperil her immortal soul. For the immortal soul of any preacher’s family seem to be more imperiled to ’em, more often, than any of ours.
We was all glum a minute while pondering Mrs. A and her immortal soul until Mary Ann exclaimed: “We shall have to keep him hidden, of course: but only be for one small week! For Maria (the Ruskies Ladies’ maid) tells me that the couple and all their attendants are leaving but one week hence. They shall go on the packet to France on the morning tide next Tuesday — and all their attendants and baggage will leave straight after. And any hue and cry will die down!”
And all would have been well had Mrs. A, coming in to the kitchen one night, not caught a glimpse of Boris scuttling under the dresser.
I had found an old, cracked Jordan which I had been keeping at the back of a cupoard , certain it would find a use one day. Padded with my second-best shawl to keep him snug, a fine bed it made for him. Held aloft not even those ridiculous ears could be seen and I could carry it up and slip it under my bed, or bring it from room to kitchen quite openly, with a linen cloth across it. For even Mrs. A would not care to inspect the contents of Cook’s chamber-pot!
So once the kitchen girls had finished for the day, I had gone to my room to fetch my journal to write in, and had brought him down in his “travelling chaise“ and set him in the scullery where, when all was quiet, any ventursome rat might appear, and he would streak off silently about his business. He had been on his way, with a tiny swagger to his hindquarters, to report to me on his success when, cautioned by a soft, unfamiliar foot-fall, he had sped under the dresser just as Mrs. A. hot-water jug in hand, appeared.
“Mrs. Simpson!” she called in stentorian tones. “You have a rat!”.
“What? In my kitchen? Nary a chance” I said, continuing to write.
“I tell you there is a rat, which I have seen with mine own eyes, slip beneath the dresser!”
At this I laid down my pen and, with a sigh said: “Tis a bright and blustery night, Mrs. A. and no doubt what you have seen be the shadows at play in the corner of the room.”
Get Cireena Simcox’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
But she would not be swayed and said again “You have a rat. And I be not so ancient my eyes cannot tell between a shadow and a piece of nasty vermin!”
And nothing would do but for her to force me to my knees to peer underneath the dresser, which I did with candle in hand.
“Madam” I said, finally rising to my feet with much loud groaning and moaning, “As I have told you, there is no rat in my kitchen. Not underneath the dresser nor anywhere else. Do you doubt my word?”
At that she had the grace to look discomforted. “Well no; I doubt not that you THINK there be no rat. And if you have looked then I am prepared to accept that the one I saw hath mayhap disapeared into a hole in the woodwork. But, ’twas you yourself told me old Tibbs is past her prime.”
I almost groaned aloud at that, for ’twas true that, not a se’night since, I had confided that my old tabby Tibbs, once the scourge of all living vermin in Brighton, was failing. What with her rheumaticks, and her failing eye-sight, ’twas I myself had argued for a new rat-catcher, being as I pride myself on my clean kitchen.
“Well it seems she still hath enough life in her yet to earn her keep; for you may ask anyone in the street and all will tell you that Mrs. S. does not abide vermin cavorting and carrying on in her nice modern kitchen. And none there be!” I settled my shawl about my shoulders, and “The very idea!” I exclaimed in high dudgeon.
But though she finally left, she did so looking unconvinced and very troubled.
And oh! the perserverance of that wretched woman! For over the next few days she did poke and peer about, and set the stable boy to look for holes where stable rats might gain entry, and set the girls to scouring of the passages, and we all went about our duties with our hearts in our mouths, and Boris himself confined to his chambre — as it were — for hours at a stretch.
I came to dread each peal upon the front door, or knock upon the kitchen door, and went to sleep each night to dream of gibbets, and judges in high wigs, and Courtrooms packed with jeering neighbours.
But finally we all felt a little lighter: for Monday night came upon us, and we realised we had only to keep mum until dawn, when the morning tide befell. Then could I tell her I had found another ratter to aid old Tibbs and release Boris from his china home to take his place amongst us.
So mayhap I was somewhat careless on that last night when, dispensing with the Jordan, I tucked him beneath my shawl and took him downstairs to perform his duties in secret for the last time.
Because barely had we gained the kitchen door when a dread voice assailed me: Mrs. Simpson!!” it exclaimed in tones of doom — and I realised the jig was up!
At first I prevaricated and hemmed and hawed, but I did so half-heartedly, for I was weary unto death of this hole and corner subterfuge. Not a morsel had passed my lips in two days, so sick was I with worry; and each night when I felt a tiny warm body creep silently from it’s chamber pot into my bed I would lie awake feeling his little heart a-beating; my eyes wide open in the darkness a-worriting and a-fretting.
We had come so close! With only a few hours to go before all would be well, Nemesis (this be the name of one of the Old gods, I think, as my Grandam did tell it) had come upon me. Now would she take it as her Christian Duty to notify someone. So would I come before the Beak, and Boris would have no home to go to, and the house would be over run by rats in our absence — all for the sake of Mrs. A’s immortal soul.
Hopelessly, I did tell my tale.
There was silence when I had finished but one thing I wanted made clear unto her before she roused Tom Coachman and bid him send for The Watch.
“I shall accept all that befalls “I told her “For I am a woman grown and know the consequences of my actions. But one thing I must say is that never have I betrayed my own conscience, neither. For neither I, nor any of the others, has let a single untruth pass our lips over this matter. We have said all along there be no rats. And this be the truth. And, howsoever The Law doth define it, I have not, NEVER, stole nothing! This poor little creature of God’s making hath come to me for aid after being treated with such cruelty his Mistress deserves to rot in hell for aye.
Wherefore all that I, with no betrayal to you, nor my Mistress, have done is what, in my heart, I know to be my Christian Duty. And that I swear before you and my Maker!”
The silence fell again as Mrs. A looked impassively and the tiny, bat-eared creature with its long thin legs. And then, with a shake of her head, she began to tap upon her right ear until, finally, she spoke.
“I do beg your pardon Mrs. Simpson” she said, more cordially than I had imagined “I know you’ve had a tale to tell me, but I must apologise. ’Tis my right ear, do you see? Deaf as a post I am sometimes, in that ear. I fear I did not hear a word of your chatter at all. I shall see you tomorrow at 10am to discuss the Menus.” and, without another word, she bid me Good Night and swept from the room!
Dear Mrs. Ainslie.
