‘The parish will pay that.’
So, Sal thought, your first concern is to make sure the landlord doesn’t lose any income. Still, it was a relief to know that she and Kit would still have a roof over their heads.
‘But you make good money as a spinner.’
‘Amos Barrowfield pays a shilling per pound of wool spun, and I can manage three pounds a week, if I stay up most of one night.’
‘So that’s three shillings, which is almost half a labourer’s wage.’
‘Three-eighths, sir,’ she corrected him. Approximations were dangerous when every penny counted.
‘Now, it’s about time Kit started work.’
Sal was taken aback. ‘He’s six years old!’
‘Yes, and he’ll soon be seven. That’s the usual age for a child to get his first job.’
‘He won’t be seven until March.’
‘March the twenty-fifth. I looked up the date in the parish records. It’s not far away.’
It was more than three months, and that was a long time at the age of six. But Sal made a different objection. ‘What work could he do? It’s winter – no one needs to hire help in winter.’
‘We need a boot boy at the manor house.’
So that was the plan. ‘What work would Kit have to do?’
‘He’ll learn to polish boots to a shine, of course. And similar tasks: sharpening knives, bringing in firewood, cleaning out chamber pots, all that sort of thing.’
Sal looked at Kit, who sat listening, wide-eyed. He was so small and vulnerable that she wanted to cry. But the rector was right: it was almost time he went to work.
The rector added: ‘It will be good for him to learn how to behave in the squire’s house. Perhaps he will grow up to be a less insolent man than his father.’
Sal tried to ignore the slur on Harry. ‘What would he be paid?’
‘A shilling a week, which is very fair for a child.’
That was true, Sal knew.
‘Of course he’ll get his food, and clothes too.’ The rector looked at Kit’s patched stockings and oversized coat. ‘He can’t be dressed like that.’
Kit perked up at the idea of new clothes.
The rector said: ‘And he’ll sleep at the manor house, of course.’
The thought dismayed Sal, although it was no surprise: most servants lived on the premises. She was going to be on her own. How lonely life would be.
Kit, too, was distraught, and his eyes overflowed with tears.
The rector said: ‘Stop blubbering, lad, and be grateful for a warm house and plenty of food. Boys your age work in coal mines.’
They did, Sal knew.
Kit sobbed: ‘I want my mother.’
‘I want mine, but she’s dead,’ said the rector. ‘You’ll still have yours, and you’ll have a half-day holiday every Sunday afternoon, so you can see her then.’
That made Kit cry even more.
