No Place for a Lady

by Joan Smith

“I fear I must have slept in.”

  “Indeed you did. It is after nine o’clock. We didn’t know what had happened to you.”

  “Your aunt didn’t get up so early.”

  “But you were not in your bedroom,” I said.

  A sly look came into her eyes and she replied, “Mrs. Cummings gave me the other bedchamber to use. She said it was all right. My mattress is as lumpy as a bag of stones.”

  “You mean there are two bedchambers besides your own! Why did you not tell us? Why did you not show me that room yesterday?”

  “She said I could use it.”

  I may not be much good at business, but I know when a woman is lying. Her shifty eyes refused to meet mine. All her belongings were still in her own room. She had moved into that good room on her own.

  “We shall require the second bedroom now, Mrs. Scudpole,” I said coolly. “Naturally we shall expect clean linen. And as you only act on orders, I shall tell you to put on a clean apron and brush your hair. Miss Thackery and I rise at seven-thirty. We take tea and eggs and toast for breakfast. Have you prepared that list of debts we spoke of last night?”

  “I don’t do ciphering. I’ve got it all in my head. If you just give me the money, I’ll pay it.”

  “Give me the names of the people who are owed. I shall pay them myself.”

  She mentioned a local butcher shop and a Mrs. Lawson, the laundress. They appeared to be the only bills outstanding. In fact, after some sly comments about my aunt’s unexpected death, she was not certain any money was owing at all, and I was morally certain it had all been a ruse to rob me.

  “I shall personally handle all household finances in the future. After you have cleaned up yourself and this kitchen, I would like you to sweep and dust the front stairs, Mrs. Scudpole. We shall begin on the rest of the house after I have the excess lumber removed. It is impossible to clean with the house in this jumbled state.”

  On this haughty speech, I left the room, with Miss Thackery darting out after me. We went to examine the other bedchamber and found it the best room in the place. It was done in light oak furnishings, with seafoam green carpet and hangings. The walls were covered in a delicate Chinese paper with birds and flowers. The room had not been inundated with excess furnishings. In fact, I knew at a glance it was the bedroom my aunt had actually used, for her personal belongings were there. The toilet table held a large assortment of brushes and bottles and cosmetics. The clothespress was bulging with exotic gowns.

  “Thal Cummings was always a clotheshorse,” Miss Thackery said, as she sorted through the gowns. “There is some lovely material here, Cathy. And she was so big that there is plenty of it. We can make some of these over for you.”

  “Perhaps I shall pick out a few of them to take with me when I leave. Now, what should we do first? I believe we must be rid of the excess furnishings before we call in the builder to assess the building. He would not be able to see the walls and floors for all this stuff.”

  “Let us make a list,” she suggested. Miss Thackery is a great one for making lists.

  We went to the saloon and began itemizing what we must do. Before we had gotten far with it, there was a tap at the doorway, and an elderly gentleman came in. He was tall and lean, with pince-nez glasses and wispy gray hair. He looked like a retired cleric or schoolmaster. His clothing was of good quality, and he wore a gold watch, or at least a watch chain, but the clothes were shiny from prolonged wear.

  “Ladies,” he said, with a gallant bow. “I am Professor Vivaldi. I have come to pay the rent on the attic rooms.” He had a slight trace of an accent. Italian, would it be, with a name like Vivaldi?

  We introduced ourselves, and I got out the receipt book. Like the others, he paid in cash, and like the others, he inquired whether we meant to continue hiring rooms and at what rate. I told him what I had told the others. He seemed distressed and said “Pity,” in a rather pathetic way, but he did not urge us to keep the house operating.

  Then he rose and put on his curled beaver. “I am off to the British Museum. A little work I am preparing on the antiquities in Greece,” he explained. “I used to go there often during the summers when I was teaching at Oxford.”

  We watched from the window as he walked down the street. Here was another unfortunate soul to feel sorry for. I did not think we were very close to the British Museum, but perhaps Bloomsbury was closer than I realized. However far it was, that shiny jacket told me the professor would be walking, and at his age. A sad comedown for an Oxford professor.

  After he had left, Miss Thackery and I discussed our tenants. We agreed that they were a cut above what one would expect to find in such a derelict neighborhood. A professor, an officer’s widow, a young man working upon ‘Change, and Mr. Alger, whose occupation we had not yet learned, but who gave the best appearance of the lot.

  Within a few minutes, there was another clatter of footfalls on the uncarpeted stairs, followed by another tap at the door. My spirits lifted to see it was Mr. Alger who stood, waiting entrance. I do not mean that my heart fluttered in any silly, girlish way, although he was exceedingly handsome. What made me feel better was that he was one tenant who did not make me feel guilty. He looked prosperous, and well able to take care of himself. In short, he looked completely out of place on Wild Street.

  “The day of reckoning is at hand,” he said, entering with a bow and a teasing smile. I looked at him in alarm. “How foolish of me,” he said, laughing. “I do not mean the biblical end of the world, but only rent day.”

  “I feel sure we would have had some harbinger if Armageddon was at hand,” I replied.

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise. His eyes examined me again, minutely. They strayed to Miss Thackery, a very pattern card of respectability, then settled down. When he spoke, his accent was more polite. “My rent is overdue, but with Mrs. Cummings’s death, we hardly knew whom to pay.”

  I got out the receipt book. While I accepted the money and wrote out his receipt, Miss Thackery said, “Perhaps you can give us a little advice, Mr. Alger. We want to have all this excess lumber hauled away. Cathy—Miss Irving—thought a tranter might take the furnishings in lieu of payment.”

  He blinked in astonishment at such unbusinesslike goings-on. “What, give it away?” he asked. “Why do you not sell it?”

  As it was my furniture, I replied, “I fear the price of hiring a wagon might exceed what I would make on selling the lumber. It is not fine furniture, Mr. Alger, but scratched and dented pieces, half with the knobs or handles off.”

  “Except for the Hepplewhite desk,” Miss Thackery added.

  Mr. Alger went to look over the assorted pieces in the saloon. He looked over his shoulder with a conning smile. “If the idea is not to make profit, but only to get the lumber out of your flat, I have a different suggestion to make.”

  “Let us hear it,” I said.

  “I believe your tenants would be happy to have the use of it. The rooms are advertised as ‘furnished,’ but they contain only the minimum. It is surprising how little furniture one can get along with. I could certainly make good use of one of these desks,” he said, running his palm over the one good piece in the lot, the Hepplewhite desk. “And if there is a spare dresser or toilet table, I know Mrs. Clarke has been wishing she could afford some sort of chest for Jamie’s things. That is her son.”

  “We have already met Mrs. Clarke,” Miss Thackery said.

  “A charming girl, and a sad case. We all take a parental interest in Mrs. Clarke,” Alger said, with a soft smile.

  Mr. Butler’s interest could hardly be called ‘parental,’ and I was none too sure what hue Mr. Alger’s interest took, but the widow was certainly pretty—and in need of any help she could find.

  “I have no objection to the tenants making use of it if they like,” I said at once.

  “Then I claim this desk!” Alger said, placing his palm on the Hepplewhite. “I promise you I shall take good care of it.”

  “That one piece is
fairly good,” I said.

  Miss Thackery cast a questioning look to see if I would let the Hepplewhite go. I consoled myself that the furnishings were only being lent to the tenants. “You can have the desk when I sell the house, if you want it,” I told her.

  “You are surely not planning to sell the house!” Mr. Alger exclaimed.

  “This is not the sort of place we could live in,” I assured him.

  “It is not what you are accustomed to, I daresay. I don’t believe Mrs. Cummings ever mentioned your circumstances ... ?”

  There was a question in his eyes. “We come from Radstock. My papa is the rector there,” I said.

  “I see.” The rapid blinking of his eyes and choked voice told me he had not expected such a genteel background. Having caught me dusting with a dirty face and apron yesterday, he had apparently taken me for a commoner.

  “So you see, we could not possibly live here,” I explained.

  Mr. Alger looked at a seat. I nodded agreement to his occupying it, and he began to try to talk me out of selling.

  “I expect life is quiet in Radstock,” he said. “There is something to be said for tasting the various spices of life. I find Wild Street fascinating. You feel the very pulse of a large city beating all about you.”

  “Yes, and you hear and smell it, too,” Miss Thackery said. “We could hardly sleep for the racket in the streets.”

  “One soon becomes accustomed to that,” he informed us. “It is all part of the local color. And here in the theater district, you might meet all manner of interesting characters. I have found it a broadening experience.”

  “I find cutthroats and gin mills an experience I can do without,” I replied.

  “Indeed? I would have thought a rector’s daughter might be interested in helping the less fortunate.”

  I blush to confess this notion had not so much as entered my head. Good works played a large part in my life, but they were such tame good works as supplying food to the hungry and organizing the church bazaars.

  “I fear I am not qualified to help much in this case. Wild Street is too ...” I said uncertainly.

  “Wild?” he suggested. “Perhaps you are right. You are too tame to tackle real poverty and need. The poor helpless women, forced on to the streets at an early age, the homeless children.”

  “You cannot expect me to single-handedly right the wrongs of London, Mr. Alger,” I said sharply, for I did feel a few qualms of guilt at what he was saying.

  “You are right. It is beyond one person. We must each do what we can— But you have a comfortable home elsewhere, of course. We cannot expect you to disrupt your life only because the people here are so needy.”

  I felt a perfect hypocrite. Was I being horridly selfish in running back to my comfortable life? Of course I did not tell him that my whole life was on the verge of disruption in any case. Miss Thackery intimated something of the sort, however.

  “Miss Irving thought she might sell this place and hire a flat, perhaps in Upper Grosvenor Square. You may be sure she would involve herself in charitable works, Mr. Alger.”

  Mr. Alger’s eyebrows rose in interest. “Then you are thinking of removing to London! How very nice.” His smile suggested that he was delighted to hear it.

  “As soon as the furniture is removed, I plan to have a man in to look the place over, to see it is in good repair.”

  “There is no need to do that,” he said. “Whoever buys it will not care if the roof leaks. This is rack-rent territory, Miss Irving. The landlords squeeze the maximum number of people into the minimum of space, charge the poor wretches whatever the traffic will bear, take their money, and run. Not that I mean to traduce your aunt! As she lived here herself, she took more interest. I know the roof does not leak in any case. I drop in on Professor Vivaldi from time to time, and he is snug and dry.”

  “Then there is no need to waste your money on having an inspection, Cathy,” Miss Thackery said.

  “Yes, you are right. I dislike to think of my poor tenants falling into the hands of a rack-rent, but really—”

  Before I could say more, Mr. Alger leapt on my innocent words. “The house is not at all a bad business investment, Miss Irving.” He drew a chair up to mine and began to outline his meaning. Having failed to move me by pretending the neighborhood was interesting, or by guilt, he now pelted headfirst into appealing to my greed.

  “You would be extremely fortunate to get five thousand for the place, and if you are in a hurry to sell, you would get more like four. I assume you would invest your capital in Consols?” I nodded. “Very well then, five percent of four thousand—two hundred pounds per annum. Your rents here amount to three hundred.”

  “But the house would cost at least fifty pounds a year to maintain. I would not be much further ahead.”

  “Au contraire!” he said, lifting his eyebrows in astonishment. “You are forgetting the entire ground floor, the most valuable part of the house. You can either live in it rent-free yourself, or rent it to someone for a hundred pounds a year. If you sell, you would have to hire rooms. In Upper Grosvenor Square, a flat of this size would cost considerably more than a hundred pounds. Rent is money down the drain. If you stay here, your house would be appreciating with inflation, and with the growth of London. Real estate is an excellent investment at this time. From the economical point of view, your best bet is to stay on here.”

  “I really cannot see myself and Miss Thackery living here,” I said, “but as an investment, it might not be a bad thing. I shall think about it.”

  “The neighborhood is not so bad as you might think,” Alger continued. He was a persuasive talker. “I wager your driver brought you via Long Acre, the worst possible route.”

  “Yes, we came via Long Acre.”

  “You should have come by the Strand. Why do I not show you the route now? My patron has given me the use of a carriage.”

  “Where do you stable it?”

  “In your stable. Mrs. Cummings gave me permission. If you are wondering why the hire of the stable is not shown in my rent rate, I can explain.”

  “I was not checking up on you, Mr. Alger!”

  He shook a shapely finger at me and laughed. “You should have been! If you are to become a business lady, you must keep track of the pennies, Miss Irving. The fact is, Mrs. Cummings liked to do a little barter on the side, to keep her income low for tax purposes. I pay for the stable by allowing her to use my carriage. When she wished to go out, I had it sent back from Whitehall. She occasionally used it in the evenings as well. Your aunt liked attending the theater.”

  “I have only my papa’s traveling carriage, and it is cumbersome for city traffic. We might continue the former arrangement, Mr. Alger, if that suits you?”

  “That suits me very well indeed.” He smiled. “Did I mention I was often her escort?” A flirtatious smile accompanied this suggestion.

  Miss Thackery had lit on a point of his conversation that I had missed. “What do you do at Whitehall, Mr. Alger?”

  “Whitehall!” I exclaimed. “We thought you were an actor.”

  Alger said, “Good lord! Am I that bad?” and laughed.

  “It is not a question of bad,” Miss Thackery said. “It just did not occur to us that someone from Whitehall would deem Wild Street a proper place to live.”

  “Indeed I do. Would I recommend it to you, if I did not? To answer your question, ma’am, I am secretary to Lord Dolman. He is active in the Upper House. His particular area of expertise is trade. It is not an onerous position. At the next election, he wants me to stand for Parliament in his riding. I plan a political career. As you are wondering why I live here,” he added uncertainly, “the fact is, I have a small annuity from my papa, but I am by no means independently wealthy. Until I have gained a few synecures at Whitehall, I must live more or less hand-to-mouth. Lord Dolman offered me rooms in his mansion on Berkeley Square, but I prefer a certain amount of independence. Lord Dolman is a connection by marriage,” he add
ed, to explain this lord’s generosity.

  Personally, I would have leapt at the rooms in Berkeley Square, but I could understand a young gentleman wanting his independence.

  His explanations finished, he said, “Are you free to have a little tour of the neighborhood now, Miss Irving?”

  “We have a great many things to do this morning,” I replied. But as I thought over our conversation, I saw there was really not that much to be done now. The tenants were to remove the furnishings; I was no longer going to hire a builder to inspect the premises; and until I had mulled over the advantages and disadvantages of selling the house, I would not call on an estate agent.

  “I can stay and collect the rents from the other tenants, if you like,” Miss Thackery offered. “And I shall ride herd on Mrs. Scudpole, too. Fancy her taking the best bedchamber, and letting on Thalassa slept in that warehouse of a room.”

  “I should do something about letting the tenants know they can have the excess furniture,” I said.

  “There is a billboard tucked under the staircase in the front hall,” Mr. Alger informed me. “I suggest you set the hours when the furniture is available, or you will have folks landing in on you all day. You might want to oversee that the pieces are fairly distributed. Just so no one takes my desk,” he said, glancing to the Hepplewhite.

  “I shall post the notice,” Miss Thackery said. “Shall we say this evening between eight and nine, so that everyone is home and gets an equal chance?”

  I agreed to this time. There was nothing further to detain us. I got my bonnet and pelisse and rejoined Mr. Alger in the saloon. Mrs. Scudpole, in a cleanish apron, was sweeping the front stairs. Mr. Alger stared at this unusual occurrence.

  He said in heartfelt accents, “I really do wish you would stay on, Miss Irving. You could make something of this place.”

  “Perhaps you can talk me into it, sir, but first you must convince me it is not necessary to traverse Long Acre to get to the civilized part of town.”

  Chapter Four

  With other matters to occupy my mind, I had given no thought to where Mr. Alger’s groom lived, and how he was summoned when required. I soon learned there was no groom to worry about. Alger drove a sporting carriage, and after assisting me on to a perilously high perch, he hopped up and took the ribbons himself. I had never been in a curricle before. The daughter of a provincial cleric must be especially nice in her behavior. But as no one I knew would see me here, I planned to enjoy the outing.