by Robin Paige
“Very good, m’lady,” Mrs. Bryan replied. She turned, raising her voice. “Polly!” she bawled. “Polly, ye’re needed. Come ’ere.” At her strident summons, the calf, startled, clambered clumsily to its feet.
“I’ve shown Miss Lovelace to the library, m’lady,” Hodge said stiffly, his eyebrows registering his disapproval of the lady in question, whom he had known when she worked at Bishop’s Keep a few years earlier, as a kitchen maid.
“Thank you, Hodge,” Kate said. “Please be so good as to send in some tea, would you?”
“Certainly, ma’am.” The butler opened the heavy oak library door and stepped back to allow Kate to enter.
“Nellie!” Kate exclaimed, holding out both hands. “What a delight it is to see you!”
“Good afternoon, m’lady.” The young woman who rose eagerly from the plum-colored settee was tall and dark-haired, with flashing dark eyes and a coquettish expression. She wore a stylish cream-colored flannel suit with a pink velvet sash, the jacket trimmed in silk soutache braid. Her wide-brimmed hat was made of braided straw and heaped with pink silk ribbons, and her cheeks and mouth were unmistakably rouged. No wonder Hodge disapproved, Kate thought. He was not used to seeing women who painted-although to her, Nellie looked splendid, in a theatrical sort of way.
“I thought,” Kate said, putting her cheek to Nellie’s, “that we had settled that m’lady business long ago. You must call me Kate, or I shall call you Ellie Wurtz, as you were when we met, and you won’t like that.” She turned to Nellie’s companion, a thin young man, finely-featured and rather effeminate. He wore a white linen suit with a puff of beige silk handkerchief in the breast pocket and a gold watch chain draped elegantly across an embroidered cream waist-coat. “And who is this friend you’ve brought for a visit?”
Nellie’s slanted glance, Kate thought, was more than a little uncomfortable. “This is Charles Conway. My… my cousin. From Brighton.”
“Welcome to Bishop’s Keep, Mr. Conway,” Kate said with a smile, as the young man made a graceful bow over her hand. With half a smile, she added, “I wasn’t aware that Nellie had any cousins, in Brighton or elsewhere, so I am even more glad to know you.”
Kate had discovered Nellie Lovelace some four years before, when she was still thin, pale Ellie Wurtz, a seventeen-year-old orphan waif living in Miller’s Court, off one of the worst streets in the East End. ^3 She had brought the girl to Bishop’s Keep, where Ellie had worked as Mrs. Pratt’s kitchen maid for nearly a year, eating regular meals and spending her spare time reading with Kate until her gaunt frame had filled out and her confidence had begun to bloom. Then, because the girl wanted more than anything else to become an actress, Kate had introduced her to those she knew in the theater: Bram Stoker, at the Lyceum, and Frank Curzon, who managed the Royal Strand. Now Nellie Lovelace, hers was one of the brightest stars in the firmament of the newly popular musical theater, and Kate read frequently of her in the London papers.
Nellie cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Charles isn’t exactly a
… a cousin,” she said, her cheeks glowing under her rouge.
Kate smiled, thinking that perhaps Nellie was about to tell her that there was an engagement in the offing-although this slight, rather pretty young man did not strike her as the sort who would steal Nellie’s heart. She would expect her to be attracted to a man’s man, someone with more energy and self-confidence.
“Nor from Brighton,” Nellie added. She raised and lowered an apologetic shoulder and glanced at her friend. “I’m sorry, Lottie,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “I tried, but I just can’t lie to Lady Sheridan.”
“I didn’t really expect you could,” the other said in a practical tone. The voice was low and throaty, but it was not a man’s voice. “I’m very sorry, Lady Sheridan. Please forgive us for trying to deceive you. My name is Charlotte Conway-Lottie.”
Kate looked at the speaker sharply, realizing that he was really she. “My goodness,” she said, startled. “It’s a very effective disguise. I was completely fooled.”
“I’ve learned a trick or two when it comes to costume,” Nellie said smugly. “But really, the only thing we did was cut Lottie’s hair and beg a suit of clothes at the theater. She makes a very handsome young man, don’t you think?”
“I do indeed,” Kate said, “although it was a pity, Miss Conway, that you had to sacrifice your hair.”
“Not a bit of it.” Charlotte tossed her head. “To tell the truth, Lady Sheridan, it’s topping. I feel light as a feather!”
The library door opened and a maid appeared with a tea tray. She set it down, curtsied quickly, and disappeared.
“Now, then,” Kate said, sitting down in front of the tray and picking up the silver teapot. “Why don’t we have a cup of tea while you two tell me what this is all about?”
“Thank you,” Nellie said. She sat back down on the plum-colored settee, her friend beside her. “I do hope we haven’t interrupted your work.”
Kate chuckled, looking down at her smudged tunic and trousers and brushing off a straw. “I was attending to a sick calf. As you can see, I’m not dressed for callers, but since Miss Conway is in trousers, too, I don’t feel a bit awkward.” Filling a cup and handing it to Nellie, she added, “Now, then. Let’s hear the story.”
The narrative took only a few moments, and by the time their cups had been emptied once and then refilled, Kate had heard the whole narrative, from Yuri Messenko’s death in Hyde Park to the raid on the Clarion and Charlotte’s narrow escape across the roof, to Nellie’s decision to bring her friend to Bishop’s Keep.
Not all of this was news to Kate, of course. She had read of the young Anarchist’s death in The Times, and Charles had told her about the raid on the Clarion and the arrest of everyone in the office, except for the editor, who had got away. He had also told her that he wanted to talk with the editor, as part of his inquiry into the Hyde Park explosion. Since he had only consented to investigate and report back to Ponsonby, it occurred to her now that Miss Conway might be willing to help him-although she would probably refuse if she were afraid of implicating any of her friends.
Kate didn’t reveal these thoughts, however. Instead, she merely remarked, in a mild tone, “My goodness, Miss Conway. You have had an adventure.”
“Worthy of one of Beryl Bardwell’s heroines,” Nellie put in. She gestured to a row of red leather-bound books on a shelf, “That’s who she is, Lottie. Lady Sheridan, I mean. She’s Beryl Bardwell. The famous novelist.” She turned to Kate. “I simply adore your most recent one- Death on the Moor. So realistic, in every detail. One would almost think you were on Dartmoor when that man broke out of that horrible prison!”
Kate suppressed a smile. As a matter of fact, she had been on Dartmoor when the man escaped, she and Charles and Conan Doyle. As a writer, she found it best to work from her own experience, although that sometimes got her into trouble with acquaintances who did not fancy meeting their own fictional counterparts in one of her books. Just now, she was at work on a book set at Glamis Castle in Scotland, where Charles had been summoned to find one of the Royal Family’s lost black sheep. ^4 Of course, she didn’t dare reveal the details of what had happened while they were there-the whole episode was, as Charles kept reminding her, a State Secret. But Glamis Castle had proved a splendid setting for a ghost story, with echoes of Macbeth and Bonnie Prince Charlie, and she would be taking the finished manuscript to her publisher in a few weeks.
Charlotte frowned. “Beryl Bardwell? I don’t think I’ve read-” She glanced at the bookshelf, hesitated, then added awkwardly, “I don’t have much time for novels, I’m afraid, Lady Sheridan.”
“I can’t think that you would,” Kate said, seeing her discomfort and wanting to ease it. “My novels are meant to fill idle moments, and I doubt that you have many of those.” She smiled at Nellie, who wore an embarrassed look. “It does seem as if we all have our secret identities, doesn’t it? Nellie has adopted a stage name, I write no
vels under a pseudonym, and you-”
“And I’m hiding from the police,” Miss Conway said. She put down her cup. “But I’m not under arrest,” she added earnestly. “I haven’t done anything wrong or against the law, so you wouldn’t be harboring a criminal.” She looked flustered. “That is, if you-”
“So you want me to take Miss Conway in?” Kate asked, with a questioning look at Nellie. “Is that why you’ve come?”
“In a word, yes,” Nellie said, “and thank you for putting it so simply. It’s all very unfortunate, of course, but that awful fellow has staked out his spies everywhere. Lottie’s disguise got her out of London, but-”
“Who?” Kate interrupted. “What ‘awful fellow’?”
“Inspector Ashcraft, from New Scotland Yard,” Miss Conway replied. Her mouth tightened. “He thinks I don’t know his name, or even that he is a police officer, for he always goes in plain clothes-brown tweeds, and a brown bowler hat. But all of us know him, for he has made himself an infernal nuisance. He thinks it’s his duty to harass us, even though we’ve not broken the law. It is not a crime to speak and write about the wrongs the people must endure and to say how we believe they can be righted.” A grim smile touched her lips. “At least, it isn’t a crime yet, although the government may make it so.” She looked down, her hands twisting in her lap. “I have no idea what Adam and Ivan and Pierre have been charged with, or whether they have been charged at all.”
“Who are they?” Kate asked.
“Ivan Kopinski and Pierre Mouffetard are employed at the Clarion, ” Miss Conway replied, her voice thin and tense. “Adam Gould is a friend of mine. He doesn’t work at the paper-he was only there so we could go to lunch together. But the police put all three of them into a van and took them off. They’re still being held, as far as I know.”
“The important thing is that these men haven’t done anything against the law,” Nellie said urgently. “And neither has Lottie. But she must be kept out of sight.” She extended her hand with a melodramatic gesture. “Please, Kate, please help us!”
Kate thought swiftly. “Why don’t you both plan to stay overnight, at least,” she suggested. “I believe that my husband will be interested in meeting Miss Conway and hearing her story. But he’s driven over to Chelmsford this morning to visit Mr. Marconi’s wireless laboratory. When he comes back-certainly by teatime-we can all discuss the situation.”
Miss Conway bit her lip nervously. “Your husband-Lord Sheridan?”
“He’s not what you think, Lottie,” Nellie said. “His lordship isn’t an Anarchist by any stretch, but he’s always on about free speech and the rights of workers. And he was interested in that union case that Adam was involved with a couple of years ago. In fact, he and Adam must know each other.” She patted her friend’s hand. “Anyway, there’s nothing in the least frightening about him, so don’t you be worried.”
Kate laughed. “If you have the courage to cross a roof three stories above the street, Miss Conway, I’m sure that Lord Sheridan should not cause you any difficulty.”
Miss Conway seemed not to know what to say, but Nellie consulted the gold watch pinned to her lapel, and rose. “I’m afraid I can’t stay to tea,” she said. “I have a performance tonight, and afterward, I’m going to supper with a visiting American author.” She glanced at Kate, her eyebrows raised. “His name is Jack London. I wonder if you know him.”
“As it happens, Charles and I met him just last week,” Kate said, “at a party given by his British publisher.” She smiled at Nellie’s excitement. “He’s certainly a charming man, and extraordinarily good-looking.”
“He’s a Greek god,” Nellie said, rolling her eyes. “Sent from heaven.”
Kate wasn’t quite sure of that. She had certainly felt the magnetism of London’s charismatic charm-not a woman at the party could have escaped the allure of his personality-but she couldn’t help feeling that there was something of the rogue about him. She wondered if Nellie knew that he had a wife and young child back in California, but she didn’t like to interfere. Whatever lessons about life and love Nellie was to learn through her attraction to Jack London, they would have to be her lessons.
Kate stood. “Ask Hodge to bring the pony cart round to take you to the station,” she said. She put her arms around the girl in a warm embrace. “I wish you would visit more often, Nellie. It’s always a great pleasure to see you, and to hear about all your success.”
“It’s all due to you, Kate,” Nellie said simply, returning Kate’s embrace. She put out her hand to her friend. “I hope things work out, Lottie. You must let me know if I can help further.”
When Nellie had gone, Miss Conway stood too. “Thank you, Lady Sheridan,” she said soberly. “If I’m to stay, I’ll try my best not to be any trouble. I’m afraid I don’t have any money to give you, but I’ll be glad to work for my room and board.”
“There’s always plenty of work to be done around here,” Kate replied. She smiled. “Do you happen to know anything about doctoring sick calves?” When the girl shook her head, she said briskly, “Not to worry. But do come upstairs and I’ll find you something to wear. We don’t want to spoil that delicious white linen suit.”
Charlotte Conway’s father had been an engineer and her mother the daughter of a wealthy Lancaster button manufacturer. Her father had died when she was quite young, her mother had never taken much notice of her, and Charlotte had grown up in a large, well-appointed house in Fitzroy Square with all the comforts that money could buy and a squad of servants to maintain them. She found nothing intimidating, then, about Bishop’s Keep, either the imposing house and staff of servants, or the fine furnishings, or the surrounding park. And of course, a true Anarchist would never be at all impressed by the trappings of wealth, no matter how grand.
She was, however, reluctantly impressed by Lady Sheridan herself, for the woman was both self-confident and unselfconscious, seemingly without regard for her own wealth and possessions. Although she was not conventionally beautiful, she had a strong, striking Pre-Raphaelite face, with a resolute mouth, heavy brows, and decisive chin. Her eyes were an intense hazel-green that seemed to take nothing for granted, her thick auburn hair straggled untidily out of its knot on top of her head, and her hands were square cut and capable-looking, the nails rather the worse for wear-certainly not the hands of a titled lady or a famous writer. To tell the truth, they looked very much like the hands of a farmer.
And then there was the surprising business of Lady Sheridan’s School for the Useful Arts. For one thing, Charlotte had assumed that Bishop’s Keep, so convenient to the city, was merely a weekend country home, and she was taken aback to discover that it was a working farm, an extensive one, at that-and entirely under Lady Sheridan’s management. For another thing, she had no idea that a woman of such a high social standing would have any interest at all in the plight of the working woman. But there were more surprises in store.
After Charlotte had been outfitted in what her ladyship called a “working costume”-a simple, short-skirted blue dress topped with a smock, and a pair of leather brogans-the two of them went out for a tour. A little later, they were walking through the poultry yard, where a group of women was building a new chicken coop, and Lady Sheridan was explaining the purpose of her school and the idea behind it: to help young women acquire skills that they could put to work on the land, to create both productive lives and productive smallholdings.
And now, Charlotte was impressed, in spite of all her Anarchist learnings. Her fellow comrades had dinned it into her that no wealthy landowner cared a fig for those who worked the land, or cared only to keep them oppressed. But while Pierre would probably sneer at Lady Sheridan’s “reformist” notions and argue that her efforts were merely palliative, Charlotte could not but feel that the school was accomplishing something important, and said as much.
“It’s not enough, of course,” Lady Sheridan replied. “There are too many thousands who need help. But if what we’re
doing here can keep even one young woman out of the factories and the slums, it will have been worthwhile.” Her smile became rueful. “I know about slums firsthand, you see, because I grew up in New York, in a tenement. I was an orphan, and my aunt and uncle O’Malley took me in and raised me. Uncle was a policeman, and Irish, and there were a great many mouths to feed.” She shook her head. “I sometimes wonder that we all survived. But we did, actually. Survived and thrived.”
Lottie stared, her surprise turning to a complete and utter astonishment. “You… you grew up in a tenement?”
Lady Sheridan’s hazel eyes regarded her thoughtfully, and her mouth softened. She took Charlotte’s arm and they began to walk toward the orchard, where three women were picking fruit from the heavily-laden trees. “I certainly did. I remember almost every day of it, both the good and the bad. And it wasn’t all bad,” she added after a moment. “Sometimes I think that adversity teaches us to be strong and resourceful. If I had grown up under different circumstances, with more privilege and fewer responsibilities, I might not have the strength and resilience I have now.” Her tone was reflective and matter of fact.
“But how did you-” Charlotte was puzzled. “New York is so far away and-” She stopped, unable to think of a polite way to frame the question.
Lady Sheridan paused at the edge of the orchard and leaned her elbows on the old stone wall. “How did I get from there to here? With my pen, I suppose you might say. You see, I was already earning my living as a writer when I discovered that my father’s sisters, my Ardleigh aunts-of whom I had no knowledge at all-lived here at Bishop’s Keep. I was invited to come to England and work as a secretary to my Aunt Sabrina Ardleigh, with time from my duties to do my own writing. When she and my aunt Bernice both died, I inherited this place.” ^5 She raised her head and gazed at the neat rows of trees and the field beyond, where a group was stacking hay. “Sometimes I find it difficult to credit my good fortune, Miss Conway. Perhaps that’s why I try to do what I can to change things.”
