A Woman Made For Sin

by Michele Sinclair

  Millie took a nervous step toward the table and told herself to calm down. It was not as if she had never eaten in a kitchen. She had snuck down as a child and asked to eat there many times, thinking it must be special as she was not supposed to do so. Just earlier that year, Chase had returned to England and found her scavenging for something to eat in the middle of the night. At home, the kitchen was one of the few servant places where she actually felt welcome. But this was not home, and she was definitely not feeling welcome.

  One portly man, who looked to be not much taller than she, was standing by the stove, looking hot, sweaty, and very uncomfortable. The rest of the party was scattered around the table and, like the cook, they were intentionally ignoring her.

  Determined to start the day on a positive note, Millie donned her most winning smile and straightened her shoulders. “Good morning, everyone. I’m usually not very hungry in the mornings, but I must say that today I am ravenous and really looking forward to whatever delicious food that is being prepared.”

  The man at the stove swung around and looked at her, his wide hazel eyes moving up and down. With a snort, he thrust the large spoon that was in his hand toward her and said, “Ye think I am tae cook for ye?”

  Millie stopped in midstride. She opened and closed her mouth, somewhat stunned. In her experience, flattery was the fastest way to gain the support of a cook. “I . . . I . . . assumed . . . I . . .” Then after a pause, finally blurted out, “Are you not the cook?” wishing she could remember his name.

  The man let go another loud snort and turned his back to her. Plunging the spoon into the large pan, he vigorously stirred the contents. “I was till about an hour ago. Now I’m the man who is about tae leave an’ go cook for others. Then I’ll be the man who will come home and cook again for them who show up on time.”

  Millie glanced at Stuart, who immediately looked away and hunched farther over his food. Like most of the other plates around the square table, Stuart’s was almost empty. “I . . . I didn’t know,” she said in an apologetic tone.

  Millie had stayed up late into the night, and had thought she had risen early. At home, people would have thought it a miracle for her to be moving, let alone dressed, at this hour. She quite firmly believed morning was best suited for sleeping. However, Millie was determined to appear to all as part of England’s hardworking class and was prepared to lose many habits and adopt new ones. She just wished getting up at dawn was not one of them.

  Spying some bread on the table, Millie sighed and slid into one of the empty spots on the bench beside Stuart. “I understand,” she said. “This bread will be just fine.”

  She then counted heads; including herself, there were seven in the room. Millie smiled inwardly. Evette had said nine were living in the house, ten if they included Millie. And as Evette was not there, nor Sasha, that left one person who was even later to breakfast than she.

  “Good morning, Bernard,” Millie offered the familiar face.

  The driver paused to look up at her, his dark eyes assessing her before stabbing a piece of sausage with his fork and popping it into his mouth. Well, at least he looked at me, Millie said to herself. Pulling off a piece of the loaf, she took a bite and tried to remember what Evette had said on their way into Town about the personalities of those who lived with Madame Sasha.

  Bernard was the age of most grandfathers, and though a fairly handsome man, he had never been married. He rarely spoke to anyone he was so shy, but somehow he could converse with Sasha, which resulted in a special arrangement. He still had to contribute money for food and drink, but his room was free. All it cost him was intermittent access to his carriage—the one thing he had of value. He drove it as a hack around Town for hire and had to rent a team to pull it so he did not have to worry about the cost or burden of stabling horses.

  “There ye go, lad. Take this tae ye papa afore it gets cold,” the cook said to Stuart, sliding a heaping plate of meat and potatoes on the table.

  “All right,” Stuart groaned.

  Millie closed her eyes and stifled a sigh. Stuart’s father was the one who was missing from the table, and unlike her, he was not late. He just wasn’t coming to the kitchens to eat. She wished Stuart had said the cook’s name, for she could not think of it. Strange, as Millie could remember quite a bit of what Evette told her about him—most of which Millie found hard to believe seeing the food the man had just prepared.

  Supposedly he had been a chef at Palais-Royal in Paris and Grimod himself had praised his ability. The only reason Millie even recognized the name was that Jennelle had read about him and his achievements. Grimod had deformed hands and had learned how to write and dine using metal prostheses, eventually becoming well-known for his theater reviews and then as a restaurant critic.

  Seeing the ill-prepared dish in front of Stuart, Millie suspected the man had spent most of his life in Scotland, never having set foot in France. But then neither had she, so if the small claim was his way of being important among these people, who was she to take it from him. Millie was just glad someone in the house was willing to cook for the rest of the group living there.

  A scrape caught Millie’s attention. Beside Bernard, a tall, very thin young man rose to his feet and was immediately followed by his twin sister. “Thank you, Henry,” they said as they placed their plates on a small table for washing. Henry! Millie repeated the name to herself several times, hoping next time she would remember it.

  “So, who do ye have today, Paulie?” Henry asked as he piled up another plate of food.

  “Van Rangels,” Paulie replied as he began to button up the worn jacket that also served as a coat.

  “Och,” Henry replied with a shake of his head. Then he put down a heaping plate of food and a full mug where Paulie had been sitting. Just before he sat down, he said, “Ye take care, and Susie, do nae mind her highness any.”

  Susie smiled and waved as she disappeared out the door after her brother.

  As soon as they were out of earshot, Henry said gruffly, “The Van Rangels pay weel but nae weel enough tae put up with their insults. It’s loondry!” Then, looking right at Millie, he pointed his finger and growled, “They should know that when they have a fight and throw their bottles of wine, things weel get stained. No’ them. They think Susie should be able tae work a miracle just because they deem it so.”

  Millie swallowed, wondering if she were the only one to realize how sweet Henry was on Susie. Then she mentally chided herself. If it was so obvious to her after only a few minutes, it had to be apparent to all.

  A very tired young man sitting across from her yawned. “Henry, just be glad their other house is nicer.”

  Henry snorted. “With nine wee ones, Tommy?” he asked and then pushed another overloaded spoonful into his mouth.

  “At least it’s more reliable income than being an entertainer at Vauxhall,” Tommy groused. “I made only a sixpence last night and had to spend nearly half of it getting back here.”

  Henry took another bite of his food. “Can’t imagine all the washing, nursing, cooking, cleaning . . . they get paid tae little for that amount of work,” he said between chews, still focused on Susie and her plight. Then, without any warning or cause, Henry looked again at Millie and said, “I suspect ye can’t imagine it either.”

  Millie was not sure why she’d earned the man’s hostility and was unsure how to react. Stuart, probably acting out of guilt for not telling her about when breakfast was, came to her defense. “Insult the Toffkens all you like, ’enry, but Ellie ’ere won’t deserve ’em after today.”

  Henry’s eyes popped open at the rebuke for Stuart usually joined in when anyone disparaged the upper class. Yet the lad had just defended the presumptuous interloper. Henry’s mouth stopped chewing and he stared openly at Millie, trying to decide how to respond. But before he could, the kitchen door opened and Evette entered. “Stuart, your father is asking for you.”

  Stuart rolled his eyes but swung his leg over the ben
ch and grabbed the plate that Henry had fixed. Evette then looked at Millie, the bread in her hand, and the vacant spot where her plate should have been. “Henry, you’re going to send . . . Ellie off to Clive’s with nothing but bread to eat?”

  Henry swallowed and avoided all contact by reaching out for his mug. “Didn’t ken she was working for Clive,” he muttered after downing a swig.

  Evette came up beside him and gave him a soft peck on the cheek. “Cook her some eggs, Henry, while Stuart takes care of his father and the pan is still hot.”

  Henry set the mug back down on the table with a thump. “If the lass is touched enough tae work for Clive, I suppose I’m touched enough tae feed her despite how she’s dressed.”

  Millie fought the inclination to ask just what he meant. She was in her plainest, most modest day dress. Made of dark gold cambric, it was long-sleeved and high-necked, covering her throat and wrists. It had no elaborate trim and was practically devoid of decoration. Even her deep purple pelisse lacked the usual fastenings and braided hem. In her circles, many would have thought her a servant, dressed so plainly.

  She was still puzzling over her dress when minutes later, Henry plopped a pewter plate holding two burned, barely edible eggs and a thick slice of beef down in front of her. Millie gave him one of her best smiles, and after saying some words of appreciation, she took a mouthful. Henry huffed something unintelligible and sat down to finish his own plate. It took a concerted effort to chew and swallow the badly cooked eggs, but Millie forced herself to finish every bite. From the remnants of what she had seen on the other plates, all of the eggs Henry had prepared had been burned, not just hers.

  Millie glanced over at Evette, who had stayed to make sure Henry did not change his mind. Trying to use the same sweet tone Evette had used, Millie tried to start a conversation. “I once knew a cook who told me the secret to good eggs is that after you flip them, you turn off the heat. This way they don’t become tough.”

  Bernard began to cough into his hand and stood up, mumbling, “Should have already left. See you this evening, Henry, Evette.”

  Tommy immediately followed. “Thanks, Henry, Evette. Tell Stuart I’ll catch up with him later.” He tittered, barely swallowing the last of his food as he practically sprinted out the door.

  Millie forced herself to take another bite as she wondered about the strange exit. Neither Bernard nor Tommy had said good-bye to her. Millie wondered if it was just an oversight or if they had felt uncomfortable around her, as she was still essentially a stranger. Turning to Evette, she shrugged and said, “I guess they are in a hurry.”

  Evette blinked. Did Millie really not understand what had just happened?

  Henry, on the other hand, shook his head and muttered, “Sending this ninnyhammer tae work in a drinking den is like leading lambs to the slaughterhouse.”

  Before Millie could defend herself, Stuart returned to the kitchen and slammed his father’s half-empty plate down on the working table, spilling some of the contents. Glaring at Millie, he said, “You ready?”

  Seeing Stuart’s frustration, Millie knew it had to be due to his father, but also realized that with little provocation, she could become the recipient of his anger. With a quick nod, she grabbed her pelisse off the bench beside her and said, “Have a good day, Evette, Henry,” and then quickly ran to follow Stuart, who was already heading out the front door.

  They walked one block to a very busy street, but before continuing, Stuart stopped and pointed back to Sasha’s front door. “Know where youse are?” he asked, not surprised when Millie shook her head. “That,” he began as he pointed one way, “is Rosemary Lane. Leads to where the Cits live. This,” he said, pointing in the opposite direction, “is Cable Street, an’ it’s where you’ll be goin’. It’s busy, so watch yer step, but there’ll be people about ter witness anythin’, so youse should be safe enough. Once we’re past Wellclose Square, look for Ollmanders. That’s Pell Street. Clive’s is at the end of Pell where it runs into Ratcliffe.”

  Without warning, Stuart started walking again, and not for the first time in her life, Millie cursed her short legs and sprinted to catch up. “Why would I need witnesses?”

  Stuart stopped and crossed his arms. He was younger than she by several years, but the look he gave her made Millie feel like she was the youth and he the adult. “Not all blokes down ’ere are bad, but enough are. Youse gotta know that. So at night, down backstreets like Pell, just wait for the linkmen to light the alley up, is all.”

  Stuart resumed his pace, but this time Millie was prepared and managed to walk beside him. She had no idea what had happened back at the house to put Stuart in such a foul mood, but she knew from Evette that his father was an invalid and depended heavily on his son. From the few times they had met before, Millie knew the young man to be smart, impudent, and willing to exploit a person’s weakness to take their money. However, she was also beginning to suspect there was far more to the boy than a sassy mouth and a constant eye for easy money.

  “I saw the book you had last night. The one by Adam Smith.”

  Stuart said nothing and continued down the street, leaving Millie to try to keep up while avoiding people on the uneven sidewalk. “I . . . I can help you while I am staying with Madame Sasha. That is, if you are willing. I can help teach you to speak and act properly. You could then get work as an assistant, or in a shop—somewhere that would provide a good income.”

  “Givin’ me a noose an’ callin’ it help,” Stuart scoffed. “I’ve seen how gentry helps blokes like me. Youse make us servants an’ then think ter own our lives day an’ night. No, thanks. I don’t wanna be ruled like that.”

  “That is simply not true, Stuart. My husband and I have the highest respect for those in our employ. Elda Mae—you met her—she is more like a mother to me than my lady’s maid.”

  Stuart shrugged. He had met Elda Mae on occasion and had heard the old woman speak in an honest manner that would have resulted in her dismissal in most houses. Then again, Millie had proved only this morning that she was clueless how she oftentimes demeaned those around her. If anyone needed to be educated, it was Millie, not him.

  “I’m not saying work in a house, or for a family,” Millie pressed. “I’m only suggesting that with improved speech and an education, you could get employment that would allow you and your father to have a better life.”

  Stuart glared at Millie and increased the length of his strides. “That book was me father’s, not mine. Neither one of us asked for your help an’ that’s cuz we don’t want it. We have a home. We aren’t starvin’. Just because the left side of his body don’t work, don’t mean my father can’t be the one to teach me.”

  Stuart’s anger was practically tangible, and despite his words and hostile stare, Millie could see that some piece of him longed for what she had offered. She would not push the matter right now, but neither would she give up trying to find a way to help the lanky youth.

  They continued on in silence as the shops along the street took on a maritime flavor. At least one out of every four shops was stocked with gear either for a ship or for those who worked on them. The clothing stores were far different from those on Piccadilly. Here the attire was made to last and withstand harsh climates. Bright red and blue flannel shirts filled the windows, along with canvas trousers, pilot coats, large fur caps, and an occasional brass-buttoned jacket for naval officers.

  Soon they reached the store Ollmanders, whose name and a picture of a sail hung on a large sign outside their door. Instead of selling clothes or cases of tinned meat and biscuits, ropes and lines smelling of tar were stacked by the door and in the windows. Stuart pivoted right and headed down Pell Street, which was far narrower and less crowded. Suddenly, Millie fully understood what Stuart had meant about the safety of the crowd. The smells of the docks were becoming stronger, and she could see masts in the distance through the clouds of black smoke streaming from the tall chimneys.

  Stuart came to an abrupt stop.
Millie looked up and saw a faded sign with the words “Six Belles” painted on it. She peered inside and could see chairs on the floor, mugs everywhere, and a floor that would quickly make her dress hem look like she had taken a long walk through the mud. Millie licked her lips and wondered again about the wisdom of her plan. “Stuart, what should I do? What should I say? I must get this position . . . I . . . must.”

  Stuart inhaled and was about to say something very curt, but stopped himself. He had expected that as soon as they got here, Millie would demand to go back. But she was making no such requests, and yet he could tell she was truly scared. The woman must be in real trouble, though he could not imagine what could make a noblewoman run away from her rich man and work in a tavern. But then again, he never did understand the upper classes. She was just proof that all of them were a bit mad and such people should be avoided, not pitied.

  “Listen, I likes youse and your friends. None of youse are ’igh and uppity like a lot of the gents I come across. But this ain’t ever gonna work. Whatever your problems are an’ whatever reason you gave Madame Sasha to convince ’er to let youse live with us, you gotta go back and tell ’er youse changed your mind. With what you’re wearin’, youse won’t even get to speak before Clive is gonna know who youse are. And nobody crosses Clive. If ’e thinks that youse are lyin’ to ’im, no tellin’ what ’e is gonna do. You’ll be lucky if ’e only throws you out.”

  Millie tensed her jaw. Stuart’s speech was exactly what she needed. Unlike its intended objective, Millie felt her resolve to see her plan through gain strength. Stuart expected her to fail. Most likely, everyone in the house did. Little did they know that nothing ever quite motivated her like someone believing her incapable of achieving a goal she had set her sights on.