Chapter 5: Generosity is Its Own Reward

“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 as the young woman she was. Her excitement was irrepressible. “I’m wearin’ my blue dress! The one with the tiny sprigs of rosemary on the hem!”

But as soon as the excitement bubbled up, Eleanor’s expression dimmed with practical concern. She had lived a long life as a cook, so she was quite good at the mathematics of running a house.

“Wait just a moment! Who’s going to cook it all? Who’s to serve and clear? Are we to set the silver to our own meal?” she asked.

Thomas allowed himself a chuckle, a low and rare sound like the purring of an old lion.

“Miss Taylor, you are guests for this meal, not servants. The master has arranged for outside help. I believe they are caterers from Hartford, but I will have a more definitive answer by this evening. You are to take the day before off to prepare, and the entire weekend as well. Consider it ... a holiday of sorts.”

The room seemed to bloom with delight all at once. Esther clapped her hands and spun in place. Lyle allowed himself a chuckle and muttered something about brushing his only decent coat. Mary made a list aloud of things she’d need to make just right. Eleanor, still clutching her letter, could not suppress a cheery smile.

“Allow me to say that the days of the sixth through the ninth, you are still expected to perform your daily duties.”

“Oh hog wash! That’s no concern,” Eleanor said with a waved hand. She looked back to her letter. “I haven’t worn a proper dress in twenty years,” she said, not to anyone in particular. “Not since my Archie was christened. I’ll have to find that one with the lace at the neck. Hope it still fits after all these winters.”