“Hmph. Sounds like maybe he has a floozy here.”
“Yes, I believe he does. He comes down to London a couple of times a month, and never tells me why. Perhaps he wanted the money from the costume to buy her an expensive trinket. Not that he needs it. I think he just did it to spite me. We haven’t gotten on for years now.”
“The double-crosser. So now you want to find the costume and buy it back?”
“Well, I don’t have any money. I forgot to grab any of the savings I had stashed―I only really had enough for the train fare.” Her story was running out of logic. Her eyes rested on a locket around Molly’s neck. “But in the pocket was a necklace. An heirloom that has been in my family for generations. I had been trying it on with the costume, just as a lark, because it hails all the way back from Elizabethan times.”
“Gosh, no!”
“Yes, and I had left it in the pocket by accident. I must find it."
Molly grabbed a notebook and a pencil from a nearby table and started scribbling. “Here are the directions to the theatre in Cheapside. They operate out of a pub. I don’t remember the exact address, but there’s a sign outside. It’s across the street from the Golden Lion, and about two doors up from the Hare and Hound.” Handing the paper to Cassandra she said, “Don’t you fancy a cuppa, or a ciggy before you take off though? You’ve been through so much today.”
“Thank you, but I really need to get going. I have to try to find the costume.”
“Well, if you insist.” Molly reached into her sweater pocket, pulled out a few coins and pressed them into Cassandra’s hand. “Take this, honey; you can catch the tram a couple of blocks over that will at least get you to the bridge. And if you need a place to stay, my flat is yours. I’ve got a spare sofa.”
“I can’t take your money.”
“We gals got to stick together.”
“You are very kind, Molly.”
“Don’t mention it.”
They shook hands again, and Cassandra left with the instructions to the theatre. She dropped the money into one of her coat pockets and it clinked onto the Elizabethan coins that were still there.
On the street again, she made for the tram, but just a block further, the neighborhood grew seedier. The cobblestones were broken, and puddles of mud made the going treacherous. The buildings seemed to lean against each other for support, and their small windows, on either side of the doorways like hollow eyes in a face, were smeared with soot, some with ragged curtains hanging on the inside. The people she passed, mostly men, crude laborers, from the looks of them, wearing stained coveralls and patched felt coats, stared at her as if she didn’t belong. Three men walking toward her slowed their pace as she approached. They were burly, probably dock workers, dressed in rough, dirty clothes.
“Look at this bird,” one of them said in a thick, cockney accent.
“She's a right tomato,” said his mate.
Cassandra kept walking, ignoring them.
“’Old on a minute,” the first one said. They stopped directly in front of her, impeding her progress.
“Please,” she said, “let me pass.”
“Oh, she's a posh one, she is.” This one was taller than the other two, and sported a long mustache. “What are ya doing in this part of town, m'love?” he continued.
“I'm visiting a sick relative,” she replied, equally exasperated and frightened.
“You got a relative over ‘ere? That's hard to believe,” said the man who’d first spoken, a stocky fellow with ruddy skin.
“Please, I must be on my way.” She would not let her voice quaver.
“What are you gonna give us?” the tall man wanted to know.
“Yeah, we don't see many like you round ‘ere,” the shorter of the three said. “’Ow about a tumble? My house is right ‘ere and my wife is out cleaning the places where people like you live. I'd say you owe us one.” He jostled her with his shoulder and the coins in her coat pocket clinked.
“What is it you got there?”
“Leave me alone!” she cried.
“Let’s find out.” He jammed his hand into the pocket nearest him and pulled out an antique coin. “Bob’s yer uncle, is this gold?” he exclaimed.
The two others leaned in to have a look. Molly’s money and the other few Elizabethan coins were still in her left pocket but they wouldn’t be for long. Cassandra grabbed the back of the short man’s head and slammed it into the forehead of the ruddy one. She sent a side kick into the back of the knees of tall one, and he buckled to the ground, falling into the other two.
“Bloody ‘ell!” he cried.
There was no time to attempt further damage. She took off running. A familiar sounding bell clanged. The tram was trundling along the street ahead.
She turned around to see the three men regrouping and heading after her. She picked up speed and got to the tram just as it was passing. She leapt onto the back, the other passengers staring, and left the men standing on the street, looking after her. Her whole body shook as she found a seat and collapsed into it. She grasped the seat ahead of her and tried to slow her breathing.
“You alright, miss?” Asked the conductor who’d come around to collect the fare.
“Yes.” She straightened up and began to pull herself together. “Yes, thank you, I’m fine. I have no idea what the fare is.” She held the coins Molly had given her out to him in her palm.
“Where you going?”
“Blackfriar’s Bridge.”
“Five pence.”
She extracted a ten pence coin and he gave her change. The tram stopped soon after, just before the bridge. She got off and began to walk again, crossing the river. From Blackfriar’s Bridge, the massive dome and graceful spires of St. Paul’s Cathedral dominated the skyline at the top of Ludgate Hill, in its new incarnation after the old cathedral had burned in the Great Fire. And there, up the Thames, the Tower loomed. Three hundred years in the past, James was imprisoned there, knowing nothing of her location or welfare, surely anxious and afraid, and in who knew what condition.
Traversing the water brought her into a much finer neighborhood, and in another ten minutes she was standing in front of a funny little building with a low, peaked roof and a rounded door, on a quaint and tidy street. A neatly painted sign hanging over the entrance declared, RUDE MECHANICALS THEATRE AND PUB.
She opened the door and went in. It was smoky and dark, a few men seated on stools at the bar. A curtain hung over the back of the room, where she imagined the stage must be. The bartender and customers turned to look at her. Would she run into another dicey situation? Her heart pounded.
“What can I do for you, miss?” the bartender inquired.
“Are you in charge of the theatre?”
“I’m owner, director, actor, and barkeep. At your service.” He bowed low in mock formality.
A sigh of relief escaped Cassandra’s lips before she spoke. “I’m wondering if you ever buy costumes.”
“Why, you’re the second lady who’s come in today to inquire.”
“I am? Was she selling a Shakespearean costume?”
“Yes, the nicest one I’ve ever seen. We bought it off her for pretty cheap ‘cause she didn’t know its worth.”
“Oh my goodness.” Cassandra put her hand on the bar to keep from falling over.
The bartender slapped a pint in front of her. “On the house, missy. You look like you could use it.”
“Thank you.” Cassandra took a long swallow of the bitter, dark stuff and glanced at the bartender, finally seeing him clearly. He had thick, ash blonde hair, and green eyes. A very handsome fellow. Not so young, maybe thirty-five, tall, slim, the perfect look for an actor. He resembled Ben a little, the lover she’d had in Regency England. “Do you know her name?”
“The woman who sold it to us? No, but Patsy might.”
“Is Patsy your wife?”
“And costume mistress, and leading lady.” He grinned. “Let me go call her.” He went to the curta
in and peeked through it. “Patsy,” he yelled, “could you come out here?” He walked back to the bar, while the customers watched the activity with great interest. “She’s back stage. Be out in a jiffy.”
“Are you working on a play now?”
“The Taming of the Shrew.”
“Oh,” Cassandra laughed loudly, almost hysterically, before she could stop herself.
“You like that one, do you?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you’re interested in the costume?”
“It belonged to me. I hadn’t meant for it to be sold, though I don’t want it back. There was a necklace in one of the pockets. It’s a family heirloom, and I’m hoping it’s still there.”
A slim, red-headed woman who really did bear quite a resemblance to Cassandra emerged from the back room. “Patsy,” the bartender said, “this lady said that costume you bought this morning belonged to her, and that there was a necklace in one of the pockets.”
“Heavens to Betsy, was the costume stolen?”
“Not exactly, I’m really just interested in the necklace.”
Did you find it, Pats?” Her husband asked.
“I haven’t looked in the pockets. Would you like to come backstage with me? We could go through it together.”
In reality, all Cassandra wanted was the name of the woman who sold it to them, and where to find her, but she’d better make sure it was the right dress. She followed Patsy behind the curtain, across the modest stage to a small back room where a sewing machine was set up on a table, and a rack of costumes was squeezed in along with boxes of hats, wigs, shoes, and make up. There was her gown in all its parts and petticoats, cloak and doublet included, lying over the table. “Yes, that’s it!” It was comforting to see it again.
“Please, feel free to look through it,” Patsy said.
Cassandra gave it a once over, just for show. “No, it’s not there. The woman who sold it to you must have taken it out. Did you get her name?”
“Yes, Mrs. Slye, it was.”
“Do you know where I might find her?”
“She said the costume was left in her boarding house and she found it in one of the rooms this morning. She said it was most odd: some man had been renting the room for a long time but had not stayed there until last night. She didn’t even hear him come in though, and didn’t know a lady was with him. She figured it was a theatre lady, because the costume was left there, but she didn’t see them leave. Said she decided to see if she could get some money for it. Are you the lady who left it there?”
“No, but it was mine.”
Patsy caressed the fabric tenderly. “It’s gorgeous―incredibly authentic.”
“Thank you, I made it.”
“Gosh, you’re very talented.”
“Thank you. I have no use for it now though. It’s a long story, and too complicated. I must find Mrs. Slye, however, and see if she has the necklace. I’ll beg her to return it to me.”
“I hope she will admit to having it. She seemed a bit crooked.”
“Did she happen to say where her boarding house was?”
“Well, she did mention Southwark. I’m afraid that’s all I remember.”
Cassandra already knew that much, but now she had the woman’s name as well. If she went back to Molly’s, maybe the young woman would know of a Mrs. Slye’s boarding house in the area, or could ask around to see if anyone did.
“Good enough. I’ll have to inquire for her in the area.”
“Are you sure you want to do that? It’s pretty rough over there.”
This was all too true. “I have no choice. I’ll be alright.”
Patsy walked her back to the bar.
“Finish your drink, miss…” the bartender said.
“Oh forgive me, I’ve been so rude. Reilly. Mrs. Cassandra Reilly.”
“John Burbage,” the man said with another theatrical bow. “John and Patsy Burbage.”
“No relation, I suppose―”
“To the Burbages of Shakespeare’s day? One and the same. Mrs. Reilly knows her stuff,” John said to his wife.
“I can’t believe it!” Cassandra declared.
“Oh, I’ve got the ancestry book to prove it,” John said good naturedly.
“He does,” said his wife. “I’ve seen it.”
“So you’re carrying on the great family tradition,” said Cassandra.
“As have many Burbages who have gone before,” John replied. “And speaking of family, the two of you,” he said, referring to her and his wife, “could practically be sisters.”
Cassandra looked at Patsy in whose face was mirrored the same pert nose, the delicate mouth, the fair skin with a smattering of freckles; and their eyes, the same color of gray-blue. She had plenty of English blood; could the woman be an ancestor? She didn’t even want to know. It was all too much to take in. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said smiling at her two new friends. “But really, I must be going. Thank you so much for everything.”
“Do you have somewhere to stay?”
“Yes, Molly at the South Bank Theatre offered to let me stay with her. I guess you know her. She’s the one who suggested you might have bought the costume.”
“Oh sure, she’s a swell kid. But at least let me call you a taxi,” John said.
“I’m embarrassed to say I’m not sure I have the money for one.”
“It’ll be my treat.”
“Oh, no! Please, I couldn’t.”
“Seems to me you’re the one who should have profited from the sale of that dress. We’ve already spent what we could afford on it―”
Cassandra cut him off. “I don’t want any money for it, please, don’t think of it.”
“Let me at least pay you the cost of a taxi ride to Southwark, then. It’s the least we can do.”
“Well…” It would spare her another dangerous encounter with thugs, possibly even the same ones, roaming the streets of that neighborhood. “Alright. If you insist.”
John Burbage dashed out the door to find her a cab, while his wife poured herself a pint and clinked it with Cassandra’s. “To Shakespeare!” she toasted.
“To Shakespeare,” Cassandra echoed. She very nearly laughed aloud, but settled for a knowing grin as she raised her glass high.
Chapter Twelve
Molly welcomed Cassandra back warmly, brought her upstairs to her flat, and promptly prepared a pot of tea and some smoked fish and cucumber sandwiches. Cassandra ate and drank eagerly as she told her new friend about John and Patsy Burbage, and Mrs. Slye.
“I haven’t heard of her place, but surely someone in the neighborhood will have. As a matter of fact, I’m holding a suffrage meeting downstairs tonight in the theatre. The women who attend all live around here. Someone will surely know.”
That was good news, but she was anxious to find the boarding house as soon as possible. “What time is the meeting?”
“Seven o’clock.”
It would be well after dark by then, which meant, if someone at the meeting did know of the place, she’d have to wait until the morning to go. There would be no wandering around Southwark at night, and the light was already beginning to fade from the sky. It must be around five by now.
“Would you like a bath before the meeting?” Molly offered. “You’ve been through the ringer today and it would be relaxing. And you oughtta let me clean your shoes if it’s possible.”
She must look a fright. As a matter of fact, she still wore her coat and hat. She probably smelled a bit ripe as well. “Perhaps that would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“No, I’ve actually got my own bathroom with a tub and everything.”
Cassandra looked around the humble flat with the grey wooden floor boards, clean, but worn, the faded, floral wallpaper, the phonograph perched on a wooden cabinet with flaking paint, the sofa covered with a crocheted throw, and two shabby armchairs, possibly from the previous century, nestled in front o
f a tiny fireplace just a few feet from where she and Molly sat at a small wooden table on a couple of rickety chairs. Molly’s kitchen was just a two burner gas stove, a sink, and an icebox. A door off the kitchen was likely the bathroom, while another off the “parlor” had to be the bedroom. There was nothing luxurious about the place, but it seemed a nice situation for a single girl in a rather bad area of town.
“Do you own this building?” Cassandra asked.
“No,” Molly laughed. “My uncle does. The space below used to be his cheese shop until he retired. He helped me turn it into a theatre and rents it to me now, incredibly cheap, because he’s a swell old chap, a real bohemian. He believes art should be for the people.”
“Do you get a lot of people attending your shows?”
“Not enough to pay the bills if that’s what you mean. I also work in a posh perfume shop over in Knightsbridge. They don’t know about my radical leanings,” she added conspiratorially. “But you’d be surprised how much the common people like our shows. We do a lot of satire on the government and that sort of thing. Our artist friends come, but so do the people in the neighborhood. They get a good laugh out of it.”
So, Cassandra had fallen into a little subversive stronghold. A piece of history she’d be interested in hanging around and studying if it weren’t so crucial to find her way back to 1598. That wave of panic returned. What if she couldn’t find Mrs. Slye’s house, or the woman wouldn’t let her in, or there was no portal there, or she couldn’t find it if there was? Would she be stuck in the 1920s? Lost in the twentieth century? Would she have to go to the States to avoid Nick or trouble with the police? Would the Elizabethan coins she had left yield her enough money? And what would she do there? Get a job, make her way somehow…
“Cassandra?”
She shook herself back to the present moment.
“Why don’t you take off your coat and hat and let’s see about that bath.”
Cassandra reluctantly removed her hat.
Molly put her hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. “What is that hairstyle?”
Cassandra ran her hand over her head. “Yes, it’s rather old fashioned, isn’t it?”
“Old fashioned? On the level, it’s downright…Victorian!”
The Time Duchess (The Time Mistress Book 4) Page 16