by Sandra Byrd
Most patronesses insisted upon nearly immediate delivery for the April-to-mid-August Season. We worked twelve- or sixteen-hour days to make this happen—sometimes it was exciting, often it was dull as dusting.
“Yes, I have Lady Tolfee’s sewing to do, and I cannot allow this remarkable opportunity to pass. If all goes as I plan, I shan’t have to worry about income again. I will be a principal designer! Imagine that.”
She smiled and we headed downstairs and once in the parlor, we took tea. I began with news I knew would make Mrs. W glad.
“Constable Collingsworth has asked to call upon me.”
“Delightful!” She had always liked him. “Have you responded?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. I shan’t give him a formal answer, but if he asks to accompany me somewhere, I shall go out with him, at least once or twice.”
After a biscuit, I explained the rest of my plan to her. “Are you familiar with the Theatrical Mission?”
“Yes, yes, of course. The one on King Street. Established by the Cause. Your mother spoke of it before . . .”
I nodded. “Before her death. Mamma always wanted me to be involved in the Cause,” I began.
She nodded vigorously. “She did.”
“And yet, while I admired her zeal, I did not share it. But now that I’ve I met the young girls, really, who’ve worked so close to me—I may have sewn some of their very garments!—I find I can no longer turn my head and my heart. I can’t get them out of my mind. I, too, want to help, especially if it means being a part of the Theatrical Mission. That is very close to my heart.”
Mrs. W nodded once more. “The girls at the Theatrical Mission can sew, then? Well enough to help you?”
I fidgeted. “Two can.” Mother Martha and Charlotte. On the other hand, Ruby . . .
She raised an eyebrow. “And do you know anything else about them?”
I shifted to the other side of the chair. “No.” I hadn’t thought of that. “But hadn’t Louisa been a stranger when we’d taken her into our house?”
“A stranger with references,” Mrs. W reminded me.
“Mother Rachel will vouch for them,” I said.
“And who shall vouch for Mother Rachel?” Mrs. W sniffed, but softly. “I shall make enquiries within the Cause.”
“Thank you!” I reached over and touched the back of her hand. She was not given to physical displays of affection. I’d learnt that when, as a child, I’d tried to embrace her as I would Mamma and Mrs. W had recoiled.
Do not take it to heart, Mamma had reassured me. It’s her way of being.
I stood up. “I . . . I should like you to enquire with all speed.”
“The dresses?” she asked. “You must begin sewing.”
I nodded. “Yes, absolutely, and well . . . there are those who would like to see Ruby and Charlotte, too, I’m certain, in the East End.”
Mrs. W looked queryingly at me. “Whatever do you mean?”
“In houses of ill repute. Ruby is already past the consenting age of thirteen.” She would certainly understand my meaning.
“I meant, what do you mean by East End?”
“The area where that kind of dark activity transpires.”
Mrs. W laughed, but there was no delight in it. “My dear, I’m sorry, but there are just as many evil abodes here on the West End.”
I shook my head. “A few, maybe. But just as many?”
She nodded. “But of course. Those pretending to be and do good, angels of darkness parading as light. Some start out that way and some, just like those angels, start in goodness and then are tempted and fall. Oh yes. There are plenty of evildoers right here . . . and also in the fine country houses of Hampshire. That kind of wickedness just has practiced manners and is better-dressed.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
A few days later we arrived on King Street. Mother Rachel was happy to see us and invited us into the parlor. Then she called Mother Martha and Ruby up to sit with us.
Mother Martha sat in her chair comfortably. Ruby perched on the edge and held herself in place by the tips of her toes. I held back a smile. Ten years earlier, I might have tried not to slip off a silk brocade.
“I have need of some help in my household,” I began. “Sewing and, well, other activities as may be needed.”
“What activities?” Ruby asked.
I had no answer for that. “I have not yet determined that,” I said. “Sewing primarily.”
Ruby spoke again. “Perhaps you should take Charlotte and not me,” she said. “She’s extremely clever with the needle. Mother Martha says so.” Mother Martha nodded her agreement while drawing closer to Ruby. She wore her exquisitely beaded gloves and I knew she would do wonderful work in my salon. I also knew from our past encounter that I could not take her without also taking her charge: she would not leave Ruby behind.
“Perhaps Charlotte can come along as well as you,” I said to Ruby. “I can teach you to do the broad cutting required. You won’t need to sew. Just cut. Will you try?”
She smiled and jumped up. “I’ll try! Miss, can I go and get Charlotte and see if she’d like to come? She’ll be ever so glad. I know it.”
I stood and spoke softly. “You may speak with her, but you don’t need to fetch her now. If she’d like to come along, she’s welcome, and I’ll come to collect all three of you two days hence. You and your things.”
Ruby grinned. “It’ll be an easy load. We don’t have any ‘things’!”
• • •
True to my word, just as May was breaking I came to collect the girls. Mrs. W chatted easily with Mother Martha, who seemed to be of an age with her. It was difficult to tell. Like herbs in a pestle, life steadily ground out the essence of those who did not have access to comforts. I showed them the kitchens, and the lower floor, though they would have little cause to be down there. They would not likely be in the parlor or library, nor even the dining area, too often. At least not till the sewing was caught up and I was already behind on Lady Tolfee’s next gown.
“And this is your floor!” I exclaimed.
“Our floor?” Charlotte spun like a ballerina, taking it all in.
I grinned. “You and Ruby shall share this room.” I pushed open a door, and in the small room were two beds, each up against a wall, with two small dressers separating them. “You each have your own dresser.”
“We’ve naught to put in them,” Ruby said.
“You soon shall,” I promised. “Aside from room and board, there will be a little stipend of your own. And, I am promised a small stake in the show’s proceeds. If you sew and sew well, I shall share that with you all as well.”
Ruby and Charlotte clapped their hands and then clasped them together.
“Look!” Charlotte said, pointing to her bed. “We have our own blankets! I’ve not had one since my ma passed on.”
Mrs. W caught my eye and I hers. How very little it takes to care for someone; how very much I had taken for granted.
Mrs. W spoke up. “As has been said before and is the rule here: The Lord may care for the birds of the air, but he does not drop food into their nests. Each of us must carry part of the load.”
“We will!” Ruby said.
“We will!” Charlotte, she of few words, echoed.
I showed Mother Martha her small room, adjoining the girls’, and the table at which they would take their meals. Louisa stood on the stairway between the second and third floors.
“Yes?” I asked her.
“You’ve a letter just delivered,” she replied.
“From whom?”
Louisa glanced at the letter. “I don’t know, miss. It didn’t come by post, it came by messenger. He said he’d wait for a response if you don’t mind. He’s waiting at the curb.”
I glanced out of the window; a fine carriage lingered.
She handed it to me, and as she did, I turned it over and saw that the back had been stamped in gold, with an “L” firmly embossed in the center.
Lord Lockwood.
Inelegantly, I slit the note open with my finger and unfolded it, then read. “He has some information about the state of affairs at Winton, and wonders if he might call and share his news.” I wrinkled my forehead. “He says he will bring his mother?”
Mrs. W pursed her lips. “I suppose he is not certain if someone will be here to chaperone you.”
“Ah, yes, how thoughtful,” I said. “He may not know you live with me.”
I turned toward Louisa. “Please tell his man that he and Lady Lockwood are welcome to call any afternoon during calling hours.”
She smiled. “I shall. I’ll make fresh biscuits every day this week, too.”
“Thank you.” I grinned. “It’s very much appreciated.”
• • •
That night, the girls were settled in their new beds, tittering quietly together till a late hour, when they finally quieted and slept. Mrs. W had slipped away early; she almost always took a sleeping draught. The household staff, of course, had long since retired. I sat in the parlor, reading a fashion magazine alongside the preliminary sketches I was making for the Cinderella gowns, when I heard the faintest knock at the door.
Tap tap. Tap.
It was nothing. It was late. It was the wind.
Then, three times, rhythmically. Tap. Tap. Tap. Rougher now. Knuckles on the door.
I turned down the lamp and stood up, legs shaking. If it had been only me I’d have run up the stairs. But I had the girls to think of now, too.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Insistent. Then fists nearly beating.
I tiptoed toward the door and stood just on the other side of it. I glanced at the lock: brass polished. New. The lock that I’d had replaced after my conversation with Roberts.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Softly again now. “Miss Young . . . ?”
I jumped back and my hair stood on end. It was a man’s voice! Should I run? I did not have the voice to scream—my voice would not work at my command.
“Who is there?” I was finally able to ask, my warbling escaping the lump of fear in my throat.
“Do not open the door.”
I most certainly would not! “Why are you here at this hour?”
“Do not go back to King Street, Miss Young,” came the man’s insistent voice. It sounded familiar, but it was so soft-spoken I could not be sure who it was. It was hauntingly insistent, slightly threatening.
“I have business at the Theatrical Mission,” I said with more courage than I felt. “And will not be dissuaded.”
“Do not go back to King Street. I have it on good account that it was not only the Mission you’ve been calling upon. It’s dangerous for you . . . and for the others, those girls you took in. They may well find themselves in residence there. Perhaps you’d end up somewhere unsavory as well.”
I recalled locking eyes with the policeman when I had knocked on the King Street door the day my Drury Lane commission had been given. Had that officer known me? Been following me? Perhaps it was the men who’d harried me all the way to my sanctuary at the Mission.
“Who are you, and have you been stalking me?” In spite of the flex of prickles hastening up my spine, I did want to know what this man had to say.
“I prefer to think of it as protection,” he said. “Not stalking.” He had lowered his voice, and I bent near it to hear. “Others are more interested in stalking. Stalking prey.”
My chest contracted and I could not draw a deep breath. I used up the half breath on a short question. “How did you know it was me?” I held my hand to my throat to steady the tremble in my voice, an old theater trick.
“You have a very distinctive scarf,” he said. “It’s not difficult to find you. Do not go back to King Street. Stop making enquiries. Let things lie and all shall be well with you. If not . . . they’ll show you they mean business. Wait for it.”
For emphasis, he slammed his fist against or kicked the door—I did not know which. The door violently shuddered and I was not certain if he was trying to break in. I fell back and swallowed a scream so as not to worry the girls.
Nothing more happened. After a few moments, I heard footsteps on the concrete stairs, and I summoned the courage to peep from behind the curtain. A man in an overcoat much too heavy for late spring and with an upturned collar hurried away. By the time he’d reached the street he’d vaporized into the night mists and I could see no more.
I shakily checked the locks once more, and the catches on the windows, before retiring to bed. I lay there, sharply awake, for hours. He’d threatened my life. He’d implied he could have the girls placed somewhere unwelcoming, or dangerous—whatever that King Street property held.
In the morning, I would have Bidwell burn my new bouclé scarf in the rubbish bin.
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAY, 1883
Each day, just before calling hours, Louisa made sure the parlor shone. I changed from my work dress into my best dress day after day and waited, reading, breathing in the delicious smell of fresh biscuits wafting from the kitchen while time passed. After calling hours, I put my work dress back on and returned to the salon to sew with Mother Martha and the girls, putting the final touches on a gown I would soon deliver to Lady Tolfee.
One Thursday our awaited guests finally arrived. Bidwell, though hardly a butler, showed them into the parlor. “Your guests, miss,” he said.
I moved forward and could not hold back a smile when I saw Lord Lockwood. I do not know why the smile came so readily, but it did, and he returned it warmly. His mother, however, did not smile. I cooled my enthusiasm toward her accordingly.
“You must be Lady Lockwood. How do you do?” I held forth my hand. As soon as I did, I realized I should have allowed Lord Lockwood to introduce us.
“As there is no one employed to properly announce our arrival, yes, I am Dowager Lady Lockwood,” she said. “How do you do?”
Dowager? Was Lord Lockwood married, then? It would only be upon his taking a wife that his mother would have used that title.
“Please, do sit down.” I led the way toward a little quartet of chairs centered by a table we’d use for tea things.
Lady Lockwood limped into the room. I did not stare, of course, but I was surprised to see her disadvantaged, as it was not how I’d envisioned her. Lord Lockwood took his mother’s arm and helped her, but she held herself at a stiff reserve and seemed irritated with his attempts. I rushed to indicate that she should sit in the most comfortable of the chairs, and she did though it engulfed her. Louisa brought tea and set it down among us. Mrs. W served.
“Mrs. Woodmore, my mother’s companion and my chaperone,” I said by way of introduction. “She, too, is originally from Hampshire.”
Lady Lockwood lifted her head. “From which family?”
Not from which town, but from which family.
“You wouldn’t know them.” Mrs. W finished pouring and set herself, quietly but firmly, across from the Dowager.
“No, I suspect not.” Lady Lockwood raised her cup to her lips. “I received your gracious note of thanks for having sent over the tea at your father’s interment.”
I nodded.
“Good china,” she continued. “Your mother’s?”
“Yes,” I said, pleased by the compliment. The tart citrus scent of the bergamot in the tea soothed me, as it always did. “You’d met her?”
She did not look away. “Oh yes. Lord Lockwood”—she glanced at her son—“my late husband, that is, ensured that we’d met. I met your father, too, a pleasant, middle-class sort of man. Seemed out of his element,” she continued, “at Winton Park.”
I had nothing to hide. “He was urban. Sophisticated, and he didn’t feel he needed to hide in the country. London was home, for Mamma, too.” There. Take that. As soon as I’d said it, though, I felt shamed. Parrying like this did not bring me nor my parents honor.
“About Winton,�
�� Lord Lockwood began, withdrawing what seemed to be a small leather notebook from his case.
Then the Dowager Lady smiled. “Ah. Winton Park. A beauty. The house, while in desperate need of attention, is magnificent, though perhaps small. And the grounds—the trees, the stream, the geese upon the green. Lovely place, a veritable work of art—though one in need of repair. I can’t imagine why your mother ever left.”
“It does need quite a few things.” Lord Lockwood opened his notebook and drew near to me so we could both see the page. I did not look him in the eye but concentrated downward. I could not avoid the enticing scent of his cologne; I recognized it—Australian sandalwood. Warm, creamy, woody, spicy. His clothes were perfectly tailored.
“Miss Young?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, blushing.
“The repairs, inside and out. Many of them.”
As I glanced down at the book again, I heard a knock upon the door. I stood and opened it and then stepped back. Mother Martha led the way into the room, her clothes clean but worn, and Ruby and Charlotte followed behind her. Ruby had a small linen napkin with bits of bread in it.
“Off to the Mission?” I asked.
Mother Martha nodded. “If it’s still all right by you. I thought I’d ask.”
“It is,” I said. “Ruby . . . what is in that linen?”
“Bread crumbs, miss. For the little pigeons.”
I smiled. “Have a care feeding them. They’ll soon decamp to our doorsteps. Some might consider them pests, and if you feed them, they’ll stay.”
She grinned. “Some might consider us pests, too, miss. But you’re feeding us.”
I laughed. “Off with you, then.” They left, and I turned back to my guests. “Please forgive me. My new seamstresses, by way of the Theatrical Mission. I’ve been offered a commission for the Cinderella gowns at Drury Lane this coming Christmas.”
“Congratulations,” Lord Lockwood said. “That’s an achievement. I’m quite fond of the theater.”
“Did your mother used to perform at the Theatre Royal?” Lady Lockwood enquired.
