by Dilly Court
‘She’s been kind to me, that’s all I know.’
Miss Standish raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘As I said, you are privileged. Miss Grace had to struggle to survive in a world ruled by men. She married against her family’s wishes and her father cut her off without a penny.’
‘I’m not sure you should be telling me this, Miss Standish. It’s really none of my business.’
‘Oh, but it is. You need to understand the woman who employs you. To her you are a thing of value, but when your looks fade or should you become indisposed, you will be cast off just as she was.’
Mirabel made a move towards the door. ‘I think this conversation is at an end, Miss Standish.’
‘I’m just trying to help you, and if you’ve any sense won’t put your trust in Zilla Grace. If she ever had a heart it was torn in two when the man she married deserted her and took up with another woman. She was left penniless and destitute with a small baby to care for.’
‘What happened to the child? And who was this man who treated her so badly?’ Suspicion clouded Mirabel’s mind, and she needed to know if the errant husband was Jack Starke.
‘The baby died and Zilla took to the streets. She made her fortune by selling her body to rich men, while respectable women like myself have to struggle to earn a living.’
‘It seems to me that she’s made the best of things,’ Mirabel said icily. ‘Why do you associate with her if you dislike her so much?’
‘I too have to live.’ Miss Standish picked up the bolt of cloth and tucked it under her arm. ‘Do you know how much I earn a week? If I’m lucky I take home ten shillings for working all hours of the day and often into the night.’
‘I’m sorry, but we all have to make our way as best we can.’
Miss Standish gave her a searching look. ‘It’s obvious you were brought up with money, and something dire must have happened to bring you so low.’
‘I think that’s my business, Miss Standish.’
‘You won’t be so high and mighty when she tires of you and throws you out. You’ll learn then what it’s like to be a single woman trying to make a living in a world ruled by men.’
‘Most women marry for security. Miss Zilla must have been unlucky in her choice of husband.’
‘He was a ne’er-do-well, unlike my dear Philip, who was killed in the Crimea. I might have had a home of my own and children if my fiancé hadn’t given his life for his country.’
‘Who was it who broke Miss Zilla’s heart?’ Mirabel knew that it was dangerous to pursue the subject but she could not let the matter rest.
‘It’s none of my business. You made that quite clear, Miss Mabel. Be careful, that’s all I have to say to you.’ Miss Standish moved to the door. ‘As you are still the parlourmaid you must see me out.’
Mirabel obeyed her in silence, uncomfortably aware that she had allowed the conversation to stray onto dangerous ground. No doubt there was an element of truth in Miss Standish’s story, and it was a sad tale, but also one of triumph over adversity. Zilla had known tragedy but had survived to become a wealthy woman who commanded respect from all who knew her. For a few painful moments Mirabel had suspected Jack of being the one who had treated Zilla so cruelly; then commonsense reasserted itself, convincing her that the pair would not be on such good terms now had he been the villain of the piece.
Gertie’s warning had been timely. Emily Standish was undoubtedly a bitter woman, intent on making mischief and she was adept in gaining the trust of her clients. Confidences exchanged in private might easily be passed on to her other clients, and Mirabel knew from experience that the well-to-do ladies who helped in the soup kitchen liked nothing better than to sit and gossip over a cup of tea when their work was done. Should the tittle-tattle reach Cutler’s Castle, Ernestine would take grim pleasure in the knowledge that her stepdaughter was reduced to working in a brothel. Wiley would be jubilant, and if it came to his notice that she was being paid to be a companion to a wealthy, well-respected man, there was no knowing what mischief he might try to make.
On her afternoon off Mirabel decided to visit the soup kitchen. She was, of course, under no obligation to the charity, but she felt that she owed Adela an explanation. She arrived to find her seated at her usual table poring over the neat entries in a ledger. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hamilton. I’ve come to apologise for my absence, but I’m now in a position to offer my help.’
Adela looked up and her expression changed subtly. ‘We have a full complement today, Miss Cutler. Your assistance is not needed.’
As far as Mirabel could see there were only two women working in the kitchen. ‘I’m really sorry that I had to leave without telling you,’ she began tentatively.
‘We’ve managed very well, thank you, Mirabel.’ Adela averted her gaze, seemingly bent on studying the figures in the ledger.
‘I could still come once a week.’
Adela looked up, unsmiling. ‘I don’t think you are a suitable person to associate with my ladies.’
‘You know that I’ve had to move out of my father’s house?’
‘I’ve heard that you’re living in Tenter Street. Is it true?’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Then I’m sorry but I have no further use for you. My ladies would not tolerate working with someone who lives in a house of ill repute.’
‘But I’m just a parlourmaid, Mrs Hamilton. Captain Starke introduced me to Miss Grace and I had nowhere else to go.’
‘Jack Starke.’ Adela threw up her hands. ‘I might have guessed that libertine was involved in your downfall.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I am as respectable a person as I ever was.’
‘Nevertheless, you are tainted by association and it won’t do.’ Adela rose to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Mirabel. I believe you were a victim of circumstance, but you must see that I have a position to keep up. Your services are no longer needed. I can’t put it any plainer than that. Good day to you.’ She marched into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
Shocked and angry, Mirabel stood for a moment staring at the closed door. She was excluded once again, and through no fault of her own.
In the weeks that followed Mirabel did her best to put her old life behind her. She did more than her fair share of the work in Tenter Street, and she looked forward to Hubert’s visits. Although she enjoyed the evenings they spent together, she suspected that these pleasant interludes would come to an abrupt end should he discover how her father had won his fortune. Wiley’s threats hung over her like the sword of Damocles. It might be impossible for him to prove that Jacob had murdered Cyrus Pendleton, but if he made his knowledge public the damage would have been done. Hubert was an honourable man, she knew that already, and she doubted whether he would want to associate with the daughter of a murderer.
She had tried to forget Adela Hamilton’s caustic words, but they came back to haunt her at night when she lay down to sleep, and in rare quiet moments during the day. The house rarely came to life before noon, enabling Mirabel and the chambermaids to do their work unhindered. Zilla rose from her bed midmorning and Mirabel had the task of taking her a pot of strong coffee, which she drank without the addition of milk or sugar. The chore of carrying ewers of hot water from the kitchen to fill the zinc bathtub in Zilla’s dressing room was given to Lizzie, but Mirabel often chose to help her. She was on her way downstairs with an empty pitcher one morning when the doorbell rang.
Adjusting her mobcap, Mirabel placed the empty container on a side table and went to open the door to find a scruffy boy standing on the doorstep. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Are you Miss Grace?’
‘No, I’m not. What do you want with her?’
He held out a grubby hand. ‘Got a message for her from the gent in Savage Gardens.’
Mirabel was suddenly alert. ‘Would that be Mr Kettle?’
The boy sniggered behind his hand. ‘What sort of name is that, miss?’
‘It’s the sort of
name that deserves a little respect from a boy like you. If you’ve got a message give it to me and I’ll see that it’s passed on to Miss Grace.’
He hesitated. ‘Gent said you’d pay me.’
‘I’m sure he rewarded you handsomely. Now either give me the note or take it back to Mr Kettle and tell him you wouldn’t hand it over without payment.’
‘Or I could just throw it in the Thames.’
Mirabel could see that this was going nowhere and she put her hand in her pocket, taking out a penny. ‘Take this for your trouble.’
‘Ta, miss.’ He snatched the coin and thrust a crumpled piece of paper into her hand.
She closed the door before he had the chance to demand more money. There was no envelope and it was a simple matter to unfold the sheet and read the message written in Hubert’s copperplate hand.
‘What have you there?’ Zilla’s sharp tone made Mirabel turn with a start to see her employer standing close behind her.
‘A ragged boy delivered this, Miss Zilla. It’s for you.’
Zilla scanned the note. ‘Have you read it?’
‘I caught a glimpse of the contents.’
‘You’re a bad liar, Mabel.’ Zilla tucked the paper into her pocket. ‘Hubert wants you to visit him at his home this evening. I’m not sure I can allow such a thing.’
Mirabel knew better than to argue. She nodded and was about to walk away when Zilla called her back. ‘Don’t you want to know why?’
‘I suppose you have your reasons, Miss Zilla.’
‘Don’t put on that meek and mild air, Mabel. It doesn’t work with me.’
‘What would you have me say? I depend on you for my board and lodging; I have nowhere else to go and you pay me a wage.’
‘What a little sea lawyer you are to be sure.’ Zilla’s stern expression melted into a smile. ‘I like you, Mabel, which is why I’ve given you this chance to better yourself. However, I don’t think it’s proper to allow you to visit Hubert in his home.’
‘You don’t seem to think it improper to allow men to pay for your girls’ favours under your roof.’
‘My girls are protected while they work for me. Any gentleman who forgets himself is shown the door before he can inflict harm of any kind, as you well know. I can’t guarantee your safety when you’re away from here.’
‘Or perhaps he won’t pay for my time, is that it too?’
‘That does come into it, but I need to know a little more of Hubert’s intentions before I agree to such a tryst.’
‘It’s nothing like that with Mr Kettle. He’s an elderly gentleman and past that sort of thing.’
‘He’s a man, Mabel. They’re never past it in their own minds. Leave this with me. I intend to take a carriage ride to Savage Gardens. I’ll let you know the outcome of my meeting with Hubert Kettle.’
‘Just a moment, Miss Grace.’
‘What is it now?’
‘I want to know what you intend to say to him.’
‘You have a cheek, girl. You work for me and you’re mine to do with as I please.’
‘Indeed I’m not. You can’t sell my favours.’
‘This is my business. I make the rules. Now go outside and hail a cab while I fetch my bonnet and shawl.’
That evening, dressed in her newest gown of crimson striped silk, with ruffles adorning the sleeves and an overskirt swept back to form a small train, Mirabel knew that she was looking her best. Lizzie had curled her hair into ringlets using iron tongs heated on the kitchen range, and had pinned them back with two jewelled combs, borrowed from Lucky Sue. ‘They’re paste, of course,’ Sue said, chuckling. ‘But the old gent won’t know the difference. Anyway, he’ll have his eyes fixed elsewhere, if you get my meaning.’ She nudged Mirabel in the ribs and winked.
‘I’m only going to look at his collection of rare orchids,’ Mirabel protested.
Lizzie and Sue exchanged amused glances. ‘If you believe that you’re in for a big surprise.’ Sue left the kitchen, chuckling to herself.
‘Don’t pay no attention to her,’ Lizzie said hastily. ‘She’s just jealous. None of the molls above stairs get invited out, let alone to visit the gents in their homes.’
‘It’s not like that, Lizzie. Mr Kettle is an old gentleman. He really does want to show me his rare specimens.’
Lizzie doubled up laughing. ‘You are a one, Mabel.’
Savage Gardens off Trinity Square was barely a stone’s throw from Catherine Court. Terraced four-storey Georgian town houses faced each other across a narrow street with basement areas protected by iron railings. The once prosperous area was now showing signs of age and declining fortunes. Soot-blackened and with peeling paintwork, most of the buildings were now cheap lodging houses, but the few that were still owner-occupied were noticeably well cared for with shiny brass door furniture, clean windows and pristine paintwork.
Mirabel stepped out of the cab that Zilla had insisted on, it being unsafe for any woman to walk out unaccompanied after dark. Having paid the cabby, Mirabel walked up the steps to the front door. She hesitated, suddenly nervous and unsure of herself. Perhaps Lucky Sue had been right and this was a foolhardy venture, but then she remembered how kind Hubert had been, with no hint of anything in his manner towards her which would make her uncomfortable in his presence. She raised the knocker and let it fall. The sharp clatter of metal against metal echoed inside the house and was answered by the sound of swift footsteps. Mirabel had given little thought to Hubert’s household and she was agreeably surprised by the plump, homely little woman who opened the door.
‘Good evening, miss. We were expecting you. Come in.’
Mirabel stepped over the threshold and found herself in a long, narrow entrance hall lit by a single oil lamp. It was too dark to see much detail but framed watercolours of exotic plants covered the walls with barely an inch to spare between them.
‘My name is Mrs Flitton. I’m Mr Kettle’s housekeeper and have been for the past twenty-six years.’
‘I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.’
Mrs Flitton held a lamp high, taking in every detail of Mirabel’s appearance. ‘You seem like a nice young lady. I was afraid that he had got into bad company. I never liked the idea of him visiting that place in Tenter Street, although, of course, I understand that a gentleman has needs.’
‘Yes, well I’m not like that,’ Mirabel said hastily. ‘Mr Kettle is my friend.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I think, but I can see that you’re not one of those wanton women. Come this way.’ She bustled off along the corridor, stopping to usher Mirabel into a room at the far end. ‘Mr Kettle will be with you directly. He’s tending his plants, which he does several times a day. It’s like having a nursery full of babies who need caring for.’
Mirabel took in her surroundings with a sweeping glance. The furniture was old-fashioned, heavy and ornately carved in dark wood with somewhat faded red-velvet upholstery. The once elegant Georgian mantelshelf was barely visible beneath a welter of bell jars containing colourful stuffed birds, a black marble clock in the shape of a Grecian temple, two spill vases and a collection of strange objects from far-off places. The walls, as in the entrance hall, were covered with botanical paintings, and side tables were littered with books, magazines and more souvenirs brought back from Hubert’s extensive travels. The ambience was more like that of a museum than a home, and entirely masculine.
Mrs Flitton waddled over to the fireplace, poked the embers into life and added more coal. ‘I’ll go and tell him you’re here. Make yourself at home.’ She turned to Mirabel with a beaming smile. ‘It’s so good for us to have young company. We were in danger of becoming old and dried up like some of the things he’s brought back from foreign lands.’ She held her hand out for Mirabel’s bonnet and mantle. ‘I’ll hang these up for you, miss.’
‘Thank you.’ At a loss for words, Mirabel perched on the edge of a deep armchair by the fire. The steady tick-tock from the marble clock
was the only sound in the room apart from the odd crackle from the fire, and she was growing increasingly nervous and on edge. Coming here might be a terrible mistake, she thought, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. It was just possible that Zilla might have lied in order to get her here in the first place, and the real reason for her invitation was to satisfy an old man’s carnal desires. The lurid tales in the penny dreadfuls so dear to Flossie’s heart sprang to mind, and the sound of approaching footsteps made Mirabel jump to her feet. This had been a terrible mistake. She would make her excuses and leave right away.
The door opened and Hubert strolled into the room clutching a potted plant in his hands. ‘Mirabel, my dear, I just had to show you this perfect specimen. Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘It is indeed.’ Forgetting everything other than the need to examine the delicate blooms, Mirabel moved closer. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ She touched one of the purple petals with the tip of her finger.
‘It’s a Cattleya labiata, named after a man called William Cattley.’ Hubert peered at her over the top of his spectacles, his pale eyes shining with excitement. ‘He discovered the species in a shipment of specimens from Brazil earlier this century. It’s very rare. When I was younger I went on many plant-hunting expeditions, but I never came across any of these beauties, and now it is too late for me.’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘I’m an old man, Mirabel. Too old to undergo the rigours that such a trip would entail.’
She gazed at the orchid, seeing it through his eyes, and was entranced. Suddenly she understood his passion for finding rare and exquisite blooms. Flowering plants were scarce in the city where even the common dandelion struggled to exist. She looked into his eyes and saw the spirit of a young man fighting to be free from an ageing body. Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm.
‘You’re not too old, Mr Kettle. I believe that you could do anything you wanted to.’
