Her Royal Payne

by Shana Galen

  She held the glass to him, and he took it and drank. He was suddenly very thirsty.

  “Mees Okoro ees très belle,” she said.

  “What does that mean?” he asked, stupidly. At least he felt stupid. All of that time spent gathering his courage, and this was the first thing he said? He knew a bit of French, but now she would think him ignorant.

  “You will see for yourself, monsieur.” She moved away from him, trailing a long, elegant finger along the back of the couch. “The dress ees a little long. Phaedra is making the adjustments to the hem, and then voilà. The reveal.” She gestured to the raised platform.

  “Will we have to return?” Chibale said, hopefully. Perhaps he would have another chance to make a better impression.

  “No.” Madame Renaud waved her hand. “The hem ees a small thing. We always leave it unfinished for adjustments. My girl Betsy can finish it like that.” She snapped to illustrate.

  Chibale set his empty glass on a table and removed his hat, crushing it in his hands as he drew on the courage of all his ancestors. “Madame, have you given any thought to the proposal I made when we last spoke?”

  She smiled at him. “Ah. I was wondering if you would mention thees matter again.”

  “So you have considered it.” Chibale felt lightheaded. He did not know if he should hope or prepare for despair.

  She inclined her head. “As a businesswoman, I carefully consider every proposal. I have not been in London for very long. Not even two years.”

  Though Chibale knew this, he was still surprised. She had made a name for herself in Paris, and when she arrived in London, her reputation had preceded her. Even so, London had its own modistes and women were notoriously loyal to their dressmakers. Just as many men were devoted to their tailors, himself included. But Madame Renauld had done very well for herself in such a short time. She dressed the wives and mistresses of some of the most important people in the country, if not the world.

  “And yet I have heard of the Negro Merchant’s Guild. I would like to know more.”

  “It would be my honor to escort you to the ball,” Chibale said.

  Madame Renauld gestured to the dressing room door, where the murmur of women’s voices could still be heard. “And what of your sister? Will you leave her without an escort?”

  “My parents will be in attendance. Miss Okoro will not be without a chaperone.”

  Madame Renauld perched daintily on the arm of the couch. She was a small woman, but she seemed to possess enough authority for two women. And yet, every movement she made was the height of grace and elegance.

  “Then it ees your parents who are members of thees guild, oui?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are not a member?”

  Chibale relaxed his grip on his hat. “No. I am not a merchant, Madame.”

  “No, you are not. You are a...” She made a punching motion.

  “I am not a pugilist, Madame. I am a businessman. I arrange the boxing matches for my client, Mr. Payne.”

  “He ees the one who lost to the German last night?”

  Chibale dropped his hat then fumbled to scoop it up. “Y-you heard of that?”

  Madame Renauld looked at the dressing room door. “My seamstress Phaedra talks of thees pugilists when she thinks I do not overhear. She has an affection for the one called The Plague—no, that is not right. The Black Death?”

  Chibale made a face.

  “I see you know thees man.”

  “I was his manager—very briefly—several years ago. Miss Phaedra would do better to find another man more deserving of her affections.”

  Madame’s eyes opened wider. “You will have to tell me more.”

  The dressing room door opened and Phaedra herself peeked out. “Madame, we are ready.”

  “And so are we!” Madame Renauld said. “Bring her out, mes filles.”

  She moved to the side to stand near Chibale. He caught her scent, a mixture of oranges and cloves. Bethanie came through the door, her smile wide but her eyes on Chibale, as though she was still not quite certain about her appearance. Chibale was conscious of Madame Renauld’s gaze on him as well, and he smiled broadly at his sister. When she climbed on the platform and turned around for him, he clapped.

  She wore a cream-colored gown with a wide neck that dipped low but not so low that Chibale felt he had to avert his eyes. The sleeves were sheer and white and fluttered prettily on Bethanie’s arms. Pearls adorned the bodice of the gown and were placed in a lattice pattern on the skirt, giving the dress a sort of ethereal feeling.

  “She will put pearls in her hair,” Madame Renauld said quietly, “and the effect will be stunning.”

  Yes, Chibale could imagine it. Bethanie’s dark hair would contrast with the gleaming pearls, and she would shine in the candlelight.

  “You look more beautiful than I have ever seen you,” Chibale said to his sister, who seemed to relax a bit at his compliment.

  “Do you like it?” Bethanie asked, turning to look at herself in the mirror, though she must have looked at herself for the last ten minutes.

  “It is your opinion that matters,” Chibale said. “Do you like it?”

  “I do,” Bethanie said. “I adore it.”

  “Then it is yours,” Chibale said, smiling. He was genuinely pleased with the dress and more so with his sister’s pleasure. He glanced at Madame Renauld and found her watching him with a curious expression on her face. She looked away and glided to the platform. Madame inspected the gown, fluffing the skirts and ensuring each pearl was securely attached. Finally, she declared it très magnifique, and Bethanie was whisked back to the dressing room.

  Madame Renauld gestured to the exit and led Chibale back down the stairs to the showroom. “We will bring her down when she ees dressed again.” She approached the counter and gestured for the clerk to give her a quill and an ivory card. “Write the address here, and we will send one of our boys to deliver the dress thees evening.” She lowered her voice. “And you may send him back with a note telling me the day and time you will collect me for the merchant’s winter ball. I trust you have a carriage?”

  “Of course,” Chibale lied.

  Madame Renauld gave a slight curtsy. “Good day, Mr. Okoro.”

  “Good day, Madame Renauld.” He watched her glide through the room and back to the stairs and then turned his attention to the card, having no memory whatsoever of what he was supposed to do with it.

  MODESTY TRIED TO THINK of excuses all the way home. She knew as soon as she walked into the house her father would want to know why she had been away for so long. She imagined how distraught he must be. He was probably pacing, unable to concentrate on writing his sermon. What reason could she give for causing him such anguish? As she hurried back home, she shivered with the cold. Her hands were numb and her ill-fitting shoes made her feet hurt. Tears sprang to her eyes not only because she was cold and hungry, but because she felt wretched for making her father worry.

  She did not often disappoint him, but when she did, she felt miserable for days. Once, when she was eight or nine and had transgressed in some way, her father said he needn’t punish her because she punished herself more than he ever could. Modesty was already punishing herself with mental flagellation. The next week she would do extra chores and pray an extra hour a day. This was in addition to whatever punishment her father would give her.

  Modesty opened the door to their home, head down, apologies on her lips, and was greeted with silence. Not only was the house silent, it was dark. The ground floor consisted of a sitting and dining area with a small kitchen in the back and a small room her father used as a study. Modesty could cross the entire room in ten steps. She knew almost immediately upon entering the house was empty. The curtains had been drawn and the lamps extinguished.

  “Father?” she called, thinking her might be closed off in his study.

  He did not answer.

  “Father, I’m home.” She moved cautiously toward the table
where she kept the tinder box, lit a candle, and started toward the study. But she did not take a step before she inhaled sharply and stared. The room was in shambles. No one who did not know the usual state of the room would think it in shambles. But to her eye, the room looked as though it had been ransacked. A chair was pushed away from the table where she and her father had broken their fast instead of pushed in. A teacup stood half full on the table rather than in the sink. The candlesticks had been allowed to burn down to the nubs, and she could still smell the scent of tallow in the air. When Modesty finally dragged her eyes from the destruction, she saw the door to her father’s study was open. “Father!” she called, now more worried for him than for any punishment she might receive. She started across the room, stepping over a table that was a good two inches out of place, and peering into the study. It too was empty. Her father had about a dozen precious books and two of them had not been replaced on the shelf and lay willy-nilly on the desk. One lay open.

  Modesty gasped with horror as her father was always very careful and protective of his books. They were the only thing of value he owned. She hurried to pick up the two books on the desk and restore them to the shelf where they belonged. It was only when she’d righted the book that she had the terrible thought: if her father’s books had been so badly mistreated, what had happened to her father?

  She searched the rest of the house, including her small bed chamber and his on the first floor. They were empty as well. Modesty shook with fear and bewilderment now, but she forced herself to sit on her bed and set the candle on her nightstand so as not to drop it. Her hands were shaking so violently that the light jerked wildly and made eerie shapes on the wall.

  Her room had not been disturbed. The normally closed door had been open, but her few possessions had been undisturbed. This did not surprise her. After all, who would want her other black dress and black bonnet hanging on pegs on the wall or the white underthings she kept in a small trunk? She had opened the trunk to be certain and saw her mother’s hairbrush, all Modesty had left of her mother, still rested on top of her chemise as she’d left it there after brushing her hair this morning.

  Modesty hadn’t searched her father’s room. She never entered it unless she was to sweep and polish and even then she kept her eyes down, but from the doorway, it also looked undisturbed. His narrow bed was tidy, and his other black coat hung on a peg.

  Modesty couldn’t say how long she sat on her bed, willing her hands to stop shaking. It seemed hours before she could take a breath and think clearly enough to know what she should do. She would go to Mr. Pliney’s house. He was one of the church elders, and he would know what to do.

  Modesty went back downstairs and stepped outside, surprised to see it was still light outdoors. It had seemed like hours and hours had passed, and it must be night by now. She walked the ten minutes it took to reach Mr. Pliney’s home and was greeted by his wife, who took one look at her, dropped the hem of the apron she’d been wiping her hands on, and took Modesty in her arms. Modesty promptly burst into tears and attempted to tell her story between sobs and hiccups.

  MR. PLINEY ENLISTED the aid of some of the other elders of the church, and they investigated and discussed but had no more answers than Modesty herself.

  Modesty stayed with the Plineys until Sunday. In her mind, Sunday was the day her father would return. He had to return as he never missed giving his sermon on Sundays. But when she and the Plineys arrived at the church Sunday morning, her father was not there. Nor did he make an appearance as the small congregation prayed and sang hymns. And when the service was over, Modesty knew one thing for certain: something very bad had happened to her father. He would never have missed church if the decision had been his own.

  When she returned home with the Plineys, Mr. and Mrs. Pliney pulled her aside.

  “The elders have made inquiries and searched for your father,” Mr. Pliney said, “but there seems to be no trace of him. No one saw him leave that day, and no one has seen him since.”

  “You know we have enjoyed having you here. We love you like one of our own,” Mrs. Pliney said, still patting Modesty’s hand. “But the house is too small and, well, it’s been a struggle to find enough money to feed even one more mouth. Not that you eat much!” Mrs. Pliney waved her hands as though refusing an offer. “You’re a bird, but, well, Mr. Pliney and I thought it might be better for you to stay with family. Is there someone we can write to or send for?”

  “Do you have an aunt or uncle? Cousins? Perhaps your mother’s people?” Mr. Pliney suggested.

  Modesty knew very little about her mother’s people, as Mr. Pliney called them. Her father had a brother, but he had emigrated to Canada when Modesty had been just a little girl. Her father’s parents were dead, as were her mother’s, but...

  “My mother has a sister,” Modesty said. “I only ever saw her once. She came to the door when I was very young, and I only caught a glimpse of her.” Modesty did not add that she had been hiding behind her mother’s skirts. Her aunt had seemed very tall and very grand. She’d had a large bird plume on her hat, and Modesty had stared up at it. She’d also had a loud, sharp voice, and though Modesty did not remember what she’d said, whatever it had been had upset her mother. Catherine Brown had rarely spoken in anything other than mild tones, but she had raised her voice that day. She’d said, “Are you quite finished, Augusta? Yes? Then go home.” She’d slammed the door, which had made Modesty jump.

  Her Aunt Augusta had not returned and when Modesty’s father arrived that afternoon, her mother did not speak of it.

  “Is she in London?” Mrs. Pliney asked.

  Modesty wasn’t certain, but said, “Yes. I’ve seen her in London,” which was true, even if it had been fifteen or more years ago. She now understood what this was—the Plineys wanted her gone—and Modesty was mortified that she had stayed as long as she had. This wasn’t her family, and she was a burden to them. They would continue to allow her to stay out of Christian charity, but they did not want her. And Modesty could not imagine staying another moment under a roof where she was not wanted. Her mother had always said to make yourself useful or get out of the way.

  Modesty had tried to make herself useful, but the truth was the Plineys had plenty of daughters to cook, clean, and sew. Modesty was just an extra mouth to feed. If she had been a man, she might have found a job and earned money. She could still find a job in a factory or a shop, and then she could pay the Plineys for her meals. But the fact was they were not her family, and she was not a child who had nowhere else to go. She had a house and an aunt. She even had a father...somewhere.

  Modesty sat straight and tried to look hopeful. “I am so pleased you have mentioned her. I was thinking of seeking her out myself.”

  Mrs. Pliney squeezed her hand. “Were you?”

  She had just now thought of it. “Yes. In fact, I would go first thing tomorrow. Would you mind if I stayed one more night?” Her bed was infinitely preferable to the hard floor of the Plineys’ girls’ room, but she just couldn’t go back home. Not yet. It would be too empty without her father, too upsetting to wonder what could have happened to him.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Pliney patted her hand again, and Modesty tried to smile rather than cry.

  THE NEXT MORNING SHE washed her face and hands and set out. She declined to break her fast, saying she was certain her aunt would have plenty. In truth, she did not want to take anymore from the Plineys, who had been so generous toward her.

  She made her way toward Mayfair and when she reached St. James’s Park, she sat on a bench and rested. The park was empty and the grounds stretched out before her, lightly frosted and sparkling in the morning light. She had no idea where her aunt might live. She did not even know how to inquire after her. Modesty’s mother’s maiden name had been Ryan, but if her aunt had married, would it do Modesty any good to inquire after an Augusta Ryan?

  Plus, it was the middle of winter, a fact made abundantly clear as she shivered on the froze
n park bench. Modesty’s mother’s family had been wealthy. Modesty had pieced this together after hearing her father make comments about how Catherine Ryan’s parents hadn’t approved of her marrying a penniless minister. Didn’t wealthy people go to the country during the winter months to...do whatever people in the country did?

  Modesty had only ever traveled outside of London once. Inside of London, she tended to stay close to home. She had rarely been to Mayfair as the wealthy did not look kindly upon people who called out their vices on the street, and her father had been hauled away by bully boys or footmen and tossed on his ear one time too many to bring Modesty there.

  Modesty supposed there was nothing to do but go home. She did not know how to find her aunt. She did not know how to find her father. She did not know how she would afford to pay for the house or meals or any of the other things she needed. She could go to the church for charity, but how could she stand the shame of it? At the services yesterday morning, she had known people were looking at her and whispering about her. She knew what she would have thought if she’d been in their shoes. She would have assumed her father had done something awful and run away before he could be discovered. That or he owed money to someone and the collector had carried him off for punishment.

  But Modesty knew her father. He didn’t owe anyone money. He couldn’t have done anything awful. He didn’t have secrets from her.

  Except...why had he sent her to Mrs. Kydd’s the morning of his disappearance? Who was the man he’d met with the night before?

  Modesty stood and paced to keep warm. Her head ached from the cold and from hunger. She couldn’t go back to the Plineys. She couldn’t go home. She didn’t know where her aunt lived, and she didn’t know anyone of her aunt’s station she could ask.