The Autumn Bride

by Anne Gracie

  “No!” Daisy, Damaris and Jane exclaimed in unison. “Not Bow Street!”

  “No, not Bow Street, I already promised you I wouldn’t go there.” She took the jar of newly warmed soup that Damaris handed her. “But I have to do something, so I’ll take her this soup tonight and see whether she received my note or not.”

  “And if she didn’t? What can you do about it?”

  Abby shrugged. “I don’t know, but there must be someone—some friend or distant relative we can contact on her behalf. She says she has a nephew in India or somewhere, but there must be someone less distant and more useful.”

  Jane gave her an unhappy look.

  Abby shrugged. “Do you have any better idea?”

  “No, but you will take care, Abby, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will.” She gave Jane a quick hug. “And I’ll be back in a trice.”

  * * *

  “Back again, Miss Burglar, are you?” the voice rasped from the dusty shadows of the bed. “Bring a bullet for me this time?”

  “No, soup,” Abby said.

  “Soup?”

  “I thought it might make a nice change from gruel.”

  Lady Beatrice snorted. “Wouldn’t be hard.”

  The supper tray sat in the same place on the dresser. The bowl of gruel, as before, was untouched, congealed and unappetizing. Its surface was crusted and dry. A spoon and cup sat beside the bowl of gruel, unused.

  Did nobody care whether the old lady ate or not?

  Abby unwrapped the jar of soup and set it on the bedside table. “It’s not very hot, I’m afraid, but it’s quite tasty. We had it for supper.”

  “We? Who are ‘we’?”

  “My sisters and I.”

  “Sisters? Tell me about them.”

  “Let me help you to sit up.” Abby slid an arm under the old lady’s shoulders and slipped a couple of pillows behind her back. “There, that’s better.”

  “Matter of opinion,” Lady Beatrice grumbled.

  “How long have you been here—in bed, I mean?”

  “Weeks. Months. I don’t know; what does it matter?” the old lady said pettishly.

  Abby unstoppered the jar and poured some soup into the cup. Lady Beatrice looked at it with suspicion. “What’s in it?”

  “Vegetables, mainly.” They couldn’t afford meat. “Damaris made it. It’s delicious and nourishing and it will do you good.”

  “Damaris? Is she your cook?” The old lady’s hand was shaking violently.

  “No, my sister.” Abby held the cup to the woman’s mouth. “She’s a friend really, but we’ve sworn to be sisters.”

  “I don’t like vegetables.” Lady Beatrice pressed her lips together like a child.

  Abby drew the cup back thoughtfully. “Perhaps Jane was right.”

  “Jane? Jane who?”

  “My sister—my real sister. She said I shouldn’t risk my neck to bring soup to a stranger.”

  “Stranger? I’m not a stranger—we were introduced last night. At least I was,” the old lady added pointedly. “And I’m not the one who has pretend sisters.”

  “Then drink the soup and I’ll tell you my name—my real name—and how Damaris became Jane’s and my sister.” Not for nothing had Abby been a governess for the last six years.

  The old lady gave her a sour look and, with every evidence of reluctance, took a mouthful. She rolled it cautiously around in her mouth, then swallowed. “Hmph. Not bad for vegetables. Now, your name, miss?”

  “It’s Abigail Chantry.” Abby fed the old lady another mouthful.

  “Of the Hertfordshire Chantrys?”

  “I don’t know much about Papa’s side of the family,” Abby said evasively, and continued feeding the old lady.

  “Where is your father? Does he know his daughter gads about in men’s breeches at night and breaks into houses?”

  “Papa’s dead. He died when I was twelve. Mama died the following year,” she added, anticipating the next question. “Jane and I are alone in the world.”

  “Except for this Damaris person who makes soup. The pretend sister.”

  “Yes, except for Damaris and Daisy, who are both our sisters now. They are orphans too.”

  As she fed the old lady the soup, Abby answered her questions, telling her a little bit about each of them—though not how they all met. “There, that’s the last of the soup. Don’t you feel better for it?”

  “I do, thank you, my dear, but the company was as much a tonic as the soup. I like the sound of those gels. Wouldn’t mind meetin’ them.”

  “That brings me to the other reason for my visit. Did you have any callers this afternoon?”

  Lady Beatrice said wearily, “I told you: Nobody comes to call anymore.”

  “Did you not even receive a note?”

  “A note? No, of course not. Who would send me a note?”

  “I would,” Abby said. “I did.”

  The old lady frowned. “When?”

  “This afternoon. I gave it to your butler.”

  The old lady stared. “To Caudle? My butler, Caudle?”

  “Large, self-important fellow with a glowing red nose?”

  Lady Beatrice gave a choke of rusty laughter. “That’s Caudle.” The laughter died from her eyes. “But he didn’t give me anything, didn’t even mention anyone had called. No one ever calls.”

  “Does he have instructions to refuse all callers?”

  “No, of course not.” Lady Beatrice glanced down at herself, seeming to take in the grubby nightgown, the rumpled bedclothes. “I couldn’t receive callers in this condition—but with a little warning, I could make myself presentable. . . . And as for a note, I could always accept a note.”

  “I thought as much,” Abby murmured. “That’s why I made the call this afternoon, to check. Your butler is the reason you haven’t had any visitors. He turns them all away, says you are not at home. And he doesn’t deliver your mail to you.”

  “But why would he do such a thing?”

  Abby didn’t know why; nor did she care. As far as she was concerned, all of Lady Beatrice’s servants gave atrocious service, and it clearly started with the butler. A butler set the tone for a house.

  “Who supervises your servants while you are ill?”

  Lady Beatrice shook her head.

  “Who pays them?”

  “Man of affairs. Forgotten his name.” She gave a vague wave of her hand. “Little fat fellow with pince-nez. It used to be his father, but his father died.”

  “Think,” Abby urged her. “I cannot keep coming to visit you at night, and you cannot go on much longer as you are.”

  “Why can’t you come back?”

  “Because it’s dangerous. And because the place we are living in—the house over the back from you—is going to be demolished in a few weeks and we have to move. So think—there must be someone I can contact to let them know that your servants are neglectful and you need better care.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I just do, that’s all. So think. An address is all I need. Can you remember where he lives, this man of affairs?”

  Lady Beatrice prodded her gently. “Seems to me you have plenty to be worried about on your own account without fretting about a stranger.”

  “You’re not a stranger,” Abby corrected her with a smile. “We’ve been introduced, remember?”

  Lady Beatrice gave another rusty laugh. “Minx.”

  “Your man of affairs, the fat fellow with the pince-nez,” Abby prompted after another long silence. “Have you thought of his name yet? Or where his office is?”

  “No.” The old lady gave her a long, thoughtful look. “You could always come and live with me—you and your sister and those two others. Plenty of rooms here.”

  Abby blinked. “Live with you?” She struggled to take it in.

  Lady Beatrice nodded. “Why not? This house is empty.”

  “But . . .”

>   Lady Beatrice waved a bony hand. “Pish-tush to your buts, silly gel. Demmed good idea. You need a home. I’ve always wanted daughters.” She sighed. “Never was blessed with children . . .”

  “But you don’t know anything about us.”

  The old lady snorted. “Aiming to take advantage of me, are you?”

  Abby gave the old lady a troubled look. “Well, yes, if we are to come and live here, it would indeed be taking advantage.”

  Lady Beatrice snorted. “Aiming to do me harm, I should have said.”

  “No, of course not.” Abby gave the dirty room a scornful glance. “We’d take a lot better care of you than those servants, for a start.”

  “I know it. And this arrangement will suit both our needs. So will you come?”

  “Do you really mean it?” It was the answer to all her prayers.

  “Never say anything I don’t mean,” said Lady Beatrice.

  Abby took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She wrestled with her conscience for a moment, but it was no good; she couldn’t possibly accept this miraculous offer under false pretenses. She sat back down on the bed. “I can’t accept your offer—”

  “Nonsense!”

  “—without explaining exactly how I met Damaris and Daisy—and where they and Jane were before I was reunited with my sister.”

  “Pshaw! D’you think it makes any difference to me where they were?”

  “I think it will,” Abby said.

  Lady Beatrice regarded her thoughtfully. “Then if you must, Miss Burglar, go ahead. Tell me your tale.”

  The old lady listened carefully as Abby told her the whole story, from her mother’s death onward. Abby left nothing out: Pillbury Home for the Daughters of Distressed Gentlewomen, becoming a governess, meeting Daisy in the street, the escape from the brothel, the plan to go to Bath, the struggle to make ends meet, and Jane’s illness, which had prompted her desperate attempt at burglary.

  The old lady peppered her with questions as she went, and at the end said, “So you and your sister don’t have a penny between you, but even so, you took in the cooking girl with the outlandish name—”

  “Damaris.”

  “—and a servant from a brothel?”

  “Yes, of course, for without them, Jane would have been lost forever. And we help one another as a real family would. But you see, we’re not quite as respectable as you might have imagined—”

  Lady Beatrice threw back her head and laughed. “Good gad, how respectable do you think I imagined a gel who climbed in my window to rob me was?” She chuckled again. “Never had much time for respectability anyway. I don’t blame you for your situation, and it seems to me you’ve shown a great deal of courage and loyalty in the face of adversity, and that’s far more important to me than any notion of respectability. I’m more than ever convinced you should come and live with me. All of you.”

  Such generosity. Abby’s throat filled with emotion. “Are you sure?”

  “Very sure. Now, off you go, Miss Burglar. I’m tired. Come tomorrow. And come as a proper young lady. Don’t wear breeches. Use the front door. Bring your sister and those other two gels.”

  “But your butler—”

  Lady Beatrice gave a sleepy chuckle. “If you can’t deal with Caudle, you’re not the resourceful young lady I think you are.”

  Chapter Five

  “It isn’t what we say or think that defines us, but what we do.”

  —JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

  “The carriage will be here at two.”

  “Carriage? Three shillings to take us around the block? We’ve only just been paid and you want to spend it on carriages? Squandering money, if you ask me—we could walk there in five minutes,” Daisy grumbled. “Not to mention the waste of hiring trunks and bandboxes when we’ve got nothin’ to put in them.”

  “We need to arrive in style, and being well-connected young ladies, we must have luggage,” Abby explained. “And we’re not coming from five minutes away; we will have traveled all the way from Cheltenham.”

  “Cheltenham?” Daisy sniffed. “I’ve never been out of London in me life.”

  She’d been carping and grumbling ever since Abby had explained the plan to everyone that morning. It wasn’t like Daisy.

  “Whatever is the matter with you, Daisy?” said Abby, deciding to take the bull by the horns. “Aren’t you happy about this plan? I promise you, Lady Beatrice did invite us. It’s not illegal, what we’re doing. I know it’s not completely honest, but it’s only her servants we’ll deceive, not Lady Beatrice. And it will give us the chance for a new life, and you know how much we need that.”

  Daisy hunched a shoulder and went on tacking the sleeve into the spencer she was sewing for Jane. “It’s all right for some, I suppose.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Daisy glared up at her. “I said I wasn’t never going to go back into service, that’s what!”

  Abby didn’t see what she was getting at. “I know.”

  “So you said before we’d—no, you’d have to have a servant in attendance when you arrive at Lady Beatrice’s, being proper young ladies and all. Because proper young ladies don’t travel without servants.”

  “Yes. And . . . ?”

  “So no guesses at who gets to be the servant!” Daisy snapped. “And how long’s that going to last? Forever, that’s what! And here am I with no savin’s left and havin’ spent weeks making all these clothes for you young ladies, and now I’ve got to be a servant again!”

  Abby put her arms around the girl. “Oh, Daisy, why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  Daisy shrugged her off. “I said it now, didn’t I?”

  “You’re not going to be a servant. We vowed to be as sisters, and I meant it.”

  Daisy gave Abby a skeptical look. “Then who’s going to be the servant? One o’ you toffs, who can’t speak cockney to save your lives?” She snorted.

  Abby smiled. “No, Mr. Featherby.”

  Daisy stared. “Mr. Featherby? Hewitt Featherby? The poncey old bloke who lives on the second floor? Lives with his friend the boxer?”

  Abby nodded. “That’s the one. He used to be in service—as a butler, I think—so this morning I talked to him and he’s agreed to do it.”

  “Be the servant?”

  “Yes. He’s a very dignified man and will lend us exactly the air of respectability we need.” Mr. Featherby too had worried about what they were doing. Abby had assured him it wasn’t illegal, since Lady Beatrice had invited them, but had admitted it would involve a certain level of deception, and that she feared Lady Beatrice’s butler would deny them entrance. Mr. Featherby had seemed to think that amusing.

  Daisy considered that for a moment. “Then what do I do?”

  Abby gave her a puzzled look. “The same as the rest of us, of course. Be one of Lady Beatrice’s nieces.”

  Daisy’s brows shot up. “Me? Be the niece of a proper titled lady? I can’t do that!”

  “Of course you can.”

  Daisy shook her head. “No one will believe we’re sisters, miss.”

  “They won’t if you keep calling me miss,” Abby told her. “Now stop worrying and finish Jane’s sleeve. Lady Beatrice’s niece cannot arrive from Cheltenham wearing a spencer with only one sleeve.”

  Daisy shrugged and returned to her sewing, but Abby could hear her humming a popular tune as she sewed: “We’re Bound for Botany Bay.” A song about convicts being transported . . .

  At quarter to two, just as Abby had finished ticking off the list of things that had to be done, there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Featherby.

  “I’ve brought my friend William to help,” he said. “I presume there is luggage to be carried.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Featherb—”

  “Just call me Featherby, Miss Abby,” he said firmly. “Servants are not granted honorifics. And call William, William.”

  William nodded at Abby. “I’m comin’ too,” he
said, effortlessly hefting the trunk onto his broad shoulders. “For luggage and in case of trouble.”

  “Oh, there won’t—”

  “—be any trouble, naturally not,” Featherby assured her smoothly. “But for some reason William’s mere presence seems to bring out people’s cooperative tendencies.”

  Abby could well believe it. Featherby was a man of medium height, smooth, dapper and smartly dressed if you didn’t look too closely at the not-quite-frayed cuffs and the suit, beautifully pressed, but worn and shiny from use. William, a former boxer, was huge, with shoulders as wide as an ax handle, and a thuggish-looking face shaped by years of being battered in the ring, but he had a sweet smile. The two men had helped the girls out several times, and Abby had no hesitation in trusting them.

  William winked at her. “No trouble, miss. Them days is behind me now.” He glanced at Featherby. “Did you tell her, Hewitt?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “There was someone asking about you last night,” Featherby said.

  Abby frowned. ”Asking about me?”

  William nodded. “Asked for you by name, he did. Asked me if a Miss Chantry lived here. And did she have a blond sister with her.”

  Ice trickled down Abby’s spine. “And what did you say?”

  “I told him, no, of course,” William said. “I hope that was right, Miss Abby.”

  Abby breathed again. “Perfect, thank you, William.”

  “But I dunno who else he might’ve asked, miss—not everyone is discreet. And he was offerin’ an incentive.” And William rubbed his thumb and fingers together, making the universal sign for money.

  Abby took a shaky breath. ”Well, we’ll be gone in a few minutes, and I hope you won’t tell anyone where we’ve gone.”

  “We wouldn’t dream of it,” Featherby assured her with a slight bow. The other girls arrived, carrying their things. ”Now, Miss Jane, may I relieve you of this? You’re still looking a trifle pale and wan. And this, Miss Damaris?” He lifted the covered basket from Jane’s arm, took a bandbox from Damaris and followed William downstairs.

  “Thank you,” Abby said, blinking. Featherby had taken charge, just like a real butler.