by Dilly Court
Zilla looked up from her desk as Mirabel entered the parlour. ‘I can’t keep on calling you Mirabel,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s too grand a name for a parlourmaid.’
‘Yes, Miss Zilla.’
‘You needn’t put on that humble air with me, because I see through you as if you were a pane of glass, Miss Cutler. You look down on me and my girls.’
‘That’s not true,’ Mirabel said, stung by the unfairness of this remark. She had been with Zilla for a month and had done her job to the best of her ability. The hours were long, and she often found herself helping in the kitchen when Cook had imbibed too freely. At any time of the day or night she might be called upon to clear up spilled wine or food, broken glass or overflowing chamber pots. It was not a job for the squeamish or anyone with a delicate constitution. In four short weeks Mirabel had learned more about the intimate amorous dealing of men and women than she had in her whole life. She doubted whether there was anything much that would shock her now.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter to me what you think. As long as you do your work and keep yourself to yourself I’m content to keep you on.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But from now on I’ll call you Mabel, which is more fitting for a servant.’
‘Will that be all, Miss Zilla?’
‘Not quite.’ Zilla leaned back in her chair. ‘Gertie is completely recovered now, isn’t she?’
‘It’s taken a long time, but yes, I’d say she is quite well now.’
‘And there’s still no news of her brother?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘I’ve told you before that I’m not a charity and I meant it. Gertie will have to work or she’ll have to find somewhere else to live.’
‘What exactly had you in mind?’
‘To put it bluntly, she was a prostitute before she came to me and I can make use of her talents. Some gentlemen have a fancy for the waiflike creatures, while others prefer more meat on the bones of their women. Am I shocking you, Mabel?’
‘After the things I’ve seen here I don’t think anything will ever shock me again.’
Zilla nodded, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘You’re a good-looking woman and you have a well-rounded figure. You could earn a lot of money if you chose to.’
‘No.’ Mirabel shook her head. ‘I’m willing to work hard, but not that. Never that.’
‘Oh, very well. Don’t make a song and dance about it. But there is something you could do which might benefit you.’
‘Which is?’
‘I have an old and respected client who is, shall we say, rather past the age when he enjoys the carnal delights of my girls, but he still appreciates the good things in life. Am I making myself clear?’
‘I’m afraid not. What are you suggesting?’
‘This gentleman is very rich and quite eccentric, which is why he still likes to come here even if he doesn’t avail himself of all that’s on offer. I think he is lonely and he likes pretty women, but he needs someone who can converse with him on an equal level.’
‘I’m still not quite clear what you want me to do.’
‘You could engage him in conversation and provide a sympathetic ear when he wishes to talk about himself and his passion for flowers.’
‘Flowers.’ Mirabel stared at her in surprise. ‘He likes flowers?’
‘He is an orchid collector and very wealthy. As far as I can tell he has devoted his whole life since leaving the army to travelling the world in search of rare specimens. I find it a terrible bore, but you must hang on his every word.’
‘I think I would find it very interesting.’
‘As I thought, you are a strange young woman. You and he might do well together, but you would have to look the part. He might not want a woman in the physical sense, but he has eyes in his head and he appreciates beauty. When you’re suitably dressed I believe you will look quite presentable.’
‘I’ve nothing to wear.’
Zilla shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘You need not worry about that, Mabel. I’ve already sent for my dressmaker and she will make you a gown. All I ask is that you keep him entertained, for which I’ll pay you according to how satisfied he is with your company.’
‘But if I agree to do this would I still be a parlourmaid?’
‘That goes without saying. You carry on as usual except for the evenings when Mr Kettle requests your presence. Assuming he takes to you in the first place, of course, although I pride myself on being a good judge of character. What do you say?’
Mirabel thought quickly. ‘I’ll do it, but only if you make it clear to the gentleman what my duties will be.’
‘That’s settled then.’ Zilla opened the ledger and picked up a quill pen. ‘You may go, Mabel. Send Gertie to me now. I’ll deal with her next.’
Mirabel found things to do in the entrance hall, dusting and then polishing the brass candle sconces while she waited for Gertie to emerge from Zilla’s parlour. She caught up with her just as she was about to enter the room they had been sharing since they arrived in Tenter Street. ‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What did she say to you?’
Gertie turned away but not before Mirabel had seen the tears sparkling on the tips of her long eyelashes. She followed Gertie into their room, closing the door so that no one would overhear their conversation. ‘Zilla told you that she wants you to work for her, didn’t she?’
Gertie sank down on her bed. ‘I knew it was coming. I’m well now and she’s been good to me. I’d have ended up in the workhouse if you hadn’t brought me here.’
‘We both might have had that fate.’ Mirabel sat down beside her. ‘You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.’
‘Of course I do. What choice have I got?’
‘You could go into service. I’ve done it and I hadn’t any training.’
‘I was a scullery maid until the master’s son tried to get me into his bed. His mother caught us and blamed me for trying to seduce her precious boy. I was sacked and sent away without a character. Who’d take me on now?’
‘Zilla would give you a reference.’ Mirabel met Gertie’s quizzical gaze and they both dissolved into giggles. ‘Perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea.’
Gertie’s cheerful smile faded. ‘I might have died but for Zilla. I owe her, Mirabel. I didn’t have any choice but to agree to her terms.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Mirabel gave Gertie’s hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I know that Zilla’s very strict with the gentlemen clients, but you must speak to the other girls and they’ll help you. They’re all nice apart from Winnie. I don’t trust her at all, but you don’t have to have anything to do with her.’
‘It’s nothing I haven’t done before, but I thought I’d left all that behind me.’
‘I have a plan, Gertie. As soon as I’ve saved up enough money I’m leaving and renting a room of my own. Then I’ll look for work, any sort of work where I can earn enough to live on, and you’ll come with me.’
‘Really? Would you do that for me?’
‘Of course I would. We’ve come this far together.’
‘And one day Bodger will turn up,’ Gertie said eagerly. ‘I know he will. He’s not dead. I’m sure I’d feel it in my heart if anything bad had happened to him.’
Mirabel jumped to her feet at the sound of the doorbell. ‘I have to go. We’ll talk more later.’
‘I dunno about that. I’m to have my own room. Zilla said so. We won’t be able to have a natter afore we go to sleep.’
‘I’m sure we’ll snatch time in the day.’ Mirabel hurried from the room and ran the length of the hall to open the front door.
‘I’m Miss Standish, Miss Grace’s sewing woman.’
Mirabel stood aside. ‘Please come in.’
‘I’m to measure up a young lady for a gown.’
‘That will be me, Miss Standish. I’ll take you to Miss Grace and no doubt she’ll tell you what she has in mind.’
The gown fitted perfectly. Mirabel stud
ied her reflection in the tallest of the mirrors that lined the entrance hall and did a twirl, catching sight of her swirling skirts as she pirouetted. Her small waist was whittled to a hand’s span by the new corset that Zilla had provided, and the décolletage was not too daring. It was the prettiest gown she had ever possessed, and the iridescent blue-green silk reminded her of a picture she had seen depicting the colourful plumage of a peacock. Gertie had done her hair, showing a surprising talent in creating a coronet of thick coils and glossy ringlets that bobbed flirtatiously with every turn of her head. She came to a sudden halt, staring at the new self who gazed back at her with eyebrows raised.
‘You do indeed look quite passable, Mabel.’ Zilla’s brisk tone shattered the silence.
‘The gown is beautiful, Miss Zilla. Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me, thank Mr Kettle; he paid for it.’
‘Why would he do such a thing? I thought you said . . .’
‘Come along now, girl. You’ve been here long enough to know that the gentlemen always pay for the services we provide. You didn’t think that you would be giving your time for nothing, did you?’
‘It didn’t occur to me that I’d be beholden to him for my clothes. I really can’t accept such a gift.’
‘Don’t be a fool. Of course you’ll take the gown. You’re wearing it aren’t you? It was made for you and Hubert Kettle paid good money to have a pleasant evening with a beautiful woman. He’s waiting for you in the morning room. Come with me and I’ll introduce you.’ Zilla walked away without waiting for Mirabel’s response, leaving her little option but to follow and allow her mentor to usher her into the room. ‘Hubert, my dear, this is Mabel, the young lady I told you about.’
He rose from his seat by the fire, which had been lit despite the fact that it was a relatively warm evening. His expression was serious. ‘How do you do, Mabel?’
Zilla smiled and inclined her head. ‘I’ll leave you to get acquainted, Hubert. Mabel will see that you have everything you want.’ She backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
The sound echoed in Mirabel’s head, and it might as well have been a prison door closing. She had to curb a sudden urge to escape. ‘Good evening, sir,’ she murmured, bobbing a curtsey, which seemed appropriate in the circumstances.
‘Won’t you take a seat, Mabel?’
She hesitated, wondering what sort of man chose to visit a brothel simply for an evening of conversation about flowers. His voice was cultured and she supposed him to be in his late sixties, although he looked older. His skin was prematurely aged, tanned and wrinkled from exposure to the sun in foreign climes. His hair was thick and bushy and snow white, as were his mutton-chop whiskers and moustache. These features, when combined with pale grey eyes the colour of snow melt, gave him a startling appearance, made even more arresting by his alert expression and upright military bearing.
She met his gaze with a steady look. ‘It’s not Mabel, sir. My name is Mirabel.’
‘I’m sure my hearing is as acute as it ever was. I distinctly heard Zilla call you Mabel.’
‘Yes, she did. She chooses to use that name because I’m just a parlourmaid and it keeps me in my place, but that isn’t the real me. If you and I are going to get along then I feel we should be honest with each other from the start.’
He sat down suddenly, motioning her to take the seat opposite. ‘Well now, you are an unusual young lady. Tell me about yourself, Mirabel.’
‘I’m a parlourmaid, sir.’
‘I already know that, my dear.’ He leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees and his pale eyes bored into hers. ‘I’m a very old man, Mirabel. I’ve travelled the world many times over and I’ve met people from all walks of life. It doesn’t take a genius to see that you are an educated young woman, and that your present position in life is not the one you were brought up to expect. You said you wanted us to be honest with each other, so now you can tell me how and why you came to be living in a house of ill repute.’ He reached for his glass and took a sip of wine. ‘I’m agog with curiosity. This promises to be a very interesting evening.’
She spoke haltingly at first but Hubert Kettle was a good listener. He sat back in his chair and drank his wine, refraining from comment while she talked of her sheltered upbringing in Cutler’s Castle. Although she tried to protect her father’s memory it was impossible to relate the true events that had brought her to Tenter Street without mentioning Wiley’s involvement, and the hold he had over her father, which she suspected had contributed to his early demise. When it came to his funeral her voice broke on a sob and she struggled to control her emotions.
Hubert filled a glass with wine and handed it to her. ‘I suspect that there’s a great deal more to your story than you feel able to tell me at present,’ he said gently. ‘This is an exceptionally good claret. Zilla keeps a supply on hand just for me, so sip it slowly and savour its delights while I tell you about my one great passion in life.’
Resisting the temptation to drink deeply in an attempt to blot out the memory of Wiley with his machinations, threats and downright lies, she treated the wine reverently as her father had shown her. Jacob had developed a liking and deep respect for fine wines, and had taken the time to learn how to appreciate them; something he had attempted to pass on to his daughter.
Hubert watched her with an appreciative smile. ‘I can see that we are going to get on very well, Mirabel Cutler. I’ll make a connoisseur of you and I’ll introduce you to the wonders of the natural world. What do you have to say to that?’
Chapter Seven
HUBERT HAD GONE and Zilla was smiling as she pocketed the money he had pressed into her hand. ‘You’ve done well, Mabel. He likes you and there’ll be a little extra added to your wages at the end of the month.
Mirabel had heard the unmistakeable clink of golden sovereigns as they passed from hand to hand, but she knew that her share of this largesse would be minimal. Zilla was undoubtedly a wealthy woman as well as being clever and even ruthless when the need arose. ‘Thank you,’ she said meekly. There was no point in angering her employer. ‘Mr Kettle is a very interesting man. I enjoyed our time together.’
‘Even better.’ Zilla put her head on one side, watching Mirabel closely. ‘I might yet make a courtesan of you, Mabel Cutler.’
Mirabel let this pass. She had no intention of agreeing to any such thing, but she had learned that arguing with Zilla was futile. ‘I’ll go and change out of my gown. Do you need me again tonight?’
‘I think not. You’ve done well so you may have the rest of the evening to yourself.’
Mirabel acknowledged the compliment with a smile. ‘Thank you, Miss Zilla.’ She made her way up to the top floor where she had been allocated a small room beneath the eaves.
It was hot in the attic during the day, but at night the temperature fell dramatically at this time of the year. Mirabel suspected that in winter she would find ice on the inside of the window, but that was a small concern when compared to the luxury of privacy. Once again she had a place where she could sit alone and dream. Hubert Kettle had fired her imagination with tales of explorers and plant hunters ranging from Sir Joseph Banks to Baron Alexander von Humboldt and David Douglas, and, more recently, the exploits in China of Robert Fortune. Now she had far-off lands and real-life adventurers to fire her imagination. Hubert had started to tell her a little of his own experiences, but then he had seemed to tire and had brought the evening to an abrupt end. Mirabel had glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf and could hardly believe her eyes. Three hours had passed in a flash, but she could have sat there all night, listening to Hubert’s cultured tones.
She took off her silk gown and laid it over the ladder-back chair, which was the only furniture in the room apart from an iron bedstead and a deal chest of drawers. Her head was slightly muzzy from drinking wine, but after facing an uncertain future where hope had been abandoned in the face of bleak reality, she felt ridiculously optimistic. Hubert had
introduced her to another world, and she could not wait to learn more. He might be old enough to be her grandfather, but his enthusiasm and zest for life was infectious and she knew she had found a friend.
Hubert’s visits became more frequent and once again Zilla sent for her dressmaker. This time Mirabel was measured for an afternoon gown and a mantle. Zilla had chosen the material from bolts of cloth she kept locked away in the linen cupboard, giving Mirabel no choice in the matter, but the fine woollen cloth in a delicate shade of lavender was what she might have selected had her opinion been asked. When it came to the mantle, however, Zilla shook her head. ‘I’ve changed my mind, Miss Standish. It’s an unnecessary expense and I have an old one that could be altered to fit Mabel. I’ve no longer a use for it.’ She swept out of the room.
‘You’re quite a favourite, Mabel.’ Miss Standish jotted down some measurements on a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve worked for Miss Grace these past ten years and this is the first time I’ve known her to be so generous.’
‘How long will it take you to make the gown?’
‘Why?’ Miss Standish was suddenly alert. ‘Do you need it quickly?’
‘The days are getting shorter,’ Mirabel said casually. ‘It would be nice to have something warm to wear before winter sets in.’ She did not add that she wanted to look her best for the interesting man who had so unexpectedly come into her life. Gertie had warned her that Emily Standish was a notorious gossip. She had based this titbit of information on a conversation with Lucky Sue and Gentle Jane, two of Miss Zilla’s girls, who had learned from bitter experience that the fitting room did not carry similar privileges to the confessional.
Miss Standish folded the sheet of paper and placed it in her reticule. ‘Perhaps Miss Grace has plans for you, Mabel. You seem to me to be different from the rest of the women she employs.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Miss Standish. But I’m sure the gown will be lovely. Your work is excellent.’
‘As I said, you’re not the usual type she has working for her, but it’s none of my business. Miss Grace probably sees a little of herself in you.’ She paused as if waiting for Mirabel to question her further. ‘She came from a good family, but I expect she’s already told you that.’
