by Robin Gideon
“I was in my last semester at Woolsley Normal School for Ladies, getting fine grades all the way. Truly I was.”
Faye had heard of the school and remembered thinking it odd that schools created for the instruction of future teachers should be called “normal” schools. She asked, “And what happened?”
“Miss Harkness said she thought I could use a little help with my science. She said it would be best if she were my personal tutor.”
Faye watched with fascination as a pink blush crept up Annie’s throat, eventually reaching her cheeks and ears. A hollowness filled Faye’s stomach and suddenly she wasn’t at all certain she wanted an intimate look into the young woman’s private life. Some things were best left unknown.
“Miss Harkness said the world is a difficult place for naive young women who don’t know their way around.” Annie’s hands were white-knuckled fists in her lap. “She said she wanted to teach me things, special things, so I’d know my way around the world.”
“And what exactly did she teach you?” Faye was hardly breathing, hanging on every word. Her throat felt tight.
“She taught me all about science and geometry. Then she taught me how”—the words caught in her throat for a moment—“to kiss. She said that someday I’d meet a handsome young man, and if I didn’t know how to kiss, I’d disappoint him. So she said she would teach me how to kiss properly so I would please a dashing beau.”
Faye felt a certain sense of relief at the news. She had worried that there might be the accusations of theft in Annie’s background. If Annie had been seduced by a schoolmistress, she was only one of a legion of trusting, young girls to find themselves swimming in taboo sexual waters because they’d trusted lonely, older women who had authority over their lives.
“Then one day she taught me more than just how to kiss.” Her voice became a whisper. “She taught me lots and lots more.” She shivered. “So much more.” She put a small, trembling hand to her mouth. “Then one day, when I was being given…um…lessons, Missy Schulwalker looked in the window and saw us. She ran straight to the dean.” Tears formed in Annie’s eyes. “Miss Harkness was dismissed on the spot. I was told to never tell anyone I had ever stepped foot on the Woolsley campus, and that if I did the dean would ruin me any way he could.”
“So that’s really what you were doing during the years you claim you were working for the fictional Brightwood family.” She looked Annie in the eye. “It would appear that the only thing that isn’t make-believe is you.”
Annie nodded. “I didn’t mean to lie to you, ma’am. Honest, I didn’t. And I didn’t mean to get in trouble at school. I…I just wanted to be a teacher, that’s all. And Miss Harkness said she was only tutoring me for my own good.”
“Yes, people like Miss Harkness always say things like that—and they’re always lying.” Faye swiveled her chair to face Annie. “Well, it’s my turn to make a confession. And when I’m finished, if you don’t want to take the job, I’ll understand completely.”
Annie’s eyebrows drew together. “Ma’am?”
“The reason I’m looking for a new maid now is the same reason I’ve needed new ones in the past. You see, my brother-in-law thinks he’s handsome, debonair, and that all women secretly want him to touch them. He’s a swine, and as pretty as you are, there’s going to come a time when he’ll try to foist himself on you. I’ll try to protect you as best I can, and he’d never try anything as long as I’m a witness, but mark my words, he’ll stalk you from the first moment you take a job in this house. There. Now you know my secret. Now you know why my maids always leave in a hurry, and are usually crying when they do.”
Annie again looked down at her clenched hands. Faye leaned back in her chair, feeling satisfied that she had warned the young woman ahead of time. Sometimes in the past she hadn’t given forewarning, and afterward she felt guilty for it. Because of Derwin’s boorish behavior, Faye had even considered going without a maid. But with all of her responsibilities at London International Transport and the task of trying to raise a four-year-old daughter, she needed an assistant. Running a company and raising a daughter took too much for one woman, no matter how disciplined she was with her time management.
By the time Annie looked up, there was a twinkle in her eyes as she asked, “Does that mean that I’ve got the job? Because if it does, you can count on me to take care of you and your little girl and stay away from your brother-in-law like he was the Black Death.”
* * * *
Faye paused to check herself in the hallway mirror. Her mother-in-law, Agatha, never failed to notice a hair out of place, a smudge on a shoe, or a wrinkle in a dress. And whenever she caught any flaw in Faye’s appearance, she didn’t hesitate to voice her displeasure.
Her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, pinned up high with ivory combs from India, with silken tendrils artfully falling down at her temples. She hadn’t added any rouge to either her cheeks or her lips that morning, and that was fortuitous because Agatha had let her opinion be known that only strumpets wore rouge. The fact that Michael, her much-adored son and Faye’s deceased husband, liked Faye to wear rouge, and that Agatha hadn’t said a word about her contempt for rouge while he was alive, seemed lost on the embittered old woman. The dowager had a very selective memory.
Since Faye had planned to go to the office that morning, she had chosen solidly practical attire, deciding on a black, waist-length jacket with a matching ankle-length skirt, both of light wool, and a white, cotton blouse that buttoned to the throat and had a slender, white, lace ribbon that trailed down in front. Once again, Faye was thankful she’d gotten lucky enough to have chosen a blouse that didn’t show even a hint of cleavage. Michael had liked it when she wore dresses with décolletages that put her extravagant bosom a bit on display, though his mother disapproved.
The array of nightgowns he’d purchased for her over the years, all tailored specifically for Faye with Michael’s sartorial preferences in mind, showed much more cleavage than any nightwear available to the common public. Faye had told Michael she felt scandalous in the nightgowns, but he countered that he liked her looking scandalous. She wore them for his pleasure and was grateful her husband was spending his nights with her and not with a paramour, as did so many of the wealthy young businessmen of London’s ton.
Faye took a deep breath and decided she shouldn’t fear her mother-in-law. She was a nasty old woman, to be sure, but there were a lot of nasty old women in this world. So Faye reminded herself that she should simply bear the burden as many other daughters-in-law did.
She opened the heavy, ornately carved oak door and stepped into the sunroom. Agatha sat near the east windows, taking in the morning sun as she did every morning. Near her on a tray was tea in an elaborate Delft cup and saucer. The woman turned her gray head slowly and fixed her cold, brown eyes upon Faye.
Faye’s stride faltered for only a split-second when it became obvious there wasn’t so much as a hint of warmth or compassion in the woman’s gaze. She managed to cross the enormous room, noting the air was stuffy because none of the windows were open. They never were. Although Agatha liked to look at the world outside, she didn’t want to experience it firsthand. Faye sat in a chair opposite her mother-in-law.
“Good morning, Mother,” she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful. The look she received from the old woman suggested a mood even more foul than usual.
“My dear, we must discuss your future,” Agatha stated, dispensing with any preliminary small talk. “It’s been nearly eleven months since my dear son’s death. And in those eleven months—actually, since his injury nearly three years ago—you have acquitted yourself honorably. However, as we reach the one year anniversary of Michael’s demise, it is time to think not of grief, but of more practical matters concerning my son’s estate and your daughter’s future.”
A cold knife of fear stabbed Faye’s stomach. The smile she received from Agatha was the same smile a rattlesnake gives a mouse before making a strik
e and injecting its poison.
She cleared her throat, realized she couldn’t speak, then cleared her throat again. Finally she managed to say, without much quavering in her tone, “I’m not sure I know what you mean, Mother.”
That familiarity had always tasted foul on Faye’s tongue. But once she had spoken her marriage vows, both Michael and Agatha had insisted Faye call Agatha “Mother,” so as a dutiful new member of the family, she went along with it, even though it seemed patently false. Agatha had always viewed her with intense suspicion and the unspoken yet palatable contempt that happens when a mother believes her son has married beneath his station, even if she possessed considerable wealth.
“Michael was a good man, and so is Derwin. You’re a young widow with a child. I don’t have to tell you those factors rather significantly limit your marriage options.” She raised a single eyebrow, giving Faye a look that challenged her to disagree with her matrimonial assessment. “It is in the best interests of both you and your child to have a wedded union between you and Derwin.” Agatha had never once called Lisbet her granddaughter, and the fact that she had even brought up the girl was a noteworthy moment for Faye.
She narrowed her lips into a thin, bloodless line. “Derwin feels a certain responsibility toward you since you are his brother’s widow. He could very easily take on a wife without your baggage.”
She looked straight at Faye, challenging her to defend herself or refute even the mildest accusation. “Debutantes from the finest families are coming out this Season, and as we all know, Derwin can have his pick of them. But he’s determined to honor his late brother’s spirit and memory by raising your daughter as his own and taking you as his wife.” She paused before adding, “We do hope you have a son next time. It’s rather expected, you know.”
Each individual word struck Faye with the impact of a well-thrown punch from a seasoned and battle-scarred pugilist. In the time it took to blink an eye the air in the room seemed to disappear, so much so that Faye opened her mouth rather wide and momentarily had had to literally gulp in her breaths.
“It’s time to face reality, Faye. You’re twenty-seven years old, which puts you well into a spinsterish age. You’re a widow, which means you are used goods. You’ve got a child, which means your husband has to look at the end result of another man’s sperm. Derwin comes from a quality family, a family of social stature that’s respected in the part of London that’s worthy of respect. When you marry him, you’ll get back everything you lost with Michael’s death. Furthermore, your child will have a father figure she can look up to.”
Faye’s lavender eyes glazed, but only for a moment. It had taken her a while, but now she understood what this was all about—and it had nothing to do with the paucity of her matrimonial options now that she was a widow with a child. This was about Michael’s will and its peculiar codicils regarding who should inherit what if she ever decided to remarry.
“Yes,” Faye said at last, withering under Agatha’s cold scrutiny. She knew she had to stall for time, because any decision she made when coerced could have horrific consequences. “I…I see your point.”
She felt like a convict needing to escape imprisonment before even worse punishment was meted out. She needed time—a delay that would stall Agatha without letting her know what she was really doing. In her opinion, there wasn’t a more vulgar swine in all of England than her brother-in-law, Derwin Smythe.
“But as you know, my year of mourning is not yet up. For me to make any decision at this time would be”—she paused for just the right amount of time, for theatrical effect—“unseemly.” She delivered the word, drawling out each individual syllable with an ear for both diction and drama that would have impressed even the most skilled thespian. “And I do thank you for your concern, but I just feel that this discussion is premature. When a year has passed since my husband’s demise, then we should talk.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes. The old woman had crippled, in one manner or another, untold numbers of people. She wasn’t used to being outmaneuvered by anyone and certainly hadn’t considered the possibility of going toe-to-toe with her daughter-in-law, whom she had always considered as having far larger breasts than brains.
“You’re right, of course,” Agatha said smoothly. She was obviously schooled in tactical retreat as well as in making vicious, full frontal attacks. A delay did not mean surrender. “Concern for you and your future, as well as for my”—she momentarily choked, gagging on the next word as though it were a black mark on her soul—“granddaughter, is foremost in my mind. We will continue this discussion later. I want you to think about the generous offer Derwin has put forward.” She curled her mouth into a smile that never took the frostiness from her eyes. “I believe you’ll find that such a favorable union is in the best interest of both you and your daughter.”
Derwin didn’t put it forward. You did. She did all she could to remain seated in her chair instead of running from the room. And if he weren’t so cowed by you, he’d have presented that disgusting offer to me himself instead of hiding behind his mommy’s apron.
“You may go now,” Agatha said, her brittle smile firmly in place.
With an act of supreme willpower, Faye walked rather than ran from the room.
* * * *
Faye took a hired Hansom cab to the offices of the London International Transport Company. She was actually looking forward to spending a long day at the office. Perhaps with all her duties there, she would be able to forget what Agatha had suggested. No, it wasn’t a suggestion, Faye immediately amended, because she wasn’t a woman given to self-deception.
It was an order, worded as a suggestion, to be sure, but a command just the same.
No matter how hard she tried to forget what Agatha had said, certain key words and phrases kept coming back to her. Being a widow would be a handicap in her finding a new husband. And Lisbet, although she was the absolute light of Faye’s life, would cause the most sought after eligible bachelors to look elsewhere when choosing a wife.
I don’t need a husband, Faye decided with conviction. I’ll stay single for the rest of my life. That’ll really chafe Agatha…the coldhearted witch!
For the rest of the trip, Faye made a conscious effort to think of the big ledger in her office, the one containing all of the planned shipments scheduled to either arrive or depart from the family’s docks on the Thames. Steering the course for the London International Transport Company was much less troublesome to Faye than dealing with her mother-in-law’s devious matrimonial machinations.
Chapter Three
Her office was on the second story of the four-story, redbrick building housing London International Transport as well as three other businesses. When Faye opened the frosted glass front door, she found Mr. McClusky, the secretary she had inherited from her husband after his death, already at his desk. That was to be expected. But sitting in chairs, rather obviously waiting for the president of the company, were two well-dressed men. Faye could not recall having any appointments that morning. She recognized the two men, although she knew them more from their scandalous reputations than from any personal involvement she’d had with them.
“Good morning, ma’am,” Mr. McClusky said perfunctorily, as he did every morning. He did not prefer working for a woman, though he had promised Michael Smythe that he would faithfully continue his services to the company and, albeit grudgingly, to his widow—who was now running London International Transport. “These gentlemen have been waiting for you, though they haven’t an appointment.”
Both men stood upon Faye’s entry into the outer office. Seeing them up close, she was surprised by their size—one being at least six feet tall, and one several inches over that—and by their collective, though dissimilar, physical beauty.
“I believe we’ve met,” Faye said, keeping her smile professional. She had met the men at several formal balls on the ton thrown by her social equals, as well as at the racetrack and the polo fields, but being aware of the
rumors that swirled around both men, she had avoided their company. Faye was cautious that way.
“Yes. We met last year at the ball thrown for Prince Edward at that dissolute French duke’s summer home,” the taller and darker of the two men said. He extended his hand. “Dirk Boyd.”
His intonation was third generation Oxford, or perhaps Eton. More than one generation passed before that kind of precision with speech cadence and inflection developed. Faye was immediately on her guard. The aristocracy usually made a point of getting an education and then devoting all of their time to playing polo, or more commonly in recent years, going off on archeological expeditions to Egypt.
The powerfully built blond nodded, extended his ham-sized hand, and said, with a distinct Scottish brogue, “Radburn McSwain.” He had the appearance of a man who could shred kegs of scotch whiskey with his teeth just for the sport of it.
Faye shook hands with Dirk but hesitated before putting her hand in Radburn’s. His hand was enormous, and she wondered whether he would crush her delicate bones by accident if he weren’t careful. But he didn’t crush her hand as she had feared he might. Instead, though his hand dwarfed Faye’s, his touch had a curious gentleness to it. He appeared to be a great bear of a man who was well aware of his intimidating physical size and made a point of not intimidating women.
“It’s good to meet you gentlemen. Would you care to talk in my office?”
Dirk and Radburn both voiced their approval.
Faye, wanting to make sure they understood just exactly who was in charge at London International Transport, turned to Mr. McClusky.
“Would you mind bringing us some tea, please? And fresh cakes, if we have some available.”
