He nudged Miss Tolerance forward. She found herself blinking after the dark of the hall. An uncurtained window faced out over the street and filled the room with white sunlight. The room was furnished with a heavy, old-fashioned sofa and two chairs, a table, two lamps, and a rug which, although shabby, had once been of good quality. Miss Tolerance caught a faint whiff of some astringent scent, just under the homelier smells of beeswax and blacking. There was no one in sight, but a creak to the left announced that someone was coming. A moment later a tall, stocky woman of advanced years appeared in the doorway. She wore a gown of blue muslin with a spotless white work-apron, and an old-fashioned muslin cap on her iron-gray hair. Her eyes were a pale, faded blue, and her smile attempted the maternal. She had the steely pleasantness of a senior nursery maid.
“Thank you, Martin. That’ll do.” The boy, who had stood behind Miss Tolerance with his arms crossed as if he thought she might steal the plate, bolted from the room. The woman stepped forward to close the door. “Now, my dear. How can I help you?” Kent-born, Miss Tolerance fancied, but many years in London.
“Are you Mrs. Harris?”
“I am, my dear. Please, come in, come in.” The woman waved a hand at the chairs. “Now, who sent you to me?”
That was a forceful way to begin a conversation with a stranger. “A Mrs. Codfinger, ma’am, says—”
“Mrs.—Did she, then? I’m surprised, I confess it. Rosie Codfinger fancies herself in my line of work, and I’d not ‘ave expected ‘er to turn away a bit of business. Well, ‘tis obliging of her, to be sure.” Mrs. Harris took a seat on the sofa opposite to Miss Tolerance and leaned forward. “Well, my dear—how do you find yourself here?”
Another curious question. “I took a hackney carriage.”
Mrs. Harris shook her head. “Now, sweetheart, all will go better if you are frank with me,” she chided. “How far along.”
“Ma’am?”
Mrs. Harris reached for Miss Tolerance’s hand and patted it between her own two square, callused ones. She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “How far along? When did you miss your courses?”
Miss Tolerance sat back. All was suddenly clear to her; how had she not realized it before? “I am not with child, ma’am.”
Mrs. Harris appeared unsurprised by this answer, but an edge came into her voice. “What, do you think it is some sort of illness you have, my dear? Come, come, even ladies will have their fun, and when they find that they must pay the piper the come to me to—”
“You mistake me, ma’am. I am not here to avail myself of your services.” She took a breath. “Perhaps we should start anew. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Tolerance, and I was sent by Mrs. Codfinger, who said that she had seen you in conversation with a young woman I am seeking to find.”
Mrs. Harris frowned. “I don’t talk about the ladies that come to me, Mrs. Tolerance—”
“Miss Tolerance.”
“Miss Tolerance?” The woman shrugged. “Well, Miss Tolerance, do you think, if word got out that I gabbed, I’d ever see another penny for my services?”
As discretion was one of the most important aspects of Miss Tolerance’s own services, she was sympathetic. “I do understand, ma’am. But I do not believe this young woman came to you to avail herself of your—your services. She has run away from her family, and I am attempting to return her to them.” Miss Tolerance extracted the portrait from her reticule and handed it to the other woman.
Mrs. Harris held the picture out, almost at arm’s length, and squinted at it. Just for a moment Miss Tolerance thought she saw recognition in the older woman’s expression. Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry you’ve come for nothing, miss. They’re both pretty girls, but I’ve never seen either one of ‘em. The shorter one looks a bit like Daisy Quiller, from three streets over, but she’d never have the brass to pay for a picture like that.”
She returned the portrait to Miss Tolerance.
“Why would Mrs. Codfinger have told me she had seen you with the girl, ma’am?”
“What would I be doing chatting up girls? I’m not in that business.” Mrs. Harris’s disdain was complete. “Rosie Codfinger’s souse enough to imagine any number of things. She’s also the sort would enjoy sending another person off chasing cat-phantoms. I’m that sorry for your time and trouble but I can’t help you. I’m sorry for the girl,’ she added more feelingly. “Gentle-bred thing like that probably don’t know the first thing about what she’s got herself into.”
“My fear is that she is learning, ma’am.” Miss Tolerance rose. “You are quite certain you have never seen her?”
Mrs. Harris stood also. “What, are you calling me a liar? I said I han’t seen her, and that’s God’s truth.” She raised one square hand as if taking her oath. “Now, you’ll oblige me by leaving. I have business to attend to.” She crossed her arms as if to present the sturdiest obstacle possible to continued conversation. Miss Tolerance curtsied and departed.
It appeared that Mrs. Harris had been a waste of her morning. Miss Tolerance went out past Martin and his friends, who had returned to examining the carrion on the front step, and reluctantly moved aside to let her pass. Miss Tolerance sought out her hackney coach where it waited for her.
As she returned to Tarsio’s late that afternoon, Miss Tolerance calculated that she had visited seventeen coaching inns that day, with nothing to show for it except her own growing conviction that Miss Evadne had not left London, with or without a companion, by stage. Unless the girl’s seducer was wealthy enough to hire a private chaise—and Miss Tolerance had not the resources to send inquiries to every posting house on the northern roads—it appeared likely that her quarry was still in London. It was a pleasant thing to have ruled out the rest of England, she thought, but not much comfort when she considered all the places in London where a runaway couple might hide.
No messages awaited her at Tarsio’s. Miss Tolerance bespoke dinner in one of the small withdrawing rooms and went up at once to write a report to Mrs. Brown. She wished, as she did so, that the lady had been more forthcoming. As things were situated it would be nearly impossible to speak with servants in the Brown household (or whatever their name was). It would be difficult to speak to the girl’s friends without alerting them to the possibility of scandal, and that was a real loss. What sixteen year old girl ever nourished a secret passion without confessing it to a friend? There was the governess, turned off before she could be of any help. She wrote a line to ask for the governess’s direction. It was clear to her that her lover’s identity was the key to finding the girl. She finished her note and consigned it to the care of Steen, another of Tarsio’s porters, then fell to her beef and pudding with a sharp appetite.
When she finished her dinner she remained at Tarsio’s for a while, thinking that perhaps someone she had spoken to earlier in the day might seek her out in this more private setting. Miss Tolerance disliked waiting; she ventured from the withdrawing room to the book room to find something to read. An hour spent in the company of A Letter to the Women of England, on the Injustices of Mental Subjugation, convinced her (had she required convincing) that the life and concerns of a bluestocking would not have suited her. The hour was drawing on for ten o’clock and she was tired. She left the club, hired a chair, and was returned to Manchester Square.
Miss Tolerance did not intend to enter her aunt’s establishment that evening. When possible she avoided those hours when trade was most brisk, as she had on more than one occasion been mistaken for one of her aunt’s employees. She directed the chair to leave her in Spanish Place, went in through the gate there, and made for her cottage. There she found a note from her aunt requesting her to call. She was reluctant—the hour, the rigors of the day, and her lack of success had left her tired and irritable—but affection and duty won out. Miss Tolerance took off her bonnet and crossed the garden to Mrs. Brereton’s house.
She found her aunt at her desk, two branches of candles melting down as she pored
over the pages of a ledger. Mrs. Brereton must have sensed a presence behind her; her back stiffened and she slammed the ledger closed as if to prevent its secrets leaping out to take refuge with her enemies. When she saw who her visitor was Mrs. Brereton unbent a little.
“You ought not sneak about in that fashion.”
“I am sorry, Aunt Thea. Habits of stealth are a hazard of my occupation.”
Mrs. Brereton sniffed. “Where are you off to now?”
“My bed, ma’am. I am just returned home, but you left word you wished to see me.”
“I wanted you to sup with me, but I see you have been jaunting bout town with your tame magistrate again.”
Miss Tolerance blinked. “I rarely jaunt, Aunt. And I wish you would not call Sir Walter such a name. He is neither tame nor mine, and would dislike it very much.”
“Were you not out with him last night?”
“We went to the theatre, yes. I have also gone to the theatre with you, and with Marianne. Do you have a sudden objection to Covent Garden, ma’am?”
Mrs. Brereton pursed her lips. “It seems to me that you are hardly at home.”
“Another hazard of my occupation, aunt, but not Sir Walter’s fault.”
“You were not with him tonight?”
“No, ma’am, I was not. I was at Tarsio’s, waiting for an informant who never arrived. I should have been far better entertained had I been supping with you. As to Sir Walter, do you so dislike my friendship with him?”
“You might be making money from it,” Mrs. Brereton suggested.
“Not in the way you mean, ma’am. Sir Walter and I are colleagues. We discuss our work and politics, just as you and I do.”
Mrs. Brereton opened her ledger and stared fixedly at it. “Don’t be stupid, Sarah. There is no such thing as friendship between men and women. You may not mean to attach Sir Walter, but I do not doubt that he means to attach you. Now, if all you mean to do is talk nonsense you might as well leave me to my accounts.”
Miss Tolerance did not like to leave on such a note. Since her illness a sixmonth before, Mrs. Brereton had been more volatile of temper and more likely to take offense where none was meant. She kept her temper with her clients; Miss Tolerance heard enough from Mrs. Brereton’s lieutenant, Marianne Touchwell, to know that she was equally evenhanded in dealing with the staff. Her odd moods were reserved for Frost, her dresser, for Marianne, and for Miss Tolerance, the three persons in the household to whom her ties were closest. That this was a mark of trust made it no less disturbing.
Miss Tolerance bit her lip, gained a firm hand upon her own temper, and smiled. “Will you dismiss me so out-of-hand, aunt? I am here, now.”
“I do not want you now!” Mrs. Brereton snapped. “You are never here when I want you.”
“But you know what my life is like, aunt. And I did visit with you yesterday before I went out.” Miss Tolerance saw that her aunt was not mollified. “May we not make an appointment to dine tomorrow? I will promise to be there.”
“Had I not better invite you to dine, you mean.” Mrs. Brereton was grudging.
“No, indeed. If you wish to come to my cottage for dinner, I will lay on the best possible meal—”
“Don’t be stupid, Sarah.” But Mrs. Brereton appeared more diverted than affronted by the notion of dining in the cottage. “What would you serve me? Gruel and tea? Bread and butter?”
“Connell used to say I made a very tasty stew.”
“God preserve me. I don’t doubt your fencing master ate anything placed in front of him, like most men. No, I’ll thank you to come dine with me—if you can undertake to cease jaunting about the city for an evening.”
“I rarely jaunt,” Miss Tolerance said again. “I would be delighted to dine with you. We dress, of course?”
“My dear child, just because we are Fallen is no reason to neglect the habits of civilized society.” The unevenness of Mrs. Brereton’s smile made her look rather melancholy, but Miss Tolerance knew this was one of the remaining physical signs of the stroke from which her aunt had otherwise recovered. “Wear that pretty green gown, and I will—”
What Mrs. Brereton intended was not to be known; one of her girls appeared in the doorway at that moment. “Excuse me, ma’am.”
“What is it, Clara?”
The whore, a slender girl with bright eyes and a tumble of dark curls, was apologetic. “There’s a problem in the yellow saloon. Two gents is—are—asking for Lisette and neither one will give way. She says Mr. Creevey was her appointed for the evening, but Mr. Sainsbury says she promised him, and they’re a bit in their cups and—”
“A schoolroom quarrel!” Mrs. Brereton frowned. “Cannot Marianne sort this out? It seems to me I gave her authority to do just that.”
The girl flushed. “Marianne’s with a gent, ma’am. Keefe might—”
But Mrs. Brereton had risen to her feet. “One does not ask a servant to mediate between gentlemen, Clara. Keefe is only to be involved when a client requires a show of force.” She turned to her niece. “I don’t suppose you would deal with this, Sarah?”
Miss Tolerance shook her head. “Like Keefe, ma’am, I am only to be involved when the client requires a show of force.”
“How do you know this is not such a time?”
“Given that Clara entered the room at a decorous walk, and the only clash she mentions is one of dates rather than steel, I deduce that no threat presently exists. You do not need me to interfere, aunt.”
“Well, I wish you would. You might save me the exertion of going down stairs. “
“Untangling a quarrel like this will be best done by you, aunt. I have no standing in this house. Nor do I want any,” she continued before Mrs. Brereton could make her inevitable comments about the desirability of Miss Tolerance interesting herself in the business. “I will leave you to your business, aunt, and promise faithfully to dine with you tomorrow evening.”
Mrs. Brereton sniffed. “Go away, then.” She offered her cheek for a kiss, then followed Clara out the door to deal with Messers Creevey and Sainsbury.
Chapter Four
Miss Tolerance woke early, broke her fast, dressed, set her cottage in order, and left Manchester Square on foot. An idea had come to her as she waited to sleep the night before. Mrs. Brown would not give Miss Evadne’s real name, but there was no doubt that possession of it would make finding the girl easier, and she had not forbidden Miss Tolerance to seek that name out. It was a quarter-hour’s walk to Duke of York Street; the morning was fine and the streets full of tradesmen and vendors bent upon provisioning the well-to-do. She enjoyed the walk.
Duke of York Street runs from Jermyn Street to St. James’s Square. Miss Tolerance went past tobacconists and haberdashers on Jermyn Street who at this hour were engaged in taking down the shutters and making ready for the start of business. When she turned the corner onto Duke of York Street she could see, at street’s end, the pleasant greenery of the square beyond. The street itself was lined with substantial houses, a few set back a little from the street but most modern enough to front directly on the flagged sidewalk. If Miss Tolerance had had any doubt that her quarry came from a family of substance, her first stroll down the street put paid to it. The occupants of these houses might not all be wealthy as the rich themselves define the term, but compared to the vast majority of London and the nation they were wealthy enough. The houses were all well kept, of stone or old pink brick, broad enough to admit of parlors on either side of the entry, and climbing three or four stories above the street. In front of two of them footmen had emerged to sweep the sidewalk, causing no little consternation to the crossing-sweeps stationed at the corners, underfed boys too young to be put to better use, who eked out pennies sweeping the ordure and muck from the path of the better fed.
Miss Tolerance strolled leisurely to the corner, made a circuit of St. James’s Square, and walked back up Duke of York again, wondering to which of these houses Miss Evadne belonged. What the Devil was th
e girl’s surname? Thinking of her as Miss Evadne made the girl sound like a child; it made Miss Tolerance feel like a cross nursemaid to call her so. As she neared the corner her attention was drawn by an altercation between a porter and several of the boys in grimy togs, regarding possession of the sidewalk. Miss Tolerance was seized by inspiration, and paused to admire a wrought iron fence while she waited for the dispute to be resolved.
When at last the porter withdrew from the fray, Miss Tolerance approached the knot of crossing-sweeps who stood gloating in victory. As she neared them the three largest boys broke off celebrating and elbowed each other out of the way, begging to sweep for her. Miss Tolerance shook her head, but before the boys could slink away muttering their hopes that the stingy mort would tread straightaway in a fresh clod of horseshit, she informed them that she might have silver to spend upon a clever boy who kept his eyes open.
In an instant the half-dozen boys assumed expressions of such angelic, open-eyed character that Miss Tolerance was hard put not to laugh. “Do you gentlemen regularly sweep this street?”
There was some snickering at her use of the word gentlemen, but all of the heads bobbed in agreement.
“And do you consider that you are familiar with the people who live here?”
This caused some confusion: none of the boys was rightly certain what they were to make of the word familiar, and several of them feared they were being accused of something. Miss Tolerance cleared up the matter by asking if any of them thought that, if they were shown a picture, they might recognize from which house the person had come.
The largest of the boys, apparently the leader, looked round at his small troop, then nodded to her. “Yes, miss. I think so.”
“Well, then. Kindly look at this and tell me if either of these two ladies is familiar to you.” She took the portrait from her reticule and, holding on to it firmly lest the temptation to make away with the frame prove too strong, showed it to them. The boys studied the picture with grave attention; this was a new game to them and they seemed determined to play fair at it.
The Sleeping Partner Page 5