A Lady in Disguise

by Sandra Byrd

  I stepped into the Little Parlor, which was glorious and gold-gilted in the early-summer sun. Lockwood rose. “Miss Young.”

  I came near, and as I did warmth and joy ran through me. “Lord Lockwood, how pleasant, and unexpected, to see you.” My heart raced. Unexpected, yes, but certainly not unwelcome.

  I remonstrated with myself. Isn’t that why you’d sent a gift, hoping he’d return the call to thank you?

  I blushed, and he grinned. He must know, too.

  “I came to thank you for the Turkish coffee,” he said. “It is the finest I’ve ever had. You’ll have to share the name of the shop where you purchased it.”

  I opened my mouth to offer the name of the proprietor but realized that would forestall my needing to take him there . . . if I so chose. “You’re very welcome,” I said.

  “My mother was delighted with the gloves.” His voice was soft. “It was a truly kind thing to do.”

  “The gifts were my pleasure. I was delighted to learn she sews.”

  He walked up to me, close to me, and lowered his voice while holding my gaze. “I hope to offer you a ride to the train station. I’d planned to return to London just ahead of the Vernissage. I’ve changed my plans so I will return to London early. Today. With you.” He smiled and it lit my world.

  I smiled back. “Thank you.” I didn’t move nor look away, nor did he, till Davidson interrupted the moment. “Your bags are in the carriage, miss.”

  Lockwood held out his arm to me. “Shall we?”

  He told his driver to take the long way to the station, and on the way pointed out all the local landmarks, and waved in a friendly manner to the villagers we passed, who seemed to hold him with genuine affection.

  “I should tell you about the time I got lost,” he said. “And they had to rescue me, delivering me on muleback to my father who was not at all pleased to learn my horse had bolted and the workingmen had to break their day to return me.”

  He told the story, and when he was done, I was giggling. I told him of how I once crawled beneath one of the stages, hoping to spy on my mother, but was trapped there, with my cat, who mewled off and on for all five acts, requiring the actors to speak loudly and cover up the noise. I had no pudding for a month after that event. “But it had been worth it,” I said.

  “My adventure had been, too,” he agreed, and we smiled a bonding kind of smile.

  I fastened my hat and shook my head a little to fluff the feathers. A strange look flittered across his face.

  “Turkish tobacco.” He bent toward the hat Sarah had made for me and sniffed. “Yes, it’s a distinctive and rare blend, one very recently, and exclusively, acquired by a man in the City of London Club. Trades in Turkish goods, invests in tin mines in Singapore. Set for life, really.”

  I took the hat in hand. “The new fabric and feather must have captured and held the scent.”

  He nodded, and looked strangely at me.

  As we made our way to the train platform, I thought, The only people who have smoked near my person, while I wore this hat, were Francis and his father. Surely they could not be good friends with someone at Lord Lockwood’s club.

  Could they be?

  The train trip was pleasant—we laughed and discussed our favorite plays and he told me about his school days and I regaled him with entertaining tidbits about Miss Genevieve’s Day School for Young Ladies and how Miss Genevieve had not only encouraged my profession, but influenced my hopes for the future. When the train arrived in London we stood on the platform together. I did not want to say good-bye. I did not think he wanted to, either, because we stood together not moving nor speaking, affection and attraction thick between us.

  “Would you . . . would you like me to show you the shop where I purchased your Turkish coffee?” I asked.

  His face lit. “Yes, what a splendid idea. My new driver will be waiting outside the station.”

  His beautiful carriage was, indeed, waiting. I was surprised to see that for as polished as the carriage was, his new driver was rough. He looked worn by the elements and I noticed he had only one hand. Unusual for a driver.

  Once I told the driver the name of the shop, and we were settled in the back of the carriage, and our bags put on board, Lockwood turned to quietly address me. He must have noted my surprise. “He was begging outside of one of my gentlemen’s clubs. Former military. Honorably wounded.”

  “What a lovely gesture.” I was genuinely touched.

  “Do for one what you cannot do for many, isn’t that right, Miss Young? I believe the Lord has His eye on the downtrodden but he desires us to join Him in His important work. ‘He that giveth unto the poor shall not lack: but he that hideth his eyes shall have many a curse.’ ”

  “Proverbs,” I said, and I nodded as he took my hand in his, moved that he’d remembered my saying that about helping one, if not many.

  “Precisely.”

  We soon arrived at the coffee shop, and after securing us a table by a window, Lockwood asked, “Do you mind if I order for us both?”

  I shook my head. “I’m delighted by surprises,” I said. “And I rarely get to enjoy any.”

  He went to the counter and then returned and sat across from me. The rain sluiced down the outside of the window, a direct contrast to the cheerful room and the warmth easily circulating between the two of us.

  “I hope to start a charity of some kind for wounded veterans,” he said. “As Viscount, I cannot do my bit in the way I would have preferred, with the troops, but this is something I can do.”

  Our coffee was delivered to the table in brass and glass cups, looking like nothing so much as deeply muddy water. “We’re to drink this?” I enquired politely. It was twice as dark and thick as the one Charlotte had enjoyed.

  “We are.” He smiled and placed two lumps of natural sugar in my cup with the tiny gold tongs. “I hope to make things sweeter for you,” he said, looking in my eyes as he said it, a promise, really.

  What could he mean? When the tea cakes were brought, I served him and picked up the thread of our conversation. “I, too, have been thinking of a charity, one for the pantomime children.”

  “Like your apprentices.” He poured himself a second coffee with the steadiest of hands.

  My own were already shaking as if I’d had a pot of tea to myself.

  “Would you like some more?” he asked.

  I laughed. “No, I suspect I shall already have difficulty sewing a straight line for some time.”

  He laughed with me. “Your charity sounds delightful.”

  We spent an hour talking of Cinderella, and theater and music.

  “How did it come by that your mother became an actress?” he asked. His voice did not reflect disdain.

  “The traveling troupes,” I said. “Year after year, my grandfather hired a grand troupe to perform on his vast lawn for the benefit of his friends and peers. He did not know that my mother was secretly, delightedly, dressing up in costume and practicing lines. One year when they came, she returned to London with them. My own father loved theater, and music,” I said. “That is how they met.”

  “My father did not appreciate either theater or music.” Lord Lockwood’s voice grew both sad and firm. “There was not much he enjoyed.”

  “You did not . . . enjoy a companionable relationship?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Pity,” I responded. “My papa was wonderful.”

  He took my hand in his own but the look on his face was not really one of sympathy alone. It was, perhaps, also one of concern. Or disdain? Perhaps, or perhaps it was one of covering up.

  “Did you know my father?” I asked. I had the feeling he must, but I did not know how.

  “A little,” was his only answer. He looked away, ending that portion of the conversation.

  We talked comfortably for a few more minutes, and then he led me to the glass apothecary jars filled with sweets. “Which do you prefer?”

  “Oh, Ruby and Charlotte woul
d love the jellies,” I answered.

  He took my arm firmly in his own. “Which would you prefer?” he asked once more. “The gift is not for the young ladies, deserving as they may be. It is for you.”

  I smiled; no one had purchased sweets for me since I was a girl and Papa had taken me to a sweet shop.

  I pointed out a few I knew I’d enjoy. “And these”—I indicated a few odd-looking candies—“because they are altogether new and untested.”

  “Ah, there’s the thing, my daring Miss Young.” He went to fetch the shopkeeper, and as he did, I relished the phrase once, twice, thrice. My Miss Young. His!

  He returned with six or seven large bags. “I shall never eat all of these,” I said, and then laughed.

  “I want them to last,” he said softly. “So you’ll think of me each day.”

  I nodded and ran my finger down the back of his hand. “I shall. With or without a reminder.”

  His driver came round to the front, and Lord Lockwood told him to head toward Cheyne Gardens.

  “I do so appreciate the sweets,” I said. “But I am certain they cannot make up for the bitter news I shared with your mother. I wanted to be the one to tell her.”

  “That you are considering donating Winton Park to the Cause.”

  Anger rose in my chest. I should have known. His mother had already shared my news. “Yes. It was my mother’s clear wish.”

  “Understandable, then,” he said, but a strange look—doubt, perhaps, or the suppression of knowledge—flickered across his eyes and brow. “It is certainly a weighty decision, and not one to be lightly, or quickly, undertaken. There are other options. A sale.”

  “Are you trying to dissuade me?” I asked. Had he come with me, then, this day, to plead his case as a potential purchaser? His substantial holdings in the area, which, as the carriage driver had told me, Lockwood increased each year, were not enough land to satisfy him?

  “I trust you know your mind, Miss Young. I would not seek to persuade you, or anyone, against your will and better judgment.”

  “I think your mother has a concern that someone unsuitable will move in.” We rounded the corner down my street.

  He nodded. “Yes.” At least the man was honest.

  “I think she would find me unsuitable,” I said.

  He came close and took my hands in his own. “She may at that, Miss Lockwood. But I do not find you unsuitable in the least.”

  For a moment, I wondered what he should have said if I’d changed the word unsuitable for undesirable. I did not want to remove my hands, and I wished his motives to be personal and unmixed. As I moved to get out of the carriage, I bumped the feather on my hat against the doorframe and wondered once more about that Turkish tobacco. I just did not know. It seemed to me that once I had understood nearly everything about everyone, but now I understood almost nothing about everyone I knew and had known.

  Lockwood saw me to the door of my home, and while our gazes lingered, he did not kiss me good night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning, I found Mrs. W in a flurry, and I could tell she’d been crying. Had I ever seen her cry before? I could not remember. She held a letter toward me. “My sister’s husband has died and she’s asked me to come after the burial. I’d like to go. But I cannot leave you alone, my dear. However will you manage without me?”

  “But of course, you must go. Mother Martha is here. And you’ll be back soon.” I did not want to tell her I could manage quite well without her, not at this delicate moment.

  She lightened. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “And,” I reminded her, “I’m a woman grown, and not of the class which requires a constant chaperone.”

  At that, she agreed. “The Cause . . . I’ve promised to give the sermon this week.”

  “I shall let them know you’ve been called away. Surely Mrs. Finley can step in.”

  She took a deep breath. I’d never seen her so out of order. “Yes, that will do. As long as the text is covered properly, and I can’t be certain of that without being there. But . . . thank you, my dear. I shall be gone a few weeks. I’m finally looking forward to time spent with my sister.”

  It seemed an odd sentiment, but I had no sister so perhaps I did not understand. Within a day she had taken her leave.

  The post that had been delivered while I was at Hampshire waited for me. A letter from Mr. Pilchuck informed that while it would take him till the close of July to sort out all the financial and legal details, he wanted to reassure me that any death duties and immediate expenses had been paid with money set aside by my father. Mr. Pilchuck had already transferred ownership of Winton Park to my name.

  As Mrs. W was not at home, I jotted off a note to Mr. Pilchuck, thanking him for his attention and asking him for a small favor: Might he look into the ownership of the house on King Street? I desired to know who owned it, and since when. Had it any licenses? Mr. Pilchuck had told me to write if I had further questions, after all.

  Then, I took a few hours to unpack my bags from Hampshire, placing my mother’s pressed flower book in the sitting room, on the console, a place where it could be readily seen but also protected from the rolling in of the tea trolley. My clothes I gave to Louisa to have the visiting laundress care for, and then I returned to the salon to view Lady Tolfee’s gowns, taking my mother’s pincushion with me.

  Once upstairs, Ruby insisted I take a seat. “Charlotte and Mother Martha did most of the work, and I know they are too modest to show you, so I will!” She brought the Impressionist gown out first, for Lady Tolfee.

  I clapped with delight. “Simply stunning!” I had seen the pieces, of course, but Mother Martha had finished beading the starry bodice and Charlotte had sewn the pieces together. All that remained for me was finishing up the embroidery, which I would do that very day.

  Next, Ruby brought out the sky blue silk gown that we’d made for Lady Tolfee’s daughter, Mary. Mother Martha had beaded tiny crystals all over so it, too, would stand out, just not quite as much as Lady Tolfee’s. I smiled.

  “I am so pleased and proud of you all. This calls for a celebration. A few weeks hence, a friend of my mother’s has invited me to a charity, and we shall all attend.”

  Now Ruby clapped her hands and Charlotte looked supremely pleased; Mother Martha looked pleased, too, but I suspected it was because the girls were so happy.

  “And,” I continued, “you shall each have something to spend whichever way you so choose.”

  Even Charlotte clapped now. It was unlikely that either of them had had pin money before; most pantomime actresses had to turn their money over to their parents. Ruby’s comments reminded me, though, that there was little for her to do here because I could not entrust her with the fabric, or the sewing. For now, I had her measuring and sorting but could not afford to keep her for that. I may even have to hire another seamstress. One who could sew. But could I keep Ruby on, then?

  Mother Martha picked up Little Women and read a few pages, as she did now and again, while we finished our projects. I listened, but didn’t hear, lost in my work for a time. Suddenly, though, my ears and heart prickled at the same time.

  “ ‘I want to do something splendid . . . something heroic or wonderful that won’t be forgotten after I’m dead,’ ” she read. “ ‘I don’t know what, but I’m on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all someday.’ ”

  I set my sewing down. Everyone else was deep in their work and didn’t seem to notice. Little Women was my and Mamma’s book. Winton was ours, shared, too.

  Yes. I want to do something heroic and wonderful that won’t be forgotten after I’m dead.

  I picked up my needle again, and as I plied it, a disheartening proposition threaded itself through my heart and mind.

  Donate Winton.

  • • •

  A few days later, I told Louisa not to hold dinner for me as I had a delivery to make to Drury Lane. I took a carriage to the theater and then ran the pieces
in, handing them, but not the bag with Lady Tolfee’s gown, to one of the dressers, but he grabbed my arm as I went to leave.

  “Wilhelm wants to speak with you.” His voice was firm and unfriendly, and it unsettled me.

  I sat in one of the unused dressing rooms, waiting, the theater commotion burbling around me. Normally it was a soothing sound, but not today. Could I have done something wrong? Perhaps I was to have returned the wigs I’d given Ruby. I should see to that right away.

  Wilhelm came in and sat next to me. “Miss Young.”

  “Yes, sir, I waited when I heard you wanted to speak with me. I’m just finishing the sketches for Cinderella. You’ll love them, I promise. Would you like me to run them by you before I begin sewing?”

  He shook his head. “No, dear, I know your designs will be fine. I mean to speak with you about . . . the police.”

  “The police?” My voice was shrill, I knew. I needed to keep it low. I swallowed. “My father was an officer,” I said by way of feeble explanation.

  He nodded. “A few officers stopped by yesterday. Wanted to know if you kept an office of sorts here, anywhere you might keep or store things, and if so, they’d like to search them. Said an officer who’d worked with your father had died and they had not found all of his notes, but believed you might have them. I told them nothing was kept here; you sewed at your salon with those in your employ, like other seamstresses in the theater industry, and they seemed comfortable with that.”

  A throbbing began in my skull. “Thank you. I . . . don’t know what they’d be looking for. I am not involved in anything unsavory.”

  “I trust you, Gillian. But when the police visit, it upsets everyone. Changes the mood behind the stage, in the green room, before curtain time. Even our guests . . .” He moved his arm expansively. “They come for entertainment and to forget the cares of the world for a few hours.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “I’m relieved to know you feel that is the end of the matter.” He took my hand in his own and squeezed it. “I shall have the materials you’ve requested for Cinderella delivered soon.”