The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

  As she was scampering past an open door, she heard shouting and a woman’s scream and stopped, undecided as to whether someone needed her help. Just then a female form, slovenly and staggering, reeled out the door.

  “And don’t come back again, you drunken sot!” That was a man, his face red with anger.

  The woman stumbled to a halt and screamed back at him, an unintelligible string of words that Amy could not make out the meaning of.

  “Ya had yer chance,” the man returned, apparently understanding her quite well. “Ya wouldn’t find a better gent to work fer than Mr. Lessington, but ya abused yer place, stole from ’im, an’ now yer gone. Yer never could sew a straight line h’anyway!”

  The woman reeled off, cursing and muttering. The man was about to close the door after an incurious glance at Amy, but fear and desperation made her bolder than she would have believed possible. “Pardon, sir, but did I hear you correctly? Was that woman a seamstress, and has she been let go?” Amy clutched her bag to her, hoping Puss did not let out a yowl just then.

  “Yep, she were. What’s it to you?” He looked her over, his words more unfriendly than his look.

  “I happen to be a seamstress in need of a position. I’m very proficient, and—”

  “Do yer drink?”

  “No.”

  “Do yer have a man?”

  “N-no.”

  “Can yer start now?”

  “Yes,” she said, then timidly added, “but first, what manner of place is this? I cannot tell from this back alley.”

  That was when the man laughed, a hearty sound that ended on a wheezing cough. He held the door open and gestured her to enter. “Now I say, that means yer must be desperate-loike fer a job, eh? If’n yer willin’ ter work here and don’t know what we does. H’its a theater, missy, and we be in desperate need o’ someone who can stitch a straight line with no airs, mind you, and no drinking! One whiff o’ gin an’ yer out.”

  A theater! Costumes! Amy squeezed past the man into a dark hallway. He shut the door with a slam and locked it, then took her arm and guided her down the stygian corridor, past closed doors behind which stentorian voices declaimed in the bard’s words, and high fluting voices practiced operatic runs and snatches of arias. It was a kind of heaven for Amy, who had always loved the theater, amateur or professional, but had never been in the bowels of a real theater.

  The man, who introduced himself as Jackson, pushed her into a dusty, grimy room and showed her where the supplies were and what needed to be done. She went to work immediately in the tiny closet of a room. She was not the wardrobe mistress or anything so very grand, but there were miles and miles of straight hems to be done, tedious eye-straining work. And yet she was happy at last, because there was room for Puss to lounge on a stack of loose fabric, and a kindly person brought her lunch, an eel pie which she shared with the cat, along with weak tea for herself.

  The room darkened gradually. She lit a stubby candle and kept working; silence fell in the back rooms as the theater filled and the actors moved to their positions in the wings. They were presenting a popular actor who was offering Shakespeare soliloquies before the farce. Not having royal assent they could not stage straight dramas, but offered bits and pieces interspersed with comedy, juggling, dancing and music.

  Amy worked on; she had no desire to go back to her boardinghouse that night. She glanced around and wondered if anyone would notice if she made her bed there for the night.

  Someone opened the door behind her and poked their head in.

  “Jackson back here?”

  Amy looked toward the door to find a slim man of middle years in the doorway.

  “No,” she replied shyly, of the man, Jackson, who was the one who had hired her and was apparently the backstage manager as well as being properties master. “I think he said he was checking on the gaslights; there was some problem, I believe.”

  “You’re new, aren’t you?” the man said, entering.

  Amy nodded, but went back to her work, not wishing to encourage the man if he was looking for something she was not willing to give. She was not as innocent as she had been just days before in the ways of the world and the position of women in it. She had learned that as difficult as her life had been so far, it had still been sheltered from some rough realities before now.

  Puss rose and stretched, sharpening her claws on the pile of fabric. She jumped down and twined herself around the man’s legs, for all the world as if he had beckoned her. Amy glanced over and saw the man pick Puss up, and the cat luxuriantly rubbed her face against his immaculate waistcoat, leaving gray fur as her mark.

  “Is she yours?”

  “Yes,” Amy replied. Who was this man? Had he the authority to tell her to get the cat out of there? He was fastidiously groomed and well dressed. Perhaps he was a playwright, or manager. There were often superstitions about cats; actors and theater people were notoriously superstitious.

  “She is beautiful.” He held her up and gazed into her eyes, then cradled her in his arms again. “I have a theory that cats were put on this earth to remind us that beauty and utility can sometimes be combined. She is a lovely creature, but there is no more efficient mouser in the world than a female cat. We may retain her services along with yours, if you do not object, my dear. I’m sorry, miss, but I do not recall your name?”

  “Miss Amy Corbett,” she replied, keeping her eyes on her work.

  “You know,” he said, and then hesitated. He began again, “You know, the last woman, the one who was let go today, she made herself comfortable here. If you care to, you may stay in this room as long as you like. Just tell Jackson.”

  Amy stared up at him in the flickering candlelight and stuttered, “Thank you . . . Mr. uh . . .”

  He smiled a self-deprecating grin as he put Puss down and headed for the door. “Just tell Jackson that Mr. Lessington says you may stay in this room and make it comfortable. And have him tell the food mistress to bring you tea and food whenever you need it.”

  And he was gone, before she could stutter a thanks to the theater owner.

  Twenty-one

  Pierson put his head in his hands and groaned. Numbers danced before his eyes when he closed them, though, so he opened them, rubbing the grit out of the corners. April had already passed, and so had May and June in a haze of work . . . long hours so he would not have to think of Lady Rowena and all he had lost.

  He sat back wearily in his chair at the desk in the library of Delacorte. It was dark outside, and since it was past the middle of July, that meant that it was very late indeed. And yet he had accomplished more just that day. He had confirmed a buyer for a stand of timber that he was clearing in a far corner of his land with the intention of putting more land to crops. The money from the timber meant he could make needed improvements to the dairy and begin the apiary he felt would increase profits. Research had shown him that there was not one for miles around and yet there was a local market for honey. It would take a few years to see any profit, but it would be a steady income. He had thought at first it would mean hiring a beekeeper, but it turned out that the man his land steward had hired to manage the new orchards was also adept at the science of keeping bees. The hives would complement his orchard.

  He had come so far in just three months. Life had changed in ways he had never fathomed when he retreated to Delacorte, hurt and angry, to bury himself in estate work. He supposed he should be grateful that the message that reached him that first morning—the morning of Bainbridge and Lady Rowena’s scandalous elopement—that the whereabouts of his missing estate manager, Mr. Lincoln, had been discovered. If he had not had to go to Delacorte immediately to handle the fact that Mr. Lincoln had apparently died in another county, with no one knowing who he was, the tragic victim of robbers, who knows if he would ever have left London?

  After Bainbridge’s perfidy and Rowena’s desertion the temptation would have been strong to plunge himself back into the life he had formerly known, of drinking
, gambling and whoring. The necessity to go home and handle things had immersed him, instead, in the work of recovering the estate. And he had found a joy in the work that he had never anticipated. Instead of the drudgery he had expected, there was pleasure in the labor and a quiet satisfaction at the end of an exhausting day.

  It occurred to him in that moment that Amy Corbett had been right. He had thought about her often over the months, increasingly, as memories of Lady Rowena faded. Amy Corbett had been right when she told him once that if he just started he would soon find himself wholly engrossed in his work, because he would see a return and would be spurred on to further improvement. His reformation had not been without setbacks, but he had steadily improved and now couldn’t imagine any other life.

  The housekeeper, Mrs. Manton, peeked in. Seeing him awake, she pushed in with her hip and put a tray bearing a late dinner down on the desk. “You mustn’t go without something to eat, milord,” she said, admonishment in her voice.

  He grinned up at her as he leaned back in his chair, stretching and putting his hands behind his head. The first month he had resided at Delacorte, Mrs. Manton had barely acknowledged his existence. The second month she had been starchy, but had slowly thawed, her manner becoming less rigid and more imperious. And now she treated him like the child she once knew, the one who, in his infrequent visits home from school, would haunt the kitchen demanding seed cake and milk at all hours.

  The rest of the staff had followed her lead and now he could feel it; they almost trusted him. Almost but not quite. True trust would take longer, years perhaps. He had generations of ill treatment to make up for, but he had made a start. He sat upright and uncovered the dish to find his favorite pigeon pie. “Thank you, Mrs. M., and thank Cook, too. She doesn’t have to cook for me these late hours, you know. I will make do with a slice of bread and some jam. I wish to keep no one awake with me.”

  “She considers it an honor and a privilege,” the woman said with a sniff. “Do not complain. Before you came back she was on the point of leaving. She may be getting on in years but a good cook will always find a position. Now her only complaint is that it is high time you found a wife. The house has not had a viscountess for many, many years.”

  Pierson frowned down at the dish and stabbed it with his fork, the flaky crust breaking open to allow the fragrant steam to vent. He thought back to his intentions to marry and bring Lady Rowena here as his bride. When he tried to imagine it as a reality he couldn’t. What would she have done? In truth, she likely would have complained constantly and been a burden on the staff, rather than the helpmeet he had pictured.

  Amy had once said to him that he could not marry virtue and expect it to rub off. Virtue was a habit, she said, and no one could instill that in him but himself. How right she had been. It had taken much work to make new habits, ones of frugality, steadiness and self-restraint. He had been tempted many times when the work had overwhelmed him, but always a soft voice in his mind had urged him on. He looked up to find that the housekeeper had left and he dug into his dinner and ate steadily, remembering all of the conversations he and Amy had had, all of her wise words that he had not heeded then, but had since found to be true.

  And his mind turned, as it often had, to that last night, and the kiss.

  He had kissed her on an impulse, but impulses came from somewhere. He remembered gazing down at her in the moonlight, thinking he had never seen anyone quite so pretty, and then he had leaned in and touched her lips. And he had wanted more, but had been shocked at his own thoughts; had disowned them, in fact, and backed off as if he had just faced the unthinkable.

  The unthinkable being that he had made a terrible error in judgment in pinning all his hopes and amorous impulses on the wrong lady. He neatly sidestepped that thought once again and wondered, instead, where was Amy? Had she stayed at the duke’s residence? Well, no, of course she wouldn’t do that, because with Rowena gone there would be no position for her. But surely she would have gotten another. Or she would have retreated to her aunt’s in Kent. Possibly near him!

  The thought that had begun as a random notion took hold. He had pictured Amy often over the months, her eyes, her face, her slim form. Very often. More than Lady Rowena, certainly; more than anyone. And after the initial shock, he realized that he had not grieved overmuch at Lady Rowena and Bainbridge’s perfidious behavior. In fact, he rather wished them well. If they loved each other so much they felt compelled to run away, then they surely belonged together. Why they had to do it in such a precipitate manner he still didn’t understand, but it didn’t touch his heart anymore.

  But . . . Amy. What had she done? Had the duke been angry that his daughter, supposedly in her care, had eloped? He laid down his fork. Knowing by reputation the difficult and demanding duke, he would have been furious and he would have let Amy go and he would have even spread across the ton that she was not to be trusted with precious daughters, and—

  And he would not have given her a reference! Though Pierson didn’t know much about the workings of chaperones and such, surely the duke’s word would count heavily against her. She clearly did not have any resources or money of her own. Or any place to go.

  Pierson rose out of his chair as he pictured Amy Corbett’s sweet, innocent face, turned up to his trustingly. Perhaps he ought to inquire about her. There was a woman in London whom she was friendly with, another chaperone . . . what was her name? She would know where Amy was.

  It meant he would have to go back to London, and he felt a kind of dread of the place as the source of all evil in his life. He paced behind his chair and stopped, staring blankly at the empty fireplace. His long ten years haunting London hells and brothels felt like a prolonged nightmare now, a dream from which he had awoken to find that there was so much more to life.

  And it was all because of Miss Amy Corbett; she had given him the confidence in himself and the courage to do what he had to do. Just knowing she believed in him had made a world of difference. He had forged ahead in his new life and had made a success, so far, of everything he had had to do, learning the business of running an estate and farming with no prior knowledge.

  She had believed in him and cared enough to talk to him about his estate, giving him solid advice, listening to his doubts, doing everything, in short, that a lady whom he would want to marry should do. What was it that Bainbridge had asked him that last night? Who did he really love?

  He slapped his forehead and sank down into his chair. It had been there in front of him the whole time, and he had stupidly ignored it. Amy Corbett; she was the one, the ideal lady, the sweet, honest, worthy, lovely, decent, intelligent—

  And was he doing the same idiotic thing he had done with Lady Rowena, attributing every virtue to her just because he cared for her? But no, she had demonstrated every day and in every way that she was all he could have imagined in a young lady.

  It was true, he finally acknowledged; he loved her, but even if she didn’t love him, even if she cared for him in no way other than a friend, he had to find out if she was all right, if she needed anything, or was in trouble in any way. Three months! He couldn’t believe he had let three months slip by before he even thought of her safety, her comfort. Selfish man! Inconceivably selfish.

  He pushed aside his tray, his half-eaten dinner congealing greasily on the plate, and gathered some papers. He would need to write a note for his manager, telling him what he wanted done in his absence, and then he would head for London. And he would track down Amy Corbett and make sure she wanted for nothing.

  And maybe, if he had the courage, he would tell her he loved her.

  Maybe.

  • • •

  Amy pored over her sketches and opened a book to a well-thumbed page and shook her head. No, the costume would not do yet. The tiny airless room was sweltering hot and she pushed back one errant curl as she made a few alterations to her sketch.

  “How is my new wardrobe mistress?”

  She looked up at the pleasa
nt masculine voice and smiled. It was Mr. Lessington in the doorway. Puss leaped down from her perch to greet him and he affectionately reached down and petted her, scratching behind her ears just as she liked.

  “Doing well, sir, but I just cannot get this Restoration costume quite right. If you are to have She Stoops to Conquer ready for the Little Season I will need to have the lady’s costumes done. The gentlemen’s are right and the girls are working on them as we speak.”

  The theater owner sauntered into the room, looking cool and composed as always despite the July heat. Puss followed and twined around his legs. “I’m convinced you have been sent by an angel,” he said with a smile. “We have never had such wonderful costuming. Dress rehearsal for the scenes from the Scottish play today. I’m looking forward to that. Will you join me in the wings to watch your costumes at work?”

  He touched her shoulder lightly and she smiled at him and nodded. She had learned over time not to worry about his affectionate gestures. There was no man in the world from whom she had less to fear than her employer. She had been shocked when she learned his loosely kept “secret,” but now it was simply a part of him, just as his immaculate dress and calm manner. He had no interest in ladies and it was rather freeing, she found; the actresses in his theater felt the same way, they had whispered to her as they told her about his private life. Mr. Lessington was a comforting gentleman to be around, the girls had told her, and one whom they could trust not to make demands of a sexual nature, unlike many theater owners and managers.

  He put his arm over her shoulders and they both looked down at her sketch. “This looks wonderful. Whatever is wrong with it?”

  “I cannot determine if this is accurate, this swooping part of the skirt.” She pointed with her charcoal. “It is all so wonderfully different from the current mode of dress, so elaborate, and yet for this play the ladies’ clothes especially must be simpler to achieve the right affect.”