by R. J. Koreto
After service, they planned as usual for dinner at a quiet café nearby. Those were the times Tommie most cherished. There were so few places, so few situations, where she didn’t feel judged: wearing the wrong clothes, saying the wrong thing, enduring comments about when she’d get married. If only the whole of London could be like their suffragist meetings—probably the only group where Tommie felt comfortable.
“That was so lovely,” said Gwen. “The choir was in particularly good form. Can we stop for a few moments and tell the rector how much we liked it?”
Tommie smiled indulgently. “Of course. How about this—you tell him how much you enjoyed the music, then I’ll meet you out front. I’m going to go into the chapel and light a candle for my father.” It was one of Tommie’s last remnants of any religious observance.
She had the chapel to herself, but as she was finishing, she heard footsteps and turned around to see who it was. The light was dim, but she could see he was dressed like a gentleman. A man of middle years. Rather serious looking, clean-shaven with a roman nose and a high-domed head. She stepped away from the candles to give him room, but he turned to her.
“Miss Calvin? Miss Thomasina Calvin?”
She blinked. This man didn’t look at all familiar.
“Yes . . .” she said hesitatingly.
“I find it rather odd to see you and Miss Kestrel attending a sacred service in one of the greatest cathedrals in England. Your relationship is an affront to all decent Christian behavior.”
The words flowed out of him without any menace, as casually as if they were discussing the weather. She tried to speak, but nothing came out.
“You may not care. But Miss Kestrel’s father, Sir Calleford, is a wealthy and powerful man. I suggest you cease your corruption of Miss Kestrel while there is still time to save her. And if you cannot curb your base lusts, at least turn your attentions to a less well-connected young woman and don’t plan any visits to Kestrel’s Eyrie. Good day, Miss Calvin.”
He turned and disappeared as quickly as he came.
For a few moments, Tommie felt as if she couldn’t breathe—the horrible, disgusting accusations degrading her feelings for the person she loved best in all the world. Her legs started trembling, and feeling sick, she sat on the cold stone floor. Air finally came in great gulps. How could he—how could anyone . . .
She might’ve stayed like that for an hour or more, but the thought of Gwen made her pull herself together. If Gwen found her like this, there would be no explaining what happened or what the man had said. Gwen was incapable of understanding the baser emotions.
She took a deep breath and made a halfhearted attempt at straightening her clothes. Stop wallowing and think, she told herself. Who was that man? He definitely wasn’t familiar. So perhaps he was an agent sent by someone to frighten and intimidate her. How could someone hate her and Gwen so much? True, they were in the suffragist group, which had its vocal detractors to be sure, but even so, that wouldn’t explain that particular accusation. And men usually harangued them when they were speaking in the park, not by cornering them in churches.
Feeling a little steadier, she made her way back to the entrance, where Gwen was waiting for her.
“I’m so glad I stopped to talk to the rector. He seemed very pleased with my compliments. But Tommie—are you unwell?” It was one of the things Tommie loved best about Gwen: no one was more sensitive to the pain in those she loved—and she did love Tommie.
“I was a little overcome for a moment, thinking about my father. But I’m all right now, really. I think I’d just like some strong tea with sugar with our dinner.”
“You need to get away. I’m so glad you’ll be coming with me to Kestrel’s Eyrie—you and Franny.”
Of course, their upcoming trip came rushing back to her. She had been looking forward to it—and now that man had been very specific that she shouldn’t visit the Eyrie. But she wasn’t going to let Gwen go there alone.
And Franny was coming. She was absolutely trustworthy—Tommie could tell her what had happened. Franny would know what to do; Franny was well educated and so clever.
Franny was fearless.
Cheer and laughter dominated the drawing room at Kestrel’s Eyrie. Phoebe Blake had ordered a fire, which chased the autumn chill from the large, old-fashioned room. Despite the cool weather, the guests slipped out briefly for some fresh air and a glimpse of a particularly beautiful moon.
Everyone had an after-dinner drink: brandy for the men and cordials for the women. Mrs. Blake had understood that Mr. Mehmet’s religion prohibited intoxicating beverages, but he had taken a little wine at dinner to make a toast, and now sipped some sweet sherry.
“I thank you for catering to my needs, Mrs. Blake,” he had said earlier. “But some believe that Allah permits small amount of the fermented grape. It is drunken behavior only that offends him.”
Mrs. Blake had no interest in the fine points of Islamic theology, so she just said something noncommittal and moved on. She spoke briefly to the doctor and his wife. Sir Calleford thought it was kind to invite them to these events, and they always accepted, even though they were completely overawed.
Mr. Mehmet looked around the room. Everyone seemed deeply involved in one conversation or another, so he decided it was a good time to slip out. He had already noted a side door that seemed little used at the end of a hallway lined with storage rooms, and made sure no servant saw him leave.
Mehmet walked quickly around to the side of house, where there was only a little moonlight. He peered until he saw a spark of light in a knot of trees bordering the lawn, then headed toward it.
“Kerem, you smoke too much. It’ll be the death of you,” he said in Turkish, laughing quietly.
“You want one?” He lit a fresh one and handed it to Mehmet. “And what have you for me?” asked Kerem.
Mehmet reached into his pocket for an envelope, which he handed to Kerem, who in turn handed Mehmet another envelope.
“It’s questions and information from—”
“No names, not even here,” said Mehmet, and Kerem nodded.
“From our ‘friend in London,’” he said, using English for that one phrase. “I assume this is your report, which I will give him on my return. But what do you really have for me? I’ve been standing out here for nearly an hour.”
“I can’t help it. These English parties—it’s not easy to slip away. But here—” He produced a silver flask and handed it to Kerem. “It’s brandy.” Kerem took a deep drink.
“The Prophet would not approve of drinking so much, so quickly,” said Mehmet.
“The Prophet never experienced an English autumn,” said Kerem. “I have a very practical view of religion. Just as well I became a soldier, not an imam.” They both laughed again. “But when are you coming back to London?”
“I’ll be here a while longer,” said Mehmet. “There is more work I can do, more people to meet.”
“Much longer and the pasha will start wondering. He suspects you and dislikes you anyway. Meeting Englishmen for fun or for advancing the family business is acceptable, but there will be questions if you don’t return soon.”
“If I go back to London, the pasha can find a way to kill me there.”
“If he believes that you, Sir Calleford, and our ‘friend in London’ are in league, he’ll kill you wherever you are. Come, Mehmet, I’m not just your friend—I’m your cousin. There is something else, isn’t there? If you can’t trust me, you can’t trust anyone.”
Mehmet peered at Kerem. There was concern there—what they were doing could get them killed.
“You worry too much. The pasha trips over his own two feet and the sultan is all the way in Istanbul.”
Kerem turned and spat at the mention of the sultan.
“I know,” said Mehmet. “Anyway, I’ve been gone too long. Take the brandy and I’ll keep you notified of any change of plans. Where are you staying tonight?”
“A simple inn near Mor
chester.” He grinned. “I told the waitress there I knew the secrets of the sultan’s harem. She was entranced. Perhaps tonight . . .”
Mehmet chuckled. “You’re incorrigible. You know nothing of the sultan’s harem.”
“And neither does the English girl. Thank you for the brandy, and be careful.” He disappeared into the dark. Mehmet finished his cigarette and headed back to the house. He quietly opened the forgotten side door again, stepped in, and bolted it behind him before heading along the hallway back to the drawing room. Mehmet didn’t expect to see any of his fellow dinner guests and was particularly surprised by whom he saw outside of Sir Calleford’s study. But on second thought, perhaps it wasn’t such a surprise. What was that useful English word? He thought there might a . . . liaison. He stepped behind some decorative Greek statuary until he was alone, then leisurely returned to the drawing room.
Back in the drawing room, an American, Mr. Hardiman, was talking with Mrs. Blake. In her elegant dress and perfectly styled hair, she was not his idea of a farm wife—at least not the farm wives from back home in western New York. But a casual query about local agriculture proved she knew a great deal about the estate’s farms. He bet she knew every dime (no, shilling, he reminded himself) that went in and out of the lands, and wished etiquette didn’t prevent him from asking for a full account.
As she spoke, amused at her guest’s curiosity, she noted the heavy chain that led to his large gold pocket watch, which he consulted from time to time. Like everything else Mr. Hardiman seemed to own, it was vulgar—and very, very expensive.
His daughter was not discussing farming. Miss Hardiman was engaged in a lively talk with Mrs. Blake’s son, Christopher. A tall, striking girl, she was laughing—a little too loudly—at a funny story Christopher was telling. He had a cheerful, handsome face made for smiling, and clearly enjoyed making the young woman laugh. Once or twice, she gently rested a gloved hand on his arm.
“I do envy you, growing up in this magnificent house,” she said, looking around.
“I actually grew up on a neighboring estate,” he said, “but I was always a favorite of my uncle’s, Sir Calleford, and I spent much of my time here.”
“So your uncle owns it?” she asked, looking at him closely.
“No one really owns a house like the Eyrie,” said Christopher. “The family is merely its caretaker.”
Miss Hardiman wrinkled her nose and said, “But I don’t understand . . . I thought . . .”
“My ancestors have lived here for more than three hundred years.” He waved a hand carelessly and grinned. “But I’m speaking in riddles. Has anyone really shown you this house? I’ll give you a detailed tour tomorrow.”
Miss Hardiman clapped her hands together and said that would be delightful.
“Meanwhile, may I escort you outside to see the moon? It’s particularly fine tonight.”
Across the room, the lord of the manor, Sir Calleford, was speaking in French with M. and Mme. Aubert. The two men were having an animated talk about history, voices rising, but in amusement rather than anger. Sir Calleford said Gibbon’s classic history The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire held the answer to their disagreement, and M. Aubert laughed and said he doubted it. Sir Calleford was threatening to fetch it from his study.
Mme. Aubert became bored and headed over to the two widows, Mrs. Bellinger and Mrs. Sweet. They were usually with each other at gatherings like this. They were single women past their first youth, with little money and no property, so few ever bothered to ask their opinion or try to impress them. But although her English was weak, Mme. Aubert thought stumbling through a discussion of gardens was better than listening to intricacies of Roman history.
Although they were lumped together as “the widows,” they were really not at all alike. Mrs. Bellinger looked like she had been carved out of beautiful marble, with a pair of cool eyes that seemed to look down on everyone. No actress could possibly fake such an aristocratic attitude. Mrs. Sweet, on the other hand, lived up to her name, with cheeks that dimpled when she smiled. Her dress was good, but a fine eye would catch the minor repairs that had been made over time. They both managed to admit Mme. Aubert to their talk—Mrs. Sweet with cheer, Mrs. Bellinger with condescension. The Englishwomen talked about how nice it was outside, and Mme. Aubert agreed, although she had a typical French prejudice against drafts.
Mrs. Blake had to step out of the room periodically to have a few words with the servants, including a reminder to the head housemaid to make sure rooms would be readied for Gwen and her friends, who would be arriving later that night. She’d have to talk to Gwen—it was time the girl settled down, found a suitable husband, and prepared for the day when she would be mistress of Kestrel’s Eyrie. Mrs. Blake had no illusions about Gwen’s ability to run a household like the Eyrie, but she would stay and guide her. Hadn’t she made the manor what it was, done what Sir Calleford’s late wife had not been capable of? She took great pride in her work. But it was time to begin reminding Gwen of her future role in life. Men never think of these things, she thought ruefully.
She’d sit down privately with Gwen, where they wouldn’t be disturbed. She’d have to get her alone, of course. Get her away from that rather odd friend of hers, Thomasina. Of course, Gwen was a little odd, too. And Lady Frances Ffolkes as well—between her suffrage work and rumored police involvement, she was making quite a reputation for herself. But Mrs. Blake was confident; she had handled worse than this.
Later, no one could agree on the timetable, who left the drawing room, and when, and for how long. But at some point Mrs. Sweet said she would be heading home and wanted to say good-bye to her host. The last thing anyone remembered was Sir Calleford laughing with M. Aubert, saying he’d prove he was right, and dashing off to his study.
But no one would ever see Sir Calleford alive again.
CHAPTER 2
Frances strode into the lobby of Miss Plimsoll’s Residence Hotel for Ladies, still feeling light in her step from her “bohemian holiday.” She picked up her letters from the piecrust table where mail was kept for residents and greeted the manageress, Mrs. Beasley.
“Welcome home, Lady Frances. I trust you had a good trip?”
“Very much so, thank you.” She headed up the grand staircase to her suite. Mrs. Beasley had said “welcome home,” and indeed it felt like home. As much as she liked visiting Charles and Mary in the house where she had grown up, this felt like her place now.
Everyone knew about Miss Plimsoll’s. She was the last member of an old family, living in a huge house but finding her money was all gone. She had turned her house into an exclusive residence only for single, well-born women who for one reason or another had no other place to live. Mrs. Beasley guarded the virtue of the residents from a desk by the staircase. At Miss Plimsoll’s, Frances found the same freedom and casual way of life as she had in college in America.
Mallow was sewing in their little sitting room but stood up and smiled when her mistress entered.
“Welcome back, my lady. Did you have a good visit with your friends?”
“Yes, thank you, Mallow. I have a note here from Lady Seaforth saying you did as good a job as Garritty. Considering Garritty has been working as a lady’s maid for far longer than you, that’s a high compliment.”
Mallow reddened a little. “Thank you, my lady. I am glad I was able to be of service.”
“My brother tried to pump you, no doubt,” she said with a smile.
“His lordship asked me several questions about you, my lady, which I was of course unable to answer,” she responded coolly.
“Bless you, Mallow. You’re a gem.”
Her maid had started unpacking Frances’s bag meanwhile, and looked with such disdain on the men’s clothes she had worn that Frances almost wilted.
“You have gotten these somewhat muddy, my lady. I will have them laundered. Unless you are done with them and wish to donate them to the poor box.”
“Oh, thank you, Mallow.
These clothes are warm and very comfortable. We’ll be taking them to Kestrel’s Eyrie tonight. A quick sponging should do it; they’re just for outdoor wear anyway, so they don’t need to be perfect.”
“Very good, my lady.” Her tone said it wasn’t very good at all. Frances decided to tweak her.
“If you would like, Mallow, I will buy you similar clothes.”
“Thank you, my lady, but that won’t be necessary.” She said it with great stiffness, and Frances felt bad for teasing her.
“I think we’ll have a good time at the Eyrie, Mallow. It’s an enormous house—a nice change from our little suite here.”
Now that caught Mallow’s interest. “It must have a very large staff, my lady.”
“Oh yes, Mallow. And as you’re lady’s maid to the daughter of a marquess, you’ll have precedence in the servants’ hall.” Mallow preened at that. “We’ll be traveling by train with Miss Kestrel and Miss Calvin.” Mallow knew both of them well from their frequent visits to Miss Plimsoll’s.
“Very good, my lady. I shall be particularly attentive to Miss Kestrel during our trip, since it has been my experience she tends to drop and forget various personal items.”
Frances smiled ruefully. “Yes, Miss Kestrel can be somewhat scatterbrained.”
“I was not criticizing your friend, my lady. My late mother, God rest her soul, used to say the vicar at our church was always losing his spectacles because he was too busy thinking of how to help others, and I expect it’s the same with Miss Kestrel.” Indeed, Gwen was known to empty her purse of an entire week’s allowance into the hands of beggars, or be late for lunch because she stopped to help an overwhelmed nanny on the street soothe the fussing children in her care.
“Mallow, it’s clear you’re not only a fine maid, but a talented diplomat as well.”
“Thank you, my lady. We are mostly packed for this evening. I understand that we will all leave together from Miss Kestrel’s residence?”
“Yes. We’ll dine on the train, arrive late tonight, and be able to start work bright and early tomorrow.”