by Ruby Duvall
“Miss Saunders, do you spy anyone we know?” Mrs. Hayes tapped the yellow sleeve of Milly’s dress with her fan.
“No, madame. At least, not anyone we want to know.”
Sam idly glanced at Ann, who was smiling at someone in the crowd. In the direction of Ann’s gaze was a very young man, perhaps in his late teens. He wasn’t dressed very richly, but he was very handsome and was smiling back at Ann.
“If you would please excuse me, dear,” Mrs. Hayes said. Sam detected reprisal in the older woman’s tone and watched as Mrs. Hayes stepped between Ann and the young man. She said something harsh to Ann, who turned away from the man with a frown.
Mrs. Hayes hooked elbows with Sam again. “Well now, shall we proceed inside?”
A strict house, indeed.
The crowd was far denser in the theater lobby and the noise level far louder. Sam looked around in wonder, taking in the sight of everyone in their fripperies and gossipy fan-snapping. The lobby was certainly grand with high ceilings and an abundance of candles. No wonder fires were a problem.
Mrs. Hayes and Milly murmured comments to each other and Ann stood silently next to Sam, who felt as though she were at a sixth-grade dance—uncomfortable and unwanted. Quite a few theater-goers had turned their disdainful attention to her. A pair of women whispered behind their hands while looking askance at her. A trio of ladies was downright contemptuous, as if she were something scandalous.
The men in the crowd looked at her like a piece of meat and something in their knowing smiles made her skin crawl. One middle-aged man with a sizable paunch and a beauty patch next to his large nose was so obvious in his ogling that Sam had to turn away from his licentious eyes.
“How rude,” she said. “Why is everyone staring at me?” She gently patted her hair, wondering if the carefully arranged mass of hair piled on top of her head had lost a pin. Worse, perhaps her neckline was far too low. She was close to spilling out of her dress. Then again, most of the ladies in the lobby were guilty of the same.
Mrs. Hayes placed her gloved hand on Sam’s arm. “They’re simply—ah, curious about you, Miss Reed. Owing to their love of the theater, many visitors are regulars and tend to know most everyone else. Come, let us ascend to the second gallery and take our seats. It is far too warm in here for my liking, I can tell you that.”
The four of them went upstairs, where some sort of pre-show variety act was entertaining the crowd. Sam was squashed between Ann’s and Milly’s enormous skirts, which were already at least twice as wide as a woman’s real hips thanks to some ridiculous panniers. The bench had no back on which to lean, but the corset kept her spine straight.
The play itself was awesome. The audience was surprisingly loud, including the talkative Mrs. Hayes who offered constant commentary for every scene, but the actors projected very well over the soft din. A change of actresses for the role of Viola elicited much whispering concerning the replacement of Miss Younge. When the change was announced, Sam recalled the conversation between the tall man and the tavern keeper. Was the actress’s absence related? Who was the tall man looking for?
As Mrs. Hayes had predicted, the actor playing the part of Malvolio was the crowd’s favorite. He not only looked the part but his antics had Sam laughing right from the first minute he set foot on stage.
After the final scene, an intermission was announced while the theater rearranged the stage for the first of their after-show performances. Milly leaned across Sam’s lap to speak to Mrs. Hayes. “Please may we stay a little longer? Sir Andrew’s actor is to perform an afterpiece tonight.”
“Surely Miss Reed is exhausted,” Mrs. Hayes said. “Such a trying day it has been for her. I’m sure we shall see Mr. Edwin again another night.” Milly pouted but didn’t argue, for which Sam was grateful. She was nearly spent, and it had been a day far more trying than Mrs. Hayes would have ever guessed.
They went downstairs to the lobby again, which was even more packed than before. Everyone was gathered in huddles, either exclaiming compliments of the performance or whispering over a juicy bit of gossip.
“Ah, I spy someone you should meet. Wait here a moment, ladies.” Mrs. Hayes set off into the mob. Milly sighed as if bored and Ann was yawning, but what reason was there to be bored when people-watching was so fascinating? The mix of classes and their mutual snubbing, the amusing pretension of the overly self-important, and best of all—the clothes.
A quick glance at a person’s clothing and perceived level of elegance was enough to tell one class apart from another. The upper crust held themselves differently, the ladies more demure in their gestures and the men more gallant. Some ladies wore very simple necklaces adorned only with a tiny cross while others wore gaudy bib-like necklaces heavy with semi-precious materials. It was strange to see so many men dressed in pastels and flowery embroidery, and she stared at the powdered wigs of some of the theater-goers with morbid curiosity, wondering what kind of vermin was secretly breeding within.
“Miss Samantha?” Milly sounded serious.
“What is it?”
“That man.” Milly nodded at the back wall of the lobby. “He’s been staring at us and looks rather unpleasant.” Sam followed Milly’s gaze and just as she had said, someone in the back of the lobby was staring at them. The blood drained from Sam’s face upon recognizing the tall man from the fruit market earlier that day. Once their eyes met, he strode toward them with his chin down and his mouth set in a small frown.
“He’s coming this way,” Milly squeaked.
“Miss Reed,” Mrs. Hayes called in singsong. She was returning to them with a well-dressed man in tow. “I would like you to meet someone very important.” Sam’s eyes flicked back and forth between Mrs. Hayes and the tall man, who had stopped very near to them. He stood alone between packs of theater-goers, and a group of uppity ladies near him raked him with cold once-overs.
“Good evening,” the well-dressed man said. Sam wrenched her attention away from the tall man and looked at the one speaking to her.
“Good evening,” she parroted. Mrs. Hayes widened her eyes at her and Sam realized a formal bow was required. Milly pulled her down and they completed an awkward curtsy. “Miss Reed, you have the honor of addressing the Marquess of Graham.”
The marquess gave her a tight-lipped, self-important smile. He was in his late twenties and he wasn’t particularly handsome, but his face was clean and he didn’t smell like cigar smoke or BO.
“Mrs. Hayes tells me you’ve only just arrived in London,” the marquess said with a Scottish accent. “May I say, London is all the better for it. You look very well indeed.” Sam looked down at her dress and then back up at him. Was he flirting? “May I inquire as to the province from which you’ve arrived?”
Sam looked to Mrs. Hayes for help. The woman mouthed the correct address for a marquess. “I’m from America, your lordship,” she said. “New York, to be specific.”
The marquess chuckled indulgently. “An American? Whatever are you doing in England? If you don’t want us in your so-called country then why not stay out of ours?”
“Um.” Sam certainly didn’t want to be here. She’d go back to her own time if she could. She looked to her patroness, but just when Mrs. Hayes would have said something, the marquess interrupted.
“Oh, are you a Loyalist, come back to the empire that gave you your culture?”
“I am, your lordship.” It was as good an excuse as any. She didn’t care what he believed about her.
“Ah, but forgive me. I did not mean to talk of such things. After all, ladies as beauteous as you have neither the inclination nor capacity for political discourse.” The marquess laughed. Amazingly, Mrs. Hayes tittered along with him.
Sam’s jaw dropped. What?
“A wise person would see the war from both sides. Though we revolted, we had good cause. Why were you surprised at our anger when you made us dependent on England for manufacturing?” The marquess’s eyes bulged.
“Now, now—�
�� Mrs. Hayes said. The marquess cut her off.
“You dare speak to me in that manner. You are not capable of anything more than your own vapid interests.” Two bright-red spots appeared on his cheeks.
“Do you kiss your mother with that delusion?”
Mrs. Hayes intervened, physically stepping between Sam and the marquess with Milly in tow. “Your lordship, this is another of my mademoiselles, Miss Amelia Saunders. She is come from Hertfordshire, the daughter of a gardener on a grand estate.”
“Your lordship.” Milly curtsied again. “Words cannot express the gratitude I feel at the honor of an introduction to a nobleman of your worth.” Sam’s eyebrows went up at Milly’s sudden affected accent.
The marquess seemed uncertain as to which avenue he wanted to pursue—altercation or flirtation. He turned to Mrs. Hayes. “This is most reprehensible, Mrs. Ha—” he began.
Milly interrupted. “Your concern for our great nation is quite passionate, your lordship. I greatly admire the vehemence of your patriotism.” She touched her gloved fingers to his chest. Sam almost didn’t back down, but no good would come of escalating their argument. She lowered her eyes and stepped back.
“The sentiment is much appreciated, Miss Saunders,” he said. “Though not nearly as much as your uncommon beauty.” From the corner of her eye, Sam saw Milly smile coyly.
“You are welcome to look, your lordship.” Milly stroked her hand across her cleavage. “And touch,” she softly added.
Sam’s eyes went wide. Surely this behavior was far worse than Ann’s earlier? She was confused by Mrs. Hayes’ smiles of encouragement. Was it simply the man’s title that earned him Mrs. Hayes’ approval? God, and why should she be surprised? Wealth, title and connections were everything in this age.
“I’ve detained you too long, your lordship, and deprived your party of your excellent company,” Mrs. Hayes said. “Though I trust you are satisfied with the introduction?”
“I am, madam.” He left without bowing his head. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh Miss Reed,” Mrs. Hayes said, flustered. “I had forgotten the marquess’s opinion of the revolution,” she whispered the unpopular word, “and hadn’t a chance to warn you.”
“I—” Sam started.
“Why, it is Mr. Whitfield,” Mrs. Hayes exclaimed. “I beg your patience, ladies. I shall return before you can say Jack Robinson.” The woman bustled off again. Sam attempted to take a deep breath, but her corset prevented it. When Milly suddenly squeezed her arm, Sam almost jerked her elbow out of Milly’s reach, too tired to be civil anymore.
Then she realized the reason for Milly’s alarm. The tall man filled Sam’s vision, quite imposing in a plain black coat with small silver buttons and a black unembellished vest. He wore neither face powder nor a wig. Since he had tucked his hat under his arm, she could see that his hair was sun-bleached rather than naturally sandy-colored. A working man.
“Madam.” Had his voice been that deep this morning? Those bright-blue eyes raked down her body and studied the neckline of her dress for a long five seconds. “You are devilishly tempting. Never have I had the fortune to discover a woman so becoming. None here could hope to compare.” He took a step closer, looming over her. Sam understood now the reason the ladies carried fans.
“I recognize you, of course,” he said in a softer voice. “You were in the market this morning. Pray tell me your name—your first name, Miss Reed.” He had heard Mrs. Hayes calling her name. Had he heard her arguing with the marquess?
“Samantha,” she answered breathlessly. Indeed, her corset had never felt tighter.
“A beautiful name.” He reached for her and slid his fingers down her arm. He brought her hand to his chest and stroked his thumb across the backs of her fingers. “Let me introduce myself. First Lieutenant Ryder West, at your service.” He pronounced it as lef-tenant, and with an unwavering stare, he lowered his head to kiss her hand.
His tongue touched her skin just before his lips did. His eyes slid shut as he hummed in unabashed pleasure, as if he were sinking his teeth into a sweet, succulent fruit. She pressed her free hand against her burning cheek. A quick glance to her companion found Milly watching their exchange with a slack jaw. Ann stood next to Milly with high eyebrows. Ryder brushed his lips across her fingers once more before he lifted his head.
Brian had also been very self-assured, but the man before her exuded more than just confidence. He had a palpable aura of pure sex about him. She could find no other word to describe his blue eyes but piercing. His gaze was so direct, so full of promises and Sam found herself leaning toward him, gripping his hand as tightly as he held hers. He gave her an amused, lopsided smile. He knew that he was affecting her.
“What is an American woman doing in London, and—at least initially—in the guise of a man?” His eyes roamed down her body again. “I quite prefer you as you are now. A woman with assets such as yours should not hide them.”
It was a short pause before she realized that she had to answer. “I-it’s like Mrs. Hayes said. I’m an understudy. I happened to be in costume when I bumped into that man with all the cabbages.”
“You came all the way to England to be an understudy? Why did you not take up the role of Viola when Miss Younge was unable to perform the part? Viola is the only character in Twelfth Night who dresses opposite to her sex, is she not?”
“I am not the only understudy for Viola, lieutenant,” she lied, “but since Miss Younge wasn’t present tonight, does that mean you were unable to find the man you were looking for this morning?” His eyebrows went up in surprise and the smile on his face widened.
“Miss Reed,” Mrs. Hayes called. Sam looked toward the woman’s voice and found Mrs. Hayes bearing down on them.
“Your abbess has come to rescue you,” he said. Abbess? Was that a joke? After one more kiss to her knuckles, he released her hand and stepped back.
“Milly, Ann, kindly escort Miss Reed back to the house. I shall catch you up in only a moment,” Mrs. Hayes ordered.
Milly latched on to Sam’s arm and tugged her away from the enigmatic Ryder West. Once Mrs. Hayes gained his attention, any semblance of a smile on his face quickly faded. Sam watched them for as long as she could, but all too soon she, Milly and Ann were outside.
“Oh what a fine swell, Miss Samantha,” Milly cooed, her normal cockney accent back in place. “So intense, so confident—and did you see the way he flashed his ivory? A better catch than mine, but I have the one with more gingerbread.”
“More what? What are you talking about?” she asked. Milly giggled while Ann huffed in frustration. Sam attempted again to take a deep breath, only to be thwarted by her corset. “God, I can’t wait to get out of this thing.”
“You’ll be out of it soon enough,” Milly said, still laughing.
Just as Mrs. Hayes had promised, she caught up to them just as they were nearing the house. The bulky Mr. Hull stood outside smoking a cigar and silently admitted the three of them.
Once inside, Milly opened the door of the salon. Sam distinctly heard male voices, and a woman lamented the loss of a round of cards. Milly and Ann let themselves into the room and then shut the door, cutting off the noise.
“Mary, I need you,” Mrs. Hayes called. She turned to Sam and nudged her toward the stairs. “Upstairs, Samantha. I’ll have someone help you out of those clothes so that you can make yourself ready for bed.”
“Are you having a party, Mrs. Hayes?” Sam asked. Mrs. Hayes pushed harder and Sam relented to walking upstairs with her patroness. Mary, bearing a candelabrum, appeared from the direction of the kitchen and followed.
“I told you to call me Abby, and as for your conversation with the marquess—while I sympathize with your surprise at his opinions—I would prefer you refrain from stating your own opinion on anything beyond the weather. The marquess is a very important man and we cannot afford to agitate la noblesse for such a trifling dispute.”
Sam looked at Mrs. Hayes
as though the woman had just called the moon landings a hoax.
“However, perhaps you are overly tired and hadn’t the strength to curb your tongue.” Mrs. Hayes opened Sam’s door, waving for her to go inside and though Mary obediently entered the room, Sam stayed in the hall.
“Me being tired had nothing to do with the—”
“We’ll not discuss it further, Miss Reed,” she snapped. “Mary will help you out of your dress and into more comfortable attire.” Mrs. Hayes all but shoved her into the bedroom and Sam stumbled on the front of her skirt, falling against the bed.
Sam was amazed at Mrs. Hayes’ sudden one-eighty. “What’s the matter with you?”
“It is men like the marquess that keep us off the streets.” Her tone sent a chill up Sam’s spine. “So you’ll do as you’re told. Mary, get her ready.” Mrs. Hayes shut the door and left, her footsteps fading down the stairs.
“Mary?” Sam gripped the bedpost. Mary looked at her with sympathy. In that look, she knew exactly what Mrs. Hayes was, knew she had let Mrs. Hayes trick her.
“I need to get out of here,” she said with panic.
Mary rapidly shook her head. “No, no, no. Mr. Hull will dirty you if you try, Miss Samantha, just like he dirtied me. Hot water won’t wash it away. Whoever Mrs. Hayes has for you, he’ll be cleaner than Mr. Hull.”
“Jesus,” Sam whispered.
“Jesus doesn’t watch us here, Miss Samantha.” Mary set the candelabrum on the vanity and approached her. “What watches us has a plan though. It told me.” Sam felt like an oversized doll as Mary turned her around to push aside the back pleats and loosen the bodice lacing. “I’m to help. It promised me Peter if I help. You just need to be calm.”
Sam couldn’t answer and Mary fell silent. Only when Sam was in her chemise and stockings did Mary say anything more.
“After the client, ring for me to help clean before the next one.” She pointed at a bell pull near the door and then left, shutting the door behind her.