by Ruby Duvall
It was not far to his father’s house just off Ludgate Hill. Ryder pulled on his gloves. The coach came to a stop in front of a modest brick building with several plain white windows, a few of which were bricked up.
“Shall I wait here, sir?” his driver asked after he alighted from the coach.
“We’ll not leave again until evening, Oliver. Take a meal with Mrs. Foster in the kitchen.”
“Yes sir.” Oliver clicked his tongue at the horses and pulled away. Ryder went inside the house where the butler relieved him of his hat and jacket, but he kept his gloves on. He then mounted the stairs, taking two at a time to the second floor.
His father’s caretaker Mrs. Johnson was leaving the bedroom with a tray of empty dishes. She shut the door before coming to meet him. “Lieutenant West.”
“How is my father?”
“His breathing has much improved, sir.” Ryder allowed himself a sigh of relief. “He slept well last night and he’s eating. I believe he shall improve for a time if he is careful with himself.”
“Is he awake now?”
Mrs. Johnson looked over her shoulder at the closed bedroom door. “Yes, but as you know, the doctor said not to upset him. It’s not my place to say anything, sir, but if you’re here to discuss the troubles with the business…”
“I’ll be only a moment, madam.” He strode past her with a frown and entered his father’s bedroom.
“Phillip? Is that you?” a weak voice called. Ryder pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his nose and mouth as he surveyed the room. It was as he had seen it last night, dark and quiet. One candle sat on the table next to the bed. A rather unpleasant scent was in the air, a mixture of sweat, dust and rot.
“It’s me, Father.” He approached the bed. It was still a shock to see what the disease had done—the weight loss and the pallor of his skin. The invalid on the bed was nothing like the robust man who Ryder remembered before serving aboard his first ship of the line. His father hadn’t been a heavy man, but the one lying there was nearly skeletal.
“Ryder? Damn it. Did you find Phillip? He is the one I need.” His father struggled to sit up. Ryder tried to assist him, but his father threw off his hand. “I can do it on my own, boy. I don’t need help from the likes of you.”
He lifted his kerchief enough to speak clearly and sat on the chair Mrs. Johnson normally used. “Phillip hasn’t been seen at that particular public house for a month.” His father closed his eyes and cursed. “A revenue officer named Webb has been a step ahead of me. Almost everywhere I search, he has already been there.”
The news surprised his father. “That stupid boy! Only a year he’s been at this and he’s as much a disgrace as you.”
Ryder was glad for the kerchief hiding his hard expression. He was never under the misapprehension that his father bore any affection for him. Father’s first marriage had been arranged and that wife had died of a blood infection when Phillip was two. His second marriage to Ryder’s mother was by choice but she had died in childbirth. Father still hated him for it.
“I had it from the publican that Phillip may attend a performance at Covent Garden tonight to see a particular actress.”
“You think to look for him there? You’re more likely to find him at a card table.”
“Perhaps,” Ryder said noncommittally. “Still, I might find someone there who does know him and his whereabouts.”
His father sighed tiredly. “I taught Phillip all he needed to know, gave him everything, and this is how he repays me. I’ve had creditors at the door thrice this week.”
“I’ll find him.”
“You had better. Should the authorities find him first, debtors’ prison would await him, or he may even take a ride to Tyburn.” A round of coughs overtook his father, shaking his frail body and pulling what little color there was away from his sunken cheeks. He sagged under an invisible weight. “And then what would become of me?”
Ryder was silent, certain that were Phillip sent to Marshalsea, he would never recover from his debts. Starvation or the Tyburn jig would see him dead by the end of the year. His father was on the cusp of poverty, what with the ruination of his business, and as sick as he was, being turned out of his own home would surely kill him. Ryder had already laid down most of the money he had made in the war settling the most extreme of Phillip’s debts. The other half was not enough to settle the rest and not nearly enough to keep the business solvent.
“I’ll find him, Father. I promise.” Ryder stood.
“I don’t want your promises. Leave me. I tire of your presence.”
As Ryder gratefully left the room, he wished for the thousandth time to know what he could do to have a kind word from his father. Tightness in his chest made it difficult to speak but thankfully, Mrs. Johnson entered the room without a word from him. As he descended the stairs, he hurriedly pulled off his gloves to have them cleaned and was determined anew to locate and thoroughly thrash his older brother.
* * * * *
Sam wasn’t particularly shy in front of her own sex, but being naked in front of four fully clothed women was uncomfortable. The candles spread about the windowless room made the atmosphere even worse, as though they were preparing her as a human sacrifice.
While a younger servant girl filled a tub with hot water, Mrs. Hayes stripped her clothes from her, tossing the trench coat and blouse into the arms of a young brunette named Ann, another of Mrs. Hayes’ mademoiselles. Mrs. Hayes marveled over Sam’s bra. She squashed and stroked the cups and pinched the underwire like a doctor palpating a patient. Sam stood by the tub with her arms crossed over her chest, red-cheeked and wishing she were somewhere else.
“Those are like no breeches I’ve ever seen. Let us have a look at those, Miss Reed.” Mrs. Hayes fluttered her hand at Sam’s legs. After kicking off her brown flats, Sam kept one arm across her breasts and wriggled out of her slacks with the other. Mrs. Hayes practically snatched the pants from her to study their material.
“What’s this?” She squinted at the wash instructions. “Machine wash cold with like colors only?” One look at Sam’s panties and her voice went shrill. “And why are you wearing those tiny trousers?”
Sam squirmed with embarrassment. “Please, Mrs. Hayes. It’s cold.” She wasn’t actually all that cold, but she wanted to avoid explanation and any further inspection.
“Well, this is all very strange, dear. What are American men wearing these days?” Mrs. Hayes passed the remaining articles to Ann. She then looked back at Sam with suspicion. “You did in fact obtain these in America, Miss Reed?”
Sam nodded and hoped Mrs. Hayes never found out what American men really wore. Mrs. Hayes plunged her hand into the pocket of her skirt and pulled out a roll of measuring tape.
Sam’s eyes went wide. “What’s that for?”
“We’ve only a few hours to have one of Ann’s dresses adjusted. I need to send along some measurements with Mr. Hull.” Mrs. Hayes pulled her arms away from her chest to measure her bust size. Sam’s cheeks were burning.
“Lovely diddeys. Those colonial men chased you aplenty, I wager,” Mrs. Hayes said with a giggle.
“M-Mrs. Hayes!”
“The arms next and please call me Abby, dear. We’re very well acquainted now, are we not?” She measured the length and thickness of Sam’s arms. Sam asked the ceiling why she was letting this woman fondle her. “You’ve much longer arms than Ann. We’ll need new engageantes to dress the elbows.”
New what? The woman’s pronunciation of French was so poor that even if Sam knew more than a smattering of French, she was certain she would still be puzzled by the word.
“Que magnifique,” Mrs. Hayes said with a gasp, her eyes on Sam’s locket. “Such a unique necklace.” She reached to touch it and Sam had to force herself not to step away. The woman gently lifted the locket and leaned in close to study it. “What do you keep inside it?”
“Nothing really,” she fibbed. She prayed that Mrs. Hayes woul
dn’t ask her to open it, but it wasn’t Sam’s lucky day.
“May I take a peek? I adore lockets,” Mrs. Hayes said. Sam wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. The woman was making every effort to invade her privacy, but refusing to open the locket would make her even nosier. Sam reluctantly picked up the locket and opened its face.
There was nothing inside. The blood left Sam’s face and she was grateful she didn’t shriek or otherwise freak out.
“Ah, I see you were quite truthful, Miss Samantha. Perhaps soon you’ll have a secret or two to hide?” Mrs. Hayes said with a wink. Sam was able to nod but couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her heart was more than pounding—it was practically jack-hammering. Where was the slip of paper? Had it fallen out when she had last looked at it? When would she get a chance to search for it?
The servants returned with the final pitcher of hot water. After a few more measurements—and another exclamation regarding the length of her legs—Sam was allowed to step into the tub. She pulled off her socks and hurriedly sloughed her last meager layer of protection. She hissed and nearly pulled her foot out when she found out just how hot the water was, but she made herself get in.
Mrs. Hayes and Ann left with a promise to return once Mrs. Hayes had sent off the dress with the apparently indispensable Mr. Hull. The servant stayed behind and offered to wash her limbs for her. Sam declined and did it herself. To finish, she leaned forward, put her head underwater, and rubbed her hair and scalp for as long as she could hold her breath. When she sat up for air, a fresh pitcher of nearly scalding water was dumped onto her head. She yelped and nearly leapt out of the tub.
“P-pardon me,” Mary said. “I thought you wanted the rinse.”
Sam hurriedly pushed her sopping hair away from her face, needing to see that Mary wasn’t holding a knife or something. “Where did the other girl go?”
“She went downstairs. I brought the rinse.” Mary set the pitcher on the floor. “You’re a very…clean woman. I’m not clean myself. Hot water won’t wash me clean.”
Sam swallowed, crossing her arms across her bust. “Uh…”
“What’s your name? The one watching us won’t tell me.”
She almost didn’t want to say. “Samantha Reed.”
“Reed,” Mary said loudly as if it were an epiphany. Then she repeated it over and over. After ten iterations, she seemed to give up. “I’m Mary Powlett.”
“Really? I met a Peter Powlett today on the street.” Mary gasped and crouched next to her. Sam squashed herself against the opposite side of the tub.
“You did? Was he a boy about fourteen?” Sam nodded at her question. Mary’s expression lifted into one of relief and joy. “How did he look? Was his mind clean?”
Sam spoke past the heart in her throat, starting to understand. “He looked fine. A little skinny, but he was fine.” Sam wondered if she should tell Mary of his thievery. “Are you his sister?”
Mary shook her head hard. She opened her mouth to answer, but then seemed to think better of it and said nothing.
Sam’s jaw dropped. “But you’re so young.” The servant didn’t look more than thirty at the most. Mary shook her head again and stood. Peter had said that he lived with his parents in Whitechapel though. Was Sam mistaken?
“Already washed? Lovely,” Mrs. Hayes crowed. She entered the room with Ann. “Out of that tub. We must get you dry and into the proper negligee.” She wiggled her fingers. “Then we shall take tea in the salon, Miss Samantha. I’m quite parched myself.” Mary was quick to get a towel. Once Sam had wrapped it around herself, Mary draped a second one over her shoulders and Mrs. Hayes beckoned her into the hall. Mary stayed behind to help Ann take her own bath.
“Mary’s a good girl,” Mrs. Hayes commented as they climbed the stairs. “A bit touched in the head, but she’s been with me many years now.”
“How many has it been?” Sam asked.
“At least a dozen if my count is right. She was a mademoiselle once too—one of my first—but society did not agree with her and it affected her mind. I kept her on as a servant only a few months after taking her in.”
They arrived at the third floor and entered the room farthest from the head of the stairs. The four-poster bed was surprisingly large for just one person and it left little floor space for the other pieces of furniture. The bed curtains were thick and would keep out the morning light. A small table sat between the door and the bed, as well as a plain chair. A vanity and stool were squashed into the remaining space at the foot of the bed. Sam spotted a closet door in the corner.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Hayes steered her toward the vanity.
“It’s very cozy.” Sam sat on the stool and looked in the mirror.
She had somehow expected herself to look different, but besides wet hair, she was the same as ever. Dull eyes, pasty skin and the shoulders of a football player. Dainty and delicate, she was not.
“I’ll have Mary arrange your hair this evening. A chemise is here for you.” She patted the skirt of a linen shift behind Sam on the bed. “I must visit Ms. Kenny to order tonight’s supper and request a tray of tea, but I shall return promptly, dear.” Mrs. Hayes then left and shut the door behind her.
Sam grabbed for her locket and pried it open, ready for the dismay of finding it still empty, but she was met with a happy surprise. The folded note sat inside.
She breathed a sigh of relief but couldn’t help a whispered, “What the f…” How had she not seen it inside the locket just a few minutes ago? Was it a trick locket? She tried to open and close the locket several times, but the slip of paper never disappeared. Plucking it out of its hidey-hole, she opened it up to read the rhymes again.
A gasp jolted her from the stool. She flung the note onto the vanity, hit the bed and fell back. She pressed her hand to her chest, fighting to calm down and breathe normally.
An injured dove was drawn on the paper. The dove was sketched lovingly with careful, elegant lines. Above the bird was a pair of wizened, grasping hands. The hands were drawn roughly, their talon-like nails emphasized with thicker, sharper lines.
What was most frightening was that the hands moved, inching closer to the delicate bird even as the ink in the drawing faded. After a few seconds, the paper was blank.
Sam lay back on the bed, wiping a tear from her cheek and covering her face with her hands. It was time to face facts and to start believing her eyes. The locket was no ordinary piece of jewelry.
“I’m in some pretty deep shit.”
* * * * *
“Mr. Hull was able to secure us seats in the second gallery. How exciting it is that you should see the theater in its new state, Miss Reed. Mr. Richards redesigned the interior and it is much improved. More than several times, I’ve been made to sit in the Pit and those who hadn’t a seat would stand in the passages to either side and would block everyone’s view in the boxes. Now it is of no consequence that some are made to stand. Oh! But the ceiling has become such a wonder.”
Sam, Milly and Ann could only listen to their patroness drone on about the elevation of the seats and the ventilator in the ceiling as they made their way toward the famed Covent Garden theater. Mrs. Hayes was the very definition of loquacious and the only thing saving Sam from a migraine was the glass of wine she had consumed at dinner in “celebration of a new addition” to their family.
What did threaten her health, though, was the tightness of her corset. While she definitely appreciated the shape it had given her, she had greatly underestimated just how uncomfortable it would be. She couldn’t take a full breath and was forced to walk slowly to avoid overexerting herself.
Her dress, however, had been worth the breathless state she found herself in. She stroked the red silk bodice, her fingertips enjoying the texture of the floral embroidery. The intricate needlework was repeated along the split in the skirt, which revealed the matching petticoat underneath. Even her red silk stockings were embroidered, and she worried that the ribbons securing them above he
r knees wouldn’t hold. White lace at the elbow of her dress tickled her arms and more lace lined the square-cut neck of the gown, which did little to hide her cleavage—or her locket. She felt naked despite wearing twenty pounds of clothing.
Thankfully, she was saved the torture of wearing eighteenth-century shoes—none on hand at Mrs. Hayes’ house were large enough for Sam’s feet, which normally wasn’t something to be embarrassed about, yet Sam still felt censured for it. Instead Sam wore her brown flats. Though they weren’t the “pretty” things that Mrs. Hayes insisted on showing her, the older woman proclaimed them to have “most excellent craftsmanship”.
They rounded the corner from Bow Street onto Hart Street and the well-lit theater came into view, along with a sizable crowd of people milling about at the entrance of the establishment.
Mrs. Hayes looped her arm through Sam’s. “Everyone attends the theater, Miss Reed—gentry, nobility, politicians, merchants and the common man alike. It is a place to see and be seen.”
Their party joined the throng of theater-goers and a peculiar feeling filled her. It wasn’t the first time she had felt apart from everyone else—she had always been the type to keep just a small circle of friends—but it was the first time that she had felt completely alien. She didn’t know the latest fashions or the current politics of Parliament. She knew the names of a few of the more famous nobility and could only very clumsily follow “precedence” between members of elite society.
What she did know was that in just a few more years, a bloody revolution would rip France apart, leading to the execution of Louis XVI, who had assisted the US in its own revolution. She knew that Napoleon Bonaparte would be making war by the end of the century, that George Washington would become the first US president, that new cities and countries would be founded and ocean routes explored.
Yet for all her foreknowledge, here she was, a woman in a red dress attending a performance of Twelfth Night at a London theater. No one could ever guess that she knew the histories of the world to come.