Chapter 5: Generosity Needs No Return

“One good turne asketh another.”

— William Camden, Remaines Concerning Britaine, 1636 edition, originally published posthumously. This phrasing reflects a proverbial sentiment traced to ancient moral traditions, including Aesop’s fables, particularly “The Lion and the Mouse.” Copyright © public domain.

It was the Fifth of January of 1823, and the day had worn its grey coat thick about the shoulders of the hills, and the sun had taken its leave behind the gray cloudy overcast as was the custom of New England winters.

The confines of the Wolcott Manor kitchen were warmer than the usual chill under Richard Wolcott. The staff sat gathered near the stove, which was their greatest source of heat in the freezing morning. While each was readying for a busy morning, the sound of polished shoes were heard on the floor to announce the approach of the butler.

Mr. Thomas Wilson entered with his usual air of dignified grace. To serve might be seen as an act of submission, but he had honed selfless attendance into an artform of nobility. In his gloved hand was a single page of heavy paper. This was not like the kinds of paper in England or the other, more important families in the northern half of the east coast, where they would embellish it with a family crest on the wax.

The Wolcotts were an old family even when they came to the New World, but they were second sons, no princes, so they held no allegiance to the old ways.

“Ladies. Gentleman,” he began in his deep and smooth, aged port voice. “I bring word from the master of the house.”

All the heads turned at once. Despite being on good terms with their employer, there were still concerns about Silas Wolcott, as well as curiosities. In his youth, while he was fun loving, it was not like him to give into frivolity. Communications were rarely done so directly. There were certain protocols and mannerisms that he still followed.

Though behavior was never done out of unkindness; rather, this tradition was observed because it generally reserved matters of estate and schedule of the day through necessity. Silas had to manage the wealth of the estate while also seeing to his own desires. Having a stern lieutenant like Thomas was a facet that improved life immensely.

That Silas should send a letter for Thomas to announce was a novelty not without weight.

Thomas reached into his coat pocket and handed each an envelope. A small, knowing smile never left his face, which warmed his audience. While they were sealed, the wax had no symbol on them.

“Mr. Wolcott invites you,” Thomas recited in full formality, “to dine with him at his own table on the evening of Friday next, being the Tenth of January, in the year of our Lord, Eighteen Hundred and Twenty-Three.”

There was a moment of true silence as each person turned the weighty invitation in hand. When they opened their papers, they found that the letters were hand written but reflected what Thomas had said long and loud.

It was Eleanor “Birdie” Taylor who was the first to speak.

“Well I never,” she murmured, more to the paper than the room. “Me? At the master’s table? Oh no, no, I don’t belong up there. That’s not my place. That’s not...”

“Mr. Wolcott made his intentions quite clear,” Thomas remarked simply. He called the firmness of his employer. “You, Mrs. Taylor, and all present are to be his honoured guests. This is not an order, but it is an expectation.”

Lyle MacPhee held his envelope like one might a sleeping infant, afraid to move too quickly and disturb the dream.

“Don’t feel right, eatin’ in the gentleman’s own dining room,” he said, half under his breath. “Not our station. Not our right.”

“Station be hanged,” Mary said with bright defiance, cheeks flush from excitement and the heat of the stove. “If he says we’re guests, then we’re guests!”

“Oh!” Esther squealed. She was not an employee, but rather an irrepressibly excited young woman. “I’m wearin’ my fancy blue dress!”

However, as soon as the enthusiasm bubbled up, Eleanor’s expression dimmed with practical concern. She had lived a long life as a culinarian, so she was seasoned at the computations of running a house.

“Now you wait just a moment!” she exclaimed, turning from the young women to the dark skinned butler.

Servants, because of their transactional nature with an employer, could have a suspicious nature, and Eleanor was no exception. However, she understood that Thomas Wilson was not one to deceive, so if this glass were half-full or if the gesture was altogether empty, he would be candidly forthright with her.

“Who’s going to make it all as well as serve and clear? If we are the guests of the evening, there is a missing portion to the staff, Mr. Wilson. Are we to lay down the silver for our own meal?”

Thomas allowed himself a chuckle to her words. Only the cook would ever dare address him in such an informal fashion, so her very actions caused a sense of overwhelming bliss to bubble up out from within him. The others blanched at seeing such an unconcerning jovial expression from him, for the guffaw was a low and rare sound like the purring of an old lion, so when they witnessed such an act, they wished to keep the memory.

“Miss Taylor, you are guests for this meal, not servants,” Thomas corrected in his cordial yet formal manner. “Mr. Wolcott has already arranged for outside help to come in and stand in your positions for the night. I believe they are caterers and servants from Boston, but I will have a more definitive answer as to who will be occupying your kitchen and serving us by this evening.”

The answer appeared to have caught them all off guard. For the cook, the answer was less than satisfactory; however, for the two serving girls, any answer in the positive might have had them believe that Thomas and Silas’s intentions were nobly pure. Lyle MacPhee was a man that accepted the reality of his circumstance as they came at him, so he was acquiescent to this gift that was being given to him; there was seldom a point to looking this particular horse in the mouth. After all, it did not do any favors for the Trojans.