The Unsuitable Secretary (A Ladies Unlaced Novel)

by Maggie Robinson

  He had wondered about the same thing minutes ago. But it wasn’t true. He knew it. He opened his mouth to object.

  “Don’t bother trying to contradict me. Do you remember why you hired me in the first place, Thomas? You were disorganized, going from one thing to the next. Restless. You have grand egalitarian ideas—art for everyone and everyone for art! And you’ll probably make it happen if you don’t get in your own way. Right now, I’m another one of your grand ideas—let’s make over Harriet. Buy her a new dress. A ring. But that won’t change who I am and where I come from, Thomas. And if you can’t see that I’m not right as any kind of partner for you, then there’s no hope for you. I care about you too much to let you do this to yourself.”

  Each word felt like a frozen dagger to his heart. “Why, you’re a snob, Harry!”

  “I am not!”

  “You are! I don’t give a shit where you were born, but you care about where I was born! I can’t help my antecedents, as you can’t help being Moses Benson’s daughter. You’re smarter than this, Harry. Don’t be a coward.”

  “Get out.”

  “Of my own house?”

  “Oh, why are you so stupid?” she cried. “Just leave me alone. I’m trapped here because of the press outside, and I don’t need to be hounded by you, too. I don’t want you, Thomas. It’s been fun while it lasted, but it will not last!”

  “How do you know? How does anybody know such things? There are no guarantees of anything—I could be hit by a bus when I walk out the door.”

  “Buses don’t run down your fancy street.”

  “Don’t be so damned literal-minded. People take leaps of faith all the time, Harry. Nothing stays quite the same even when they have the best of intentions. Things may work. Things may not. But they take chances. To do nothing—to play it safe, or play not at all—that’s not for me.”

  And then she spoke.

  “What?” Sir Thomas said.

  She repeated herself. She squawked like some demented parrot.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t expect you do. That’s how children talk in my neighborhood. Adults, too. My mother used to spank me if I sounded ‘common,’ but I am common. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, no matter how much money you throw at it.”

  “There’s nothing I can say, is there? You’ve made your mind up.” Thomas didn’t believe this was happening. How could she be so obtuse?

  She didn’t know her own worth.

  He felt . . . disappointment.

  “All right. I’ll leave you alone. No point in me hanging around to say good-bye again tomorrow. You’ll let me know if you’re willing to talk to me, however you pronounce your words, won’t you? I’ll be at my club tonight. Send a message if you need anything.”

  Ever. Thomas would be ready when she came to her senses, no matter how long it took.

  He turned before he could see Harriet’s face. He was being churlish. Childish. But she was still leaving, which meant another miserable night ahead. Many miserable nights for both of them.

  Damned stubborn wench.

  Hitchborn raised a silver eyebrow but said nothing when informed of Thomas’s plans. Josephson drove him in silence to St. James’s, where all proper gentlemen’s clubs were. He arranged for a room for the night at his and ordered a dinner and a bottle of claret to be delivered to it. He wasn’t there for the company downstairs. The thought of jolly ribbing about why he was not enjoying his mistress was insupportable. Likewise, he couldn’t go to any of his usual haunts. He was not expected. No more fun for him.

  So Thomas sat alone, licking his wounds, ignoring his beefsteak, drinking his claret and ringing for another bottle. Things turned a bit blurry after the third.

  Why should he sit in this bland little room by himself all night? He lived in London, by God, the center of the universe. When one tired of London, something or other happened according to some old somebody. Thomas waved off the porter’s reservations as the nosy fellow hailed him a cab to the West End. The shows were letting out and the streets were thronging with fashionably dressed people looking for additional amusement. By the merest chance he bumped into damned Alistair St. Cuthbert and his friend Thingummy.

  One thing led to another and before he knew it, Trixie Lafayette was sitting in Thomas’s lap in some smoky after-hours club. Thomas couldn’t remember where he was precisely but the music was loud, the girls were pretty and pliant, and the brandy was passable. He drank a great deal more and grinned as a photographer took his picture. Trixie draped her magnificent and quite scantily clad body, if Thomas was still in possession of his eyesight, all over him, going so far as to loosen his cravat.

  “Now, now. Spoken for,” Thomas said. He was sure he said it out loud, even if it wasn’t true.

  Yes, he had spoken aloud. Still had use of his tongue, for all the good it had done him with Harriet. He’d have better luck talking to a block of wood. Thomas was so pleased by this joke, he giggled.

  Good Lord. He was tight. A man didn’t giggle—that was for girls. Harriet hardly ever giggled. She was too dignified. Had standards that would give the old queen a run for her money. Standards which were impossible for anyone to live up to. She wanted to order the future, follow a straight path, know exactly where she was going.

  Good luck to her.

  He almost wished he’d never met her. For the good old days before he’d tasted her lips or lost his fingers in her wavy hair or pressed his naked body against hers. Oh, he had a bad case of Harriet-itis, and was beyond frustrated knowing she did not return his affections.

  His Harriet, for better or for worse, even if she wouldn’t stand up with him. His hands were lost in long loose curls. Hair so soft, the color of autumn leaves and melted chocolate. Hair that smelled of roses—

  “Oi, love, why are you sniffin’ my ’air? I just washed it day before yesterday.”

  Thomas stiffened. He realized he was stiff everywhere, but this woman was not Harriet. Trixie’s hair was just brown, and she definitely did not smell like roses.

  “Is it a what-do-you-call-it? A fetish, that’s what. Sniffin’. A gent I know likes to sniff panties. Never ’eard of ’air before though. But to each ’is own,” Trixie said sagely. She was wise, but not as wise as his Harriet, except when it came to him, where she was a bloody stubborn idiot.

  “It’s not—I am not . . .” He was not interested in that sort of thing. Panties? Really? He’d heard of men who had an unnatural attachment to women’s shoes, too. Very strange indeed. All Thomas wanted was Harriet with no panties or shoes on.

  He took another sip of brandy and soda and immediately felt unwell. His stomach roiled and his head ached.

  “Where’s your ladybird, then, Tubby?” shouted Alistair over the din. “The big one from last night? No wonder you wanted to keep her to yourself. Tell me when you get tired of her, what? She’s not my usual style, but it might be fun to mount an Amazon. We’ll see who’s the better man. Maybe we can do her together!”

  Thomas saw red. He’d always thought that was just a literary expression, but it was as if someone had punched him in the eyeballs. But the person who needed punching was Alistair, so he leaped over the table and did. Again and again until his fist hurt as much as his head. Trixie tried to intercede by pushing him back in the chair and climbing back into his lap.

  “Sick.” Without ceremony, he dumped Miss Lafayette to the floor and vomited on poor Thingummy, whose name he finally remembered was Horace Powell. Whore-ass, the poor man was called at school. Much worse than Tubby.

  Lights were flashing inside Thomas’s eyelids. He ignored the screams and laughter around him for the most part, and waited for his gorge to settle. He needed to go home, but Harriet would give him hell for backsliding in such a spectacular manner.

  No. She wouldn’t care. She was practically gone. She wanted to be left alone. Untouched and unsuccored. Was that even a word? She wanted nothing from him, not even his name. Wouldn’
t even hang new wallpaper. The woman was difficult beyond belief.

  But Thomas wanted her, despite the difficulty. He was a fool. A fool for love.

  He’d never thought it would happen to him. Certainly it had been amazing to see his old pal Nick felled by his reluctant governess, Eliza, and Nick had been the hardest of cases. The man really did deserve his ladykiller reputation, the kind of reputation that was falsely attached to Thomas.

  Thomas didn’t kill the ladies; just dropped them on the floor. With a gentlemanly flourish, he extended his hand to Trixie, whose skirt had risen in her fall. No panty-sniffing possible here, Thomas observed. She wasn’t wearing any, and it didn’t do a thing for him.

  “Sorry, love. Sorry Thing—um, Powell. I’ll replace your suit. Send me your tailor’s bill. Tell Alistair”—who was still under the table—“I apologize, but I didn’t care for his attitude.”

  “And what do I get, Sir Thomas?” Either Trixie was batting her eyes at him, or she’d had a stroke.

  “Here.” He thrust a hand into his pocket and pulled out some crumpled bank notes. “For your trouble. Go buy yourself some French knickers.”

  Chapter 44

  Saturday, January 7, 1905

  Another Day, Another Doxy

  Sir T- Up to His Old Trix

  Naughty Night Out

  Fisticuff Folly

  No wonder Hitchborn had said the newspapers hadn’t been delivered today.

  Harriet set the carpetbag down on the pavement. The butler had tried to convince her not to leave before Thomas got home, but from the looks of the headlines, Thomas would be in no hurry.

  Harriet had torn up the check and left the envelope on Thomas’s desk. She finally walked out the front door of Featherstone House, only one day off schedule.

  She couldn’t take Thomas’s money after all. It would have turned what they had into . . . something else.

  She saw from the headlines she’d been justified in saying no. She didn’t want to be the kind of woman—like Trixie—that Thomas gave money to. She had been naïve to think she had mattered to him. One didn’t ask one to marry one without some affection, surely? And because she cared so much for the man, she couldn’t say yes.

  How much had he paid Trixie? Thomas was an idiot with money. Thurston was right.

  She had said horrible things to Thomas. Mean, hurtful things. Deliberately. Defiantly. Trixie was probably much nicer.

  Harriet may have ripped up the check, but she was wearing the beautiful green coat that he had bought her. She couldn’t leave it behind; she wasn’t completely crazy. It was January, and the coat was soft and warm and perfect, even if that Amy person picked it out.

  The air was crisp and the clouds promised snow. She bought as many newspapers as she could and tucked them into her bag to read them in privacy.

  That was the question. Where could she go? How far would her limited savings take her? It would be too embarrassing to go to the Evensong Agency. She’d made a muck-up of her job for sure and everyone who could read knew it. She bet Oliver had already started a clipping file for her sudden unwanted fame.

  Sadly, Harriet had no girlfriends to whose homes she could pop by for a visit. She’d long ago lost touch with her secretarial school classmates as they dispersed throughout the city. Keeping house and keeping her jobs had taken all of her time.

  And anyway, what would she say? How lovely to see you again after ten years, and by the way, do you have a spare room so I can read and cry my eyes out?

  Goodness, but she was feeling sorry for herself. It’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? To make Thomas return to his former life. She’d meant to discourage him. He was, justifiably, fed up with her refusals. He’d said and done—especially done—all the right things for days, and for his own good, she’d turned him away and into the arms of Trixie, whoever she was. But he might have waited more than a day to be so spectacularly unfaithful.

  It was too cold to sit on a park bench.

  Shoreditch. She would take her chances and hope that her father wasn’t home to tell her he’d told her so.

  She took the Underground like any other wage slave. No one would guess she was the discarded mistress of a London millionaire.

  Harriet hadn’t slept well and looked it. Thankfully, she saw no one she knew in the old neighborhood who could point and take secret glee at how high she’d climbed and promptly fallen.

  The spare key was under the worn doormat as usual. The house was quiet, the coals cold. She’d only been gone a matter of days, yet the place smelled musty. Harriet checked the kitchen, finding very little save for the tin of her father’s special tea on a high shelf and crusted dirty dishes in the sink. At least they were eating.

  She was chilled to the bone. Why not have a cup—no, a pot, of tea and read the wretched papers at her leisure?

  It was hard for her to believe Thomas had lost interest so soon, though. Insulting, too.

  Harriet got the stove started, filled the kettle, and waited for the water to boil. She tossed a handful of leaves in the pot without measuring and searched in vain for sugar. Her tea would be bitter, but that suited the occasion.

  Chipped mug in hand, she spread the papers on the small table in the parlor. How many times had she sat here in front of the fire having lunch with her father and dinner with the boys? There was no fire today—Harriet wouldn’t be staying long enough to go through the bother.

  She’d tried to make a good home for them, but the bleakness of the flat seeped right into her soul. She was cold and weary and almost too depressed to read the articles.

  They were all a variation of the same story. Two had blurry photographs of a grinning Thomas holding a half-naked chorus girl. Trixie Lafayette. What an absurd name. They’d been at a wild party in some den of iniquity where the liquor flowed like water, according to one cliché-ridden report. Lord A- St. C- and Lord H- P-, a viscount and an earl respectively, had been his companions. Thomas had struck St. C- in an argument over a woman and the viscount was considering pressing charges. Harriet had never heard Thomas mention either man, and Trixie was equally a mystery.

  Had she been one of the women he used to finkydiddle, as he put it? Harriet needed more tea to overcome the sudden wave of exhaustion. She stepped into the kitchen and refilled the mug. She had half a mind to bunk down here until she could get her feelings sorted.

  Had Thomas spent the night in Trixie’s bed?

  At least he knew what to do now, and was damn good at it, too. Harriet choked back a sob and swallowed some more tea. She would forgive him if only he asked.

  She had difficulty walking into the kitchen for her third cup, but she was so, so cold. She could see her breath. She stood at the sink, gulping the last of the warm tea down.

  Sleepy. Her scar throbbed. It didn’t bother her much anymore—Thomas had seen to that. He’d worshipped every inch of her once. Kissed the red raised skin. And what had she done for him? Sent him off to finkydiddle.

  Harriet needed to lie down, just for a little while. The sheets on her bed were cold and damp, but she was past caring. So tired. So alone. She didn’t know how to be a mistress. Certainly didn’t know how to be a rich man’s wife. Thomas didn’t want her anymore anyway. He just wanted Trixie. His hand was on her—

  Don’t think. Room dark. Quiet. She’d burn the newspapers in the grate when she woke up. Make them go away.

  Harriet didn’t hear the front door creak open, or the footsteps. Didn’t see the person bending over the bed, didn’t feel the hand at her forehead, or the glasses slipped from behind her ears.

  Oblivion.

  Chapter 45

  Everything around Harriet was painted green. She even felt green. And terribly empty, as if she’d had all her bone marrow hollowed out with a spoon. She could barely lift her hand, but when she did, the rubies and diamonds winked at her. Thomas’s ring was somehow back on her finger.

  She’d nearly died. She’d retched and retched and retched until she wanted to die. H
er father had cried and begged her to forgive him, even after she’d almost bitten his fingers off when he stuck them down her throat. He’d explained about the tea, and she’d been so shocked she couldn’t say a word. Then Thomas, who looked like he was dead, was kissing her and carrying her to his car. She had been covered in vomit, wrapped up in a sheet, and Josephson hadn’t batted an eye.

  Where was she? Not vomit-soaked anymore, at least. She wore one of her own old nightgowns from home. Her hair was neatly braided and she smelled . . . medicinal.

  “There you are, Miss Benson, back among us.” Such a cheery voice. Harriet was on edge at once.

  She squinted at the blur in the doorway. “My glasses?” Her words were unintelligible and her throat ached as if it had been scratched by a thousand cats.

  The blur came closer. “There, there. Don’t try to talk. It will be a few days yet before you’ll be back to normal. The tube, you know. I’ll just tell your employer you’re awake. He’ll be so relieved. The poor man has been pacing his feet off, and looks even worse than you do, my dear. You must be a very good secretary.” The nurse patted Harriet’s cheek. “I’ll just tell him he can come in, shall I? No more than five minutes, though. You need your rest.”

  Thomas. Thomas who was unfaithful. But then, they weren’t married, were they? Harriet opened her mouth to say no but nothing came out.

  She struggled to sit up. If she couldn’t talk, she could write, couldn’t she? She’d tell him to go back to Trudy. Tillie. Trixie.

  He was at her side in seconds. He looked . . . horrible. Wonderful. His hair was every which way and he hadn’t shaved. His clothes, usually so impeccable thanks to Cressley, were wrinkled, and he was missing a tie altogether.

  He took her hand and kissed it, too fast for Harriet to snatch away. She was too weak to snatch anyhow. “Oh, Harry. Thank God. I’m so, so sorry. How do you feel?”