by M. J. Tjia
It’s already late in the morning when I follow Bill downstairs to the front door. I spot the folded note on the mat almost immediately. Running forward I pick it up, and read – You should be burnt, nay, stoned, for what you are. You are cursed. I sink onto the bottom step.
“What is it?” he asks, seating himself next to me. He takes the note from my hand and peruses it. “Who sent this to you?”
“I don’t know. They’ve been arriving since I first came here. I don’t know who even knew I was here at first, and I’ve no idea why I’m being sent these letters. Maybe they’re from whoever’s watching me from the carriage.”
He’s silent for a moment. “They could be for the tenant who had this house before you.”
He’s right, of course. I’d had the same thought.
Standing up, he looks at his watch. “I have to run, I’m afraid. I’m late for work. We’ll discuss this later.” He stoops down to kiss me on the forehead. “Don’t fret. Keep that blasted gun of yours at hand,” he says, as he closes the front door behind him.
I’m in the middle of my toilette when there’s a soft tapping at the front door. Pulling a peignoir over my undergarments I trip down the stairs. “Who is it?” I call out, and on hearing Katie Sullivan’s voice, pull the door open.
“You’ll have to excuse me, Katie, I’m not properly attired yet.”
“You don’t have a maid?”
“No, but I wish I did.” I try to usher Katie into the sitting room, but she won’t enter any further. She insists she doesn’t have time, but in the back of my mind I wonder if she doesn’t want to enter my house of sin. I can’t help but feel a bit chagrined at the thought but won’t embarrass her either way.
“I must get back to the coffee stall, but not bein’ sure if you’d be by the park again today, I thought I’d better come and tell you my news myself.”
“What is it?”
“I think I might know where that lass is. The young thing you’ve been searchin’ for.”
I feel my heart quicken. “Where is she?”
Katie shakes her head. “Now, I’m not absolutely sure it’s the same lass as I saw that day in the park who was a-cryin’ – the girl I sent home with Tilly – but I’m reasonably sure it is her.”
“Have you seen her again?”
“Well, I think it was her I saw at the fruit markets this mornin’. She was walkin’ along with that Mrs Sweetapple.”
“Who is Mrs Sweetapple? I’ve never heard of her.”
“Oh, she’s a nasty one, she is. Much nastier than old Mme Silvestre,” she says. “She seems genteel enough. In fact, I think she was genteel not too long ago, but somewhere in her life things have come unstuck, and now she has a very discreetly run introducin’ home.”
“An introducing home? I’ve never heard of such a term before.”
“Do you not know what an introducin’ home is, Heloise? Fancy me having to explain the ways of the world to you,” she says, chuckling. “Well, so Mrs Donnelly explained it to me, she being a good friend of mine – who cooks and sells a very nice oyster soup not far from my stall – an introducin’ house is a more refined version of what the coppers call a ‘disorderly house’.”
“In what way?”
“Apparently that Mrs Sweetapple ‘introduces’ gentlemen – real gentlemen, mind – to nice young ladies, you know the type I mean, don’t you, Heloise? Not actual nice ladies. Mrs Sweetapple finds quiet, polished ladybirds. So the gentleman comes to her, tells her what he wants in particular in his lady, and she sets it all up. She has all sorts, says Mrs Donnelly. Really fat girls, old girls, foreign girls. She reckons she even had a Negro girl once. The difference is, Heloise, the gentleman gets to play families with the nice ladybird. They set up house, but without the wedding. Apparently there are many men who are either too shy to find their own bride or are too bored with their real bride, and they use Mrs Sweetapple to fulfil their peculiar little dreams. Well, that’s according to Mrs Donnelly.”
I can’t help keep the scepticism from my face. “Very strange.” Sounds a bit too good to be true, but what could this woman know of the cruelties that can go on in these sorts of arrangements?
“Yes, isn’t it? And she might have her claws into that young girl you are lookin’ for.”
“But Miss Carter is with child. Surely she cannot sell a woman with child?”
“There are some very queer sorts in this world, Heloise. We both know that.”
So, not so naive after all. I think for a moment. “Does your Mrs Donnelly know where this introducing home is?”
I dismount the burly, black horse I’ve hired from the local stables. In truth, even though he’s a fine, tall specimen, he is sluggish and obstinate to ride and I’m relieved to tie him to a post. I’d been looking forward to a bracing ride, but really, it hadn’t been worth the time. I should’ve caught a cab. I stand in front of a very neat house situated on a very neat street. The black, wrought iron fence gleams, just as the neighbours’ fences gleam. The red and grey tiles on the doorstep are bright and clean and the front door is lacquered a dapper teal blue. I rap on the brass door knocker smartly.
The silk of my riding attire is of a severe black, and military-style frog buttons fasten the tight bodice at the front so that it is almost tunic-like in appearance. Perched towards the front of my head is a plum-coloured porkpie hat with fat, purple ostrich feathers that tickle the back of my neck. I’ve chosen this outfit for a purpose – I want to appear assertive, no-nonsense.
I rap on the door again, this time adding a few taps with the riding crop.
The door opens slowly and a maid, dressed in a crisp black uniform that sports a skirt almost as wide as my own, asks me how she can help.
“I’m after a Mrs Sweetapple. I have some private business to discuss with her.”
“Do you have an appointment?” asks the maid, her voice uncertain.
“No, I do not. I did not realise I would need one. However, please let her know it would be very inconvenient for me to have to return at another time.” I tap the riding crop against the side of my skirt impatiently.
The maid invites me into the small hallway and, after asking for my name, bids me to wait. She opens a door to the left, as narrowly as her wide skirts will allow, and closes the door behind her. It isn’t much longer before she comes out again and beckons for me to follow.
The parlour is cool and uninviting, despite the over-stuffed sofas upholstered in rosy, floral tapestry, the mountains of frilly, velvet cushions and the stench of rose oil. The walls are painted a soft peachy colour and all the shelf space and table surfaces are crammed with china ornaments and crystal. By the window, at a round, oak table, sits Mrs Sweetapple. I’m surprised at how young she is, as I’d expected to meet an older, more formidable madam. Mrs Sweetapple makes a homely figure, her plump form ensconced in a striped, cerise and navy gown. Her face is quite pretty and her shiny, light brown hair is dressed simply and covered with a lace bonnet. Although she smiles sweetly, there’s a calculating look in her eyes.
I’ve put a lot of thought into how to tackle Mrs Sweetapple. At first I supposed I might burst in upon the woman and demand the return of Eleanor, but I was quick to see the pitfalls of this plan. If Mrs Sweetapple is to prove difficult, and she does indeed have Eleanor, she might charge an exorbitant fee for her return. This doesn’t worry me unduly, as I’m sure Sir Thomas and Eleanor’s father would happily pay, but I’m aware that if I’m to explain the truth behind Eleanor’s predicament, I’ll be exposing Eleanor’s family to further blackmail. As well as that, I don’t want to alarm the woman. It wouldn’t be any good if a whiff of the police or private detectives forces Mrs Sweetapple to spirit Eleanor away altogether. And now, looking into the other woman’s watchful eyes, I realise I’d come to the right decision.
Mrs Sweetapple bids me to take a seat, and pours tea from a china tea pot decorated with blowsy tea roses. “How may I help you, Miss…?”
“Miss Ma
rch.” I light upon the name of the fidgety boarding-school mistress who had ruled my life for sixteen long months in Liverpool when I was young. “Muriel March. I have heard I might be able to – let us say – acquire a companion from you.”
Mrs Sweetapple takes a tiny sip of her tea. “I am afraid you are wrong. I do not manage a hiring agency here.”
“Yes, but I do not want to simply hire a servant. I am after something far more… more special than that.”
Mrs Sweetapple gazes at me over the rim of her teacup. “And who has informed you that I can assist in this manner?”
Well, I can’t say it was a Mrs Donnelly, costermonger, purveyor of excellent oyster soup. “I would rather not say. I was asked not to repeat his name.”
The cup rattles as Mrs Sweetapple places it back on its saucer. She still has the insipid smile on her face. “I’m afraid I cannot help you then, Miss March.”
I pause for a moment. Racking my brains for the next step.
“It was Sir Herbert Brimm.” I whisper, so softly I’m not even sure if she heard me. It feels good to bandy the name of my local, Methodist magistrate about; the same man that bastard Priestly had threatened me with. Serves him right for sticking his big nose too closely into my business. “A friend of mine procured a lovely, sweet thing from you. But please, do not repeat his name. I was sworn to absolute secrecy.”
A door slams up above, and I can hear female voices. I wonder how many girls this Sweetapple has squirreled away.
“And what sort of companion are you looking for, Miss March?”
“Just someone who can be useful to me at home. Maybe help me dress, attend to my needs.” I stare at Mrs Sweetapple steadily, a small smile hovering at the corner of my mouth. “Someone to do what I desire. Do you understand?”
Mrs Sweetapple’s eyes travel over my mannish bodice and take in the riding crop, which is resting in my lap. She nods, still simpering. “I believe I do.”
“However, I have very exacting tastes in my attendants, Mrs Sweetapple. Very exacting. I am willing to pay what you require but I’m afraid if you cannot fulfil my needs, I will have to take my business elsewhere.”
“Of course. Please tell me what you require, and I am sure, given time, I can supply you with what you want.”
I pretend to consider for a moment. “She will need to be slight. Very slight. I don’t want a buxom lass. And fair. Not dyed, you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“For my purposes, she needs to be young.”
“What do you consider young, Miss March?”
I shrug. “Sixteen, seventeen? Certainly no older than twenty.”
Mrs Sweetapple nods.
“And pretty. I cannot abide ugliness.”
“I am in total agreement with you, Miss March. Why waste time on the ugly?” She stands up and moves towards a roll-top desk. Opening a grey ledger, she says, “I am sure I can assist you for the right sum, Miss March.”
I fiddle with my teacup. I look out the side window and straighten my shoulders. I’m hoping this sour bitch will sense my feigned embarrassment.
“There is one more thing.”
“What is it?”
“I am told you can cater for even the most… unusual of requests.”
She frowns for the first time. “That is correct.”
I pause again and then, setting my face into a look of defiance, say, “I wondered if any of your prospective companions are with child?”
A slow smile widens Mrs Sweetapple’s mouth, and her eyes harden. “With child? I am not often asked that.”
“Not often. So you are asked occasionally?”
“Never by a lady. But that’s no matter to me.” She runs her finger down a list in her ledger. “That will cost a little more.”
“How much?”
“Would you require lodgings, Miss March? To share with your companion?”
“No. I have lodgings.”
“You would not be returning the young lady anytime in the near future?”
“What if she does not suit me?”
“Oh, then, certainly something will be arranged, Miss March. I would not leave you encumbered with an attendant you did not desire.”
“Well, then, let’s assume she will be with me for quite a while. How much then?”
Mrs Sweetapple writes some lines in her ledger. “Shall we say £20? That will ensure you receive a lovely young lady and total confidentiality.”
I lift an eyebrow at the repellent woman. “Make it fifteen and I will return in an hour with the bank notes. Please have her ready to leave.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
When I return with a hansom cab to fetch the girl, I hope it is actually Eleanor Carter I will find, or else I’ll be lumped with a girl I don’t need and left with a substantial hole in my purse. But when I set eyes on the withdrawn, slight figure, I’m sure that I’ve finally tracked her down. Mrs Sweetapple holds Eleanor in a firm grip, high on her arm, and leads her forward.
“Miss March, this is Eleanor. Eleanor Gray. And this, dear, is the lady who you will accompany,” says Mrs Sweetapple to Eleanor. “You have been of such great solace to me, I am sure Miss March here will not regret her choice.” She makes herself clear despite the lack of malice in her voice or simpering face.
Eleanor curtsies but doesn’t look at me. It’s obvious from her blotchy eyes and the excessive powder on her face that the girl has been weeping. I take Eleanor’s hand in mine and squeeze. “I’m sure we will get along famously,” I say softly.
My voice grows curt again when I face Mrs Sweetapple. “And here’s the sum we agreed upon.” I hand her an envelope. “I am sure we will not need to be in further contact.”
I usher Eleanor from the sickly pink house and into the cab. Mrs Sweetapple watching from the door. The girl carries a small valise. “Is that all you are travelling with?” I ask, surprised.
She blushes, and holds the valise tighter to her body. “It is all I have left. I have had to sell many of my gowns.”
I pat her on the arm. “Well, don’t worry about that. We will soon have you well attired again.”
We settle in the cab and as the driver pulls away, she starts to cry quietly in the corner of her seat. I turn to her, take her little hand. “Hush, you goose. You are perfectly safe now, Miss Carter.”
She gapes at me. “But how do you know my true name?”
“I have been hired by your father to find you. He has been extremely worried about you.”
She gazes at me, and her mouth hangs open for a moment longer. “You must be mistaken, Miss March. My father is the last person who is worried about my well-being.”
“My name is not Miss March. It’s Heloise. And truly, I was hired through a detective agency to find you. You have led me on a fine chase for nearly a week now.”
Her hand grips mine. “And I can go home?” she asks, eagerly.
“I’m afraid not, Miss Carter.” She’s crestfallen and looks to be about to cry again. “He wants to see you safely ensconced in Shropshire.”
A stubborn look sweeps across Eleanor’s face. “I will not go to Shropshire. I will not.” She looks out the window, as the cab slows down to allow a group of workmen to cross the road. “I don’t know what else I can do, but I won’t go to that nunnery and have those dour old things grumbling at me.”
“Well, let us wait and see. Maybe your father and Sir Thomas – he owns the detective agency, you know – will come up with another plan.”
The cab pulls into the side of the road outside my temporary home in Waterloo. Chat’s burrowing away in a neighbour’s rubbish heap but pauses long enough to stare at us as we walk up the front path. I deposit the girl in the bedroom and quickly scrawl out a letter to Sir Thomas telling him of my good news. I poke my head out the front door and call to Chat.
“Can you take this to the nearest receiving house, Chat? I think you’ll find it is the shop on the next corner.”
The boy takes the letter and t
he few pennies I offer him, and is walking down the path, when I call him back.
“Chat, have you noticed that carriage again? The one that followed me home the other night?”
The boy shakes his head. “No, miss. Has it been following you again?”
I nod.
“But I seen the old prig what pushes notes through your letter slot in the middle of the night.”
“Have you?”
“Yep. Few times now.”
“Hurry and take that missive to the shop and then return here and tell me about it.”
That evening we arrive at the Ship and Turtle on Leadenhall Street a little earlier than Sir Thomas. We’re seated at a table next to the murky aquariums that line the side of the room. I’d arranged for him to meet us here instead of the musty Frazier Street house as a small celebration. Eleanor had seemed so downcast I wanted to cheer her up with a good meal and a little champagne. And as selfish as it sounds, I wanted to dress up, drink a little champagne myself, show Sir Thomas and his bastard of a friend Mr Priestly what a fine job I’ve done.
Eleanor stands and gazes mournfully at the slow-moving monsters swimming in the smoky, green water. “Poor creatures,” she says softly, smudging the opaque glass as she draws her fingertip in a line beside a turtle’s bobbing head. I can barely hear her above the din of the other patrons of the restaurant. “Living in the shadows, trapped behind glass.”
Just then, Sir Thomas pushes his way to our table. “Mrs Chancey,” he says, taking my hand in his, beaming. “Once again, you have not let me down.” He turns to where Eleanor is standing by the aquarium. “And Miss Carter. What a relief we were able to find you before anything too untoward happened. Your father is so happy.”
Eleanor looks over his shoulder. “He did not come?”
Sir Thomas glances at me, looking embarrassed. “Sit down. Please, sit down. Join me in supper,” he says to Eleanor, pulling out her chair.
Sir Thomas and I keep up a patter of conversation while we order our meals. Only then does he broach the subject of Eleanor’s position.