by M C Beaton
“Of course,” he said quietly.
“But I am dressed as a man.”
“No clothes could make you look like a man, Miss Tonks,” he said, laughter lighting up his eyes. Mr. Davy was a slightly built middle-aged man whose thick brown hair was lightly dusted with grey. He could, in fact, pass unnoticed in any crowd, but to Miss Tonks he was the most handsome man in London.
He escorted her round the corner and up a dingy wooden staircase to a scarred door which he unlocked. “My quarters are a poor affair,” he said apologetically, “but actors are never famous for spending much money on living accommodations.”
Miss Tonks looked around. There was a living-room with some battered furniture. A door opened off it to reveal a bedroom with an unmade bed. Mr. Davy closed the bedroom door and then put the kettle on the fire. “We shall have a glass of the out-of-work actor’s drink,” he said cheerfully. “Gin and hot.”
Sitting gingerly on the very edge of an armchair as he put a blackened kettle on the glowing embers of the fire, Miss Tonks felt very gauche and shy.
“Now,” said Mr. Davy, sitting down opposite her, “you must tell me why you came in search of me in such a guise. I assume you did come in search of me?”
Miss Tonks nodded. “I could not see your name anywhere in the theatres and… and… I became worried… and… and… I could not go on my own dressed as a woman or tell anyone where I was going.” She shifted her thin bottom awkwardly. “How do you go on?”
“Tolerable well. But I fell foul of the theatre manager. I accused him of cheating at cards. A silly thing to do, for any actor should know by now to pay and keep quiet.”
Miss Tonks had been brought up to believe that a lady never discussed money. But life in the hotel business had changed all that. She gave a little cough and asked tentatively, “Are you in funds?”
He gave her a wry look from his brown eyes. “In a job where playing cards with the manager who cheats is part of the deal, it is not a very lucrative profession. I must shortly look around for some employ.”
“What will you do?”
“Perhaps be a porter in Covent Garden Market.”
“Oh, no! You are a gentleman.”
“I am not a gentleman, Miss Tonks, which means I can work at anything I please.”
He rose and poured two measures of gin from a squat bottle and then, seeing that the kettle was steaming, added hot water.
“Your health,” he said, raising his glass after handing her the other one. “No heeltaps!”
“No heeltaps,” echoed Miss Tonks, marvelling at how her dreary spinsterish life had changed so much that she should be sitting in an actor’s flat in Covent Garden drinking hot gin with him.
“It is not very pleasant being poor,” she said. “I do not know what I would have done had not Lady Fortescue and Colonel Sandhurst rescued me. I was walking by the Serpentine feeling wretched and hungry and I did not even have the courage to throw myself in.” Her voice became dreamy. “Such a mad idea, that a few poor relations should band together for survival. And then Sir Philip’s idea about starting the hotel.” Her eyes suddenly glowed. “Why, you could join us. I am sure Colonel Sandhurst would be pleased.”
He shook his head. “You forget I was brought to the hotel initially to wean Sir Philip away from that horrible woman he was threatening to marry. It would not answer.”
But once she had grasped hold of the wonderful thought that there might be a way to keep this man where she could see him every day, Miss Tonks was not going to change her mind.
“Come with me now,” she urged. “We could approach Colonel Sandhurst first, and Lady Fortescue. If they say yes, and I most certainly do, then Sir Philip cannot have any say in the matter.”
“But what could I do?” he demanded, half exasperated.
Her brain activated by the unaccustomed gin, Miss Tonks beamed. “You could be our debt collector. Sir Philip often does it, but he does not like it and the colonel hates asking people for money. It is not only the guests who sometimes slip off without paying, but the guests who come for dinner of an evening or even visitors to the coffee room. They often say they have left their money at home and we take them on trust because one does that in our trade,” added Miss Tonks earnestly.
“I could do that,” he said slowly. “My profession has given me a very thick hide. I enjoyed my stay at the Poor Relation.”
“Come this evening after dinner,” urged Miss Tonks.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why not? Worth a try. Have some more gin.” And Miss Tonks smiled at him dreamily and held out her glass.
***
Frederica was in the room she shared with Miss Tonks changing into a clean gown. She had enjoyed her lessons in the kitchen and had been allowed to help with the dinner preparations. The satisfaction of actually doing some work had temporarily put the handsome face of that captain to the back of her mind. And yet he was still there, which was why she changed into one of the nicest of her few gowns. There was always the hope, not quite admitted to herself, that when she left the apartment to walk to the hotel next door, he might be there, on the street, just passing.
She gave a final pat to her hair and left the room just in time to see a shadowy figure dart for cover round the L of the corridor. “Who’s there?” she called.
There was no reply. The apartment house was silent. Muffled traffic sounds filtered up from Bond Street: the grating of brewers’ sledges, the rumbling of coaches, the sounds of horses’ hooves.
“Who’s there?” she called again, sharply this time.
Again no reply, but Frederica sensed someone was there waiting. The staircase was temptingly between her and the end of the corridor and she scampered down it. But she stopped at the bottom. The work she had done in the kitchens had given her a feeling of bravery, of independence. She felt it was her duty to see if she could find out who it was at the top of the stairs.
She crept quietly back up, her thin, flat-heeled leather shoes making no sound.
She heard a furtive grating of a key being turned in a lock. She remembered she had locked the room door behind her. She gained the top of the stairs and peered round. Miss Tonks, dressed in a suit of men’s clothes, had just unlocked the door of the room she shared with Frederica and was slipping quietly inside.
Frederica sat down suddenly on the top step, her heart hammering. How odd! Who was Miss Tonks, really? Who was this genteel lady who could prime a pistol and who wandered the daylight streets of London disguised as a man? She wanted to talk to someone about it but was afraid to do so. What if these hoteliers were involved in black deeds? It was all very strange. Life had become strange. Although she had scanned the newspapers, there was no news of her disappearance and she had been sure her father would have alerted the Runners to find her and bring her home.
She got up, noticing that her knees trembled a little and that she was not nearly as brave as she thought she had become, and went back downstairs and out into the busy street. She was so upset about the strange behaviour of Miss Tonks that she did not notice the handsome captain on the other side of the street who stopped short at the sight of her. Captain Peter Manners tried to cross the street quickly but traffic was flowing briskly in both directions. He dived round a chaise and got roundly cursed by the driver. But when he reached the Poor Relation Hotel, there was no sign of her.
He walked thoughtfully towards Limmer’s. There was no reason why he himself could not stay at the Poor Relation. He had plenty of money. He did not stop to think of his engagement. He only felt relieved that he had decided on a course of action—that, if he got to know this pretty girl, he would find she was a common servant, nothing out of the ordinary, and so get the wretched female out of his head for once and for all.
***
Miss Tonks had not found the courage to tell the others about Mr. Davy. After the dinner was over and she knew they would gather in the sitting-room at the top of the hotel and that Mr. Davy would join them there, she beg
an to feel increasingly nervous, almost beginning to hear Sir Philip’s gibes ringing in her ears.
But fear kept her quiet. She took her customary chair in the sitting-room, looking nervously at the door and starting at every sound. Frederica was sewing quietly in a corner. So nervous was Miss Tonks that at first she did not realize that the discussion which was going on was to her—and Mr. Davy’s—advantage.
“Lord Braby,” Sir Philip was saying, “hired us to cater for his daughter’s come-out last Season and so far has not paid us for our services. Why was this overlooked?”
“You are the one who overlooked it,” said Lady Fortescue tartly. “You keep the books, although I must say that after your disgraceful behaviour on the racecourse, where you lost our money, it would be more intelligent to give the bookkeeping duties back to Miss Tonks.”
“She can’t add two and two.”
“That is untrue,” declared Miss Tonks, becoming alive to the situation.
“Miss Tonks was very competent,” said the colonel.
“Forget about Miss Tonks,” said Sir Philip brutally. “Who is going to call on Lord Braby?”
“He has a short way with duns, or so I have heard,” said the colonel meditatively. “Besides, he’s not in Town. He’s at his place in Sussex.”
“He’s back.” Sir Philip’s eyes gleamed with malice. He knew the colonel was dreading being asked to go and collect the money, and although he himself was not looking forward much to the prospect, he was jealous of the colonel and liked to see him out of sorts.
The door opened and Mr. Davy walked in.
“My dear fellow!” cried the colonel, jumping to his feet. “Welcome! Some claret? Despard has found us some fine wine. One hopes he has not been consorting with the smugglers, but that seems to be the only way one gets decent wine these days.”
Frederica noticed that although Lady Fortescue was also pleased to see this newcomer, Miss Tonks blushed red and Sir Philip was glaring at her.
Mr. Davy, glass in hand, sat down and beamed around. “So what is your decision?” he asked.
“What decision?” Lady Fortescue’s thin eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Did not Miss Tonks tell you?”
All looked at Miss Tonks, who began to stammer, “There h-hasn’t r-really been any t-time.”
“What have you been up to, you silly widgeon?” demanded Sir Philip.
Mr. Davy threw the agonized spinster a sympathetic look. “I am out of work at the moment,” he said pleasantly. “Miss Tonks was kind enough to suggest I might join forces with you.”
“What!” Sir Philip stared at him wrathfully. “We are no longer poor, sir, as you very well know, and not in the way of taking charity cases.”
Frederica winced and the colonel said heavily, “Mind your manners, sir!”
“I suggested he might collect debts for us,” said Miss Tonks. “You don’t want to do it, Colonel, and I do not believe you enjoy it either, Sir Philip.”
Sir Philip opened his mouth to rage and then suddenly shut it again. There had been a report in a newspaper of Lord Braby’s horsewhipping a dun. His eyes began to gleam with malicious delight and he leaned back in his chair and said expansively, “Now that’s different. We do have a pressing debt outstanding. I suggest we give Mr. Davy here a trial.”
“I must admit it would be comforting to have another gentleman to help us with our problems,” said Lady Fortescue, and Colonel Sandhurst shot a jealous look at Mr. Davy.
“I told Miss Tonks this afternoon that I had lost a great deal of money by being forced to gamble with my cheating employer,” said Mr. Davy, “but I still have by me a certain sum which I will gladly put into the hotel.”
Sir Philip’s lips parted in a thin smile. “Dear fellow, we are not much interested in pennies. How much?”
“About five hundred pounds.”
“How on earth can an actor accumulate that much?”
“You forget I played the lead,” said Mr. Davy, “and there is good money to be earned in provincial tours. I have always saved money by living simply. I was in desperate straits when the colonel found me the last time and I never want to have to endure such poverty or hunger again.”
“But you live so shabbily,” exclaimed Miss Tonks. “And this afternoon at your lodgings, you said because you were out of funds, you would perhaps have to find work as a porter in the market.”
“I did not intend to touch my capital. I am beginning to save for my old age,” said Mr. Davy. “I did not mean to mislead you, Miss Tonks.”
Lady Fortescue’s black eyes snapped with curiosity. “Do I understand from these interesting revelations that our Miss Tonks visited you at your lodgings?”
“I was dressed as a man,” said Miss Tonks simply. “There was no scandal.”
Frederica looked up and suddenly smiled in relief. What a simple explanation. Nothing sinister at all. But it was evident that Lady Fortescue was deeply shocked.
“Miss Tonks,” she said awfully, “although we have all sunk to trade—”
“With the exception of our friend here”—Sir Philip nodded in the direction of Mr. Davy—“who has risen in the world by association with us.”
“As I was saying before I was so very rudely interrupted,” went on Lady Fortescue, “we must continue to present a highly respectable profile to the world. What will Miss Frederica think of such a poor example as you, Miss Tonks? Fie, for shame.”
“I was very grateful to her,” said Mr. Davy quietly. “I was feeling very lost and lonely and unwanted.”
Miss Tonks, who had bent her head under Lady Fortescue’s attack, continued to look down, but only to hide from the rest the sudden joy in her eyes.
“It is agreed, then,” said Lady Fortescue, looking around, “that it would be only fair to give Mr. Davy a trial before we take his money?”
There was a murmur of agreement.
“Well, then,” said the colonel, who could never remain out of sorts for long, “now you are with us, Mr. Davy, all that remains for you is to bring your belongings to us tomorrow, but in the meantime, we would love to hear one of your songs.”
To Frederica’s delight, Mr. Davy entertained them with ballads while the claret and tea circulated. She felt she was part of a family circle for the first time. But there was a bigger delight in store for her.
When Mr. Davy had left and Miss Tonks was indicating to her that it was time they retired, Sir Philip said suddenly, “I let the Yellow Room.”
“Oh, good,” said Lady Fortescue. “A most difficult room to find a customer for, considering it is so small and dark. Who has taken it?”
“A Captain Peter Manners.”
Miss Tonks saw the sudden flush of delight on Frederica’s expressive face and gave a little sigh.
More complications!
***
Lord Bewley awoke the next morning and lay tingling with expectation. He heard the door softly open, smelt hot chocolate, and then felt the light on his face as the curtains were drawn back. He sat up, affecting to come awake, although he had already been awake for some time. Mary Jones dropped a curtsy. “A fine day, my lord,” she said, “but with a chill in the air.”
“You must have been out already,” said his lordship admiringly, “for it has brought a good colour to your cheeks. I like a girl with a bit of colour.”
Mary giggled. “Go on with you.”
“You do that very well,” commented Lord Bewley.
“What is that, my lord?”
“Your accent.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Mary dropped another curtsy. “It’s a great step up in the world for the likes of me to work here, so I try to speak like the ladies.”
To her surprise, this eccentric lord laughed heartily. “You should ha’ gone on the stage,” he chuckled. “I say, do this lot give you any time off?”
“I am supposed to get an evening or afternoon free when the hotel is not busy, my lord, but there’s few times like that.” She stood
by the window, the sunlight on her blonde hair and the curves of her buxom figure silhouetted by the light. Lord Bewley’s mouth was suddenly dry.
“Take you out one evening,” he said gruffly.
She coloured. “T’would not be fitting, my lord. I mean, me and a great gennelman like yourself.”
Once more he was amazed at the brilliance of what he believed to be her play-acting. “No one would need to know,” he said quickly. “Tell you what. Take you to Astley’s.”
Astley’s Amphitheatre on the south side of the river was famous for its dramatic plays and exciting spectacles. Mary looked at him, her mouth a little open. Then she said, “I’ve always dreamt of going there.”
“Hey, so what about it?”
She hesitated. “I would need to ask my employers.”
He scowled suddenly. He could point out to these freaks who ran the hotel that he had every right to take Frederica out with him, that the girl wanted to go. But perhaps she was unsure of him. She had shown no sign of dropping her act. His face lightened. It was all very titillating. He would go along with the deception. Add spice to the courtship.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Lot of old fuddy-duddies. Wait till you’ve an evening off and let me know.”
Mary had been warned at home and at the hotel to avoid any relationships with the male guests. They would have only One Thing in mind. But she did so want to go to Astley’s, and with a real-life lord. It was all too much to turn down.
“This Friday,” she said cautiously, “I could maybe say I had to visit my mother in Shoreditch.”
“Shoreditch,” echoed Lord Bewley, appreciating what he heard as her further inventions.
“I could meet you at this side of Westminster Bridge.”
“Seven o’clock,” said Lord Bewley eagerly.
“Seven o’clock,” she murmured and suddenly flashed a look at him from those blue, blue eyes, eyes which had learned at an early age how to devastate the youths of Shoreditch.
She went quietly out and Lord Bewley fell back on the pillows, gasping. What a jewel! What a charmer!
