No Place for a Lady

by Joan Smith

  “You must tell Sharkey to lower his voice next time he is taking orders. But don’t worry, I shan’t tell Mrs. Clarke you are being unfaithful to her. There is some excuse for her behavior—though I do not hold her entirely innocent, either.”

  He stood perfectly still, while a look of the utmost conniving passed over his features. I could almost see his mind working feverishly to explain away his behavior. Whatever he said, I knew it would be a lie, to cover his shame.

  Finally he said, “Whatever your opinion of me, Catherine, you traduce Mrs. Clarke to imply she is honoring me with an affair. She is the sweetest, most innocent—”

  “But with an odd taste in literature,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked warily.

  “I went to her room to fetch Jamie’s coral this afternoon for Miss Lemon. Or was the racy French novel by her bedside yours, Lord Algernon?”

  His nostrils flared furiously, but he kept his voice low. “No, it was not mine. Perhaps it was Miss Lemon’s,” he said. “I daresay she has a lie down in Mrs. Clarke’s room when Jamie is napping.” This explanation had not occurred to me. I felt foolish at having accused him and Mrs. Clarke, until he said, “I happen to know for a fact that Anne does not speak French.” That thoughtless “Anne” betrayed a greater closeness than he had shown before.

  We glared at each other a moment, then he said, “Have you mentioned the French novel to anyone else?”

  “No, why should I? I am not in the retail gossip business.”

  “You did not mention it to Renie when she was foraging for gowns?”

  “I had not even seen the book then. Why are you worried about Renie? She knows perfectly well what is going on between you and Mrs. Clarke. She is the one—”

  “You do not retail gossip; you just listen to it, eh, Miss Irving? And you take the word of that ... actress over my word?”

  “Why should I believe you? You have told me nothing but lies since the first time I met you.” My temper soared along with my voice. “I want you to leave this house at once. Tonight!”

  “Don’t be so foolish,” he said. Then he rammed his curled beaver on his head and stormed out the front door.

  In his haste and anger, he forgot the door was freshly painted and must have smeared his fingers or coat, because I heard a string of accomplished oaths as the door slammed.

  I sat on alone, trembling, and wishing I had not let all my anger come spilling out. It was worse than anger, it was jealousy. I had let myself become fond of Algernon, which was about the most foolish thing I could do. I would never marry a thief and lecher, and if he were an upright lord, he would not offer for someone like me. It was my inheriting this accursed house on Wild Street that had brought us together, and the sooner I was rid of it, the better.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a long, boring evening once the tenants had dispersed. I wondered what my aunt used to do in the evenings. It seemed strange to think that Mama’s sister was satisfied to live in such a place as this. Miss Thackery found it odd that her friends did not call on us. Did she have any respectable friends? We decided that she must have become eccentric in her later years, because we could find no other explanation.

  I found myself missing home, and Papa, and Radstock. On such fine evenings as this we used to go for a walk around the common and meet our friends. Children played noisily on the green, with the sheltering trees whispering secrets to the breeze while the crimson sun sank behind the spires of Papa’s church. There were usually a few dogs around. Mrs. Stedmore’s foolish tan spaniel, and one mongrel who liked to tease her. Sometimes we just sat on the benches gossiping and watching the ducks in the pond; other evenings if the wind grew chilly we would stop in for coffee at a neighbor’s house.

  On Wild Street, a lady dare not set her foot out the door after dusk without a male companion. The tall, dark houses with dusty windows looked menacing. I did not even want to think of what was going on behind those windows. Ruffians gathered on street corners, shouting and shoving one another, waiting for darkness, when they could go about their criminal pursuits. Any female who passed by was automatically taken for a streetwalker, and usually was one. Whatever her calling, she was subjected to catcalls and licentious jibes. Inebriates from the gin mills occasionally staggered by. It was obviously impossible for me to remain on here, and I had to wonder at the heaviness of my heart to think of leaving. But it was not Wild Street I minded leaving; it was Lord Algernon.

  Mrs. Clarke and Mr. Butler were the first to return. They did not stop at the saloon, but ran upstairs chattering merrily.

  “It is good to hear her laughing,” Miss Thackery said. “She is too young and pretty to settle for a squalid flat on Wild Street. I wish Mr. Butler would take her home to his papa’s house. That would be a better place for little Jamie to grow up.”

  Professor Vivaldi returned shortly after them. He stopped in to inquire if we would mind holding a parcel for him until it was picked up tomorrow. He was sending some books to a friend. Of course we agreed, and later he brought down the box and put it in the corner of the saloon, out of the way. Sharkey was next to arrive. If he was carrying any loot, he had it concealed beneath his jacket.

  He came to the door and honored me with one of his crocodile smiles. “You are looking charming, as usual, if I may say so, Miss Irving,” he said. “Too pretty to be sitting all alone.” He began advancing with a rakish grin. Then he spotted Miss Thackery and quickly withdrew.

  Bow Street did not come looking for him. We sat in the saloon with our needlework until ten-thirty, discussing whether we should send home for more clothes, or make do with what we had brought with us. Algernon had still not returned, and we decided to have a cup of cocoa and go to bed.

  After an early night, I was up at seven-thirty the next morning. I heard the tenants leave, each off to his work. Except for Renie, of course, who “worked” nights if she worked at all. Mullard had to touch up the front door, which had been smeared with a dozen or so fingers. Miss Thackery went to the garden, and I tried to improve the looks of the interior of the house, to make it more enticing for buyers.

  The tranter came for Professor Vivaldi’s box of books. I wondered where he was sending them, for there was no address on the box, but the tranter said he knew the address and took them away. I went to the door to make sure he did not smear the paint. I had thought such a big box of books must be heavy, but the man carried it without any trouble. His wagon was already loaded with other boxes. All going to the same place, from the looks of them. At least they were all exactly the same, with letters and numbers stenciled on in black. A-D-L-1, A-D-L-2, and so on, about ten boxes in all.

  Renie came down to show me how she had renovated one of Aunt Thalassa’s gowns. She had done a good job of it, taking it in at the waist and lowering the neckline to show off her own opulent charms.

  She stayed chatting awhile. When I said I wanted to remove the extra carpets, she offered to help. We called Mary, and the three of us removed the two top layers of carpet in the saloon. Renie took one up to her room, and Mary was happy to receive the other. She was going to have her brothers haul it home for her. The bottom carpet that remained was quite handsome, with flowers on a maroon and cream background.

  We also moved the furniture about to find a more pleasing arrangement. When we were finished, Mary brought us tea, and Miss Thackery joined us.

  “Do you think young Butler has screwed hisself up to the sticking point?” Renie asked, spooning in a quantity of sugar.

  I said, “Asked Mrs. Clarke to marry him, you mean? I believe he is on the verge.”

  “There is a stroke of luck for her, then,” Renie said. “His papa is well to grass, you must know. Five hundred acres in Devonshire, but unfortunately he is not the eldest son. Still, he should come into something when his pa sticks his fork in the wall.”

  I could not bring forth the name Mr. Alger when Miss Thackery was with us, but I noticed Renie did not make mu
ch of that affair. She appeared to think Mrs. Clarke would leap at an offer of marriage.

  She continued, “I wish I had such an opportunity. I don’t like to think what the future holds for the likes of me. I really don’t. What will become of me now that I am getting long in the tooth and the producers don’t want me?”

  I felt this anxiety accounted for her overindulging in wine. It was indeed a bleak future for such women as Renie.

  Miss Thackery said, “Do you not have any other skills than acting, Miss Whately?”

  “I do, but I am getting a bit old for that, too. Jack did not call last night.”

  Miss Thackery cleared her throat discreetly and said, “You have done a fine job in making that gown of Mrs. Cummings’s over. I hear they are looking for seamstresses at Covent Garden.”

  “You never mean it!” she exclaimed.

  “Mary Freeman mentioned it. One of her sisters is thinking of applying. Mary has the advertisement with her in the kitchen now. Would you like to see it?”

  “Lud, what good would that do me? I never could make any headway with letters. I always had to have someone teach me my lines, which is the only thing held me back from being a star, ladies, for I had the looks, I promise you. Just give me the name of that producer and I’ll nip around to see him in person.”

  Miss Thackery rang for Mary to bring the advertisement, and soon Renie was heading off to Covent Garden.

  “That is your good deed for the day,” I complimented Miss Thackery. “I do feel sorry for my tenants. I dislike to leave them in the lurch. They seem so terribly vulnerable.”

  “You could take the ten-percent increase they offered, and give the management of the house over to an estate agent.”

  “Yes, I daresay I could do that.”

  “We could rent a nice set of rooms in Bath with the income, Cathy. I fear Mrs. Hennessey will be making headway with your papa while we are away. She must be lending him her carriage, don’t you think?”

  “Very likely.”

  “That will be an excuse for her to be running into the house a dozen times a day. She’ll have an offer from him before we get home.”

  The afternoon passed in this quiet manner. Renie returned wreathed in smiles. She had gotten the job as a seamstress.

  “I’ll be head seamstress within the year,” she assured us. “The old malkin who is designing the costumes now has no notion of how to please the gents. Gowns cut up to the collarbone. The producer just shook his head when I asked if they was putting on one of Hanna More’s plays. He thinks they need a younger head seamstress,” she added, with a sage nod.

  “Mr. Davis will be calling on me later this evening, ladies, to chat about the costumes, you know,” she continued. “I’ve just time to alter your aunt’s violet silk. You wouldn’t have a spare bottle of wine you could let me have?”

  “I am sorry, Renie, but this is the last bottle. I should have ordered more.”

  She gave me an angry look. “That’s odd. Your aunt always kept a good cellar.”

  “Mrs. Scudpole told me this was the last bottle.”

  “Do you mind if I have a look?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She left, and was back in a few minutes, shaking her head. “You’ve been pilfered, ladies. Your cellar is as empty as my wallet. And I’ve a good notion who done it. Is Sharkey in?”

  “Yes, he went upstairs.”

  She left, and I turned a fulminating eye on Miss Thackery. “That is what Sharkey was doing in the alley the first morning we were here. He had his wagon loaded and drove off with my wine under my very nose. I even heard the noise at the back door in the dead of night. I shall go up and demand he return it.” I rose, ready to do battle.

  Miss Thackery thought a moment, then spoke. “I shouldn’t bother, Cathy. You have no proof, and we will soon be leaving here in any case. You would not want to haul the wine back to Radstock. Traveling is hard on wine, except for Madeira, I believe, which likes a good jostling. You would have to call in Bow Street, and take the case to court.”

  I sat down again, fuming in frustration. At six-thirty, we went to freshen up for dinner.

  “It is odd Mrs. Clarke is not home. She is usually here by this time,” Miss Thackery said.

  “Perhaps she and Mr. Butler went looking at more flats.”

  We thought little of it. We sat down to dinner, the remains of the chicken served cold. We were no sooner seated than Mary came to announce that Sharkey wanted a word with me.

  “The man has no manners,” Miss Thackery scolded. “Did you tell him we are at the table, Mary?”

  “Yes, mum. He said it was urgent.” Her eyes were as big as saucers at such unusual goings on.

  I feared he was in trouble with the law, but if he thought for one instant I was going to abet him, he was sorely mistaken. I would demand that he return my wine, however.

  I strode into the hallway, ready to rake his hair with the closest chair. “What is it, Mr. Sharkey?” I demanded sternly. His frightened appearance suggested that he was indeed in trouble.

  “Have you heard from Mrs. Clarke?” he asked. “She didn’t come home. Miss Lemon is worried about her. She didn’t say she would be late. We thought she might have sent you a note.”

  “No, why would she notify me? I daresay she and Mr. Butler are hunting for a flat before darkness falls.” His consternation appeared greater than the situation called for. “It is not yet seven o’clock, Mr. Sharkey. I shouldn’t worry.”

  “She isn’t with Butler,” he said. “He came home alone. I went to the shop to get her. It was closed. A sign on the door said OUT OF BUSINESS.”

  My heard gave a jump of fear. “That’s impossible! She went to work at the usual time with Mr. Butler this morning.”

  “Yes, but he leaves her at the corner a block from Lalonde’s place. Demme, I wish Algie was here.”

  “Perhaps she is with him,” I said stiffly.

  “No, he went to the House. I’d best go and tell him.”

  “It is a matter of particular concern to Mr. Alger?” I asked, with a pinched expression.

  “He’d like to know,” Sharkey replied discreetly.

  “Then by all means, tell him.” I noticed Algernon’s interest was so keen that Sharkey had actually gone to the shop to escort Mrs. Clarke home, as if he were her bodyguard.

  I was about to challenge Sharkey on the subject of wine when the front door opened, and Algernon came in. He looked at me; he looked at Sharkey— and apparently read our minds. “What is wrong?” he demanded.

  “Mrs. Clarke is late getting home, and Mr. Sharkey thought you should know,” I said, with a look of cool disdain. I had just managed to add two and two—and came up with the conclusion that Mrs. Clarke was the woman Sharkey was following for Algernon. My disdain was wasted on Algernon. He did not even notice it.

  He looked like a wild man. “You were supposed to watch her!” he said to Sharkey.

  “She never came out of the shop tonight, Algie. I waited a quarter of an hour, then went to the door and saw an OUT OF BUSINESS sign posted. A neighbor said it had been closed all afternoon, yet Anne went there this morning and never came home.”

  “Oh, God! Let me think!” It was a howl of outrage. I knew then that Mrs. Clarke was more than a bit of muslin for him. He was truly in love with her. My heart died a little, but I was relieved that he had not made a plaything of the young widow. At least he was not that bad. Algernon shaded his eyes with his open hand and began walking in little circles, muttering to himself.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked, for I truly wanted to ease his pain if I could.

  Algernon looked up. “Has Vivaldi come home?”

  “I don’t know. I did not see him.”

  “Run up and knock at his door, Sharkey,” Algernon said. “Make some excuse—you want to borrow some tea or milk.” Sharkey was off like an arrow.

  Algernon said to me, “Did you happen to mention to Vivaldi that Anne had that French book i
n her room?”

  “No! Why would I do that?”

  “No, of course you would not,” he said distractedly.

  “Algie, what is going on? What has Vivaldi to do with it?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps nothing, but he does keep a very close eye on her.”

  “He wouldn’t harm her. He is very fond of her.”

  Sharkey came bucketing downstairs, red in the face and out of breath. “He doesn’t answer.”

  “We’ve got to get into his room,” Algernon said. “He might have left some clue. Do you have a key for his room, Cathy?”

  “I cannot let you into his room.”

  “This is a matter of life and death. Give me the key,” he said through clenched jaws.

  I got the key, but I went up with him to see he did not harm Vivaldi’s room. I felt extremely guilty—and had no idea what excuse I would make if Vivaldi came home and caught us rooting through his private belongings. There was a sense of unreality about the whole affair. “A matter of life and death,” Algie had said, and his grim manner told me it was no idle remark.

  “What are we looking for?” I asked, as Sharkey and Algie moved around the room, looking in corners and opening drawers.

  “I don’t know,” was Algie’s unhelpful reply.

  I saw a stack of classical books on the desk and picked one up. My fingers came away dusty. The whole desk was covered in a film of dust. He never used it at all. I opened the book and saw the stamp of a used bookstore. The books were all stamped with the same mark. He had picked up a bunch of used books to lend credence to his role of scholar. I pointed it out to Algernon. “He is not a scholar at all, is he?” I said.

  “He might have been, once.”

  “What is he now? What is he doing here, on Wild Street?”

  “Keeping an eye on Anne.”

  Sharkey called over his shoulder, “Take a look at this, Algie.”

  We both darted over to see what he had found. It was a passbook for a bank. Large sums of money, thousands of pounds, had been deposited and taken out again over the past six months.