“The books needed to be safeguarded,” Doctor Norwell said. He had a fussily precise voice, one that practically reeked of the aristocracy. “Lady Gwen, I received the final report from Healer Lucy.”
Gwen took the sheet of paper and scanned it, rapidly. Lucy was blunt, as always; Major Shaw’s condition had yet to improve, no matter what she did. He verged between bawling like a child to shouting at his sister, almost managing to hit her twice before he’d been tied to the bed. His self-control was completely gone. It was impossible, Lucy had concluded, to get any sense out of him. Or to put any sort of timetable on his recovery.
“My fault,” Gwen said.
“I’m afraid so,” Doctor Norwell said. “Do you have anything you want to add to the report?”
“No,” Gwen said, reluctantly. She didn't know what he thought of the whole affair. Doctor Norwell was no magician, but he’d been around magic long enough to know how it worked. And he’d been close to Master Thomas. He might well deduce the truth, no matter what she did. “We’ll keep an eye on him, won’t we?”
“He’ll end up in one of the bedlams, if he doesn’t get locked away in the attic,” Doctor Norwell said, levelly. “There is no sign of improvement.”
Gwen shuddered. She’d seen the bedlams - and she’d practically been locked away herself, although she’d had much more freedom than any madwoman. If there was something she could do ... but there wasn’t. She doubted going to see him would make things any better ... his family would probably want more than exile for her, when it sank in. They’d want her dead.
“Pay for his treatment,” Gwen ordered, finally. It was the least she could do. And she’d never notice the loss. “I’ll arrange for a bank draft to cover the costs.”
“As you wish, My Lady,” Doctor Norwell said.
“Send a message to Merlin,” Gwen added, standing. “Once he’s no longer needed at the front, Sir James is to make his way back here. I need to speak to him.”
“I believe Merlin are tasked to support the final assault on Dover,” Doctor Norwell said, thoughtfully. “The assault is planned for dawn tomorrow.”
“That will give me time to prepare,” Gwen said. She doubted the French would hold out for long, even though they had literally nowhere to go. And with farmers sniping at any Frenchman who got separated from his unit, they had good reason to consider surrender to the regulars. “Let me know when he’s on his way here.”
“Of course, My Lady,” Doctor Norwell said. “But I would be surprised if he were here in less than a couple of days.”
“It’s all right,” Gwen assured him. She needed time to read the remainder of the files before she made any plans, although she knew better than to stick to them. Everything in the files might well be out of date. “I can wait.”
Chapter Five
“You’re still walking like a girl,” Irene said, sharply. “Stand upright, damn you.”
Raechel obeyed, gritting her teeth. As daring as she'd considered herself, male clothing had always been verboten. Wearing trousers had been unthinkable, even after the Trouser Brigade had made a habit of wearing trousers in public places. But they were still openly feminine, merely wearing male clothing. She was pretending to be a man.
“I’m not used to walking like this,” she snapped. Three days of being an apprentice had taught her more than she’d ever imagined, but she knew she had a very long way to go. “I’ve never worn male clothing in my life!”
“Having your breasts bound probably doesn't help,” Irene said. She gave Raechel a considering look as the younger girl stood upright, holding her head in the air. “A pity your face is so pretty, really. It’s quite noticeable.”
“Thank you,” Raechel said, sourly. “Is there anything I can do about that?”
“Wear a cap and look sullen,” Irene said. She smirked as she produced a dirty cloth cap and placed it neatly on Raechel’s head. It barely fitted over her hair. Irene had made her tie it up into a tight bun, when Raechel had refused to cut it. “You’ll be taken for a young boy.”
Raechel scowled as she stared into the mirror. Loose brown trousers and a grey shirt - both looking as though they’d seen better days - made her look odd, although she didn't think she could really pass for a man. Even with the truss pushing her breasts against her skin, she could still see where they should be. The cap might give her face a masculine cast - and a hint of makeup added flecks of stubble - but she didn’t feel convincing. She looked like a little girl dressed in her father’s clothes.
“You already know what you are,” Irene said, artfully. “Another woman might spot you, but the male mind will take its cues from your clothing. They’ll see you as a young lad on the streets.”
“Oh,” Raechel muttered.
She glared at the mind-reader. She’d spent at least two hours a day learning to meditate, the first step in blocking Irene out of her mind, but her defences tended to lapse as soon as she stopped concentrating on them. Mastering the art of keeping her mind closed while doing something else was taking forever. And then, Irene had warned, she would have to learn the art of lying with her mind. A probing Talker might be suspicious if he or she encountered a mental shield.
“You’re not doing badly,” Irene assured her. “But you have to keep walking like a man.”
Raechel sighed, but did as she was told. It wasn't easy to walk straight upright - swaying her hips would make her look unnatural, Irene had warned - let alone look Irene straight in the eye. Young women weren’t supposed to make eye contact with men, particularly young unmarried men; they were meant to keep their eyes lowered demurely, while sneaking peeks when they thought they weren't being watched. She hadn't realised just how many habits had been hammered into her, from the moment of her birth, until Irene had pointed them out, one by one. They’d become second nature very quickly.
“The trick is to remember to think like a man,” Irene added, as she donned her own clothing and posed in front of the mirror. “Men recognise a pecking order, a hierarchy; they will cling to their place in the hierarchy even when it no longer suits them. That’s why you get wealthy merchants deferring to lords, even though the merchants could buy and sell the lords out of pocket change. They still think of themselves as inferior.”
Raechel blinked. “Why?”
Irene shrugged. “Men like knowing where they stand,” she said. She smirked. “And there are quite a few men who are very good at sending dominate signals to other men. They’re the ones you have to watch, when you meet them. They can be quite dangerous.
“At the same time, men can be possessive of far more than their wives,” she added. “A man will be possessive of his job, so he’ll bitterly resent a superior coming in and telling him what to do, even if the superior is right. Men stake out their territory and guard it very carefully, even if it costs them dearly. I recall one opera director who lost his job because he wouldn't give his patrons any say in what actually happened.”
“He sounds like an idiot,” Raechel observed.
“Oh no,” Irene said. “He was very good at his job. But he also thought of the job as his.”
She shrugged, again. “Given our clothing,” she said, “what do you think we are?”
Raechel looked back in the mirror. “Newsboys,” she said, finally. It was the only thing she could think of. “Is that right?”
“Workers,” Irene said. “We look like workers released from the defences.”
She turned to the door. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go outside.”
Raechel’s mouth dropped open. “We’re going out?”
“It’s the only way to test your progress,” Irene said, briskly. “Just recall all the rules and pitch your voice low. But don’t try to overdo it.”
Because that just sounds unnatural, Raechel thought. The trick to acting, Irene had explained, was not to overact. Her first attempts to talk in a male voice had been laughable; she’d tried to talk like her uncle, an u
pper-class twit if ever there was one. I can't afford to sound like I’m acting.
She felt ... oddly exposed the minute they walked out the door. The streets were no longer empty; hundreds of men and women were milling about, drinking toasts and cheering the gallant soldiers who’d returned from the war. Irene had told her, earlier, that the king had addressed the crowds personally, telling them that the first and greatest battle had already been won. But the war itself was far from over. The French had been knocked back, yet they hadn't been knocked out.
It seemed impossible to believe that the crowds surrounding her couldn't see through her clothing, couldn’t pick out her femininity ... and yet, no one seemed to notice. Irene led the way through the streets, buying a newspaper from one of the running newsboys as she passed before picking up a bag of apples from one of the stores. Raechel started to relax into her clothing, concentrating on putting forward the right image even as she studied the men as they walked up and down the streets.
“They don’t seem to be paying any attention to us,” she murmured, as they turned down a side street. She wrinkled her nose at the foul smell that suddenly surrounded them. “Why not?”
“Why should they?” Irene asked. “You’re a man, as far as they’re concerned.”
She was right, Raechel realised. The next street held dozens of women, wearing dresses that left absolutely nothing to the imagination and calling out to passers-by. Raechel felt herself blush at some of their cruder suggestions, even though she doubted they were physically possible. How could anyone do that for a living? She tried to imagine what it must be like to work as a prostitute and shuddered. It had to be a horrific life.
A young woman, only a year or two older than Raechel herself, jumped in front of her. “Wet your whistle for you, governor? And then dip your wick?”
Raechel couldn't help herself. She recoiled in shock. The woman’s dress was torn, revealing the tops of her breasts; her face was covered in so much paint that it looked profoundly unnatural. She swayed forward, her lips clearly ready for a kiss ...
“No, thank you,” Raechel managed. She barely remembered to deepen her voice before it was too late. “I have a wife.”
“Ah, your wife won’t know,” the woman said. Her lips gaped open. Raechel couldn't help noticing that some of her teeth were missing. “And I do things no wife would do.”
Raechel forced herself to walk around the woman and onwards, to where Irene was waiting patiently. The whore called something rude after Raechel - she was grateful she didn't know what the words meant - but didn't make any attempt to follow her. Irene gave her a sidelong look when Raechel caught up with her, then led her onwards. Raechel didn't dare turn to look behind her. She was sure the entire crowd was staring at her.
“You handled that well,” Irene said, once they were safely out of earshot. “There was no way you could let her take you into an alley, of course.”
“Of course not,” Raechel agreed, casting a sidelong glance into one of the alleyways. There were dark shapes there, half-hidden in the darkness. “She would have done it in there?”
“She’ll be an expert,” Irene said, flatly. “A young man your age? It wouldn't take her long to satisfy him with her mouth. Or if he’d wanted something more, her pimp would have been happy to escort the happy couple into a room.”
Raechel swallowed hard to keep from throwing up. Her mouth?
Irene shot her a concerned look, then led her through a handful of streets and back to Pall Mall. A line of policemen were walking past, keeping a sharp eye on the revellers as they started to dance and sing. Raechel held herself steady as one of the policemen gave her a sharp look, then walked on without saying a word. Had he seen through the disguise? Or had he merely thought she didn't look wealthy enough to be on the street? She had no way to tell.
“You didn't do badly,” she said, as they stepped into the house and closed the door. “That whore could have broken your guise, but you handled her well.”
Raechel swallowed, again. “How can anyone live like that?”
“They rarely have a choice,” Irene said, flatly. She turned to look at Raechel, who cringed back under her stare. “That woman was probably born into a poor family, too poor to afford a dowry to attract a good husband. They might have sold her to a pimp or married her off to someone who expected her to turn tricks for him on the streets. Whatever she earns, she’ll give to the pimp or he’ll beat her. And, when she’s too old to attract customers, she’ll be left to die on the streets or sold to one of the darker brothels. No one will care if she dies there, as long as the customers are satisfied.”
“But there are charities,” Raechel protested. “Aren’t there? My aunt is proud of her good works ...”
Irene lifted her eyebrows. “How pleased were you when your aunt judged you?”
“I wasn't,” Raechel said. “But whores ...”
“People like your aunt expect everyone to behave in a certain manner,” Irene said. There was a hint of anger in her tone, although it didn't seem to be aimed at Raechel. “Young girls are expected to be seen and not heard, to marry decent men and bring up decent children. Those who trespass against those unspoken rules are treated as though they deserve everything they get, even though they may have had no choice. I imagine your aunt makes it clear to those she helps that they are fallen women, that they are forever tainted, that they deserve nothing from her. And I have no doubt she expects them to fall to their knees in gratitude in front of her.”
Raechel could believe it. Her aunt had been given to maddening lectures, particularly when some young girl had done something - anything - that had made eyebrows rise in cool disapproval. She knew plenty of girls who had been married off quickly - too quickly - and others who had been sent to the country, where they were effectively isolated from polite society. And they’d been aristocrats.
“The charities do very little effective to help,” Irene added. “They simply don’t understand the problems facing someone - anyone - born into such conditions. How can they? It is completely alien to their experience.”
She shook her head. “Get into your poor-woman’s dress,” she added. “We’re going out again.”
Raechel stared. “Can’t we ...?”
“No, we can't,” Irene said, cutting her off. “Get your dress on. I need to have a word or two with Ivan.”
There was no point in arguing, Raechel realised. Gritting her teeth, she walked back into the dressing room, dropped the male outfit on the floor and pulled the poor woman’s dress over her head. It wasn't bad, really; it made her look like a shopkeeper’s daughter. She gathered herself, trying to imagine how such a girl would think. Irene definitely had an major advantage, she had to admit. She didn't have to guess how someone thought about their life.
She would be poor but honest, Raechel thought. Her mother would work too, just to keep the shop running; Raechel the Shop Girl would have inherited that attitude, even as she hoped for a decent match. Her mother had hammered numbers into her head until she was a better accountant than her father or brother. She might smile shyly at the boys, but she’d never dream of disgracing her family by going further. And she wouldn't be a fainting flower from the aristocracy. She wouldn't even see an aristocrat.
“Very good,” Irene said, stepping into the room. “You look just about right.”
Raechel frowned. “Just about?”
“Let your hair down,” Irene said. “Really, a wig would be far more practical.”
“I would prefer to keep my hair long,” Raechel said, stiffly. She understood Irene’s point, but she rather liked her red locks. “And besides, what happens if someone pulls on it?”
“That’s why you secure it in place,” Irene said. She undressed rapidly, then donned her own dress. “Have you defined yourself?”
“Raechel the Shop Girl,” Raechel said, and ran through a brief description as she let her hair down. “Good enough?”
“Good en
ough,” Irene said. She checked her appearance in the mirror, then inspected Raechel minutely. “Let’s go.”
“We could practice with pistols, instead,” Raechel said. “Or you could show me some more tricks with the knife ...”
“You’ll have plenty of time for both onboard ship,” Irene said. “You do remember we’re going to America, right?”
Raechel shuddered. She’d never been on a ship, but she’d heard stories. “We can't take an airship? We took an airship to Russia.”
“That was over land,” Irene pointed out, tartly. She led the way out of the room. “Travelling to America would be over the cold grey Atlantic Ocean. An accident would dump us in the water and we’d drown.”
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