“But?”
Sarah made a face. “My gramma would say he has a bit too much mustard.”
“A braggart?”
Sarah nodded. “If someone said they caught a foot long fish, Freddie would claim he caught one two feet long while battling off a bear.”
“So ego issues,” Isobel mused. “How did Dominic get on with his father? Have you heard anything?”
“As soon as I ask about their brother, everyone goes quiet. Helen said she’s not allowed to speak of him, and Mrs. Noble took down all his photographs. What’s going on?”
“It’s best you don’t know, but I want—” Footsteps clicked in the corridor, and Isobel quickly bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll get right on it, Miss.”
Sarah didn’t miss a beat. “Thank you.” And then they parted ways. It left Isobel feeling uneasy—she’d been about to tell Sarah to stay away from this house.
Isobel bobbed a curtsy into the reading room. When Mrs. Noble failed to acknowledge her, she shuffled off to the side, folded her hands over her apron, and tried to melt into the papered wall. Hard to do when you were wearing black and white.
Was that why maids wore such stark colors? So their employers could keep track of them? True, black and white was traditionally formal and the style mimicked the formal suits of gentlemen, but—
“Girl,” a voice said. It didn’t sound like it’d been the first time Mrs. Noble said her ‘name’.
Isobel hurried over to the woman. “Yes, ma’am?”
Mrs. Noble was sitting at a small writing desk. A stack of correspondence, papers, and pamphlets crowded the top.
“Abigail tells me she found you in my late son’s room.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did you get in?”
Isobel pushed up her spectacles with a finger. How did Riot manage to make these things seem refined? “I, uhm… well, I walked in, ma’am.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” It took all of Isobel’s self-control not to get smart with the woman.
Mrs. Noble waited. Isobel stood meekly. She could keep this up all day if needed. Anything that delayed cleaning more bathtubs.
“Was the door unlocked?”
“Yes, ma’am.” After I picked the lock, Isobel added silently.
“You are not to go in there. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. Miss Abigail made that clear.”
“Finny wanted you gone after your clumsiness at dinner. I convinced him not to dismiss you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“I don’t want it to happen again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Noble raised her brows. “Nothing to say in your defense?”
“No, ma’am. It was clumsy of me.”
Mrs. Noble waited. Then made a satisfactory sound, and set down her pen. “You came highly recommended, Miss Wall. And I see why. Most women in my employ would take the opportunity to point fingers at my daughters.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You haven’t.”
“No, ma’am. I should’ve been more careful.”
Mrs. Noble sat back with a sigh. “I’m well aware of my daughters’ games. I’ve spoken with them, but the more I chastise them, the more they persist in driving away the help. Don’t think I approve of their antics. They can be cruel.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Abigail is pleased with your work. It takes forbearance to remain calm and endure here.”
“A fruit of the Spirit, ma’am.”
Mrs. Noble sat up straighter. “Yes. Indeed. You’re a woman of faith, I see.”
“Yes, ma’am. I was… It’s only…”
“Speak your mind.”
“I usually go to church on Sundays. Then spend the afternoon in reflection and prayer. I was hoping at some future date, if you’re satisfied with my work, that is… Could I have a full day off on Sunday?”
Lie upon lie upon lie. It was well and good Sarah was not in the room. The girl would’ve fainted dead away. However, no lightning burst from the ceiling to strike Isobel down. Perhaps that would come later.
“You have my permission, but I expect you back in time to help with dinner. I’ll inform Abigail.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Noble made a dismissive gesture, and Isobel turned to leave, but when she was nearly to the door, a throat cleared. “Miss Wall.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Virtue is also a divine trait,” Mrs. Noble said. “I expect my employees to remain chaste. I do not tolerate courting, roller skating, bicycling, vaudeville shows, or any other obscene activity of the like. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Noble nodded. “You may go.”
As Isobel left, she had the overwhelming urge to break Faith and Helen out of this boorish prison.
44
Witching Hour
“I can tell this is your first household,” a voice said.
Isobel looked up in surprise. She was on her knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. Out of respect for the cook, she climbed to her feet and stared at her toes. “Am I doing something wrong, Miss Grace?”
“No, not at all. And don’t let me stop you.”
“I could use an excuse to straighten my back.”
Grace was a thin woman with a stooped back. She had coarse black hair, a broad nose, and a proud tilt to her chin. She eyed the scrubbed floor. It gleamed. Isobel was used to scrubbing the deck on her cutter, so this work was slightly easier than bathtubs.
“Most girls in service learn to pace themselves. I noticed you don’t, so it’s clear you haven’t worked as a maid before.”
“I want to make a good impression, ma’am,” Isobel said, avoiding the question.
“You’ve made one. Don’t slack off too much now,” Grace said, shaking a chopping knife at her. “But you can rest that back of yours. I’ve never seen a girl attack a task with so much anger.”
Isobel tried to summon up a blush, but she didn’t have Lotario’s skill. “It’s only I heard about the other maids… how they were let go. I need this job, ma’am.”
Grace turned back to her chopping. “And what have you heard?”
“Only that no maid stays long. You said it yourself the other day—that you’re constantly training new maids.”
“The Noble sisters enjoy their little games. Most young women can’t take it.”
“I’ve noticed, ma’am.”
“You don’t seem to mind.”
Isobel raised a shoulder. “I had three sisters. I’m the youngest of them, and they weren’t kind girls. But you learn to get on with things.”
Grace gave a nod of approval.
“Do they try anything on you?”
Grace chuckled. “Goodness, no. I’m the cook.” She turned slightly, brandishing her knife, then gave it a skillful spin before chopping the final carrot. “And I might’ve put the fear in them early on.”
A laugh snuck out before Isobel could stop herself. She quickly put a hand over her lips. Grace’s eyes twinkled. “That’s better. The Missus knows all about her daughters. And Abigail knows it too. They’re not blind to the girls’ antics. Eventually the Noble girls will get bored with you. If you last that long.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I will.”
Grace glanced towards the door to the dining room. It wasn’t yet lunch, and no one else was about. “But a word of warning…” her voice lowered. “You make sure you don’t get caught alone anywhere.”
Isobel gave her a puzzled look. “I don’t understand, ma’am.”
“You’re an attractive girl, Miss Rachel. A girl like you can’t be too careful with her virtue.”
Isobel met Grace’s eyes. The older woman wanted to say more, but couldn’t. It didn’t take a far stretch of imagination to know what she was warning her against.
“Don’t feel you have to stay and clean if you find yourself alone with a man.”
<
br /> “Are you referring to Mr. Noble?” Isobel asked, trying to goad the woman into saying more.
“I didn’t say no such thing. I just said to be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The house was still. Quiet. One could even say dead. Isobel was used to the witching hour. She’d spent most of her childhood looking forward to it—a chance to slip out her window and down the side of the house towards freedom. No one was ever awake at three in the morning. Even saloons closed their doors.
The hour pulled at the mind of the hardiest night worker.
Rather than share a narrow bed with another newly hired maid in the cramped servant’s quarters, Isobel had opted for a thin mat on the floor. She grimaced as she sat up, and glanced at Cecilia, who was snoring softly. The servants wouldn’t wake for another hour. She quickly dressed, tucking the awful hat and starched collar away in her dress, picked up her shoes, and slipped out of the room.
On stockinged feet, she padded down the pitch-black hallway by memory, passing the head housekeeper’s room, as well as her keys. She didn’t risk stealing those. Instead, she tied the laces of her boots together, cracked open a window, and stuck her head out to breathe in the night air. Fog and moonlight mingled, giving the night a ghostly allure. It made her giddy with excitement.
Isobel climbed out of the window to hang from the ledge, her toes brushing the siding. She stretched towards a drainage pipe (ever convenient), and once she had hold of it, closed the window that she’d oiled the day before.
She climbed down to a balcony, then over its railing to a ledge that curbed the manor. It was a quick shuffle to another balcony. No light escaped the curtained windows and French doors.
Isobel flipped open her tickler and worked the knife between the windowsill and frame. With the tip of her knife, she carefully pushed the hook away from the eye, then slid the window up. She was inside Ian Noble’s study in under thirty seconds.
Isobel hurried across the empty study, snatched a cushion from a chair, and stuffed it against the gap under the hallway door. Then she thumbed on a handheld battery light. The light was dim and unreliable, but these new flashlights had their uses.
The light flickered, and she slapped it a few times until it stayed on as she padded to the desk. Ian Noble spent a great deal of time in his study, and it reeked of cigar smoke. This was his only sanctuary in a house dominated by women.
She moved quickly, knowing the household would soon stir. First searching his desk, the papers, the logbook, taking care not to disturb anything.
The expenditures looked in order for a house so large. The family wasn’t hurting for cash. Far from it. Still, one entry caught her eye—a payment of five thousand, with a notation that read ‘racetrack’.
Isobel frowned. Ian Noble did not strike her as a gambling man. Perhaps he owned race horses?
She turned to a locked drawer, and slipped out her lock picks. Minutes ticked by as she held her breath, concentrating on the more complex lock. Why was this so difficult for her? Jin would’ve already had the lock open.
Her wrench turned, and satisfaction zipped through her body. She opened the drawer and shined the light over its contents. A lockbox with cash and valuables. Checkbooks. Bank notes. Bonds. Plans and letters. This would take more than… Isobel froze at the sight of a betting slip.
She picked it up, reading the numbers. The bet was for five dollars to win. Seven to two odds. Sixth race, on a horse named Lucky Connor, with a date that was four months old—the same date as the payment of five thousand dollars recorded in his account book.
Her gaze slipped off the betting slip to the drawer below, where a folded newspaper sat. It bore the same date as the slip and was folded back to a specific page. She narrowed her eyes at the familiar headline.
Footsteps clicked in the hallway outside. Isobel cursed under her breath, then hesitated over the newspaper. She wanted to stuff it under her blouse along with the betting slip, but surely it’d be missed from a locked drawer?
In the end, she replaced the items, closed the drawer, and hurried over to remove the cushion from the door. There’d be no time to lock the drawer. Or even to leave.
The door opened, a shadow filled the entry, and Isobel ducked behind an armchair. Electric lights flicked on, the door shut, and heavy footsteps headed towards the desk. Isobel held her breath, aware of her exposure, her precarious concealment, and the closed door.
A cloud of cologne drifted into the room. As drawers opened, Isobel peeked from behind the heavy leather armchair. Ian Noble stood behind his desk. Broad-shouldered, with a weathered face and a perpetual scowl. Even his gray whiskers seemed to bristle. He tucked a billfold under his coat, then plucked up a cigar, and tucked that away, too.
The curtains stirred, and he froze.
Damn, she’d left it open.
Ian quickly turned to the window and threw the curtains aside.
There was no time. As he bent to peer out the window, Isobel rushed towards the door, turned the knob, and tried to slip through. Only the hinges squeaked, giving her away. Heart in her throat, she knocked loudly, then made as if she were just stepping into the study.
“What the hell?” Ian rumbled, turning on her.
Isobel squeaked in shock, and paled, making like she was backing out of the door that (hopefully) it appeared she’d just walked into. “I’m sorry, sir. I’m here to clean the fireplace. I didn’t know…” She bobbed a curtsy and took a step backwards.
“Get in here.”
Isobel hesitated.
“Now!” he barked.
She stepped inside, but didn’t close the door.
His gaze flickered down to her feet. “Why the devil are your shoes around your neck, girl?”
Isobel glanced down at her stockinged feet. “They click loudly in the morning. I didn’t want to wake anyone.”
Ian moved across the room, two long strides, and he was looming over her as she backed into a wall. “The window was open.”
“Was it, sir?”
“Didn’t I just say that?” he asked.
“I’ll let Miss Abigail know straight away, sir.”
He plucked at her uniform with his three-fingered hand. “Where’s your collar?”
Isobel fished her collar out of a pocket. “Here, sir. Cleaning the fireplace makes it dirty, sir.”
Rachel Wall would be shaking with fear. So that’s what Isobel did. But it made her furious. Every bone in her body rebelled against this persona. Just as she’d loathed the woman she’d played while married to Alex.
Alone, vulnerable, with not a soul awake—if ever there was an opportunity for Ian Noble to take advantage of a maid, it was now. She gave her sleeve a shake behind her back and her knife slid into her hand.
“Close the window, lock it. Then clean and get out,” he ordered, then left.
Isobel nearly slumped against the wall. Instead, she slid her knife back up her sleeve and went to close the window.
45
The Racetrack
“I should’ve come as a man,” Daisy Reed murmured.
Lotario dropped his theater binoculars to look at his companion. “I was just thinking I should’ve come as a woman.”
“I shouldn’t have come sober,” Garrett said.
“Amen,” Lotario said with a sigh.
“There’s always time to fix that, boys,” Daisy said. She was resplendent in white. Rosy cheeks and dark curls spilling from beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
Garrett toyed with an end of his curled mustache as he watched a group of men below.
“And risk him going near the betting ring? I think not,” Lotario said, putting his eyes back on the binoculars. He wasn’t watching the thundering horses, but a group of people in one of the grandstand’s private boxes. “Do you see someone you know?”
“I’ve lost count,” Daisy admitted.
“I wouldn’t worry, my dear,” Garrett said. “They won’t recognize you. They’ll be too busy admiring my mu
stache.”
“It is splendid,” Lotario said.
“Flatterer.”
“You likely spend more time curling your mustache than I spend on my hair,” Daisy noted.
“Do stop,” Garrett said. “I may blush.”
“Now, now, what do we have here,” Lotario murmured.
“A private bookie,” Daisy noted. “I swear I’ve entertained half the men in that seating area.”
“And I’ve done the other half,” Lotario said.
“A group rich enough to afford you two would have their own bookie,” Garrett noted.
“Hmm,” Lotario said. “But the racing has already begun. I’ll wager a hundred dollars that the bookie doesn’t return to the betting ring.”
Garrett shook his head. “I may be a bit of a speeler, but I have standards.”
“A bit?” Daisy asked.
Garrett was already moving out of their box at a leisurely pace. So Lotario offered his arm to Daisy, and they followed.
“I doubt anyone will recognize you, Daisy,” Lotario whispered as they strolled down the stairs.
“There’s always a possibility,” she said.
“True.”
“Has it ever happened to you?”
“Not outright—the masks help—but some find me familiar in a way they’d never admit in public, so they’re more apt to run the other way.”
“You’re a man. I’m a woman. I doubt you get leered at.”
“Your new start will work. I know it will.”
“Then why do I feel like I’ve wandered into the wrong world?”
“Perhaps you simply don’t like horse racing,” he said.
“It’s not that…” she admitted. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for any other work.”
“My twin’s reputation is in shambles and she doesn’t let it bother her.”
“Your twin looked down her nose at me, then waltzed right past.”
“She does that with everyone.”
“And Mr. Riot… well, he gives me chills.”
“Deliciously dangerous, isn’t he? When things settle down, you’ll fit right in. Trust me.”
Beyond the Pale Page 27
