Fortunately, the children arrived at that moment and their noisy entrance prevented her from any rash statements. Lord Radcliffe took his leave; Suzanne hoped that Christa would not choose that moment to return.
Footsore and bemused, Christa very nearly walked into the carriage parked in front of Suzanne’s. Swerving around it, she saw the coat of arms painted on the door—a golden lion, rampant, a silver stag—and gasped with sudden shock. Fortunately there was considerable foot traffic as people made their way home in the gathering dusk, and she let the movement carry her along until she could dart into an alley. Drawing several deep breaths to calm herself, she peered cautiously out, just in time to see Lord Radcliffe emerging from Suzanne’s door. He had a black look on his face, and she could only be grateful he did not glance in her direction.
Her relief was checked when the earl spoke to one of his footmen before entering the carriage. The footman nodded and dropped off the back of the vehicle, then crossed the street to stand in the shadow of the building opposite Suzanne’s. Christa felt a chill. She had passed unnoticed when she was part of a group, but the man set to watch would certainly have seen her enter her cousin’s if she had returned a few minutes later. What would he have done then—sent for her uncle? Captured her in the dark passage outside Suzanne’s, then carried her away?
Fortunately her cousin had a rear entrance. By working her way through the maze of odoriferous alleys, she was able to safely reach the rickety outside stairs that led to the flat.
Suzanne answered her knock quickly. “Thank le bon Dieu you are safe!” she exclaimed. “You saw Lord Radcliffe leaving?”
“Oui,” Christa confirmed as she removed her voluminous cloak and shook out her dark curls. “And he has left a man outside to watch. I hope it will be a very cold night!”
“I do not like your Lord Radcliffe,” Suzanne said as they walked toward the combination kitchen/sitting room/dining room. “He seems a determined man, perhaps a dangerous one.”
“He is not my Lord Radcliffe, and I do not intend he ever shall be!”
The children’s enthusiastic welcome prevented further discussion, and once again it was late in the evening before the two could speak privately. Since coffee was too previous to drink two nights in a row, they sipped hot cider as Christa described her day.
“In the morning I went to visit the friends we thought might write characters for me. Mme. Gerard, the d’Aubossons, the Comtesse du Thonon—mon Dieu, but it was sad to see them in such reduced circumstances! Yet they are bearing up well. In fact, Mme. d’Aubosson sent some sweets for the children.”
Christa drew a carefully wrapped parcel from the cloak she had hung earlier and handed it to her cousin. “She owns a sweet shop and made these with her own hands—she, who could not pick up her own scarf when it fell to the floor! I think she has pride in her accomplishments—not altogether a bad compensation for what she has lost.”
“How kind of her,” Suzanne said. “I shall save these until Pierre’s name day—it is next week.” She looked searchingly at Christa and said, “You had no other luck?”
Christa gave a wry half-smile. “I didn’t expect it to be easy! Two of the offices were disgraceful places, best suited to luring young girls from the path of virtue. The others were respectable, but gave no hope for a position soon. The gentleman at the last agency was most kind and gave me some more offices to visit tomorrow—ones he said were safe.” She sipped her cider and said, “Were you able to complete your arrangement with Mme. Bouchet?”
Suzanne’s face lit up. “Oh, yes! It made us both very happy. She will stay another fortnight to teach me more about keeping the accounts. Mme. Bouchet was kind enough to say that my fashion sense was superior to hers.”
“Very proper of her.”
“What will you do? It will not be safe for you to stay here if Lord Radcliffe maintains a watch.” Suzanne shivered slightly. “I think he had called on others before he came here. How did he know whom to visit?”
“He must have remembered the addresses of letters he franked for me. I could admire his lordship’s efficiency more if he did not remind me of a cat in pursuit of a mouse.” She chuckled. “Still, more often than not the mouse gets away. I will just have to find a situation quickly.” Christa stood and yawned. “When I have disappeared into one of these great London households, he will never find me.”
The afternoon was well advanced when Christa reached Mrs. Haywood’s Select Domestic Establishment in Hans Town. When she entered, the prim young woman writing at a desk in the front room looked at her disapprovingly. “Do you have an appointment?” The eyes that raked her implied that Covent Garden was more suited to the likes of her.
“No, I fear not. I realize it is very forward of me, but is it possible that Mrs. Haywood might be able to see me this afternoon?” Christa accompanied the remark with her sweetest smile and had the satisfaction of seeing the young woman thaw a bit.
She nibbled on her quill, then stood and said, “I’ll see what I can do. You may take a seat.”
Christa gratefully accepted her invitation. She had already visited five registries today and been rebuffed at all of them, sometimes without even a semblance of politeness, and always after a lengthy wait. This particular office had an air of almost oppressive gentility, with quietly expensive furnishings and an atmosphere calculated to intimidate the average scullery maid or hall boy. Christa tried to convince herself that Mrs. Haywood would have something for her, but the empty waiting room did not nourish hope.
The young woman came back with a look of mild surprise on her face. “Mrs. Haywood will see you now. Follow me.”
Mrs. Haywood had once been housekeeper at the town mansion of a duke and her black dress and severely pulled back hair bespoke that same discreet efficiency. She looked up from her desk when Christa entered, openly judging. She said crisply, “You may be seated. Tell me who you are and what kind of position you seek.”
Christa inclined her head politely, then sat. “My name is Christine Bohnet, and I seek a position as governess. Here are my letters of reference.” Christa waited anxiously while Mrs. Haywood perused them. She had chosen to keep the name “Christine” and coupled it with the surname of the two servants who had fled Paris with them; the Bohnets had been almost like her own family.
Mrs. Haywood handed back the letters and said, “I’m afraid I can do nothing for you.”
Frustrated again, Christa raised her chin and said, “May I ask you a question, madam?”
The woman raised a brow but said, “You may.”
“What is wrong? Is it that there is no work, or is it me?” Christa said. “I must know.”
Mrs. Haywood sighed but decided to give her an honest answer—those clear gray eyes deserved nothing less. “In a sense, it is you. The only situation an émigré is likely to be considered for is teaching French, and many of your compatriots seek those same few places. For other teaching work, you face resentment and prejudice. There is a war one, remember, and France has always been the traditional enemy, admired and despised at one and the same time.
“While you have excellent references, you are unlikely to find a position. You are too young, too pretty, too French, and few families want their daughters to learn the academic subjects you have mastered.” Mrs. Haywood’s voice was sympathetic as she added, “You would be better advised to seek another kind of employment.”
It was the answer Christa had begun to suspect. “Thank you for your candor. Do you have any suggestions for schools I might approach? Surely there are some that would wish a French mistress.”
Mrs. Haywood was starting to reply when her young employee entered with an officious footman following closely. The girl gave a scathing glance at the man and said, “This person wishes to hand-deliver a message to you.”
The footman, a bluff fellow whose height and well-formed calves probably doubled his annual salary, said righteously, “Lady Pomfret said I was to deliver this into your own hands and
wait for a reply.”
Mrs. Haywood broke the seal and quickly scanned the note. Looking up, she said, “Give Lady Pomfret my regrets. At the moment I do not have on my books an abigail suitable to her ladyship’s station.”
A mad idea struck Christa: since she must find work as soon as possible and no one would have her as a teacher, why should she not be a lady’s maid? The thought was a radical one. Teachers came from the educated classes and commanded some respect; an abigail was at the top of the domestic hierarchy but very much a servant. And yet … did not Papa say all work had dignity? She spoke quickly before she could change her mind.
“Mrs. Haywood, I may know someone for her ladyship. May I speak with you privately?”
The proprietress considered, then turned to the footman. “Will you take a glass of ale? I will see what this young person has to say.”
A greedy light showed in the footman’s eye and he followed the assistant out of the room. Turning to Christa, she said, “You know an abigail who is at liberty? She must be a woman of very high skills—Lady Pomfret is most particular.”
“Please, Mrs. Haywood, let me have the position.” Christa’s eyes were pleading.
“Out of the question!” the proprietress said, her deep voice abrupt. “You are obviously a young woman of gentle birth. It is difficult to imagine you teaching, but impossible to imagine you as a servant. My business is built on providing skilled workers; I cannot afford to send out a novice.”
“But I can do the work! I can sew and alter dresses and care for milady’s jewels. I know how to style hair, and I make very fine cosmetics. I can write letters or read aloud or play the harpsichord to soothe the mistress.” The words came out in a rush as she tried to head off the disapproving look on Mrs. Haywood’s face.
“A lady’s maid is one situation where being French is an advantage—France has always led fashion.” Christa stood, almost quivering with determination. “If you will let me work with you for ten minutes, I will prove what I can do!”
Intrigued by the proposition, Mrs. Haywood decided to let this unusual young lady have her chance; today was becoming much more amusing than she had expected. She said, “Very well, convince me.”
Christa moved behind the proprietress and said in her pretty French accent, “If Madame will permit …” and started to remove hairpins. A born mimic, she fell automatically into the deferential firmness common to lady’s maids. Taking her comb from her reticule, she used it to loosen and reshape Mrs. Haywood’s dark hair. An elaborate style was not possible without more time and equipment, so Christa pulled the thick hair back in a way that created soft waves around the woman’s face, then knotted it lightly at the crown. The long tresses below were pulled into a loop and pinned under the knot.
“Madame’s hair is magnifique,” she murmured as her hands skillfully finished the styling. Christa gave thanks that the day had been warm enough for her to wear a long cashmere shawl rather than her cloak; the garment was a vivid periwinkle blue that would suit Mrs. Haywood’s coloring to perfection. She draped it around Mrs. Haywood’s shoulders, then gently rubbed the woman’s cheeks to give her more color. Pleased with the results, she asked, “If Madame has a mirror?”
Madame did have a hand mirror concealed in a lower drawer of the massive desk. Mrs. Haywood pulled it out, then looked at her image and gasped. The face looking back was not the stern widowed businesswoman that circumstances had created, but the eager young girl she had been, in love with Thomas Haywood and facing a life of infinite possibilities. The soft hairstyle removed fifteen years from her age, and her skin glowed above the rich blue cashmere. She was shaken; the face she showed the world was so formidable that she herself had almost forgotten that young girl.
Mrs. Haywood needed a moment to collect herself before saying, “You are indeed very skilled. You can also mend and wash and starch fine fabrics?” At Christa’s nod she said rather dryly, “I do not doubt you know how to supervise the lower staff. Sit down again and I will tell you more about Lady Pomfret.”
Christa looked so young and hopeful that Mrs. Haywood regretted the warnings she must give. “You cannot possibly know how different life is belowstairs. The abigail of the mistress has a great deal of status but is the target of resentment because of her privileges, and suspicion because of her closeness to the family. The hours are very long and you will have almost no freedom.
“Moreover, Lady Pomfret is not an easy woman to work for. I believe half the legitimate registry offices in London have provided her with abigails—in the last five years I have sent her two myself. She pays only twenty-five pounds a year, which is ridiculously low for the skill required. And her husband—there have been complaints about her husband.” Mrs. Haywood hesitated, wondering whether to elaborate, but decided not to; the girl looked intelligent enough to deduce what kind of complaints. “You are positive you wish to undertake this?”
Christa’s gaze was steady. “I must.”
“Very well, if you are sure. Can you start this evening?” At Christa’s nod Mrs. Haywood continued, “My usual commission is a shilling on the pound for the first year’s wages, but since it is Lady Pomfret, I will charge only a crown.” Her voice was wry as she added, “If you are still there in a year, you can pay me the rest.” She wrote the address on a slip of paper, then handed it across the desk.
Christa stood, her eyes shining. “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Haywood. I shall never forget your kindness.”
“I only hope you will not regret this day’s work.” The woman stood and extended her hand. “If you are in need of another situation in the future, I hope you will come to me again. Good luck.”
Christa refused to be worried by Mrs. Haywood’s pessimism as she returned to Suzanne’s to collect her things and say good-bye. She was excited at having successfully crossed the first hurdle; she would work hard and give Lady Pomfret no grounds for complaint. Life was good, n’est-ce pas?
Chapter Four
Before she left Suzanne’s, Christa noticed with amusement that one of Lewis’ flunkies still lurked in the shadows across the street; if the earl wanted inconspicuous watchers, he shouldn’t dress his servants in silver livery. Fortunately, her route through the alleys had not been discovered and she was able to come and go without detection.
For the sake of both speed and safety, Christa used some of her small amount of money for a hackney ride to Lady Pomfret’s town house on Bedford Row. It was a handsome three-story building, though nothing like so imposing as Radcliffe House in Mayfair. The evening was well advanced when she lifted the heavy brass knocker and rapped sharply.
The footman who answered proved to be the same one who had carried the message to Mrs. Haywood’s. Since the primary purpose of footmen was ostentation, tall handsome oafs like this one commanded higher wages than men who were shorter or more intelligent. Christa had not been impressed by him earlier, and further study showed no reason to improve her opinion. With a polite nod she said, “Good evening. I am the new lady’s maid. To whom shall I announce myself?”
The footman stared at her blankly for a moment; then a lewd smile spread over his face as he recognized the pretty little Frenchy from the registry office. This one looked much better than the horse-faced Yorkshirewoman who had preceded her, and he was anxious to find out if it was true what they said about Frenchwomen.
Standing aside so she could enter, he said, “That would be Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper. Follow me, miss.”
The footman led her through a series of halls and passages; the house was very deep to compensate for the narrow street frontage. A stair at the back took them down to the main service area. At the bottom he gestured at a closed door. “That’s Mrs. Higgins’ parlor. By the way, my name is James.”
Giving her a gap-toothed smile, he stood aside to let her pass. Christa was suspicious of his politeness, and with reason: the footman gave her a sharp pinch on the buttock as she passed. Since she thought it wise to establish an aura of untouchability as
soon as possible, Christa swung the portmanteau back sharply without even turning her head. She judged it hit just below the kneecap, and from the strength of his muffled oath, it must have connected well. As she knocked on the indicated door, she looked at him coolly and said, “Thank you, James,” then entered the comfortably furnished housekeeper’s room.
Mrs. Higgins had been working at her account books and was not best pleased to be interrupted. A pinch-mouthed creature who dressed entirely in black, she seemed singularly unimpressed by the new addition to the household. Her mouth tightened even further as she looked Christa up and down, and she did not suggest the girl sit in the extra chair. “You’re the chit from the agency? I’ll show you your room, then take you to Lady Pomfret’s chambers to await her ladyship’s retiring. The last abigail left in a hurry and her ladyship’s things need a great deal of work, so you needn’t be idle while you wait.
“The upper servants eat in the steward’s dining room. The second housemaid, Betsy, takes care of the water and coal for her ladyship’s chambers. You can order her on matters pertaining to the mistress’s comfort, but remember, she has other duties as well. I will introduce you to the laundry maids tomorrow. I have Lady Pomfret’s jewel box here for safekeeping; you may take charge of it only if the mistress approves you. Now, come along.” Mrs. Higgins rose with a jingle of the key ring that was the badge of the housekeeper.
Christa counted one hundred and ten steps from the basement to the attic as she followed Mrs. Higgins up the narrow service stairs. Her new home was cramped and bare-floored, containing only a narrow wooden bed, a two-drawered storage chest, and a washstand with a chipped pitcher and a bowl that didn’t match.
Mrs. Higgins barely gave her time to set down her portmanteau before leading her back downstairs. Lady Pomfret’s suite took up half the second floor, and consisted of a sitting room, a bedchamber, a dressing room, and several small rooms for her wardrobe. The three main chambers had fireplaces, a comfort not to be found in the attic.
Lady of Fortune Page 5