It wasn’t hard to guess why Miss Kittering—youngest of six children, and the only one still unmarried—had to go in secret to meetings of the London Fairy Society. Wealth, her mother had; good breeding, she could not buy; that left respectability as the final component of an ideal life, and Mrs. Kittering pursued respectability with everything in her power.
Which posed certain difficulties for Eliza. The easiest way to keep watch over Miss Kittering would be to join the household as a maid. To do that, however, she needed a character from her previous employer. Mrs. DiGiuseppe had been a decent enough sort, but her recommendation would not help Eliza here; the word of an East End Italian would more likely see her kicked out on the spot.
Fortunately for her, the Kittering household could not keep maids for love or money. Mrs. Kittering, it seemed, was the problem; she was a dreadful mistress, eternally sacking maids for trivial shortcomings, and those she didn’t sack soon quit to seek a position elsewhere. Had Eliza been looking for employment on ordinary terms, she would never have applied here. But she only needed to spend a little while in the Kittering household, and the rapid change of staff made the housekeeper more desperate in her hiring choices than she might otherwise be.
Or so Eliza hoped. The character in Mrs. Fowler’s hands was falsified; if she was the sort of sensible housekeeper who visited the previous employer to inquire in person, she would soon discover the lie. But surely she cannot spare such time, not when she’s so often hiring.
Mrs. Fowler sniffed and turned the paper over, as if expecting there should be more to say about a good maid’s morals, honesty, cleanliness, capability, temper, and health. “Elizabeth White,” she said. When Eliza nodded, she shook her head. “Not here, you won’t be. The missus is still mourning Hannah—the only good maid she ever had—and doesn’t see why she should learn a new maid’s name. If you work here, you’ll be Hannah. How often do you go to church?”
Eliza hadn’t attended Mass since last October, but she suspected “never” would be a more welcome word out of her mouth than “Mass.” Mrs. Fowler, according to rumor, was a stout evangelical. “Whenever I can,” she said, “work permitting. I study my Bible at nights, if I cannot go to church.” Why did I just say that? I’ll never be able to afford a Bible.
But it made Mrs. Fowler look pleased. “How would you wash a silk handkerchief?”
Mrs. DiGiuseppe had never owned such a thing. “Gently,” Eliza said, trying to think what would make sense. “I would, ah—soak it for a time, and see if that lifts the dirt free, and if not—ah, perhaps scrub at any stains with my fingers—”
The pleased look faded; clearly there were secrets to the washing of silk handkerchiefs that Eliza did not know. “And the recipe for starch?”
There, she was on firmer ground. “Half a pint of cold water, and one quart boiling, for every two tablespoonfuls of starch; but the hot water must be properly boiling when it’s added. And I stir it with a wax candle to prevent the iron from sticking.”
“Which also gives a smooth appearance to the linen.” Mrs. Fowler seemed satisfied with that answer, at least. “Show me your teeth— Well, I suppose they will suffice. What illnesses have you had?”
“Measles and scarlet fever. And my mum took me to be vaccinated against smallpox.” Actually it had been Mrs. Darragh, behind the back of Eliza’s mother. They had to go to an English doctor for it, and many of Whitechapel’s residents were suspicious of that, even though the vaccination was free. Or perhaps especially because it was.
Mrs. Fowler pursed her lips at Eliza’s character again, as if something about it was bothering her. But after a moment, she folded it briskly and said, “I can take you on as an under-housemaid. You don’t have the skills for more, but if you last here you might learn enough for a better position. Your pay will be twelve pounds yearly plus an allowance for tea, sugar, and beer, and you will have one evening off each week, one day off each month. On Sundays you will accompany me to church.”
She said nothing about an annual holiday; Eliza doubted maids stayed long enough to claim such a thing. “Thank you, Mrs. Fowler. That sounds very good.” And it did, strangely enough. Twelve pounds yearly! Without her having to pay for lodgings every night, or walk miles through London’s streets shouting herself hoarse. It was more than she earned as a struggling costerwoman, and for that matter, more than she’d earned as Mrs. DiGiuseppe’s slavey. So this is what working for wealth looks like.
But it came with a price: working for Mrs. Kittering, and lying about who she was. And an under-housemaid would have less opportunity to spy upon Miss Kittering than one who worked above stairs. Eliza’s enthusiasm was therefore tempered by the time Mrs. Fowler asked, “How soon can you begin?”
“Oh, as soon as may be,” she hastened to assure the housekeeper. “Today, if you like.”
“I will show you the house, then, and tonight you may go fetch your things—” She broke off at Eliza’s muted reaction. “What is it?”
Eliza ducked her head, embarrassed. “There—there isn’t anything to fetch, ma’am. Just this.” She touched one shoe to her bundle on the floor, then jerked her foot back before Mrs. Fowler could notice the shoe was a man’s boot, with cracked leather and worn heel. Every last penny had gone into the dress and the character, with tuppence left over for a bath; shoes could run as much as a shilling, even secondhand. No one in Whitechapel could, or would, spare her that kind of money.
The housekeeper’s expression turned forbidding. “You have nothing else to your name?”
If she didn’t come up with a good explanation, Mrs. Fowler might follow up on that character, and then the entire thing would fall apart. Eliza tried to hide her worry—then thought the better of it, and let her distress show through. “I’m sorry, ma’am—I know it’s disgraceful—it’s my brother, you see, he fell sick. Measles, it was, and I nursed him, because I’d had it before; but then it got into his lungs, and we paid all we had to the doctor, but it wasn’t enough. He’s dead now. This is the last good dress I have, and I sold my good shoes, and—please, ma’am, I need this job. I promise I’ll save every penny, and make myself respectable again as fast as I may.”
Mrs. Fowler sniffed, but her expression softened by a hair. “Very well. Ann Wick is the upper-housemaid; she will lend you a dress until you receive your first week’s pay. I’ll expect you to look better by this day week.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eliza had risen from her chair during that inspired bit of lying; now she bobbed a curtsy. In one week’s time, I could be gone entirely. But I’ll have four shillings and more to show for it, and that’s never a bad thing.
“Follow me, then,” Mrs. Fowler said, opening the door and leading her toward the stairs. “I’ll show you the room you’ll share with Ann, and then you can begin cleaning the carpets in the morning room.”
The Goblin Market, Onyx Hall: March 26, 1884
“Get ’im! Come on, rip ’is fucking throat out!”
Dead Rick’s lips peeled back in a snarl. Half at the dog across from him, half at the voices egging them on. Stupid whelp, he cursed himself. Should ’ave knowed better than to do your sniffing in dog form. Gives the bastards ideas.
He had plenty of reason to curse himself out. On the one hand, he’d found Rewdan: good for him. On the other hand, Rewdan was the stringy padfoot cur snarling back at him, and the mob was howling for one of them to die.
What the other faerie had done to land himself here, Dead Rick didn’t know. Maybe he’d just wandered by in dog form, as Dead Rick had, and run afoul of some drunk goblin, again as Dead Rick had. Or maybe he’d gotten on the wrong side of Nadrett. They were in the pit outside the master’s chamber, and that was the place for two things: entertainment and punishment.
The crowd was out for blood, sure enough; the pit floor was strewn with the broken bodies of three dead dogs, mortal beasts thrown down here to challenge the padfoot, and if Dead Rick wasn’t careful he’d be the fourth. Rewdan was tired, though, and wait
ing for his opportunity. Dead Rick circled, crouching low, trying to think of a way out that didn’t involve one or the other of them bleeding his last into the filthy sand of the pit. He couldn’t ask the padfoot any questions if either of them was dead.
The mob didn’t like the delay. A chicken bone clipped Dead Rick’s ear, hurled into the pit by some impatient spectator, and he flinched; in a flash, Rewdan attacked.
Dead Rick twisted under the padfoot’s rush, barely managing to keep his feet. He reared up, trying to get an advantage of height, but the other faerie did the same; their chests slammed together, paws scrabbling for purchase, breath hot in each other’s ears. Dead Rick managed to get a bite of something soft, and Rewdan yelped, but then toenails raked his ribs and he echoed the sound. They broke away from each other, snapping, feinting lunges, and the watchers cheered them on.
Now he had to keep a bit of his awareness on everything else, not just the other dog, for fear he’d be caught by surprise again. But the padfoot was panting hard; he probably couldn’t manage so quick a rush again. Tire him out a bit more, then go for his throat—
They wouldn’t let him stop short of tearing it out, though. Unless …
A shift in the air made him tense, expecting another hurled bone. What it brought instead was a new scent, barely discernible over the blood-stink of the pit, and the oddly sour smell of the other dog. And it gave Dead Rick a very dangerous idea.
Probably won’t work. But I ain’t got nothing better.
He feinted another lunge, then pulled up short as if it pained the bleeding scratches where the other dog had raked him. Rewdan took the bait, and leapt for him again.
This time Dead Rick let himself go under. He kept his paws between their bodies as best he could, fending off the padfoot’s weight, hoping he was right and Rewdan was too tired to resist if Dead Rick tried to throw him off. But he let himself be wrestled onto his back, matted fur grinding into the filthy sand, and the padfoot’s jaws dove for his throat—
A thunderclap obliterated the cheers. Rewdan jerked sideways, and all the strength went abruptly out of his body; he collapsed onto Dead Rick, no longer fighting, his snarls twisting off into an agonized whine. The reek of blood flooded Dead Rick’s nose, obliterating the sour smell: blood, and acrid gunpowder. He squirmed out from under the padfoot’s twitching, dying body, and looked up.
Nadrett stood at the top of the stairs, a smoking pistol in his hand. Raggedly, the arena fell into silence; even those cursing their losses over the padfoot stopped when they saw the cause.
Dead Rick’s master waited until he had quiet, except for the padfoot’s last, gasping breaths. Then he said, “Who put my dog in the pit?”
No one answered. Nadrett lifted his gun again. It was a Galenic Academy design, adapted from the American Colt so as to fire elfshot; the cylinder clicked smoothly around as the master cocked it a second time. “I decide ’ow long my dogs live, and ’ow they die. And I ain’t given no orders for this other one to die. Who put ’im in there?”
Confession would win nothing for the guilty party, except possibly a bullet between the eyes. Betrayal, however, was more profitable. A dozen hands moved to point, at seven different targets. Nadrett aimed his revolver at the one who had collected the most fingers: a puck in a knee-length leather coat. “Nithen, put ’im in the cages. I’ll deal with ’im later.”
The fetch shoved his way through the crowd to obey. Dead Rick, crouching in the pit, didn’t look at the dead padfoot. He’d hoped Nadrett would end the fight; he’d known Nadrett might end it with murder. It told him what he needed to know, which was that the master had, in fact, given the order for Rewdan to die. Which meant there never would have been any chance to question him, regardless of how the fight ended. Dead Rick hadn’t found him fast enough.
The master left the room, trailed by his lieutenants. Only when he was gone did the voices feel safe to rise, grumbling to one another and settling their bets. Dead Rick gathered his back feet under himself, waiting for a small gap to open up in the crowd; with a tired leap he made it to the pit’s edge. Then he wormed his way between the legs until he reached the wall, where he could safely change back to man form.
“Bloody clever of you.” Gresh leaned against the wall nearby, digging in his pockets for pipe and tobacco. “Getting Nadrett to settle it like that. Cost me a mint, you bastard; I’d bet Rewdan wouldn’t drop ’til the fifth fight.”
Maybe there was still some hope of finding out what the padfoot had been doing. “Who was ’e, anyway, and did ’e bite Nadrett in the knackers, or what? ’Ow’d ’e get ’imself stuck down there?”
Gresh shrugged. “Ain’t seen ’im before myself. I ’eard ’e’s some kind of courier, and tried to sell some of ’is shipment to the Academy. You know, make a little bread on the side.”
“Shipment?” Dead Rick straightened, despite the complaints of his weary back. “What was ’e carrying?”
The goblin hawked and spat, then began sucking on the pipe. “The sort of thing the Academy likes. I look like a bleeding scholar to you?” Dead Rick held his breath, not wanting to betray his curiosity by prompting. Gresh got his pipe properly lit, then said, “Compounds of some kind. Lunar caustic, satyr’s bile—valuable, from what I ’ear, but not if it gets you on Nadrett’s bad side.”
Dead Rick knew enough to recognize those as faerie compounds, rather than mortal. Brought in from Faerie itself? Perhaps. One of them must have been what he smelled on the padfoot, that oddly sour scent. Dead Rick opened his mouth to ask what Nadrett wanted them for, but closed it before he could be that stupid. Gresh wouldn’t know—but he’d take note of the fact that Dead Rick had asked. And maybe sell that information to others.
Someone in the Academy might know what they were useful for, at least. Whoever Rewdan had tried to sell to, if that rumor was true. Some of the scholars weren’t above getting their materials from the unclean hands of the Goblin Market.
To distract Gresh from the real point, he said, “Am I going to ’ave ’is friends coming after me?”
“Friends, hah. Think anybody’s ’is friend, after ’e got dropped in there?” Gresh jerked his patchy beard at the pit.
Well, that was one less worry. Now all I’ve got to worry about is Nadrett. “Sorry you bet on Rewdan. I’ll buy you a beer in the Crow’s Head, to make up for it.” One good thing from the breakdown of the palace: it had forced the pub to move from its old location to a spot inside the Goblin Market, where Dead Rick could go freely.
“That don’t ’alf make up my losses,” Gresh complained, but he was never one to turn down beer. And it would give him reason to forget anything Dead Rick had said. Clapping one hand on the goblin’s shoulder with a friendliness he didn’t feel, Dead Rick headed for the pub.
Cromwell Road, South Kensington: March 27, 1884
To the uncritical eye, Miss Louisa Kittering’s bedroom appeared a model of respectable young femininity. It was agreeably papered in a floral pattern, with sunny landscapes and paintings of birds upon the walls, and a soft rose carpet upon the floor. The lace-trimmed curtains at the windows were neatly tied back; the one minor sign of disarray was an embroidery frame balanced upon the arm of a chair, as if the needlewoman had set it down just a moment ago, and would return at any second. But the frame had lain there since Eliza began working in the Kitterings’ house three days ago, and not a stitch had been added to its contents in that time: one of many little marks of Miss Kittering’s rebellion.
Eliza studied the room, running the tip of her tongue absently through the gap in her teeth. She kept being distracted by the Kitterings’ unfathomable wealth; the lace on the curtains alone was worth more than she would earn in a year. Every time she touched something, she felt guilty, as if the basic grubbiness of her own birth would somehow stain the finery. If the Kitterings weren’t so desperate for servants, she never would have had a place here; everything around her, even the servants’ quarters in the garret, shouted that she didn’t belong.<
br />
I’m only here for one thing, Eliza reminded herself. Once that was done, she could go back to where she did belong. But first: Where would a young lady hide her secrets?
Not under the mattress. In a house like this, mattresses were turned every day, and the linens aired; Eliza would have seen it her first morning. Nor behind the headboard of the bed, which had been her second guess. She’d had regrettably little time for prying, though; if she fell behind on her tasks, Mrs. Fowler would come looking. And if Eliza were found with her nose in the young miss’s belongings, a sacking would be the least of her concerns.
But she had to keep trying. As quietly as she could, Eliza dragged a chair to the wardrobe, then tossed a rag over the seat to protect it from her shoes. The top of the wardrobe, unfortunately, held nothing more than a shameful quantity of dust, undisturbed by any human touch. Underneath was cleaner, but likewise empty.
She put the chair back, wondering if she dared search the writing desk. There was little reason for any honest maid to be going through those drawers, and if someone were to find her … Eliza told herself it was not merely caution that kept her away, but common sense. Mrs. Kittering was very obviously the sort of mother who had no compunctions about going through her daughter’s letters. If Louisa was keeping secrets—and her behavior in Islington made it clear she was—then she had to be keeping them elsewhere.
Such as inside the wardrobe. Eliza threw the doors open, preparing a variety of suitable lies in case someone were to come upon her, and began to rummage through.
If there were any false panels built in, she’d have to find them another day; she couldn’t spare that kind of time now. But Eliza dug swiftly through the clothes and shoes, making sure there was nothing tucked away in a back corner—and then her eyes fell upon the hatboxes at the top.
With Fate Conspire Page 8
