by P. F. Kozak
“Of course, miss. Oh, and miss, I found something last night you might want to have.” Lucy went to the cupboard. “I cleaned the cupboard while you had dinner. There’s a bundle of letters in a tiny drawer at the bottom.”
Lucy went to the cupboard. She put her hand underneath the bottom and sure enough, a narrow drawer pulled out, running the full width of the cupboard.
“Well, isn’t that odd. This cupboard belonged to my father. I thought everything had been removed when he died.”
“The handle is broken, Miss Pamela. It’s hard to see that it’s a drawer unless you scrubbed it like I did.”
“Thank you for telling me about this.” Pamela scooped out the letters. “I’ll take a look at them while I have some food.”
“Miss, if you don’t mind my saying, May will box my ears if I don’t fetch you to the table soon.”
“Of course, Lucy.”
Pamela left Lucy at the door to Peter’s room. “Miss, do you want to leave this journal on his pillow yourself?”
“I certainly want to, Lucy. But I will not enter Master Rennard’s room without an invitation.”
Lucy smiled. “Miss, I think you would be getting that soon enough!”
Remembering Lucy with Jack the day before, Pamela couldn’t help being envious. Without thinking, Pamela took Lucy’s hand. “Lucy, there is so much I don’t know. Peter has years of experience that I do not have. Oh, my, I am so afraid he will think me young and foolish compared to the other women he has known.”
“Miss Pamela, it all comes natural, it does.”
“Lucy, how did you learn?”
“I didn’t so much learn it, miss, as felt it. The feelings are what taught me. You just have to listen to the feelings and you know what to do.”
“You’re right. Last night, I didn’t think about it, I simply felt it.”
Lucy’s face turned a bit pink. “Miss, the guvner will show you what he wants. All men do. They have a real strong drive in them to do what they want.”
“And what about what we want, Lucy? Do we tell them what we want, too?”
“Miss, Jack likes it when I tell him what I want. I can’t speak for the guvner, but I don’t think he’d mind one little bit if you spoke up and told him you want something special.”
“You really don’t think so?”
“Miss, I don’t want to speak out of turn, but you know now as well as I do that the guvner has a taste for it. If there’s something that takes your fancy, tell him! I’m thinkin’ it might be gettin’ you that invitation to his room a bit sooner than you think.”
Both Lucy and Pamela started when they heard May shout from the other end of the hall, “Missy, you get your fine arse down to the table right this minute. I have to get some food in your belly or the guvner will have my head when he comes home tonight!”
Pamela squeezed Lucy’s hand and pointed to Peter’s door. “Leave the journal on the pillow for me. We’ll talk more about this later.” With that, she ran down the stairs to the dining room.
The tray May set in front of her had enough food for a starving man. Pamela looked at the bowl of porridge, alongside the bacon and eggs interspersed with mounds of bubble and squeak, wondering how on earth she could manage it all.
May stood there, with a stern expression Pamela remembered from her younger days. May had once caught her sampling the Christmas pudding, even before dinner had been served. Had it not been Christmas Day, May would have taken a wooden spoon to her bottom. Pamela wondered if the same fate might befall her today if she did not clean her plate. Not wanting to take the risk, she ate.
The letters lay beside her on the table. She didn’t want to read them with May standing over her, so she waited, and ate her food. Only after Pamela had finished most of the food on the tray, did May finally say to her, “The mister told me to watch you eat. Now I have. You best be minding yourself, missy, or the mister will be having me watch you every meal.” With that, she went back to the kitchen.
Pamela poured herself another cup of tea from the pot and unbundled the letters. The stylised handwriting on the envelopes had the look of calligraphy, with her father’s name written in loops and swirls. They had no return name, but had certainly all been written by the same hand. On the back of each envelope, she found a date, in penmanship she recognised to be her father’s. He bundled the letters oldest to newest, with the oldest dated ten years prior.
Pamela opened and read the first one, the oldest.
26 April 1870
Mon cher George,
I trust you are well. It has been a bit of time now since we have seen one another. That being so, I have asked the charming young man Peter Rennard to deliver this letter to you. He tells me he sees you often. I am envious.
It has been some ten years now since we first met, and nearly five years since you brought Monsieur Rennard to me for his initiation. You are both honest men, and knowledgeable about matters of the law.
One of my profession has to consider what will happen with the passing years. For some time, I have been tucking away earnings for the days when men no longer come to me. There is a chance now to acquire a tavern on Upper Thames Street, between Blackfriars Bridge and Southwark Bridge. Since I know nothing of legal matters, I am at a loss to understand what I must do. I do not know how to put forth a purchase offer, or even if my meager savings would allow me the opportunity to make the attempt.
I would ask out of the kindness of your heart, and in deference to what we have been to one another over these many years, that you would assist me in this matter. To be the proprietress of a tavern would secure a future for me that could not be had otherwise.
Avec toute mon affection,
Nellie Flambeau
Pamela read the signature three times, before laying the letter on the table. Jack said Peter had gone to Nellie’s on Thames Street before meeting her at the train. Her father had known Nellie and had introduced Peter to her? How could this be?
As Pamela worked her way through the letters, the fact that Nellie and her father sustained a relationship over many years became increasingly apparent. Within two years, Nellie owned the tavern, with both the legal and financial help of her father.
21 October 1872
Mon cher gentilhomme,
It is with great joy I tell you that your gift has been received. The sign you had made now hangs over the door. The tavern on Thames is now Nellie’s.
Without your help, I could not have managed. I truly thought all had been lost when the owner’s asking price far exceeded what I could manage. Your willingness to supplement my savings to meet the cost came on the wings of a prayer.
I assure you, mon cher, your generosity will be remembered to my last breath.
Affectueusement,
Nellie Flambeau
Throughout the letters, Nellie made reference to Peter. Not only did he deliver the letters to her father, he assisted Nellie by acting as an ombudsman with her solicitor. More than once, Nellie told her father that Peter had spoken on her behalf to negotiate a fair purchase price.
The last letter brought Pamela to tears. Written during the final weeks of her father’s life, Nellie’s words spoke of a love that could never be realised.
10 January 1874
Bien-aimé George,
Peter brings me such very sad news. He tells me you are soon to leave this world and move on to a better one, better than we will ever know here. My heart breaks knowing you will leave, but my soul sings with gratitude that I have known you as I have.
You have been to me what no one else ever has, you have been my love. I say this to you knowing that you shared with me what you could, and have cared for me as no other man ever has.
Mon cher, carry my love with you as you prepare for the final crossing. May God receive you with grace.
Adieu, mon amour,
Nellie
Pamela sat for many minutes, holding the letters as tears slid down her face. These letters spoke of a man sh
e never knew. Her father had deep feelings for Nellie, as Nellie had for him. Peter had seen her only two days before, continuing a relationship that had started with her father twenty years ago.
Carefully stacking the letters in the proper order, Pamela bundled them once again. She rang for Lucy.
“Yes, miss?”
“Has Jack returned?”
“Yes. He is tending to the carriage. Is everything all right, miss?”
“I have to call on an old friend of my father’s today. I will need Jack to take me. Could you please tell him to ready the carriage?”
“Yes, miss.” Pamela took the letters and went to her room to prepare herself for the trip.
Pamela stood waiting at the gate when Jack brought the carriage round. He jumped down from the driver’s seat to open the door.
“Is everything all right, Miss Pamela? Lucy said you seemed upset.”
“Jack, take me to Nellie’s.”
Jack looked at her as though she had lost her mind. “Miss Pamela, I can’t do that! Master Rennard would serve me my head before he tossed me out on the street!”
“Jack, either you will take me or I go onto Piccadilly and hail myself a hansom cab to do it. I am going to Nellie’s.”
“Miss Pamela, why in God’s name do you want to do that? Is it because of what I told you yesterday?”
“No, Jack. This has nothing whatsoever to do with what you told me. This is about my father.”
“Miss, you ain’t making sense. Nellie’s is no place where you should be going! She don’t even open till noontime.”
“Jack, I’m not going to stand here and argue.” Pamela started walking down Piccadilly, looking for a cab. Jack ran after her.
“All right, you got your mind made up. But I’m telling you, Master Rennard will go right through the roof, he will. This could cost me my employ.”
“Jack, I will not allow Peter to hold you responsible. He will no doubt thank you for accompanying me, when he realises I would have gone there myself.” Pamela took the bundle of letters from her bag and held them up for Jack to see. “This is why I am going. Not you, not Peter, not the Archbishop of Canterbury nor anyone else will stop me from meeting Nellie Flambeau.”
“Yes, miss.” With his jaw set in resignation, Jack helped her into the carriage. Pamela settled in for the ride to Thames Street.
When they arrived at Nellie’s, Pamela opened the door to get out of the carriage before Jack had fully stopped it. “Miss Pamela,” Jack yelled at her as he jumped down. “Breaking your bleeding neck isn’t going to get you in the door any faster!”
Pamela ignored his chastisement as he took her hand and helped her step down to the street. Stepping over the grime in the gutter, she marched right up to the door of the tavern. She tried the door and found it locked, so she knocked. When no one came, she knocked again and shouted, “Hello, is anyone there?”
“Miss, Pamela, hush!” Jack came up beside her. “You’ll draw attention to your being here. You don’t want that, I’m sure of it.”
“Jack, I’m not leaving until I meet her, if I have to sit on the steps until she opens!”
Jack threw his hands up in the air. “Miss Pamela, if the guvner were here, he’d carry you back to the carriage and give you a good wallopin’, he would!”
“Well, Peter isn’t here, and I’m telling you right now, if you value your bollocks, you won’t try carrying me back to the carriage!”
“Miss, making a fuss in the street is not seemly for a lady.” He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “Miss Nellie has a side door the guvner sometimes uses. Let me see if anyone answers there. You wait right here and mind yourself!”
Jack slapped his hat back on his head and rounded the corner into an alley alongside the tavern. Pamela stood and stared at the sign she now knew her father had given to Nellie. Her eyes welled. The grief she felt at never having known this part of the man she loved so dearly choked her. She struggled to compose herself.
A few minutes later, Jack returned. “Henry is coming round to open the door.”
“Who’s Henry?”
“The barkeep, miss. A good gent, he is.”
Henry opened the door. “May I help you with something, miss?”
“I’m here to see Nellie Flambeau.”
“May I tell her who is calling, miss?” Henry seemed a bit bewildered by this early morning intrusion.
“Tell her Pamela Kingston has come to call, Sir George Kingston’s daughter.”
Henry’s eyes grew as wide as teacups. “Yes, miss, right away, miss.” He hurried through the curtained door.
Pamela walked into the tavern, with Jack following. She wandered around the tavern while she waited, running her hand across the backs of chairs, looking at the pictures, tracing a path with her finger the entire length of the bar. She stopped at a nutcracker, made to look like a squirrel. Picking it up, she pumped its tail and watched its jaws move, as though jabbering a tall tale.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Kingston. At last we meet.” Pamela turned around so quickly she almost dropped the squirrel.
“Miss Flambeau?”
“Yes, I am Nellie Flambeau.” Pamela set the nutcracker on a nearby table. She stood silently, taking in this woman who had to be at least twice her age, but looked no more than ten years her senior. She wore a lavender day dress with a high lace collar, gathered tight at the waist. Pamela knew only the tightest of corsets could draw her in so small. The bustle ended in a train, which lay in a colourful trail on the wooden floor.
With her dark, braided hair done up neatly on the back of her head, she looked more like a governess than the owner of a tavern. “Henry, could you make some tea, please? I am sure Mademoiselle Kingston would find a cup of tea most refreshing.”
“Is there someplace where we could talk privately, Miss Flambeau?”
“Yes, of course.”
Pamela turned to Jack. “Please wait here for me while I talk to Miss Flambeau.”
“Yes, Miss Pamela.”
“Come with me.” Nellie led Pamela through the curtained door and up the narrow stairs to her private sitting room, next to her bedroom. Nellie had decorated her sitting room as she had her bedroom, in pink. The pink floral fabric of the French side chairs matched the elaborately carved settee. Hand fans, painted with scenes of French ladies and gentlemen at a costume ball, hung on the wall.
“Please, mademoiselle, sit down.” Pamela sat down in a chair across from the door to Nellie’s bedroom. The adjoining door stood open. She had a clear view of Nellie’s canopy bed. She forced herself to look at Nellie, and not at the bed, which both her father and Peter had most probably seen.
Pamela cleared her throat. What she said was not what she meant to say. “Is the sign hanging over the door the one my father had painted for you?”
Nellie gave her a queer look. “Why, yes, it is, but how would you know about that? Peter wouldn’t have—” Nellie abruptly silenced herself, obviously aware she had inadvertently spoken of Peter.
Pamela’s voice remained steady, even as she felt the tears sliding down her face. “No, Nellie. Peter didn’t tell me.” Not trusting herself to say more, Pamela opened her bag and took out the bundle of letters. She handed them to Nellie.
Nellie took them. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “My letters! Where did you get these?”
Pamela took out a handkerchief and dabbed at her nose. “From a drawer in my father’s cupboard. It had been in storage until yesterday.”
“Did you read them?”
“Of course I did! They belonged to my father. I didn’t know they were from you! When Jack spoke of Nellie’s, I thought it only a quaint name for a tavern. I didn’t know you existed until I found those letters.”
“Which, mademoiselle, is how it should have remained.”
“But it is too late for that, now isn’t it, Nellie? I do know about you.”
“Why have you come here, Pamela? What do you hope t
o accomplish by being here?”
“I want to know my father, Nellie. I want to know who he was.” Pamela had to stop for a few moments, as the tears took her voice. She fought for control, her need to understand at odds with her grief. “Nellie, I loved him, and I didn’t know him. He died when I was only sixteen. You knew him in a way I never did, or could.”
“Does Monsieur Rennard know you found these?”
“No, I only just read them this morning. He had already left for chambers. I should also tell you I know Peter still comes here. I know he came here before he met me at the train two days ago.”
“You have learned much, my dear Pamela, in the short time you have been home.”
“And you intimately know the two men most important in my life. How could I not come here? How could I not meet you? How could I not want to know what you know?”
“You are certainly the daughter of Sir George. You have his brash nature, his fearlessness, his honesty. My dear, you even have his eyes, his beautiful brown eyes.”
Henry knocked at the door. “Miss Nellie, I have your tea.”
“Yes, Henry.” Nellie got up to open the door. “Please put the tray on the table.”
Nellie poured them each a cup of tea and handed one to Pamela. “Sip this, Pamela. It will help settle you.”
Pamela didn’t argue. Tea had always comforted her. She needed that now, staring into the face of her father’s past, and the legacy he left to Peter. Glancing into the bedroom again, she noticed a flimsy piece of lingerie tossed over a chair. She put her cup back on the saucer and set it on the table. Almost in a trance, she got up and walked into Nellie’s bedroom.
“Pamela, where are you going?”
Pamela stood in the centre of the room, in the same place Peter had stood two days prior. “This is a brothel, isn’t it?” She turned and stared at Nellie as though she had two heads. “You run a brothel.”
“My dear girl, this is a place where gentlemen come to find female companionship. It is how I met your father, and also how I met Peter.”