The Secretary

by Brooke, Meg

  “How long was I gone?” Anders asked.

  Ford produced a battered pocket-watch. “Twenty minutes?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I organized. Your desk was in a dreadful state. Do you know I found half a scone under one of those piles, and a cold, half-empty cup of tea under another? I’m amazed you haven’t attracted mice,” Ford added with a shudder.

  “Are you afraid of mice, Mr. Ford?”

  “No,” the man said, rather too quickly.

  “Well, in any case, I’m glad there weren’t any. I hardly have time to deal with a rodent infestation at the moment.” Anders crossed the room and surveyed the new arrangement. “Why have you moved my desk?”

  “I noticed that you squinted at me, downstairs. I thought more direct light might be...might be beneficial.”

  “I see. Bring another chair over here, please, and sit down.”

  Ford crossed the room and picked up the Hepplewhite chair near the door. Not without some difficulty he carried it over, though Anders noticed he waited to drop into it until he himself had been seated.

  “We have not discussed terms, Mr. Ford.”

  “Indeed, My Lord.”

  “Your salary will be six pounds a week. Is that sufficient?”

  From the look on Ford’s face, it was more than sufficient.

  “Very well. You will arrive here no later than eight each morning, except Sundays, which you and I will both have free. I work through the day and sometimes the night. I will expect you to accompany me when I go to Westminster, to run errands and deliver important documents, and to arrange my schedule each day. You will coordinate my appointments with Phelps and the household staff to ensure there are no conflicts. Does this sound as though it is within the realm of your...abilities?”

  Ford looked quite serious. “Of course, My Lord.”

  “How old are you, Mr. Ford?”

  “Twenty-four, My Lord.”

  “Older than I thought. How many years were you secretary to Mr. Martin?”

  Ford appeared to think for a moment. “Six, My Lord.”

  “Eighteen is rather young to go to work for a Member of Parliament.”

  “Yes,” Ford agreed, but he offered no details. “Might I ask you a few questions before we begin, My Lord?”

  Anders leaned back in his chair. “Ask away.”

  “How long have you been in the House of Lords?”

  “Since my uncle passed away two years ago. I took his seat, you see, along with the title. This will be my third session.”

  “Do you attend the entire session?”

  “I do,” Anders said, trying not to be offended by the question. He knew that most peers his age—indeed, most peers of any age—did not take their seats in the House, but he could hardly help that. If he did not have organizational skills or the ability to devote himself to many tasks at once, he did have a sense of duty, on which he prided himself.

  “And do you have an office at Westminster as well as this one?”

  Anders laughed at the slightly apprehensive tone of Ford’s voice. “I do, but don’t worry, Ford, this is the only disaster you’ll have to deal with. I do most of my thinking here, in this study, and take only what I need to my rooms at Westminster. You’ll see why when we go there.”

  “Very good, My Lord. Your political views I have mostly ascertained from your writings,” Ford said, inclining his head toward the neat piles on the table, “but there is one more thing I would like to know, if you’ll permit me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where do you stand on the slavery question?”

  Without hesitation, Anders said, “I am for complete and total abolition.”

  Ford nodded silently.

  “Does that satisfy you?” Another silent nod. Anders sighed. “Very well. Explain to me how you have organized these papers,” he said, gesturing to the table.

  It was nearly midnight when Clarissa finally left Stowe House. When Phelps shut the door behind her she felt a momentary twinge of fear at the thought of walking home alone in the dark, but then she remembered that she was not Clarissa Martin but Clarence Ford, nondescript secretary. It was ten minutes’ walk back to her flat on Trevor Street, and she set out at a brisk but natural pace. She would not draw attention to herself. She had managed not to do so all day.

  Indeed, she mused as she made her way past the elegant mansions towards the more modest part of Belgravia, she thought she had managed to fit in rather well. She knew that Lord Stowe had seen the bare patches on the elbows of her father’s suit, but she told herself that they were fitting for a secretary who had been out of work for almost a year. Anyway, with what he was paying her, she could afford to buy some new clothes. Six pounds a week! It was more than enough to pay back Mr. Parkhurst. Perhaps she would even throw in a little extra for her indulgent landlord. Clarissa knew how lucky she was to have found the little flat in Knightsbridge. When the constable had appeared on her doorstep with his hat in hand a year ago, bearing the news that her father had been killed so suddenly and terribly, she had discovered that the life of relative luxury they had lived had come at a heavy price. The rent on the house where they had lived near Piccadilly had been more than he could manage on his salary. There was next to nothing in the bank, and what little there was after the other debts had been paid off would have to be lived on for quite some time. The dresses and bonnets and shoes she had frivolously purchased had suddenly seemed a wasteful extravagance. Her father had been right when he had argued with her about them, and she had looked at them with loathing as she had piled them on the counter of a consignment shop, where she had sold most of the finer things, including some of her father’s wardrobe. But it still had not proved enough to support her. She had not been able to understand it at first. Her father had always seemed to her a man of great sense. But she had come to realize that he had been a man of great intelligence, which was not the same. Being a genius had not made him capable of making good choices. He had wanted to give his daughter the world, and to this day Clarissa still felt a deep stab of guilt in her heart when she thought of how much he had sacrificed to make her life happy and carefree.

  She would have given up everything she owned to have him back, and not just because she missed him, but because she missed the life she had led when he was alive. He was the only person who had every truly seen her for what she was, and she still grieved for him even though the mourning period had ended.

  But if she could succeed at this, she might be able to return to the life she had once lived at her father’s side. She had not lied when she told the earl that she had been a good secretary to her father—she had. She might even have been a great secretary. She was certain her father would not have been nearly so successful in the House of Commons without her assistance. Though she had not been allowed to trail her father around the halls of Westminster, she had done everything else for him; kept his papers and schedule, arranged his appointments, written his speeches. He had said often that he couldn’t have done it without her, and it was true. At times it had almost seemed as if he had raised her expressly for that purpose. But that didn’t stop her from wondering as she neared Trevor Street whether she was truly up to the task of being secretary to an earl. If he decided to keep her on after the month was over, and if by some miracle she managed to stay on until the session ended in July, there would be a great deal more than simply editing speeches and ferrying bills. She had gleaned some useful information while organizing the papers on his desk—not all of them had been related to the business of Parliament. There were letters from Mr. Jensen, his steward at Ramsay, the earl’s country seat in Somerset. The notations listing the rents collected and the profits from the recent harvests had made her eyes pop. The man had to be worth more than ten thousand pounds a year, and she was now responsible for organizing all his personal business.

  She did not have time to be intimidated, she told herself as she turned down the narrow alley, climbed the stairs
and unlocked the door to her flat. It was a strange building, and she remembered the first time that door had been opened, when Mr. Parkhurst had shown the place to her a year ago. He owned the whole building on Trevor Street, the front of which was made up of lovely, spacious rooms rented by people of quality. But back along the alley was another door that opened onto a narrow staircase. Up four flights, above the luxurious apartments below, was a tiny flat that had been squeezed into the odd space left when the rest of the building had been finished. It wasn’t much—a sitting room, a small kitchen and a single bedroom, but it had been clean and furnished, and Clarissa had known she would not be able to find another place fully furnished near Belgravia for such a reasonable price. She had taken it instantly, and Mr. Parkhurst, to his credit, had asked her very few questions. She had been fortunate to find him, fortunate to find this place. She knew what could have happened to her, what happened to many destitute young ladies when they were left alone in the world. Now she was once again staring down that fate, trying to escape it. She was determined to succeed.

  She crossed the little sitting room and lit a small lantern. Then she picked up her father’s miniature from the table. “Well, Papa,” she said. “What do you think?” She reached into the pocket of the threadbare coat and pulled out the sovereigns she had been given at the end of the day. Her first week’s pay. “Everything will be all right now. You’ll see. This is a good man. We will do good work together.”

  She went into the bedroom and crouched down on her knees to retrieve the small box from its place beneath her mattress. With the key that had been hidden atop the wardrobe she unlocked the box and lifted the lid. Inside lay six sovereigns and twelve shillings, the entirety of her fortune. She added the sovereigns from today to the lot, locked the box, and replaced it in its hiding place. Then she went to the washstand and carefully pulled off her wig, cap, and moustache, wincing as the gum pulled away from the skin above her lip. She put a little salve there, hoping to avoid a red mark. She would look rather silly going about as a woman with a rash beneath her nose. People would think she had la grippe.

  Mrs. Simms had shown her how to roll her hair into pin curls, which she had painstakingly done that morning, and now she carefully removed each little pin and dropped them into a cup on the washstand. She could not afford to lose any of them. As the masses of hair fell down around her shoulders, she stared at her reflection, at the woman in the mirror dressed in a man’s suit. It was nearly as strange as the boy in a dress she had seen in the Simms’s shop.

  When all her hair was loose she braided it carefully and then began removing her suit. The simple cravat came untied easily. She made a mental note to repair the loose button on the waistcoat and press the collar of the shirt as she hung them up.

  At last she stood in only her drawers and the long band of cloth she had wrapped around her breasts. She had made it as tight as she dared, and she thought it had done the trick. Her bosom had never been large anyway, but she had still worried about the profile of her chest giving her away. But, she thought as she wincingly undid the last layers, that smooth profile did not come without a price. She had never worn a corset—her father had thought they restricted the mind as well as the body—but she imagined the sudden, blessed rush of air that filled her lungs as she pulled the fabric away from her body was similar to the relief ladies felt as that restrictive garment was removed at the end of the day.

  Dressed at last in her nightgown, she washed her face and crawled into bed. When her father had still been alive, she had regularly stayed up past midnight assisting him with his work. But over the last year she had grown accustomed to an earlier bedtime, and she felt exhaustion washing over her as she laid down and pulled the covers up. She would just have to get used to the late hours again.

  If she could do all the others things she had done today, she could certainly accomplish that.

  After Mr. Ford departed, Anders sat at his desk for a while, finishing the bill Leo had sent him. For all his bravado about not being as devoted to politics as Anders was, Leo still cared a great deal about the noble causes they addressed in the House of Lords. This bill, for instance, was a proposal to reform the Poor Laws, to fundamentally change the way the government cared for those who could not support themselves. It was a good start, he thought, but there were some on the other side who would strongly oppose the tone of the thing. Leo had always been, in Anders’s view, a bit of a bleeding heart, and the dearest of his concerns had always been the welfare of the poor. Anders respected his friend’s desire to improve their living conditions, and this bill attempted to make necessary changes, proposing new measures of sanitation and standards of housing. But some of the language was rather inflammatory. It would need to be worked over before it was introduced. Anders made a few notes in the margin and then turned to the table, staring down at the neat piles. Which one had Ford said the things Anders wanted him to look over should go in? Top left? Bottom right? When Anders at last located the correct pile, he laid the bill atop it and sighed as he took in the rest of the papers lying in wait. There was still a great deal to be done, and the session opened in thirty-six hours. But he was optimistic. Ford had done something no secretary before had dared to do—he had taken charge. Anders hadn’t realized before how much he had needed someone to do that. He had grown accustomed to his system—if it could be called that—and had always presumed that his secretaries had understood his unique method of...well, chaos, if he was being honest.

  It was nearly one in the morning. Anders briefly considered going to his club, but immediately discarded the idea. There would be no one there at this hour, and he was exhausted. He had sent Phelps to bed hours ago, though he doubted the butler had actually gone. But he didn’t call as he walked down the hall to his room. He had dressed simply, and it would not take long to get undressed. It was just this independent streak Anders knew drove Phelps to distraction, but he didn’t care. Until his mother had married his stepfather, they had lived very simply, not out of necessity but because that was her way. Anders knew, because his uncle had told him, that his father had married beneath himself. Mother had been a gentleman’s daughter, of course, but her father had been a simple country curate, her mother a foreigner, and she had not been considered worthy of an earl’s son. Still, they had eventually been forgiven, largely because everyone had expected Uncle Frederick to marry again after his young wife had died in childbed, taking the baby with her. Everyone had assumed that Frederick would emerge from the dark fog of grief he had fallen into and produce an heir of good breeding, and preferably a spare as well, and it would not matter that the Viscount Landridge’s bride was not of the best stock.

  But Uncle Frederick had disappointed his whole family and had never taken another bride. Mother had once told Anders that Frederick had been deeply in love with his wife, and that the idea of replacing her had been unbearable. And so Anders had become his uncle’s heir. But his mother, who had been taught frugality and practicality by her Norwegian mother, had preferred to live simply, and after Anders’s father died, the little village in Devon where she had been raised had served as the backdrop for his childhood. In many ways it had been idyllic. He had played with the village boys and run wild through the woods and fields. His grandfather had taken him fishing and taught him his letters. But then he had been sent to Eton at ten, and everything had changed. He had no longer been Anders, grandson of the curate, but Viscount Landridge, the future Earl of Stowe, and the peaceful existence he had known had evaporated. Then his mother had met Mr. Coleridge, and they had married and moved to Kent, and even the simple cottage where Anders had made his fondest memories had been lost.

  So he excused himself when he occasionally chose to forgo the privileges of his rank. He dressed simply, ate simply, and dedicated himself to his work in a way that other men of his age and station did not. He eschewed the late nights and carousing his Eton and Cambridge friends preferred. He avoided many of the glittering social gatherings to which
they flocked. He was a member of White’s, as the previous Earls of Stowe had been, but he rarely went except to read the broadsheets.

  Leo had admonished him often, claiming that his political career would suffer if he didn’t attend the soirees and parties that littered the Parliamentary calendar. But Anders had no desire to rub elbows with the fashionable elite. He knew he was singular. But he preferred it that way. There was more at stake than his social standing.

  And in thirty-six hours, Anders would be able to enter the fray once more.

  FOUR

  January 29, 1833

  Clarissa awoke before the dawn on the morning of the Opening with a splitting headache. Late hours were one thing, but her pocket watch told her she had managed to snatch barely three hours of sleep. With an unladylike groan she forced herself up and out of bed. She wanted to be early this morning, not only to impress the earl with her work ethic, but also because the cook, Mrs. Butterford, had promised her a big breakfast this morning. When they had been introduced yesterday Mrs. Butterford had been aghast at Clarissa’s—Mr. Ford’s—thinness, and had insisted she arrive early enough the next morning to eat a hearty meal. Clarissa’s mouth had watered at the idea. In the last year she had not been able to afford to eat her fill, and she knew that she had lost weight since her father’s death. If she could put a little more meat on her bones, as Mrs. Butterford had put it, she would be more convincing as Mr. Ford.

  In the half-light she smoothed the coverlet, washed, wrapped her chest, and pinned up her hair, taking care that no stray tresses stuck out from under the cap. She slipped on the wig and spread the gum onto the false moustache, centering it carefully before pressing it to her upper lip. Then she got dressed, feeling a surge of wry gratitude that her father had been terrible at tying cravats. She had been forced to learn the art, and had spent many hours practicing on herself, which made it easy now to form the simple knot. She pulled on her trousers and buttoned her waistcoat. Yesterday morning she had repaired the loose button and taken in the sides a little so the garment fit more like the earl’s, tight against her sides. She had noticed him eyeing her wardrobe, of course, but there was little she could do about her threadbare clothes until she had some free time to visit a few shops.