But now, reconditioning myself to notice my surroundings, something felt wrong. Through our small kitchen window, I noticed the silhouette of a man. Explanations have a funny way of arriving at once and being quarrelsome houseguests.
A man in Anna’s room? Terror seized me. What if it were a burglar or a brigand? Greater terror still if that gentleman caller, Jacob Rigby, had grown so bold!
I bounded up the steps, flung open the door, and burst down the dark hallway. I was practically thrusting my key into the lock when I discovered the door stood ajar. I pushed it open, ready to fight someone or yell or both.
In the kitchen sat Mrs. Crow, the old widow who lived across the hall, knitting a tangled mess of a scarf with shaky hands. Anna sat rigidly next to her, a shawl loosely draped over the nightgown I had left her in that morning.
“Luella,” Mrs. Crow said. “Not to worry, I’ve been here making sure there’s no funny business going about.”
Before I could press her further, I noticed our landlord, Charles Stringham, sipping a cup of a tea from our mother’s china. Tenants are never happy to see their landlord, but I will confess this was less dreadful than discovering my baby sister in the depths of passion or being stabbed to death. Then again, by the feel of the room, a stabbing might be forthcoming.
Charles Stringham was a remarkably ordinary looking man. At forty-five, he was near Byron’s age, with an ever-growing friar bald patch and a receding hairline, but otherwise had nothing to recommend himself as special. He was not quite striking, nor quite ugly. He was not assertive and confident, nor shy and reclusive. He was just the type of man that made you feel like everything he said could have been said slightly faster, so you hadn’t wasted quite as much time.
“Luella,” Mr. Stringham said, performing a little half-stand and bow. “Always a pleasure.”
“Mr. Stringham, to what do we owe this surprise evening visit?” I asked, setting my things on the counter. Anna’s face was quite pale. “I have to insist you speak quickly, sir. My sister is unwell.”
“She’s white as a ghost!” said Mrs. Crow, dramatically. “And here she is, making tea for her landlord, who already sucks her dry! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Stringham.”
Mr. Stringham stumbled over himself, dribbling tea down the front of his waistcoat. “Why I—I never meant to. Forgive the intrusion. I just—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Crow, but I’m sure Mr. Stringham meant no harm. Though, sir, there’s a look about you that makes me uneasy.”
“I’m here on business,” he said, clearing his throat.
“You’re only ever here on business. Years as a landlord, not once a social call,” Mrs. Crow continued. She needed no invitation, or special occasion for that matter, to verbally eviscerate landlords and everything they stood for.
“Why not take Anna back to her room, Mrs. Crow. I can entertain Mr. Stringham here,” I said. She reluctantly nodded her head and ushered Anna through the kitchen door, ensuring to throw one last evil eye at our landlord for good measure.
“I’m right in here if he gets any funny ideas,” she croaked.
“Thank you, Mrs. Crow!” I shouted. Funny ideas please, he was so much older than I. Then again, I supposed so was my fiancé.
“Poor Mrs. Crow. I think she is starting to go fuzzy at the edges,” he said.
“Now, now. Be nice. Why not tell me why you’re here?” I eased into a chair and poured myself a well-needed cup of tea. The kettle was still warm, thankfully. A business conversation with a landlord could not be pleasant news. Has history ever surrendered an account of a landlord swinging by a tenant for naught but good news? The only example I could conjure up was Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge, and it took three ghosts to change his mind. The way Mr. Stringham was massaging his temples suggested no break in this rich tradition.
“I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he said. Surprise. “In fact, if there were any other way about it, I wouldn’t be here. Well, here it is. I have to increase the leasehold fees.”
This was worse than I had expected. “An increase? How much of an increase?” Talking about it was clearly making him uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair and avoided eye contact.
“Another twenty shillings.”
“Twenty shillings!” I sputtered. “That’s nearly double.”
“It’s my mother, I’m afraid,” he began. “She’s taken ill and has to move to the countryside. I’m her only son. I need to support her. I don’t want to do it.”
“We’ve been tenants for many years. If you could give us a few months to see if we could scrape it all together.”
“I can’t allow it. It’s all happened suddenly for me as well, and now for you as well, I know. But life isn’t all easy and pudding, is it? Her expenses are already rolling in.”
“Another twenty shillings might put us on the streets,” I said, leveling my eyes at him.
“I would hate to turn you out. Is there anyone that might be able to help you?” he asked.
His question immediately conjured up my betrothed. Byron would bend over backwards to help if I would let him. How could I, though? After all the risk he was already undertaking on my behalf. My failed stories. His poor reviews. He was already living out of his print shop. Could I live, in good conscience, watching him skip meals so that I could pay rent for my sister and me?
“Could you give me at least a week to sort myself out? Then I could give you a clearer answer.” The truth was, I could hardly think about the raise in rent. I was still too excited about Lieutenant Thomas. Besides, who knows what minds would be like in a week’s time? Maybe Mr. Stringham would feel too guilty to go through with it.
“I think I can manage that,” he said, picking up his jacket. “But no more than a week. I’m sorry it has to be this way.”
“Not as sorry as I am,” I said. “I would see you out, but I think you know the way. This is your property, after all.” It was a dart, and I saw that it hit its mark. He left without another word.
As soon as the door latched, Mrs. Crow came tiptoeing into the kitchen.
“What did he want, dear?” she asked.
“He’s raising the rent.”
“Typical. Just typical! How can he dare do such a thing?”
“Something about his mother needing a holiday.”
“You hear it all the time. Male landholder this. Male landholder that. You show me a man with a bit of property, and I’ll show you a man with half a soul.”
I envied Mrs. Crow. I don’t know what age magically loosens the tongue, but I personally can’t wait to arrive there. Truthfully, I was furious with Mr. Stringham. Sure, he had every right to increase the rent. In fact, I suspected that he raised rent for other tenants without disturbing our rate in the past, but he surely must have known such an egregious increase would put us out. Where else were we supposed to go? I didn’t believe Anna capable of developing the callous attitude needed to live in the slums. Two young women living in the cheapest, most neglected area of the city? Could there be any salvation from such a station?
I thanked Mrs. Crow, and after several vows that all men would meet their end one day (prophecies I assured her were bound to come true), she left us alone with our troubles. I gathered my things and made my way to my sister’s room. Her complexion was improving. By morning, I suspected she’d be feeling much better. I hoped I’d feel better too—relieved of the guilt I carried for disbelieving her earlier. Younger siblings never grow up, do they? I suspected that, even when she reached sixty years, I would still consider her a child.
“Is everyone gone then?” she asked, sitting up in bed.
“They are. I’m assuming you listened at the door?”
“As much as I was able. Mrs. Crow was thoroughly forcing me to bed, though. She had me busy washing for the third time to distract me while she listened at the door herself!”
“I think Mr. Stringham is serious about this,” I said. “The timing is just awful.”
�
�Luella, what will we do? I’ll be ruined if we have to find cheaper lodgings. It’s hard enough getting Jacob’s family’s approval as it is. If they hear we’ve been put out on the street—”
“I’ll come up with something,” I replied.
“Will I have to find a position? I don’t think the future Mrs. Rigby could be a factory girl, but perhaps I could find a job at a more respectable profession. A governess, perhaps. You were a governess once. Do you think I could do it?”
I tried to imagine Anna juggling children’s schedules and teaching them their lessons. Even if she could find a position, she wouldn’t last a week.
“Let’s not panic just yet. Aren’t you expecting a proposal sometime soon?”
“Of course, you’re right,” she said with a practiced exhale. “It’s just a matter of time before Jacob proposes. And besides, you have an engagement already. Why not just marry Byron now? I’m sure he would be willing.”
I stared at the blanket. Why not just marry Byron? Moving into the print shop would be better than moving to the poor house, and I was certain he’d have open arms for Anna until she was wed. So why not just marry Byron?
“How is it so warm in here?”
“Mrs. Crow wouldn’t rest until it was a tropical jungle. She said it was better for my health.”
“You couldn’t just bundle up?” I teased.
“Do you want me to catch ill?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Me? Dramatic? You’re the one avoiding my question. Why not marry Byron? He’s a good man, and he obviously cares about you. Sure, you may not be truly wealthy, but he’ll be sure you’re never in need, at least.”
My sister was never afraid to force my back against a wall. Why not just marry Byron? What elusive grandeur did I maintain of a life more noble and rich, full of passion? Admittedly, sometimes I dreamed of living in a world more saturated with color than the gray of the city or the average busywork of the day to day. Could Byron ever remind me of more than words and articles desperate to be read, loved, and hated by the masses?
Was it wrong of me to hold out for a life that felt like more than a stepping stone?
My mother would have scolded me for these feelings. I could almost hear her voice now. A respectable, domestic life should be the dream of every little girl. That’s what she would say. She would have sided with Anna in a moment. Byron was a sensible match, and I wasn’t getting any younger. But, I always had been a daddy’s girl. How many times I had run into his arms as she hollered after me?
“In any respect, I don’t believe that you or I should go about marrying anybody just to solve an immediate financial strait,” I said, tucking her in.
“I’ll find work,” she said, without hearing me. “I can work as a secretary. Henrietta Grieg got a position just last week as a secretary for a banker downtown.”
“You’re doing nothing until you feel better,” I replied. “And besides, you wouldn’t want anything to cut into your time with Jacob. You and I can both sense that he’s close to finding his courage. It may be a moot point, anyway. I think I have a story that could set us on the right foot.”
“Something better than the history of drapes?” Her question was sincere, but I couldn’t help but feel a little defensive.
“It was just a bad title,” I protested. “If someone had taken the time to read it—”
My sister yawned. She was tired and ill. I was wrong to worry her like this. Our threatened eviction could have waited until morning. I could only hope the infatuation of young love could dampen the impact of bad news. I hear it always has. I imagine it always will.
“Just promise me,” she said, nestling into her blankets, “you’ll let me know before we’re evicted from our home. In the meantime, I’ll turn up the charm with Jacob. See if I can convince him to… buy the cow, if you catch my meaning.”
“Anna!” I gasped. She giggled and feigned shock. I grabbed her parcel and hit her with it. “Maybe you don’t deserve this after all.”
“Deserve what? Anna! Luella, what is this? Is it for me?”
“Just something I noticed you staring at during one of our recent walks.”
She ripped into the package and squealed with delight. She went on embracing me and jumping up to try it on, laughing all the time. I admired her from the bed as she posed in the looking glass next to the dress Father gave her, feeling warm despite Mr. Stringham’s ultimatum. For tonight, at least, I had my family and the glow of hope that comes with a promising story.
Moments like this are to be treasured.
CHAPTER FOUR
Romancing the Editor
IT TOOK ME ages to fall asleep that night. I kept tossing and turning, perusing the sequence of events that Lieutenant Thomas had relayed to me. His story had all the wonderful tidbits that might keep a reader enthralled. I wanted to get to work writing it, turning my notes into something solid. I guess it’s hardly any surprise that, when I did fall asleep, the lieutenant’s story lived out in my dreams.
I stood on a walk next to a grimy street in darkness, just as he had described it. I could faintly see the woman dressed in working clothes, as he had mentioned, across from me, walking at a reckless pace over the cobblestones. Behind her, an imposing man in a black coat quickened his stride and followed behind her. Even in the dream, a ghastly sense of unease settled over me, and I could not help but try to intervene.
Before I could cross the street to warn her about the man, she turned down an alleyway. He disappeared around the corner right behind her. Then, in a flash, as is often the case in dreams, I wasn’t in the street—I was in the dark alleyway. I looked for the woman, but I only saw the dim outline of crates and barrels—she was nowhere to be found. I looked down at myself and was surprised to find the woman’s clothes adorning my own body. I felt more afraid, younger, more petite.
I turned around and saw the man with the dark coat coming directly toward me. My instinct was to turn and run, but my feet were glued to the spot. Fear held my lungs in a vice grip. Perspiration formed at the base of my skull in a hot wave. I willed myself to move, flee, cry for help, attack, anything, when I saw my assailant’s face. My breath caught in my throat. He looked just like my father.
I woke with a start next to my sister, heaving breaths in and out. I looked around the room, trying to shed off the lingering distrust a nightmare injects into its victims. I watched the dust particles gently float in early morning light. It had been years since I had experienced a nightmare. I felt so wonderfully childish, afraid of every shadow in the morning light, afraid to get out of bed and check for monsters.
Anna groaned and pulled over an ample share of the blankets. I was grateful for the wakeup call of cold air on my feet.
The story was going to be a hit. I could hardly wait to get to Langley’s and tell Byron.
As soon as the seven o’clock hour struck, I hurried to ready myself. Byron would be at the print shop by eight at the latest. I couldn’t help but put on one of his favorite dresses, a deep purple sort of thing that I always considered a bit gaudy, especially for daytime wear, but the weather was beginning its march into the cold and overcast mood typical of Dawnhurst during autumn, and for some reason, darker colors have always found favor with the cold.
Truthfully, I felt a little out of place when it came to choosing dresses and frilling myself up. If I could dress like Rebecca Turner at the police station every day, I think that would be more practical than all the hoops, bustles, and dramatic folds that preoccupied the minds of other women. Fashion was expensive. It was time consuming. And, worst of all, it was always changing. Still, I wasn’t someone to carry this argument to its bitter end. If I had news to share with Byron, and I wanted him to be excited about it, why not wrap it up in that purple dress he liked? Besides, my sister would be proud of me.
As I walked from my house to Langley’s, my mind had time to settle, as it often does with crisp morning exercise. I realized exactly how much was on my m
ind. I wrestled with a cocktail of emotions. How could Stringham be kicking us out? How could Langley’s Miscellany be selling so poorly? How could Brutus be so audacious toward my previous article? I felt nervous about my upcoming story pitch. There was no telling how Byron might react to such a radical departure from my usual work. Ever since I had faded from the excitement of my one success, he had become more and more conservative on the topics he let me write on.
All this anxiety mixed bitterly with the awkward emotions left over from my nightmare, in which I was convinced my father was about to attack me in a dark alley. My gentle, loving father—I had dreamed about him in the past but never as much as I wished. I could remember vividly the beautiful, albeit melancholy, feeling of waking up after dreams in which I was a little girl again and he spun me around or somehow found the funds to take me to the theater. To see such unbridled aggression in his eyes, like I did last night, left me feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.
Was my father angry with me somehow? I didn’t know if I believed in ghosts or spirits, but at times, I could almost swear that I felt him near. My nightmare might have been a manifestation that he was displeased with my current life, perhaps with what I’d done with his gift of literacy or with my choice of husband-to-be.
More uncomfortable still was the sudden realization that these thoughts inexplicably led me to a similar resting place: a strange sense of longing and the mental portrait of a policeman with steely grey eyes. I tried to shake my head. Girlish thoughts for girlish feelings.
“Is something the matter?” Byron asked, looking over his spectacles and this morning’s edition of the Times. He sat cross-legged at the table, as was his custom. I had hardly even noticed him pouring the tea in front of me, let alone remembered entering the shop.
The Crimson Inkwell Page 3
