Daughters of Disguise (Lady C. Investigates Book 4)

by Issy Brookw

  “A scavenger?”

  “No, no, the Scavenger.”

  “His men were the scavengers…”

  The man holding the soup seemed reluctant to move away. Others, too, had stopped in their conversations and were watching and listening carefully. Mrs Jones picked up a towel and suddenly began to convulsively wipe up invisible spills. “Well, you see, it’s different here. No, it isn’t, I mean, but it was, you see?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well, Mr Davies, he pays for the privilege of collecting rubbish and waste, to keep things nice, he does. And then he pays those men to do the work for him.”

  “He pays out a lot. Why?”

  “For everything has a value. And of course, all the householders must pay to have their rubbish removed, so they pay him. And that is the role of the Scavenger. But enough of him. He is one of them. Them. Pay him and his rudeness no mind, now. We have so many lovely traditions here, you know.”

  “And I am looking forward to learning more about them,” Cordelia said.

  The conversation around them began to hum again. The man with the soup retreated to a table, and Mrs Jones folded her still-clean towel. “Would you like to try some cawl?” she asked. “I am so sorry. You came up here to order some food and then we get talking crachach!”

  “Crack?”

  “Cawl,” Mrs Jones said, and Cordelia again saw her face shut down, hiding something that she did not want to talk about. “Now I do know you’re interested in your food, aren’t you? You’ll like this. It’s one of our traditions. One of our good ones.”

  “As opposed to your bad ones?” Cordelia said, trying to make a joke.

  No one laughed.

  “Poems,” Mrs Jones said suddenly. She turned to the serving lad and sent him into the kitchen, and then repeated, to Cordelia, “Poems, there are. Every man is a poet here, you know, or so they like to think. There’s the Eisteddfod, of course….”

  “And the Ceffyl Pren!”

  Cordelia jumped as the small man who had been eating stew appeared by her elbow. He’d polished off the bowl in short order, and was offering it up for a refill.

  “What is that?” Cordelia said. “The Ceffyl…?”

  “It’s what we do, when we need to,” the man said.

  “We do not, not any longer.” Mrs Jones snatched the bowl from the man’s hands. “And you are wanting some more, are you?”

  “Please.”

  Mrs Jones fixed Cordelia with a stare. She said, in a voice that would not be argued with, “Go you through to the snug again, my lady, and we will serve you there directly.”

  The chatter around her was in Welsh. Outside, the rain hammered down, mocking the heatwave of the past weeks. Cordelia was cold, and hungry, and a little frustrated. She’d wanted her idealised version of Wales to be all full of myth and magic and secrets; but the point was, she was supposed to be able to understand those secrets, not have them danced in front of her and then snatched away.

  She nodded, and retreated, and hoped that Mrs Jones would open up a little more if she was alone.

  But there was another influx of wet customers, and Mrs Jones had no time to stop and talk when she delivered the cawl — a lamb stew — to Cordelia. Cordelia had to sit in the snug, alone, wondering what all her servants were up to, and if they were having a better holiday than she was.

  Chapter Three

  Cordelia’s bedroom in the inn was a comfortable one. It was small, but it had a wide and comfortable bed, plenty of storage, a pretty dressing table in the French style, and even an armchair. She had also taken a day room, and Ruby had her own little bed in a corner of that shared space, hidden behind a screen. Stanley and Geoffrey were housed in the servants’ quarters above the stables, which suited them both very well; Geoffrey, for he enjoyed the freedom to come and go, and Stanley for he liked to be near the horses. Horses did not judge or have moods as people did, he would say.

  Cordelia had once been bitten by a wall-eyed stallion, and tended to disagree.

  In fact she was dreaming of horses when the shouts and alarms dragged her from her slumber and into a startled consciousness.

  Ruby was at her door in an instant.

  “Is there a fire?” Cordelia said, sitting up.

  Footsteps thundered along the corridor.

  “Or a murder?”

  Ruby shot her mistress an entirely appropriate glance of distaste, and said, “I shall find out, my lady. Let us hope not.”

  “Quite right,” said Cordelia, putting on her best ‘I am a lady and full of serenity and contrition’ face.

  She was not, of course. She pulled a loose shawl around her shoulders and hovered in the day room, anxiously awaiting Ruby’s return. It was still raining outside, though more lightly than it had the day before. She had left the window open all night and she bent to look through the gap at the bottom. A river of water was running along the street, and a handful of men rushed through, their boots splashing, soaked up to their knees.

  “Two lives lost at Talsarn!” cried someone, and another answered in Welsh. The cry went along, alternating between English and Welsh, spreading the news to all.

  Ruby burst back into the room. “Two men have died,” she said breathlessly.

  “At Talsarn!” Cordelia said.

  “Where is that?”

  “I do not know; I hoped that you might.”

  Ruby and Cordelia stared at one another for a moment. Then Ruby shook her head. “No, my lady, but I would guess that it is to the south of here.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Oh, it is no great feat of detection, my lady. The heavy rain, on top of the heatwave that we have been suffering—”

  “—enjoying—”

  “Er, enjoying—has caused flash floods, starting up in the high hills. By the time the floodwaters reached the lower levels here by the coast, they were tremendous, and have torn away bridges, and houses, and chapels, and two men that were riding their horses. Much trouble has been caused overnight, and they expect it to continue today as the floods come down.”

  Cordelia sank into a chair, and knotted her fingers together to stop herself fretfully picking at the fringes of her shawl. “How utterly dreadful,” she said. She meant it. “And will the rain also continue? It is lighter now.”

  “I do not know, my lady, but I am sure that rescue missions are being planned in this inn and all over the town.”

  Cordelia drew in a deep breath. She was a lady, and she was a widow. Philanthropic rescue missions, especially dramatic ones, were bread and butter to such women in this age. This was what she was bred to. “Help me to dress,” she said. “They will need me.”

  Ruby nodded. In this, she was inclined to agree.

  ***

  When Cordelia entered the saloon bar, it was awash with people though no one seemed to be doing anything effective except for gossip, though it was hard to tell with the mix of languages around her. There were precious few signs of Ruby’s “rescue missions”, however. Even when people were speaking English, sometimes their accents were so broad that their words needed careful attention. She had not yet tuned her ear to the rhythms.

  Mrs Jones was standing by a chair, and listening to another woman of matronly stature who was speaking in a rapid and urgent way.

  “Oh! Good morning, my lady,” Mrs Jones said. “I do hope we have not woken you; I am so sorry for all this hustle and noise. There’s been a terrible thing down Aberaeron way, floods there are, and worse.”

  “Worse!” the matron by her side said in an awed echo.

  “I have heard about the floods,” Cordelia said. “My maid told me.”

  “Terrible floods!” the matron said.

  “And what is being done? I heard that houses have gone, and two lives lost, also. What of injuries? What help is being organised?”

  “The bridges are down, see, so there’s no easy way for getting there, and anyway, it is still raining and more rain to come; who
would risk it?” Mrs Jones said.

  “Those ladies have gone, so I hear,” the matron said.

  “Oh! Miss Scott and Miss Walker! Of course they have gone,” Mrs Jones said, but her face was soft, even if her words had an edge to them.

  Cordelia became aware of Geoffrey and Stanley joining the general throng. In disastrous times, the classes were more prone to mixing, at least in public spaces. “Who are these ladies?” Cordelia asked.

  “Ladies,” said Mrs Jones, as if it were some important correction and not just the same word repeated with a stronger emphasis. “They have set up house together, as … sisters, or companions, modelling themselves on the Ladies of Llangollen, and they devote themselves to charitable works.”

  Geoffrey began to snigger. He turned away. Cordelia was confused. What was so amusing about such a common occurrence? She nodded sagely at Mrs Jones. “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “I must meet them and see if I might also lend my influence and assistance.”

  Mrs Jones said, “Well, as to that, of course we could arrange an introduction. They do take visitors, from time to time, and I am sure they would be pleased to make your acquaintance. But you must understand, you see, that they are unconventional in their … appearance. They do not mind society quite as you or I do. Some do find them … strange.”

  “I, too, find myself quite on the edges of society,” Cordelia reassured her. “I have little good name left to me. So! What might be done, right now, to help those who have lost homes, and possessions, and perhaps more?” She rubbed at her head. The weather seemed to be pressing down on her, and there was an increasingly tight band around her forehead.

  Mrs Jones shook her head, and the matron at her side copied her, like a small child. “I fear there is nothing you can do at the moment. The storm is picking up again and they say it will worsen tonight because the birds are flying so low. I tell you the truth, those ladies should not have gone. They put themselves in danger.”

  “Are such floods common here?”

  “No, no,” said Mrs Jones, echoed by the matron and everyone else around. “We’ve not known the likes of this for generations, you know.”

  The door to the street was flung open and a small boy shouted in Welsh, and a few people shouted back. “What does he say?” Cordelia asked.

  “He is telling us that the floods are continuing, and some other things that we already knew, and that there can be no travel south to Aberaeron at the moment, and that the rain is coming down heavier again, and that the sky is dark.”

  There were muttered prayers, which were intelligible and understood in any language. Stanley had his hands knotted together and was mumbling under his breath, and even Ruby did not laugh at him for it. A hush descended on the room as people contemplated the loss of life, and the threat of more disaster.

  Eventually Mrs Jones stirred herself. “Forgive me, my lady. Were you wanting some breakfast, is it?”

  “No, thank you. I have quite lost my appetite. I had hoped to be of some assistance, but I agree that nothing may be done until the rains have abated once more. I shall retire to my rooms, but please, do not hesitate to call upon me if I can offer any help in any way at all.”

  “Of course.”

  Cordelia moved to the corridor. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ruby hesitate and look away, towards the street.

  “Ruby.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Ruby said, and followed.

  ***

  Cordelia found it difficult to settle. “What a dreadful holiday this is proving to be,” she complained. “I had hoped to immerse myself in a new culture and absorb the beauty and uniqueness of Wales. I wanted to try the foods, explore the landscape and maybe even learn a little of the language.”

  Ruby snorted. “You cannot even say the name of the town we are in.”

  Cordelia ignored her jibe and stood at the window. The rain was once again battering against the glass and it was impossible to see clearly through it. She had pulled the sash down. “And think of those poor people who have lost everything,” she said. “How unutterably awful.”

  “I cannot imagine,” Ruby said in a low, sad voice. “We must do what we can to help, my lady.”

  “I promise you that we will, if we can.”

  They moped around together. At one point, Ruby went to fetch some food and brought it back to the day room. Cordelia picked at it, sighing, and eventually she stood up and pushed the plate to one side.

  “Dispose of it, somehow,” she said, “but do not let Mrs Jones know, for I do not wish to offend her. The fault is in me, not in her cooking.”

  “Are you ill?” Ruby asked with some concern.

  “My head is throbbing. I put it down to the change in atmosphere, and the oppression of the weather.”

  “There is a druggist in the town,” Ruby said. “Might I fetch something for you?”

  Cordelia crossed to the window again. At this rate, she reflected, she would be wearing a track in the rug. “The rain is easing. I fancy a walk will do me some good. Let us go together.”

  Chapter Four

  The chemist’s shop was on Great Darkgate Street. It was a clean, smart-looking place with a large window of many panes of glass, displaying a wide range of bottles and medicines.

  The shop inside was as crowded as the window display, not only with shelves but with people. There was a wide, muscular young man serving behind the counter, with a cheery smile and flashing dark eyes. He passed a small package over to a small, wizened man, and turned to the next customers, a couple of unusual appearance.

  “Miss Walker, Miss Scott…” he said, and his smile remained wide though his eyes flickered around the shop. “Welcome.” Then he dropped his voice. “You’re quite safe. He isn’t here. Though I do expect him back by now, so…”

  “Of course, of course,” said one of the women. “We understand and we appreciate your forbearance, Iestyn.” She was very tall, and if she had been a man she would have been described as “well-made.” That figure, however, in a gown, would have looked ungainly.

  Luckily, she was not wearing a gown. Indeed, she was dressed in a tweedy collection of country wear that one would put on for riding or shooting, if one did not care to cut a fashionable figure. Or, indeed, much of a sane one. She did wear a skirt, but it was narrow and unfussy and of solid wool. Her upper body was clad in a jacket that she might have stolen from a gamekeeper.

  The lady next to her was even more shockingly dressed, as she favoured — as well as the simple skirt and jacket — a man’s shirt, collar and flamboyant cravat in scarlet. She had short hair, closely cropped, and to Cordelia that was the most shocking thing of all. She could overlook her strange clothing as some kind of fancy dress, but the shorn locks made Cordelia feel quite funny, as if she couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing.

  Now she understood Mrs Jones’s words. These women were far beyond unconventional. Mrs Jones had still offered to make an introduction, though; so they were not beyond the pale.

  And when they spoke, they sounded like educated women, and then Cordelia understood.

  For money and status would excuse an awful lot of things. Even, it seemed, this.

  The woman with the mannish hair said, “Oh, Edith, even if he comes in, you have as much right to be here as anyone. He cannot chase you out.”

  “I know, but even so.”

  “Even so,” the short-haired one said, with an air of resignation.

  The other woman, the one addressed as Edith, said, “Now, then, Iestyn, I am after some Epsom Salts if you please. I find myself somewhat bilious.”

  She spoke in a direct manner and Cordelia liked it. She decided she would befriend the strange pair. However, she was not about to impose herself on them midway through their purchase of stomach medicines, so she hung back with Ruby close to her side, and politely pretended to be interested in a display of soap.

  “I shall see to it directly,” the man said as he turned away and began to scan the shelving
behind him. Still with his back to the ladies, he said, “These floods are a terrible business, are they not?”

  “They are,” said the woman referred to as Edith, the taller of the two. “Patience and I have been to see if there is aught we might do, but we were thwarted almost immediately by the roads being simply impassable.”

  “I shudder to think of the loss of life and, also, livelihoods,” Patience, the shorter one with the boyish hair, said.

  “No doubt there will be help arriving, not just from here, but other towns also,” the man said as he began to fold up a small box. “I am sure we are all grateful for the work that you do, but it is not just down to yourselves.”

  “Not all are grateful,” Patience muttered.

  “Hush,” Edith said, in a low tone. “You know why he acts so.”

  “Indeed, but I did not expect him to corner me when we were so expressly on a mission for good!” Patience said, her voice rising. “He cannot leave well alone, can he?”

  Patience was reaching her hand out to pay the man behind the counter, when the street door slammed closed. Cordelia jumped; she hadn’t heard it open, and nor had anyone else.

  “It is not I that cannot leave you alone! If I had my way I should never see the pair of you again,” said a man who had just entered, dressed in the long apron and white sleeves of a man who worked in a shop.

  He worked in this very shop itself, Cordelia quickly realised. He had a managerial air about him, given in the way that he glared at the young man, and strode around the counter.

  But the ladies were not cowed. Patience snatched up the parcel, but it was Edith who spoke. “We were not talking about you,” she said. “You do, indeed, leave us well alone.”

  “And I shall for ever more; get out of my shop! Go!”

  Without another word, the ladies turned around and stamped out, leaving Cordelia quite sorry that she had witnessed such unpleasantness, and furthermore missed her chance to speak to them.

  The older man then smiled at Cordelia, and spoke as if nothing untoward had just transpired. Politeness dictated that they now both behaved completely normally. She explained her headache, and was promptly sold a variety of cures which included peppermint, laudanum and of course, Bishop’s effervescing citrate of caffeine.