The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)
Page 4
And she was upset. Mortified, really. Her father’s unhinged accusations had distressed her no end. And then he’d locked her in her room! It was fortunate she had a hatpin long enough to trigger the old-fashioned lock and escape once he’d gone to work.
All because she had laundered and ironed a gentleman’s handkerchief. Moses Benson had accused her of having an affair with Sir Thomas, and had not believed one word about pigeons.
An affair! Harriet had never heard of anything more ridiculous. She’d explained, and even tried to show him her stained coat, but he’d snatched it away before he shoved her behind the door.
She hadn’t been able to find it once she freed herself; thus she had worn her late stepmother’s ancient tweed cape. The woman had been dead for fifteen years and had been short and slight, which Harriet was definitively not. She would have dispensed with it over her suit altogether, but snow was in the air. Some covering, no matter how unfashionable, was better than no covering at all, though she looked like she’d raided a child’s closet.
Harriet’s father had never raised a hand to her before. Her brothers had felt the broom handle on any number of occasions, but Moses Benson was usually kind to her, apart from haranguing her about her “unsuitable” employment. He worked long hours at Stratton’s with very little pay, grumbling occasionally about Hugh Westlake. Mr. Westlake was there because his grandfather had founded the bank and not for any logical reason that her father could see. As his clerk, Moses Benson was assigned to cleaning up the man’s unprofessional messes, which resulted in those long hours.
Just a little over a year ago, according to her father, Hugh should have been prosecuted for what he’d done to his cousin’s account. It had all been hushed up, and young Hugh continued to swan around as if he owned the place.
Harriet’s father was bitter at the injustice of it all, at his position in the scheme of life. He’d lost two wives and unexpectedly become the father of twin sons, a punishment he felt he didn’t deserve at his age. Their mother had not survived the birth, but somehow Harriet had managed to help raise them. The boys were at a local day school now, with every chance at university scholarships. They were bright if mischievous, a trait they had hardly inherited from their sober father and responsible big sister.
Harriet set down her cup and swallowed hard. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave a little early, too. I’m so very sorry. I’ll understand if you wish to dock my wages.”
Please God, not dismiss her. She kept the family accounts and knew perfectly well they could not do without her salary. Why her father was so set on her remaining at home was a total mystery. The man worked in a bank; he was good with numbers. How could he keep educating his sons without Harriet’s help?
She’d have to lock herself back in her bedroom somehow. When her father came home for his lunch, he would expect to find her like Rapunzel in her tower. Harriet hoped he would be more reasonable over their usual cheese toast and tea. No, today was fish paste, wasn’t it? Moses Benson liked a schedule, and Harriet prided herself in keeping to it. Even Christmas dinner had been the same stringy roast chicken she served every Sunday.
Harriet was entirely virtuous; alarmingly so. She’d pushed Sir Thomas’s face out of all her silly daydreams on a regular basis ever since she’d come here to work. It wouldn’t do for her to develop a pash for him. A man like Sir Thomas would never look twice at her in a romantic way.
He was looking at her now, though. Sir Thomas raised an eyebrow but appeared unruffled. “Indeed? That shan’t be a problem. I really have very little for you to do today.”
“I had meant to ring up Mrs. Evensong this morning. There is a building on Mount Street that might be perfect for your purposes. She’s apt to know why it’s been vacant so long.”
Sir Thomas’s face lit. “Mount Street? Why haven’t I been shown this property before? I’ve looked at every damned, uh, dratted place in town.”
Harriet knew this was not precisely true. He’d only started his investigation of real estate within the past month or so. And his man of business Thurston had steered him to the most depressing properties imaginable in an attempt to discourage Sir Thomas from investing in what he thought was a stupid waste of his employer’s fortune. Thurston did not understand art and artists. For that matter, neither did Harriet. But she thought she understood Sir Thomas, and this project was very dear to him.
It wasn’t only about the nude models that his artists immortalized. Featherstone House was a treasure trove of modern and not-so-modern art, museum-worthy pieces that had been carefully curated by a man who knew what he liked and was not afraid to risk ridicule. Some of the paintings were shocking to Harriet’s untrained eye, but she was fairly certain that no matter how much Sir Thomas had paid for them, they’d be worth far more in the future. He really was a kind of genius.
“Shall I call her then?”
“By all means.” Sir Thomas vacated his leather chair. The telephone was placed on his massive mahogany desk, and Harriet sat down gingerly, embarrassed to feel the warmth that Sir Thomas’s rather elegant bottom had left behind.
Elegant bottom? God save her.
A new girl answered the agency phone. Mrs. Evensong’s staff was expanding at a colossal rate—her niece Mary and office manager Eliza had made exceptionally good marriages to a pair of brothers, and Oliver had been promoted away from the reception desk. After identifying herself, Harriet waited for Mrs. Evensong to come on the line.
“Harry, dear! I hope nothing is wrong in your new position. I shall have Featherstone’s guts for garters if he’s upset you.”
Harriet hoped Sir Thomas couldn’t overhear Mrs. Evensong’s bellow. The elderly woman was not quite used to speaking into the telephone, though their office had been one of the first to install the equipment.
“No, no, not at all,” Harriet replied quickly.
“You let me know if he tries anything. I’ve heard all about him, you know. All those naked women. Useless fribble who fancies himself some sort of art connoisseur. Ha-ha-ha! Just like Maximillian Norwich!”
Harriet didn’t have the first idea what Mrs. Evensong was talking about, and wished she’d talk about it in much less stentorian tones. “This is actually a business call on Sir Thomas’s behalf. He’s interested in the empty mansion several doors down from you. I’m not quite certain of the address. What do you know of it?”
There was silence on the other end.
“Mrs. Evensong, are you still there?”
“How long were you with us, Harry? Four years? Five?”
“Six, Mrs. Evensong.” Fresh out of school, Harriet had been a social secretary to a dowager who was more in need of a companion than anything, and Harriet’s father had not minded about that so much. But when she’d died, Harriet had gone to register for a new job at the Evensong Agency and been hired as its office manager on the spot.
She’d worked in a real office, with all sorts of people coming and going. Her father had been worried, which was silly. Did he expect her to be kidnapped or corrupted by the typewriter girls?
When Mrs. Evensong’s gout made her too infirm to leave her flat above the agency, it was Harriet who had helped train Mrs. Evensong’s niece Mary to take her place. Harriet was not resentful that she’d been passed over to run the establishment—not for anything could she have pretended to be a seventy-year-old woman in a wig for four long years. Mary’s skill at deception had landed her a Scottish baron. Lucky girl.
“So, a bit before your time then. Still, it’s a wonder you didn’t read about it in the newspapers. There was an accident there. A young man died. His parents were naturally too upset to hold on to the house and all its memories.” She lowered her voice. “Suicide, you see. His parents were away at the time and had no idea he had come to visit. Or so they said. There was,” she paused, “an unpleasant amount of time that passed before the body was discovered. They were very anxious to dispose of the property.”
“Who owns it now?”
Harriet felt her cheeks grow warm with the praise. A very good thing she hadn’t asked if the house was haunted!
“But since the last tenant left,” Mrs. Evensong continued, “I’ve been unable to find a proper replacement. You know how fussy I am. Sometimes we’ve used the house to lodge some of our trickier clientele. Women fleeing abusive husbands, pregnant housemaids, and the like. I’ve always felt somewhat responsible when a girl I’ve placed is taken advantage of,” she sighed, and then the phone crackled in sympathy.
Harriet had had no idea. Mrs. Evensong was pretty tricky herself, and her niece Mary had been even worse—or better, depending on one’s point of view. “Then I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let it?”
“I might be. No one I know is in need of it at the moment, and really, I cannot worry about everyone and everything at my age or I’ll never live to see my next birthday. Is this for Sir Thomas’s creative colony? Tell him I’d charge an exorbitant damage deposit.”
Harriet suppressed a grin. All of Mrs. Evensong’s charges were exorbitant. Before founding her own employment agency, the woman had been housekeeper to a duke, and she’d learned that highest society distrusted inexpensive service. Fortunately the agency’s track record as problem solvers justified their fees. “Performing the Impossible Before Breakfast Since 1888” was not just a meaningless slogan.
“What kind of condition is the property in?” Harriet asked.
“Come around and see for yourself. Will tomorrow morning suit? I’ll have Oliver show you around.”
“Let me ask Sir Thomas.” Harriet turned to him. “We can look at it tomorrow. What time should I say?”
“Early bird, worm and all that. Shall we say nine? You can meet me there rather than here. Stand in front of the building like a beacon.”
Harriet wondered if she’d be locked in her room again tomorrow. Really, she was twenty-eight years old, not some disobedient child. Her father should be grateful that she was gainfully employed and contributing to the household. The boys were expensive.
And she was an Old Maid, doomed to toil for someone else’s benefit.
She chatted for a few more minutes with her previous boss, feeling a pang when she replaced the receiver. No matter how handsome Sir Thomas was, or pleasant, she missed the beehive of activity in London’s most exclusive employment agency.
The company did other things, too—to wit, arrange marriages and get clients out of mésalliances, whether domestic or professional. It had been very interesting work, but Harriet reminded herself she needed to devote her full attention to Sir Thomas.
Which was not difficult. He radiated an air of bonhomie at the moment, grinning at her with entirely excellent teeth.
“What a treasure you are, Miss Benson! Imagine you being the answer to all my prayers.”
Harriet felt her face go warmer still. “Nonsense. I merely passed by the building every day. I had no idea Mrs. Evensong owned it.”
“Well, it’s serendipitous.”
Harriet was so embarrassed she looked down at her feet instead of at Sir Thomas’s open, friendly face. And there, crumpled up, was a bit of paper that a housemaid must have missed. She bent over to pick it up, but Sir Thomas snatched it before she had a chance.
“What is it?”
“Oh, nothing.” It was his turn to blush. His razorlike cheekbones were now edged in crimson. He shoved the paper into the pocket of his trousers and made a show of sitting back down at his desk. “Well, what’s next, Miss Benson? And did I hear Mrs. Evensong call you Harry? Even a useless fribble has ears.”
Oh, dear. He had heard everything.
“Oh, you mustn’t mind Mrs. Evensong. She’s very opinionated, but her heart is usually in the right place. She’s as overprotective as my fath—” Harriet shut her mouth. It was very improper to discuss her family problems with Sir Thomas. And if she started, could she stop? How humiliating it would be to reveal how little power she had at home. The twins took her for granted, and her father was turning peculiar now that she worked for a gentleman.
“No old lady is going to hurt my feelings. She hasn’t lost any of her marbles, has she. Quite a terrifying old bird.”
“Marbles?” Harriet asked in confusion. Mrs. Evensong was not the game-playing sort.
“American expression. Means all your furniture’s at home.”
This was not helpful. “Where else would it be?”
Sir Thomas threw back his head and laughed. “I take it slang is not one of your skills, Miss Benson. You’re much too proper. Ah, well. If you can’t think of anything else for us to do this morning, you might as well go home. I know you just got here. But at least I’ve fed you. I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”
Oh, Lord. He was calling her fat, and he was absolutely correct. But didn’t he notice how difficult it had been for her to swallow the eggs and the bacon and the roll she had eaten?
“Are—are you sure?” There were always supplies that could be ordered—sheet music and canvas, stretchers and paint, ink and pens and paper. Mr. Conyers had already been to Featherstone House raving about some pink stone he’d seen and absolutely had to have. Along with the Pegasus and town coaches, the mews behind the mansion held some items already. At one time Sir Thomas had allowed artists and musicians to work in his attic, but his butler, Hitchborn, had been so disapproving that had been discontinued.
Hitchborn was formidable. He’d given Harriet a very penetrating look when she’d arrived in such an unhappy state this morning that she’d almost blurted the truth.
But this time the truth would not do.
Chapter 6
At the turn of the key, Harriet looked up from her book. She had only just stuffed her stepmother’s cloak under the bed and grabbed the first book by her bedside. It was a very old one from about eighty years ago, smelling of must, written by an anonymous baroness. If Harriet’s father had known the naughty content, he would never have purchased it from that secondhand shop for her.
She’d spent most of the summer in bed, losing herself in fantastical stories. But nothing about her real life was fantastical at all.
“Good afternoon, Papa,” she said, managing to keep her tone even.
“I see you are no worse for wear,” he said gruffly.
“I am sorry you misunderstood about the handkerchief. I promise you, I have done nothing that would bring shame upon you.”
“Misunderstood! I know Sir Thomas Featherstone has quite a reputation. Nothing shames him. You must cease working for the man immediately.”
Harriet rose from her bed. “Let me fix us some lunch.” Perhaps when her father had eaten he wouldn’t be so grumpy.
“I won’t be fobbed off by a sandwich, Harry. The man is no good. Why, he was mixed up in that murder case a couple of months ago with his artist friend and that naked model—it was all over the newspapers. His name is a byword for depravity. I didn’t like you working at the Evensong Agency, but this is ten times worse.”
Harriet held her tongue. What good would it do to remind her father his salary was insufficient to support them all, thus implying he was a failure? He worked long hours for very little reward. It was not as if he spent his earnings on drink or any kind of amusement, or even on a decent pair of trousers. Moses Benson was practically a scarecrow, wearing the same clothes on his spare frame that he had owned when he was married to Harriet’s mother. Harriet had not gotten her height and bulk from him, to be sure. She even topped him by a few inches. In fact, she was the tallest person in the house, for which the boys teased her endlessly.
“Let’s not argue on an empty stomach, Papa.” She wasn’t hungry at all after her breakfast at Sir Thomas’s, but he
probably wouldn’t notice.
The flat had a tiny kitchen, too small for anyone but one person at a time to maneuver in comfortably. Her father claimed Harriet couldn’t make a decent cup of tea, which was completely untrue, but she let him in to work his magic once she’d assembled the sandwiches. Fish paste today, which was one of her least favorite things. She set the plates down in front of the little coal stove in the parlor and waited in “her” chair. Her father’s was opposite. When the boys were home, they shared the faded sofa, a sprung and lumpy thing that they were sure to destroy eventually with their roughhousing.
Moses Benson was a man of regular habits. If it was Thursday—which it was—lunch would be fish paste sandwiches and the last of Monday’s apple tart. Harriet had to hide it from her brothers, whose appetites knew no bounds. They were not especially strapping lads, but possessed of hollow legs nonetheless.
He emerged from the kitchen with two steaming mugs of tea. Not quite able to face the fish paste, Harriet took a sip. She had become used to the harsh taste of her father’s preferred blend of tea—his one extravagance—though it was still delightful to partake of something more ordinary in a tea room.
Her father pulled his watch from his pocket. One of the few perks of working for a bank director was that he could take more time for lunch. Mr. Westlake was out of the office for hours on end and never noticed.
Harriet bided her time while her father ate, taking neat bites from the sandwich, then the tart. She fingered her serviette and drank her tea, wondering how she would begin.
Her father solved that problem for her, once he’d wiped his mouth in satisfaction. “I expect you to quit your job, Harry.”
“But—”
“No buts. You know you’re not well anyhow. Why should you slave away for that bounder when you could be comfortable here at home?”
Harriet took her spectacles off, not wanting to see her father’s false smile. “What about my salary, Papa? Isn’t it useful to you?”