No Place for a Lady

by Joan Smith

  “And all the unnecessary furnishings?” I asked, wondering how she would leap this hurdle without proclaiming my aunt a certifiable lunatic.

  Mrs. Scudpole, who occasionally peeped her head in at us as we toured—and obviously had no notion of the meaning of the word “privacy”—spoke up from the doorway. “Only way she could get her blunt out of some of the folks she rented to, wasn’t it? If they owed her, she seized their belongings. Bit by bit, she furnished the flats herself, but there was things left over, like.”

  “Quite a few things,” I said, squeezing past a dining room table with one full set of chairs around it—and another dozen against the wall.

  “She never used this room,” Mrs. Scudpole assured us.

  “Where did she eat?” I was curious enough to inquire.

  “Wherever she liked.”

  “Where is the master bedroom?” I asked.

  “Right at the end of the hall.”

  We went to the end of the hall and entered another used-furniture warehouse. Three dressers, two toilet tables, and against the far wall, one hideous canopied bed. A second bed would not have gone amiss as both Miss Thackery and myself are accustomed to sleeping alone. Unless the second bed were to hang from the ceiling, however, there was no room for it in the bedchamber.

  “That there bed belonged to Mrs. Siddons a dozen years ago,” Mrs. Scudpole told us.

  I lifted the fading gold coverlet and saw a set of sheets that might very well have been slept in by the aging actress a dozen years ago.

  “Why did you not change the linen, Mrs. Scudpole? You knew we were coming.”

  “Nobody told me to.”

  “Would you please change the linen now,” I said, quelling my temper. No doubt the linen closet held dozens of sheets seized from Thali’s tenants.

  “I shall call in a used-furniture dealer tomorrow,” I said to Miss Thackery. “No one would buy the house in this condition. I must turn off the tenants as well, I daresay.”

  “Unless they have signed leases, of course,” Miss Thackery said calmly. “You may be required by law to honor their leases. You will have to speak to Duggan about that.”

  “I shall hire my own solicitor. Duggan has not been very helpful. He did not tell me the house was fall of tenants.”

  “If they are all as respectable as Mr. Alger, perhaps the new buyer would be happy to have them.”

  I had not forgotten Mr. Alger by any means. His was not an easy face to forget, but I was by no means sure of his respectability. While Mrs. Scudpole changed the linen, Miss Thackery and I returned to the saloon. We had just taken a seat when a young woman appeared at the doorway.

  “Good evening,” she said in a good provincial accent, and curtsied. “I am Mrs. Clarke, from 2B. And you must be Miss Irving,” she said to Miss Thackery.

  We soon straightened that out, and I asked what she wanted. “I came to give you my month’s rent, ma’am,” she said. She peered to make sure we were alone, then added, “I could not like to give it to Mrs. Scudpole. We had thought the lawyer would come to collect it. Perhaps I should have sent it to him.”

  The girl was pleasant, and respectable in appearance. She was younger than myself. I judged her age to be about eighteen.

  “Do you and Mr. Clarke live in 2B?” I asked, as she had introduced herself as Mrs.

  “Oh no, Ma’am. I am a widow. My husband was killed in the Peninsula. He was an officer,” she said proudly.

  “I am very sorry to hear of his death.”

  “It was a great tragedy,” she said sadly, “but at least I have little Jamie to bear me company. My son,” she said, smiling softly. “It is difficult to raise him on my husband’s pension, but I was fortunate to find a woman who looks after him while I work. That is Bea Lemon—Miss Lemon.”

  “What sort of work do you do, Mrs. Clarke?” Miss Thackery asked.

  “I am a modiste,” she said. “You would not think it to look at me, but I am quite good. I get it from my mama. She was French. Not that I speak French myself,” she added hurriedly, and looked to see that I did not think she was giving herself airs.

  Indeed I would not have taken her for any of the things she claimed to be. She did not look like a widow or mother or French modiste. She looked like a yeoman farmer’s young daughter, halfway up the ladder to becoming a lady. Her blond hair was arranged somewhat haphazardly about a pale but pretty face. Her eyes were blue, long-lashed, and had the glow of youth. But the girl looked tired, as well she might with the hard life she lived. One had to feel sorry for her, soldiering on alone to raise her little son.

  “You won’t be raising the rents, will you?” she asked timorously. “Mr. Butler mentioned it.”

  “Nothing has been decided. I shall very likely sell the house, Mrs. Clarke.”

  “Oh I wish you will not! Some horrid old rack-rent will buy it, and either turn it into a gin mill or raise the rents on us. I don’t know what I shall do! It is so hard to find decent rooms within walking distance to the shop, and I cannot afford to hire a cab twice a day.”

  I felt extremely sorry for her, yet I could not base my whole future on the convenience of one poor widowed mother.

  “We shall see,” I said vaguely.

  She looked at me with tears brimming in her big blue eyes. “I wish you will stay. You seem so nice.” Then she lifted her fingers and wiped away the tears. “I’m sorry, Miss Irving. I would not ask it for myself, but for Jamie ...”

  I had a strong feeling Mrs. Clarke would face lions or tigers for her son. “In any case, I shall try to help you find some other rooms if I decide to sell,” I promised rashly.

  She smiled sweetly and repaid me in the only way she knew. “You can come up and see Jamie tomorrow, if you like. He is sleeping now.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I should very much like to see him.”

  It was the first time I had ever called anyone “my dear.” It made me feel old.

  “He takes after his papa,” she said, shyly but proudly. “I had a likeness of James taken before he left. It is such a comfort to me. Mr. Butler knows an artist who will make a copy on ivory, for me to wear as a pendant, but it costs a guinea.”

  “Won’t you sit down, dear?” Miss Thackery said, as the girl seemed in a mood to talk—and we had nothing more demanding to do.

  “I should be getting back upstairs. Would you mind giving me a receipt, Miss Irving? Mr. Butler said I should always get a receipt. Not that Mrs. Cummings ever tried to diddle us, but Mr. Butler was made to pay twice in a different establishment.”

  “Very prudent,” Miss Thackery said approvingly.

  “I am afraid I don’t have a receipt book,” I said. I felt a little annoyed that she did not trust me, but realized it was only my lack of business experience. The girl was right.

  “In the middle drawer of the desk, Miss Irving,” she said, nodding to one of many desks in the room. I found the receipt book and wrote out her receipt.

  She was about to leave when another tenant called. A decent-looking young gentleman came bowing in and announced he was Mr. Butler, the same fellow who took such a keen interest in the widow’s affairs. He was of medium height, and decently appareled in day clothes. The buttons on his blue worsted jacket were several sizes larger than gentlemen wore in Radstock, but the jacket itself was well enough. He had bright brown eyes and reddish hair that curled in a way any lady would envy. His face looked the way a cherub’s face might look after a few years of dissipation. Not that Mr. Butler looked dissipated, but he did look more harassed than a cherub.

  He could not keep his eyes off the young widow. Until she darted back upstairs to Jamie, there was not much sense to be gotten from him. Once she had left, he turned to business.

  “That is my month’s rent, paid up right and tight. Scudpole was hinting for it, but I am not such a greenhead as to hand it over to her.”

  I wrote out his receipt without asking. “Do you have a lease for your flat, Mr. Butler?” I asked, as I was curious
to know how soon I might be rid of my unwanted tenants.

  “Eh? A lease? No. I daresay you are wondering why we pay by the month, instead of quarterly. Mrs. Cummings had no use for leases. She said she found it easier to boot unmannerly tenants out if they did not sign a lease. Are you planning to raise the rents? If you mean to go charging us more, the least you might do is have a light in the hallways at night. And fix those drafty windows. Mrs. Clarke tells me there is a regular gale blowing through her bedroom in the winter.”

  “I have no intention of raising the rents, Mr. Butler. I plan to sell the house, and am merely curious to know how much notice I must give the tenants.”

  “Demme! I don’t know what poor Mrs. Clarke will do if you kick her out. It ain’t every house that will take a child in. She has had a rough time of it, I can tell you.”

  “Are you and Mrs. Clarke old friends?” Miss Thackery asked. “From the same part of the country, is what I mean.”

  “No, I only met her six months ago. She is from Somerset. Can you not tell from her pretty accent? I am from Devonshire. My papa sent me to London to work upon ‘Change, thinking I would make my fortune.”

  “What do you do upon ‘Change?” Miss Thackery persisted.

  “Mostly I do ciphering and write out fair copies of letters. It is demmed boring work, I can tell you, and there is no fortune in it, either, for us at the bottom of the pole. I am trying to get into Whitehall. So you say you are selling the house?”

  “I am afraid so, Mr. Butler.”

  “I wish you would reconsider. I daresay we could all eke out a few more shillings for a higher rent, if that is—”

  “No, it is not that,” I said hastily.

  I felt somehow responsible for the difficult lives of these youngsters. I noticed Mr. Butler had ink on his fingers, and the seat of his trousers was shiny from sitting on some stool, poring over columns of figures, or copying letters. I had not realized life was so very difficult for some people. My greatest hardship was Mrs. Hennessey, and what did Papa’s marrying her amount to in the end? I would have to share Miss Thackery’s bedroom, and have to live with Mrs. Hennessey and her vulgar daughters. It was bad enough, but nothing to poor Mrs. Clarke and even Mr. Butler, who already looked haggard. He could not be much more than twenty or twenty-one.

  And when I sold the house, their lives would be even more difficult. They would have to move into quarters even worse or more expensive than the ones they inhabited now.

  Mrs. Scudpole shuffled to the doorway and said, “The bed’s changed. I don’t do laundry. These sheets will have to be sent out. You owe the laundress for the last wash.”

  “Make up an itemized list of the expenses owing, Mrs. Scudpole, and we shall go over it tomorrow.”

  She left without replying. Mr. Butler said, “You want to have a word with the laundress yourself. Old Scuddie is a famous cheat. Your aunt never trusted her with a penny. I do wish I could convince you to keep the house running. You will find it a very convenient location, I promise you. Close to Temple Bar and Mam’selle Lalonde’s Modiste Shop and Drury Lane.”

  Neither Temple Bar nor Mam’selle Lalonde’s shop was of much interest to me, and I knew from yesterday’s drive through Long Acre that we were far removed from polite London. Wild Street had not a single thing to recommend it to me, but I did not go into that with Mr. Butler. He pocketed his receipt and left, secure of at least one more month’s lodging in this decrepit paradise.

  “Take a look in that receipt book and see who else owes for the month’s rent, Cathy,” Miss Thackery suggested.

  I checked through the past month’s stubs and saw that we were still to hear from a Professor Vivaldi (attic), a Miss Irene Whately (3A), Mr. Eric Sharkey (3B), and Mr. Alger (2A). Six tenants in all. Mrs. Clarke (2B) and Mr. Butler (3C) had already paid. After a little ciphering I had figured out my annual rents.

  “Aunt Thal was making three hundred pounds a year on this hovel!” I exclaimed. I checked my arithmetic to see I had not erred. “That is more than the interest on my five thousand dowry. I get only two hundred and fifty on it. Surely these rents must be usurious!”

  “It seems to me Mr. Butler and Mrs. Clarke think they are getting a bargain, or why would they be asking if you plan to raise the price?”

  “I wonder what I could sell the place for? Perhaps it is worth more than I thought.”

  “We shall have an estate agent call tomorrow. If the new owner fixed it up, he could raise the rents and make himself a tidy fortune. You must bear that in mind when you sell, Cathy.”

  We discussed the matter for half an hour. Tomorrow we would arrange to have a builder tour the house with us to see that it was in solid condition as to roofs and rafters and so on. The next day, we would call in an estate agent and put it up for sale. And meanwhile, there were still those four rents to collect. They would help defray the cost of our visit.

  After our strenuous day, we retired at ten o’clock, to spend a very uncomfortable night crowded two into a bed, listening to assorted troublesome noises in the street beyond. At Radstock, we were not accustomed to hearing carriages into the small hours of the morning, drunken revelry, loud talking, and even an occasional bloodcurdling scream, which Miss Thackery half convinced me was only caterwauling. I had no idea what the arrangements were for the locking of the front door. Did each tenant have his own key, or was it left open twenty-four hours a day? That was another thing to check in the morning. Eventually I slept.

  Chapter Three

  I spent an unsettled night. The timbers of the old house squeaked and squawked. Doors were opened and shut at all hours. Not just the front door the tenants used, but the back door as well. The noises from the kitchen area were not loud, however. If Mrs. Scudpole had visitors, she was at least quiet about it. Almost stealthy ...

  I finally slept, and was awakened by a pounding on the steps at seven o’clock the next morning. I lay for a moment with my eyes closed, wondering who could be making such a racket at the rectory. Then I felt an elbow prodding my back and remembered where I was—and why I had company in my bed. I opened my eyes and stared at the collection of used furnishings packed around the walls. I had forgotten that chore when Miss Thackery and I were discussing what we must do before selling the house. We must have someone in to remove this lumber. A close examination had proven it to be virtually worthless. With luck, the man would take the furniture as payment for removal, and we would get the job done without expense.

  I lay quietly, for I did not wish to disturb my friend’s slumber. My inheritance was a slum; my housekeeper was a slatternly cheat; I had several days’ work ahead of me dealing with business people I was totally unequipped to deal with—and yet I was happy. Some festive air had attached itself to this unlikely holiday. It would give my quiet life a good shaking up to see how other people lived. Hopefully I would be a more understanding person as a result. But I doubted I would be generous enough to be happy with my new stepmama.

  When Miss Thackery stirred to life, I rose and prepared for the day, giving her a few moments to collect her thoughts. The water in the basin was cold, but at least it was clean. I washed in it, and when I had dressed, I rang for Mrs. Scudpole. She did not answer the bell. Thinking she might be sweeping the stairs or performing some necessary chores about the house, I took the washbasin to the kitchen myself. The cold stove told me she was not yet up.

  There was some commotion in the alley by the house. I went to the window to see what was afoot. A wagon, its load covered by a tarpaulin, was just pulling out. My alleyway was private property, and I went to the door to see who had been using it.

  A disreputable-looking workman lifted his hat and said, “Good morning, miss.” There was another man on the wagon as well. He was small, and had a hat pulled down over his eyes. I noticed he did not wear the fustian jacket of a workman, but a gentleman’s blue worsted with big brass buttons.

  “What are you doing here?” I inquired, politely but firmly.

 
“Just leaving, miss,” the driver replied. “I lost my way, and used your alley to get my bearings. No harm done.” He whipped up his bedraggled old jade and left.

  The fellow was certainly up to no good. With so little traffic on the street, he could have stopped and taken his bearings there. I did not see what mischief he could have been doing in the alley, however, so I thought no more of it.

  A door off the kitchen was open, showing me an unmade bed. I went in, but Mrs. Scudpole was not there. I thought she might have decamped on us, which would explain the noises coming from this area during the night. I half hoped she had left, but a second look showed me her clothing and personal effects were there. Perhaps she had dashed out to buy us fresh milk or eggs. I filled the basin and took it to Miss Thackery.

  When she was dressed, we went back to the kitchen. There was still no sign of Mrs. Scudpole. We would have gone without breakfast were it not for Miss Thackery, who was raised on a farm and knows the trick of getting a fire going. We boiled water, boiled eggs, made tea, and had our meal with untoasted bread, as we could find no facilities for making toast. While we ate, the front door slammed a few times, but it must have been the tenants going out to work, because it was not Mrs. Scudpole returning.

  At nine, she still had not come back, and we began to worry about her. I thought perhaps we should send for Bow Street. Miss Thackery came up with the more sensible suggestion of asking our tenants if they knew where she might be. We were about to go upstairs and start knocking on doors when Mrs. Scudpole straggled into the kitchen, still wearing her abominably soiled apron. She carried neither milk nor eggs, nor anything else, nor did she come from outside, but from the hall leading to our rooms.

  “Where have you been?” I demanded.