Daisy arched a brow. “I’ve not heard that one,” she commented. She didn’t dare admit the words she might have uttered when thoroughly frustrated. Or the one she said when she poked a needle into her thumb. “But it’s a good one,” she whispered.
“Rhymes with ‘tarnal’,” Charity said in a whisper.
The other word for ‘damn’ had Daisy nodding her understanding. The two drank their tea in companionable silence for a time before Daisy asked, “How long have you been teaching here?”
Charity seemed to think a moment. “It will be ten years come January. I remember because the former sewing instructor had to resign when she married.”
Daisy blinked, rather stunned by the comment. “Because her husband wouldn’t allow her to continue to teach?”
Frowning, Charity shook her head. “He would have preferred she continue—I believe he was counting on the income—but Mrs. Streater didn’t allow instructors to be married unless they were men.”
Remembering how she encouraged Jane Betterman and Mr. Jenkins to consider matrimony, Daisy realized they might not have pursued the arrangement thinking the draconian rule prohibited them from continuing their employment.
Or at least Jane’s.
“I shall have to make it known that that particular rule is no longer in place,” Daisy stated. “Should an instructor wish to wed but continue in their role at the school, they will be allowed to do so.”
Charity looked as if she might faint. “Are you... are you quite certain Mr. Streater is in agreement?” she asked.
Daisy wasn’t about to admit she didn’t know one way or the other, but she couldn’t imagine he would care one way or the other. He seemed determined to keep his distance as much as possible from Warwick’s. Once she started giving him the invoices for the upcoming restoration efforts his mother had put into place, he might never want to set foot in the school again. “Quite sure,” she replied with a nod.
Remembering Charity’s initial reaction, Daisy leaned forward. “Have you a beau? Or someone you have put off because you thought you couldn’t wed?” she queried.
Her eyes widening, Charity gave her head a shake. “Of course not. Remember, I do not hold the male sex in high regard.”
Daisy decided to guess what might have turned the sewing instructor against men in general. “It can be hard to regard their sex with any favor when one has been left at the altar.”
Charity sucked in a breath. “Who told you?” she asked in dismay, her face coloring up with embarrassment. She looked poised for a quick retreat from the small parlor.
Resisting the urge to express any form of victory at having sorted Charity’s problem with men, Daisy gave a shake of her head. “No one, Miss Crofter. But with the number of men who went off to war in the past decade, it happened far more often than it should have.”
This last was also a guess, but one based on something she knew from her time with the Foreign Office. The widows of enlisted men didn’t receive a pension when their husbands died on the battlefield. Only officers’ wives did. Miss Crofter didn’t strike her as one who had been betrothed to an officer. Perhaps her fiancé was concerned she wouldn’t regain her position at the school after having to give it up to be married in the first place. Unable to break off the engagement without ruining her reputation, he might have simply left for the Continent, ensuring Charity could continue in her position at Warwick’s. “Did he... did he come back to these shores after the war ended?” Daisy asked gently.
Charity looked as if she were about to cry. “I’ve absolutely no idea.”
Daisy’s eyes widened. The jilted woman’s dismay had obviously turned to anger over the years, festering until she held the entire male sex in low regard for something a misguided young man might have done to see to her future. “Did you find his name on one of the lists?” she asked, worry evident in her voice.
Shaking her head at the same time a tear escaped, Charity managed to say, “I didn’t think to look. I was still so...” She sighed a moment before a sob robbed her of breath.
Daisy held out an embroidered handkerchief. “Angry, no doubt,” she murmured quietly. “Hurt.”
Charity nodded. “I fear my pride suffered the most. I would have made an excellent wife.”
“You still will,” Daisy stated. “And a rather pretty one, too.” Without her wire spectacles perched on the end of her nose, Miss Crofter appeared years younger, what with her smooth, pale skin and blue eyes the color of cornflowers. If the bun on the back of her head hadn’t been so tightly wound and instead dressed into a softer one atop her head, she would look like any other eligible young lady, albeit a bit closer to being on the shelf. “Which begs the question. Why haven’t you married someone else?”
Charity sniffled, the handkerchief held over her nose. Her eyes widened. “I haven’t been courted by anyone. Not that I would have...” She allowed the sentence to trail off before she gave Daisy a beseeching look. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I?” she asked, setting her teacup onto the low table.
Daisy shook her head, noting how Charity’s hands shook. “Not at all,” she replied, refilling the woman’s tea. “If you’d like...” She hesitated, using the pause to add the milk and sugar. She was about to offer to help discover what might have become of the woman’s betrothed, but wondered if she might be giving away too much about her own background if she did.
I don’t work for them any longer, she thought, deciding she could use what contacts she had to at least ask about the man. “I may know someone. Someone at the War Office. He might have access to records.”
Blinking tears from her eyes, Charity sniffled and allowed a nod. “His name was Mr. Barnaby. Nicholas Barnaby.”
Although the name seemed familiar, Daisy couldn’t place just where she had heard it before. “Go on,” she encouraged.
Charity angled her head. “Well, he’s older than me—he was probably thirty at the time—but... he seemed so... beholden when we first met. He courted me for three weeks and then, one day in the park, he asked if I might become his wife. I was thrilled and agreed immediately. I didn’t have to give it a second thought. It didn’t matter I would have to give up my position here at Warwick’s. We set a date. The banns were read, and on the day we were to be wed...”
New tears threatened, and Daisy sighed. “Do you have any idea where Mr. Barnaby worked? What he did for a living?”
Sniffling, Charity nodded. “He was a clerk. At a... at a warehouse down by the river.”
Given the number of companies that had warehouses near the river, Daisy realized it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack if she started with that bit of information. “Had he been off to war before?” Daisy asked, thinking it would be easier to find information if he was on the Continent for one of the earlier wars against France.
“He mentioned he was in the army.”
Well, that narrowed it down, although not a lot.
“I shall see what I can discover,” Daisy promised as she helped herself to a biscuit. “And in the meantime, we shall finish our tea and look forward to a new Warwick’s,” she said lightly. “Oh, and should you decide to marry, know that you can keep your position here at Warwick’s. I would really rather not have to line up yet another new teacher.”
Charity allowed a nod. “It won’t be an issue for me, of course, but it’s good to know the new rule.”
Her words had Daisy determined the new rule would apply to Charity Crofter, whether she believed it would or not.
Now, who could she bother at the War Office?
Chapter 22
Quotes are Discovered
A few minutes later
When Charity Crofter took her leave of Omega House, Daisy hurried back to her desk and opened the drawer containing the odd ledger. After her discussion with Charity about the impending repairs, and remembering the instructor’s comment about the door lock, Daisy now guessed why there were so many more entries than just the three repairs she knew we
re imminent.
She removed everything from the drawer, piling the other leather-bound ledgers onto her desk in an effort to get to the bottom of the drawer. When she did, she found a sheet of pasteboard that had been folded in half. Lifting it by one edge—she had to use her fingernails to pry it out from its tight confines—she finally managed to extract it without bending it.
Pulling back the top, she found a sheaf of papers of various sizes within. The top sheet, a letter printed with the calling card for Thatcher and Sons at the top, contained the formal quote for the replacement of all the roofs at Warwick’s. The next sheet, a parchment with the stamp of the British Cast Plate Glass Company and a date from six months ago, was a detailed accounting of every window needing replacement followed by the amount each one would cost to install.
The colorman’s quote followed. Although not as detailed, it showed the addresses for all the buildings on the school grounds and the total for exterior and interior painting.
Relieved at finding the information—this was the documentation she sought to explain Mrs. Streater’s entries in the odd ledger—Daisy now dreaded what she would find beneath. There were at least ten more sheets, all for companies that had apparently been hired to perform some sort of maintenance task at the school.
Comparing the numbers from the stack of quotes with the entries Mrs. Streater had made on a ledger sheet—numbers with some letters next to each entry—Daisy confirmed they matched the quotes for the maintenance work. The roofer’s quote matched the first amount, as did his initials. The window quote matched the second amount. From there, she was able to match up most of the entries with the quotes for the work that was scheduled to be performed. Work that included new door locks, gas lighting in the classroom buildings, and carpets in the boarding houses.
When she totaled the amount, she cringed.
Would Mr. Streater have enough blunt to cover invoices that would total nearly ten-thousand pounds?
Returning the ledgers to their drawer but leaving the pasteboard folder with its contents on her desk, she was about to write a note seeking an audience with Mr. Streater. Then she caught sight of the time on the clock.
Daisy didn’t have an opportunity to consider the matter further. She had to change clothes and be ready to leave soon.
Chapter 23
Dinner at Ariley Place
Thursday evening
The invitation wasn’t unexpected. It arrived a day later than she thought it might, though, delivered by the handsome footman who stood just inside the doorway to her office, waiting for a reply.
Daisy lifted the dark wax embossed with her father’s seal and quickly unfolded the parchment.
She scanned the masculine scrawl, not a bit surprised it was written in her father’s hand.
My very dearest daughter,
I was given your note by one of the servants (the one who drew the short straw, no doubt).
You’re welcome. The furnishings are truly yours to do with as you please, but know this: I have already given permission to my dear Helen to see to replacements (since she still holds hope you will spend another night or two or more under our roof).
Apparently, she was arranging an appointment with Chippendale when your employer arrived to place an order of his own. Having inherited a business and now that he is a member of White’s, it seems Mr. Streater intends to furnish his house accordingly.
Make an old man happy and join us for dinner this evening. I promise family only—no balding, fat viscounts in need of a wife will be in attendance. At least, none by my invitation. I cannot vouch for what my duchess might do when she learns of this invitation (so I will not apprise her of it until five o’clock this evening). We may even allow the children in the dining room, if only so Helen can show off your siblings.
Please?
Your father
A pang in her chest had Daisy realizing she had no choice but to pay a call on Ariley Place and have dinner with her father and his new family. Although she had considered joining the young ladies in Delta House for dinner that evening, she knew another instructor would be a guest at their table.
“Let the duke know that I accept his invitation,” she said to the footman.
He gave a bow. “Yes, my lady. I’m to inform you that a coach will arrive at half-past five to collect you.”
Daisy resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, her father would see to transportation. “Then I will be ready at half-past-five,” she responded.
The ducal town coach pulled up in front of Omega House at precisely five o’clock. Daisy knew it because she had paid a street urchin a farthing to let her know when it did. The small boy, undernourished and covered with a year’s worth of dirt, pounded on her apartment door. “The coach is here, m’lady,” he called out from the hallway.
Dressed but not quite ready to leave—the coach was a half-hour early—Daisy opened the door, gave the boy another farthing and a biscuit, and told him to tell the driver she would be out in ten minutes. Then she watched as the boy took his leave of Omega House, a wan grin appearing when the door shook as he slammed it shut.
“He’ll be back, miss,” a maid said from where she was dusting at the end of the hall. “Now that he knows you have some blunt.”
Daisy regarded the servant a moment. “Perhaps he will. But sometimes it’s good to have a caddy,” she replied, thinking the boy could deliver messages when necessary.
Maybe after he had a bath.
Dressed in a dark red dinner gown trimmed with tiny scallops and fabric rosettes at the hem and neckline, Daisy donned a black mantle and took her leave of Omega House. Pausing to lock the outer door, she was unaware of who watched her take her leave, although a familiar prickling sensation at her neck had her pausing before she stepped up into the ducal coach. Turning, she spotted the urchin watching from down the street and gave him a quick wave.
Had she turned in the other direction at the very same time, she might have paid witness to Mr. Streater duck in front of a parked barouche and then lean sideways a bit to watch her departure.
Perhaps she did.
Teddy Streater wasn’t surprised to see Miss Albright leaving Omega House, apparently on her way to dinner. Given the hour, though, it was a bit early. Most of the boarding houses served the formal meal at seven o’clock.
He was surprised to see her stepping into a glossy black coach, however. With a driver, groomsman, and a tiger, it was evident the town coach was owned by someone of wealth. Someone of importance.
When her mantle splayed open as she climbed into the coach, he caught sight of the color of her gown. The deep red was a stunning color with her brunette hair. The coiffure was simple but elegant, probably a testament to her lack of a lady’s maid.
As he watched the coach pull away from the curb, his heart sank at seeing a gold crest painted on the door. In an effort to keep from being seen by its passenger, he stepped onto the pavement and behind the barouche, so he couldn’t make out the details of the crest.
But one thing he knew for certain.
Miss Albright was positively gorgeous!
Which, of course, he already knew. And so did his cock, which he was trying to keep under control lest a student take note from one of the five boarding houses lining Glasshouse Street.
Teddy tried to ignore how shabby the buildings appeared, each and every one of them in need of a new coat of paint. Several window panes appeared cracked in the afternoon sun, which only emphasized how much they needed cleaning. Only the landscaping kept the property from looking like a complete loss.
Teddy sighed in disgust, and then he remembered the conversation he’d had with Miss Albright over tea the afternoon prior. She had mentioned repairmen had been arranged. With that thought, he turned his mind back on Miss Albright for another reason.
If not with the students at Warwick’s, then with whom was she having dinner that evening?
Or was she meeting someone for an assignation?
Wa
s she a mistress for some fat, balding viscount? Hiding her true identity by playing at being a headmistress of a finishing school by day and warming some rich man’s bed by night?
Teddy shook his head, deciding the idea was ridiculous. She had come seeking the position because she needed the employment. If she was a mistress, she wouldn’t have need of a job, too.
Would she?
But seeing her dressed as she was this evening made him wonder if she would dress the same for the theatre on Saturday. Exactly two days from now, he thought as he gave his chronometer a glance. Perhaps she would tell him then with whom she had supped on this night. If not, maybe he could bring up the topic and she would admit she was available for such an arrangement. Perhaps then he could offer her carte blanche. A fleeting thought of marriage was just that.
No woman like her would never marry a man with only one arm, after all.
Daisy wasn’t quite sure what had her glancing out the opposite window from where she was settled into the navy velvet squabs of her father’s town coach. Perhaps it was the quick motion of the man who was leaning against the front of a barouche and then suddenly wasn’t.
Is that Mr. Streater? she wondered as she slid over to the other side of the coach and dared a glance out the window. The man was now leaning on the side of the barouche, apparently believing he was out of sight from the town coach, when in fact she could clearly make out it was him once the coach made the right turn at the next intersection.
Whatever is he doing?
A thought that he had come for an appointment with her was quickly set aside. Their next engagement wouldn’t be until Saturday’s tea.
Deciding he was there to gauge the extent of the repairs that were to take place, Daisy once again settled into the squabs. She wondered instead what might be lying in wait at Ariley Place. Socializing with her father wasn’t something she’d had a chance to do much of since she had left his protection. With his marriage, she didn’t expect she would except under clandestine arrangements, made so because she was sure his duchess would abhor her very existence.
The Conundrum of a Clerk Page 17