Gold or potatoes?

Well, as much as I enjoyed our ha'penn'orth of liveliness, my hosts are hard up and I've mooched on them more than is fair. During the past week Mr.Bradleigh has been good enough to employ me in a variety of make-work jobs in his shop, mostly the kind of work that a junior apprentice would do; sweeping, tidying shelves, fetching water with two  five-gallon buckets on a yoke. Fetching water is quite an adventure all by itself; I take up the yoke with the two empty buckets, not too great a load, and make my way down to the common pump where, depending on the hour, I may have time to exchange gossip with other women fetching water, or the occasional Peeler¹, pausing in his rounds for a drink. Lifting and carrying the yoke once the buckets are full is a task demanding more concentration. The load is not only heavy, but unwieldy and it is perilously easy to spill enough water that I will have to make another trip when I would rather be doing something less arduous.
It is largely thanks to Mr.Bradleigh that I have managed to secure a position as temporary cook/housekeeper (with the help of some carefully researched references) to Joseph Marlowe. For all my snooping when tidying his rooms I cannot get a clear picture of his means of living; he has income from several rents but, so he tells me, he also enjoys wagering on horse races. A fact which is confirmed by the Bradshaw's Railway Companion which he keeps on his desk.
In a small room at the back of the house on the second floor, Mr.Marlowe has a wunderkammer where I have been busied to my heart's content polishing and dusting an extraordinary collection that includes:

• the skeleton of a duckbilled platypus, with its bill preserved in situ
• a Leyden jar
• a microscope and set of dissecting instruments
• a framed collection of rare and unusual beetles
• a piece of amber with a trapped fly

And the only visitor to the house since I have been in his employ has been Dr.Snow. Not in a professional capacity, apparently, as I was called upon to serve tea in the withdrawing room. A good servant is supposed to hear everything and repeat nothing. Well, I suppose I'm not the worst servant in the world. While I was polishing the balustrade in the hallway I could overhear the two gentlemen discussing the discovery of gold on the east coast of America and the possibility of investing funds in a mining enterprise near Sacramento.
The news of the "Gold Rush" in America, as the newspapers are referring to it, and the continuing depredations resulting from the potato famine are the issues, other than the weather, that everyone is ready to offer an opinion on when I attend divine service on Sunday. As the employee of Mr.Marlowe, I am permitted to sit in his pew near the front of the church, but excusing myself on the grounds that I have seen friends whom I should like to speak with, I find a place at the back of the church before the service begins, where I can learn more from those who are obliged to stand through the service.
The Crawleigh family is in attendance in their entirety, the children's faces scrubbed and pink, and William is more friendly towards me, referring to this morning's preacher variously as "A regular Gospel-Grinder" and "a bit of a tub-thumper". Mrs.Crawleigh was just getting started on a tirade about the iniquities of the landowning classes towards the "Micks" when Mr.Crawleigh shut her up rather rudely as the priest left the vestry:

Still your clapper, hay-bag!

Before leaving the church, I make arrangements to meet the family at the Red Lion in the evening when I have a few hours of free time.
With Mr.Marlowe's permission, I am my own mistress from 8 o'clock in the evening, and at the Red Lion, I find William, Susan, the children, and even Grand-Mama Caroline tucking in to a repast of chonkeys over small beer and milk for the youngest in the company of a burly seaman.
I am a little taken aback when Mr.Crawleigh begins eulogizing my virtues to the seaman, who, it seems, is his cousin. In contrast to William's manner, Jeremiah conducts himself toward me like a gentleman and I find myself quite charmed. In due course, our discussion turns once again to the matter of the American "Gold Rush" and Jeremiah entertains us all with a song he learned during a shore leave in San Francisco:

1. Police constable. The nickname comes from Sir Robert Peel, who was for a long time suspected of founding the Metropolitan Police force as his private army.

                    

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