A Lady in Disguise

by Sandra Byrd

  On each wall were anchored wardrobe trunks and containers, labeled by gender and sometimes by performance; costumes for Juliet might be found next to a pantomime cow’s skin. Some were to be found here, certainly, that my mother had once worn. They had probably been remade in years since; fitted for other actresses.

  The girls and I worked till midafternoon; I told Ruby she might wander over to the wig room; she made quick friends with the milliner and returned donning a new creation every twenty minutes: first a milkmaid, then the Queen, and finally a scullery maid. She set the tables to laughter.

  Yes, I would speak with Sarah about her, perhaps the following week. I might be able to find another seamstress at the Mission, as Mother Rachel had been using the new treadle to train another apprentice.

  I didn’t want Ruby to leave, though.

  Toward late afternoon we returned home. I hope Louisa prepared something nourishing for dinner, I thought. We were all famished.

  When we rounded the street to approach Cheyne Gardens, I sensed something was wrong. There was a police cart outside of the house, and I could see three or four uniformed officers standing outside of my house on the porch. How many more might be inside?

  “What’s happening, miss?” Charlotte asked me.

  I shook my head. “I do not know.” I looked up and down the street. No rat catcher, no neighbors. Toward the end, near where it turned to the Embankment, was the bakery cart pusher. He was speaking with one of the cops.

  Ah. They’d planted him there.

  Ruby slowed down. I stopped, several houses away from my door, out of sight, I hoped. I did not think that the girls should come with me. I turned to Mother Martha. “I think it best if you take the girls to the Mission.”

  She looked at me serenely; perhaps the day had tired her. “Will you join us?”

  I inhaled. It was tempting. But I had Mrs. W, Louisa, and Bidwell to worry about. Not to mention the fact that it was my home.

  Had this anything to do with the certificates that Lockwood and Colmore Dunn had taken just a day before? Could he have found something so seriously amiss that the police had been sent before informing me? It wasn’t that they wanted to know when I’d be at the theater so they could meet me there. They wanted to know when I’d be away from my house.

  “I shall join you later,” I said. “I hope. Proceed with all speed and remain there until I come to collect you or send for you. Do not leave.”

  Mother Martha nodded, and the girls reached up and embraced me.

  “You’ll be all right, won’t you, miss?” Charlotte asked. “They won’t send you to jail, will they?”

  “There is nothing to send me to jail for,” I said. I hoped I was right.

  “Now, go on with you.” I urged Mother Martha back the way we had come. When they were out of sight, I walked down the street and marched up the steps. Two officers fell in place, blocking my path.

  “This is my house,” I said.

  “The inspector said we should keep you here, miss, till he comes to fetch you.”

  “Then go fetch him!” I could hear my neighbors rustling, and saw some faces peeking from the curtains. The sheer indignity of it all. They’d all heard the rumors about my father, too, I knew.

  Within a few minutes, Collingsworth appeared. “Well, well. Welcome home, Miss Young.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  LONDON AND HAMPSHIRE

  SEPTEMBER, 1883

  I managed to keep my voice steady though I trembled inside. “What is the meaning of making free with my house?”

  “The meaning of this, Miss Young, is that we’ve had some new information that this property might have been purchased with ill-gotten gains.”

  I tilted my head. “Purchased by whom with ill-gotten gains?”

  “Your father, of course,” he said. “The house had a large, and final, payment made on it last year, some months before his death, through a solicitor he was not known to deal with—secretive-like. Where an inspector might come by that kind of money, I’m sure I don’t know. Buying property is an old trick to clean dirty money, one any policeman would know.”

  “He sold some land,” I said. “That is easy enough to trace. You can ask my father’s solicitor, Mr. Pilchuck. That is the most likely source.”

  “Ah, yes, the honorable Mr. Pilchuck. Well, maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Maybe that money went elsewhere. We can’t be sure, now, can we? It will all unwind, and sort itself out, in time, and if ill-gotten gains were used, then the house will no longer be yours. Until then, this house and its contents are under my jurisdiction. I’ll need to have it thoroughly searched, the items impounded, and have everything secured while the legalities are traced.”

  “You shan’t find anything incriminating here,” I insisted.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe something new shall appear since the last time I had it searched. Certificates, for example. I’m very interested in them. Where do you keep your father’s investment certificates, Miss Young?”

  I answered honestly. “In the desk drawer of his office.”

  “Nothing there,” he said.

  That’s right, I thought. Because Colmore Dunn has just taken them. For better or worse, I did not know. But we would all soon find out.

  A fresh and unwelcome thought: Could he plant evidence, here and now, divesting himself of anything that might prove his guilt, onto Papa, conveniently dead and unable to defend himself?

  “I want those certificates, Miss Young.” He drew menacingly near. “And I mean to have them—at any cost.”

  “Where are my staff?” I looked around. No Bidwell. No Louisa.

  “I believe the maid said she was going to her mother’s, and the man to live with a friend. They are long gone.”

  “And my chaperone, Mrs. W?”

  “It was put to her that she might find somewhere to live for a time. Until all of this is sorted out one way or another.”

  “What did you do with her?” My voice was shrill now but I cared not.

  “She’d take a train to stay with her sister, she said,” Collingsworth answered. “About an hour or so ago. She was allowed to take a change of clothing or two and some pocket money. That’s what you’ll be allowed to take, too. Everything else will be kept here, under my guard, until further say-so.”

  My costumes! I would never, ever make the deadline for Cinderella if we all didn’t work on them constantly. “I will need my costumes,” I said.

  “Terribly sorry, Miss Young,” he drawled. “Everything in this house is seized for now.”

  “What could possibly be gained by keeping them?”

  He smiled at me, his onion-skin teeth menacing in the waning daylight. He knew exactly what was to gain. He’s driving me out of my profession; that’s what he’ll do.

  I went to my room to gather some clothing. Collingsworth followed me. The door to my bed cubbyhole was opened.

  “Just checking to see if anything has been added since the last time we looked,” he said. “Neat trick. Smart man, your father. But not as smart as I.”

  I whirled on him. “He was your friend! He defended you against all comers.”

  A twitch of guilt passed his brow but left just as quickly. My letters and papers were spread on the bed. I went to scoop them up, but Collingsworth beat me to it.

  “Allow me.”

  He looked at the love letters and passed them my way. “Of no use to me, or anyone. Take them if you like. Oh, and speaking of love letters, don’t even think of running off to your viscount for help.”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

  “Francis told me all about him—you’ll see him, but not Francis now, will ya? I have it on good account he hasn’t been to see you since your falling out at Tolfee House. Well, the elite aren’t going to help you, my dear, because it would mean turning on their own. That, they will never do.”

  “But you have turned on your own,” I said. “And you are certainly not elite.”

  He mo
ved toward me as though he were going to strike me and I flinched. That brought him pleasure, and he smiled. He flipped the King Street address card on the floor, like a playing card, and the train ticket, too. He opened the letter Papa had written. “Oh—here’s something new.”

  Of course, he had not seen that one. I had received it from Roberts.

  “ ‘You shall be well provided for; our homes will hold both memories and treasures for you and, of course, you have your skills as an excellent seamstress,’ ” he read in a mocking tone. “Well, you have no home now, do you, Miss Young? Nor an engagement as a seamstress. Even if your house may, and I repeat, may, be returned to you after my boys search it, it surely will not be in enough time for you to finish sewing those pretty little frocks upstairs.”

  I gasped. He turned back to the letter.

  “ ‘Marry well, someone you trust and love without reserve, a man who can rescue you, my little “damsel in distress,” should you need it.’ ” He laughed derisively. “You could have had Francis, a worthy suitor. But no. Damsel in distress. Perhaps Young had the gift of seeing the future, too, as this must be right distressing. What a quaint little phrase. Thought he was above himself, he did. Marrying a lord’s daughter.”

  He tossed the paper to me. “ ‘Fear not,’ ” he said, and then shook his head. “Poor advice indeed.”

  I reached down and took the letter. The photograph of the young lady was on the bed. “I’ll take that, too, please,” I said.

  He leaned over and picked it up, looked at the girl, and then slid the photograph into his pocket. “No, I’ll keep this. Pretty little thing. Reminds me of those two young apprentices you keep.”

  My bones went cold. I’d heard the threat. He could not reach them, not for now, anyway. “They know nothing. For goodness’ sake, I know nothing!”

  “Maybe the house knows something, then,” he said, moving his arm around expansively. “I mean to find out if it does. You’d best gather your clothing and leave, Miss Young. It’s getting dark outside. You don’t want to be walking alone in the city, in the dark. Of course”—his eyebrows raised as if he’d just had a good idea—“I could ask Sergeant Jones to escort you wherever you might need to go!”

  I didn’t answer. He watched as I placed some clothing into a bag, praying silently as I did. I took all the money I had in the house, and after searching my bags, he let me go on my way.

  I did not know where I would go, or what I could do. Should I speak with Wilhelm? Professional suicide, even as the seizing of the costumes was a certain death in any case. Perhaps I could find a sympathetic police officer. Francis had said that they were all working for his father in the Chelsea division—surely some were honorable, it’s just that I did not know which ones those were, nor if the problems extended beyond Chelsea.

  Collingsworth must have thought I had something that could do him great harm, and, after I’d told Francis I would not see him again, felt he could no longer contain that risk.

  What could it be? Why now? The certificates. But he’d seen them already—he’d had them returned to me via Francis on the day we’d had our outing in the park. Or was he punishing me for turning Francis down?

  Yes, he was.

  I could not shake the buzzing from my head; nothing made sense. I was cold and hungry and did not know what to do.

  First, I must go to the Mission and ensure the girls were safe.

  • • •

  I headed toward King Street and to the Mission, where I was warmly greeted by Mother Rachel. She took me into the sitting room and brought me a cup of tea in a plain white teacup with a tiny chip on the handle.

  “Are you quite well?” she asked.

  “I am,” I said. “But then again, I am not.”

  I set my garment bag down and within a few minutes, Ruby and Charlotte came bounding up the stairs from the work-training area.

  “Oh, miss, we were so worried!” Charlotte looked like she had been crying and even Ruby looked like she tottered on the edge of tears.

  “Are you going to jail, then?” she asked.

  I shook my head. In truth, I did not know where I could go.

  “Maybe we can move to your big house,” Charlotte said. Ah, she must mean Winton. Hadn’t I told the girls it had been donated?

  It was still free for my use for a few days, till the transaction was concluded on Friday, four days hence.

  Wait.

  I set my teacup down with some force, and the girls looked up at me with alacrity.

  I held my hand up to silence them for a moment. I must think.

  Papa must have brought something to Winton Park. Why else would he have been there just before his death? To hide something. And Collingsworth knew that and had gone after Papa had left, looking for it.

  Whatever it was, though, it had not been found, or Collingsworth would not be desperate enough to seize Cheyne, thereby drawing attention to himself. Something plus . . . the certificates? Yes, there was something with the certificates, certainly. But there must be more. Notes. Incriminating investigation notes. It’s what they’d all said the criminals were after.

  But the notes weren’t at Cheyne; they were at Winton, which, for the moment, was still owned by the Cause until it transferred to Thomas. They must be. I’d cleaned Cheyne top to bottom when the girls had moved in; Collingsworth had searched it twice before. Papa’s letter referred to Winton, obliquely.

  I’d tried and failed to find what was hidden at Winton. Collingsworth had, too. I must try again and not fail this time. I had so little time. I must find what Papa had intended me to find without anyone knowing I was going.

  But how could I get to Winton without Inspector Collingsworth seeing me? I then mused aloud. “He’d follow me. Even if I availed myself of help, from Thomas or anyone, he’d immediately seize that house, too, in desperation. He still believes there is something to be found. Or is it only the certificates he’s looking for?”

  “Who would follow you, miss?” Ruby asked. “That bad man? Do you need me to make a wig for you?”

  My eyes widened. I thought back on my orange-seller disguise. No one sees me as “me” when I am dressed as a servant. “Ruby! Yes, yes, I do. You have just given me the perfect idea. For a while, Cinderella must return to being a maid. Can you girls help me?”

  “We can!” Charlotte said. “What should we do?”

  Mother Martha could bustle Ruby back to Drury Lane to ask if she might borrow a wig—from her new milliner friend—and a maid’s costume. I told her the name of a dresser I knew would help. “A brunette wig,” I said. “With lots of curly hair to cover my face.”

  I knew maids were to have had hair pulled back, but in this case, I had to conceal myself, and that took precedence over propriety.

  “Can the girls and Mother Martha stay with you? I know it is your policy to encourage people not to return so you may take on the newly needy, but . . .”

  Mother Rachel sighed. “Yes. We are plum full. But I am reminded of the Scripture exhorting us to be not forgetful to entertain strangers.”

  “Thank you! It would only be for a day or two.” I would either have to find what I needed to find by then or I would have to return to London and admit to Wilhelm that the costumes would not be completed in time, tell him that his very expensive fabrics and beading had been seized, and he’d have to find someone else to sew, quickly, in the midst of the busy Season.

  No one would ever hire me again, were that to happen.

  My society designing commissions had already ended.

  Worse . . . where would my girls go? Ruby, perhaps to Sarah. But dear, quiet Charlotte, who did not stand out as Ruby did, but had a tender and strong heart. She could not be left alone.

  “Go quickly, now!” Ruby and Mother Martha left for the theater, which was not far away.

  Within the hour, Ruby and Mother Martha returned with a maid’s costume and a billowing brunette wig. In spite of the solemnity of the task, and the difficulty
of the day, we all broke out in laughter once I was dressed as an ill-mannered maid.

  “They shan’t recognize you, miss,” Charlotte said. “I never would, and I’m used to seeing actresses.” The rest of them agreed.

  I asked Mother Rachel for a piece of paper and pen, so I might write a letter of introduction for myself as a hired maid come to pack the costumes for Miss Young, in case anyone stopped me. I had enough money for train fare there and back.

  Once I was ready, Mother Rachel lent me a shawl and tucked a tin of biscuits into my bag along with some candles and matches. I was ready to take the day’s last train to Hampshire. I would arrive in the dark, but that was perhaps best, as Collingsworth and his men would not be expecting this tonight, and were busy merrily picking through the bones of my home.

  “Will you . . . Will you be able to sort out whatever this is?” Mother Rachel looked doubtful, but I could not allow her fears and doubts to daunt my courage at this moment.

  I nodded.

  I slipped out an hour later, hidden in a crowd of young women who had been listening to a rousing speech.

  I thought back to what Thomas had said. Every thrust has its parry and each parry its riposte. The parry is the main weapon. To be a good fencer, it is not just a show of good grace, vivacity, and to thrust with accuracy. The great point is to know how to defend and ward off the blows that the enemy gives.

  Do you have enemies, Lord Lockwood? I’d asked.

  I do, Miss Young. He’d sat next to me. So do you. We all do.

  I can parry. I shall.

  I must.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE