A Lady in Disguise

by Sandra Byrd

  “She did,” I answered. “For the Queen.”

  “Nell Gwyn performed there, too, I believe,” Lady Lockwood said.

  “My word!” Mrs. W burst out.

  At this, I stood. I could not let this go unaddressed, no matter how ill-mannered I may appear. I had no need to speak, however.

  Lord Lockwood stood and took his mother’s arm. “I’m sorry, Mamma is feeling unwell, that is clear. It’s best I take her home. I’ll leave my notebook with you, Miss Young. Thank you for your kind hospitality.”

  Lady Lockwood looked as though she was about to say something more, but her son silenced her with a look and I saw them out myself before returning to the parlor.

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. W said. “But I can’t say as I’m surprised. Nell Gwyn, indeed.”

  I sighed and drained my now-cold tea. It had been a terrible insult to compare my mother, an actress but respectably married, to Nell Gwyn, an actress and King Charles’s strumpet two hundred years earlier. “It’s what they all think of actresses,” I said. “Which is why Ruby and Charlotte were in such a precarious position.”

  Mrs. W pottered about indignantly as she saw the tea things cleared. I took the brown leather notebook in hand and began to turn page after discouraging page of neat notes on the repairs, replacements, and impossibly costly restorations Winton required. At the moment, I had just enough resources to tend to my small London flock and undertake the expenses incurred by Cheyne Gardens. I could not, under any imaginable stretch, underwrite the costly repairs and modernizations Lord Lockwood had listed.

  I sent a second note to Papa’s solicitor, Mr. Pilchuck, to ask when I might visit him and get my accounts clear and in mind. He’d not yet responded to the first note I’d sent so I used slightly sharper words, reminding him that it was up to me now to tend to my accounts and, as it was, he was in my employ and I expected to be treated accordingly.

  • • •

  The following Tuesday the girls and I were all in the salon, sewing. I was, conveniently, nearly the exact size of Lady Tolfee and her daughter, and I was draped in bits and pieces of the garments I was putting together for her ahead of our meeting the following week. I had strips of cloth down each arm and one around my waist, like a sash. My hair was in disarray as pieces of cloth that would be delivered to the milliner had been placed there to see if the colors went well together. I held the hat feather between my teeth, which made it difficult to speak when my guest appeared at the door to the salon.

  I opened my mouth to speak, and the feather drifted ignominiously to the floor as if being released from a beak. “Lord Lockwood!” He stepped into the room and took his hat off. His hair, that rusty brown, was quite unlike the regular brown or blond of most men of my acquaintance.

  From behind him stepped Louisa. “Lord Lockwood, Miss Young.” She dipped a proud curtsey.

  I hid a smile. “Thank you, Louisa.”

  “Still playing dressing up, I see?” Lord Lockwood teased. “I’ll have you know I dance much better than I did the last time I saw you in costume, when you were about the age of these young ladies. I shall have to prove it to you sometime.”

  I laughed. “No, alas, no time for play. I have a gown to make, and quickly. Although I adore dancing, I am not among the ladies you are likely to partner; it’s far more likely that I dress them. Please, let me see you to the parlor downstairs. Mrs. W is out for the moment, as we were not expecting guests, but I could have Louisa make some tea.”

  He held his hand up. “If you don’t mind, I’m curious to see what you are about here. I’m a member of the Garrick and most interested in theater.”

  The Garrick, I well knew, was the gentlemen’s club dedicated to the arts. Mr. Garrick himself had acted, after all, at Drury Lane, and had taken a special interest in the costumes.

  “At the moment, we are working on gowns for the Season and not the theater. Lady Tolfee’s gowns, in particular. My patroness.”

  He nodded. “I know them well. Lord Tolfee, in any case.”

  I was not going to leave my girls out. “Allow me to make proper introductions. These are my young seamstress apprentices, Miss Charlotte and Miss Ruby.”

  “Nice to meet you,” each said, kindly, though it was not the proper phrase.

  “How do you do?” Lord Lockwood asked. I was so pleased he did not flinch nor stare at Ruby’s skull.

  “And my master beader, Mother Martha.”

  “How do you do?” she asked properly.

  “How do you do?” he responded.

  “Lord Lockwood,” I said to them all. The room was quiet. They had more than likely never met anyone titled, and I highly doubted the present viscount had ever been introduced to previously employed pantomime girls.

  “Now that you say it, ‘Lord Lockwood’ sounds so stuffy,” he proclaimed.

  “It’s your name,” I protested.

  “I do have a nickname.” He smiled at the girls. His friendliness was unexpected and very welcome indeed.

  “A nickname?” Ruby asked, unaware that she should not ask. “What is it?”

  “Lumpy. Lumpy Lockwood.”

  I turned to him, mouth agape. “What? Why?” And why had he just admitted to it?

  He drew himself up and began a dramatic recitation.

  “There is a curious boy, whose name / Is Lumpy Loggerhead; / His greatest joy is, oh for shame! / To spend his time in bed. They fit with gongs alarum clocks / That make your blood run chill: / And they encourage crowing cocks / Beneath his window-sill.”

  Charlotte, who rarely spoke, broke out in laughter. And then Ruby drew herself up, young actress that she was, and chimed in.

  “In vain the gongs,—his eyes are shut,— / In vain the cocks do crow; / Empty on him a water-butt, / And he will say, ‘Hallo!’ But only in a drowsy style, / And in a second more, / He sleeps—and oh! to see him smile, / And oh! to hear him snore!”

  “Ruby!” I said. “You know the poem!”

  “Of course, miss. I’ve been in the theater my whole life.”

  Lord Lockwood continued.

  “He seems to carry, all day long, / Sleep in his very shape; / And, though you may be brisk and strong, / You often want to gape / when Lumpy Loggerhead comes near, / Whose bed is all his joy; / How glad I am he is not here, / That very sleepy boy!”

  At that, Mother Martha began clapping, and Charlotte and I joined her. Ruby and Lord Lockwood bowed toward one another, and Ruby grinned.

  I turned and saw Mrs. W, now returned and standing at the top of the stairway looking decidedly unamused. “I’ve prepared a proper tea for our guest,” she said. “Come along.”

  I indicated that the seamstresses should continue with their work. “We should proceed downstairs,” I whispered to Lord Lockwood. “Lest I vex my chaperone further.”

  My feet were light on the steps. I hadn’t laughed so since Papa had died.

  Tea awaited in the parlor. Mrs. W served, then hovered nearby.

  “I must know whence your nickname came,” I began. “I would not ask if you had not introduced the topic. But you have, and I must say, you delivered those lines very well.”

  “I was assigned the poem to memorize in school, as I was always the last out of bed. It was supposed to have made me repent, and I suppose it has, as I work hard and tend more to duty than rest now.” He blushed, which I found charming. “I do not know why I shared it just then, perhaps because your home seems happy. I’ve not told anyone else.”

  “It was lovely of you to share it with me and my girls,” I said. Had it been good manners or a good heart? “Thank you. I did not expect you today.”

  “I wanted to return and apologize for Mother,” Lord Lockwood began. “She would have come herself, but she’s returned to Hampshire to see her doctor. You did say I might come any day during calling hours.”

  “You’re very welcome,” I said. “I was simply surprised.”

  “She’s not well. Arthritis, and it affects her, I’m sorry to s
ay. She was frightfully rude. You knew, of course, that my father had proposed to be married to your mother, when they were both young?”

  I nodded.

  “That did not come to pass, of course, but Father spoke of your mother very often, and in the most flattering tones. I don’t think Mother ever got over my father’s constant comparison of her with your mother. He did not stop even when Mother asked him to let the subject rest.”

  Ah. Yes. But I could hardly be held to account for that, understandable as it may be. “Thank you for your many notes on Winton Park. I have had Mrs. W copy them into my notebook, so I might return yours to you.”

  “No, I’m happy for you to keep it. You may find that you need to add to it, I’m sorry to say. Your grandfather did not tend to the estate as he might have in his later years, and he kept Davidson on out of loyalty, but his strength fails him, too. It’s quite the costly proposition, Miss Young. You should know that.”

  I had realized that, after having read his notes again and again. I simply could not afford to make even the simplest round of repairs to the property.

  “Have you thought about selling Winton Park?” he pressed. “Or considered other options, such that they may be?”

  I looked up sharply. Was this the cause of his call? The purpose to his friendliness? To bring me round to sell my family home to him? His mother clearly coveted it. Perhaps because it was beautiful. Perhaps because it had been my mother’s, and now something Mamma had loved and been denied could be wholly possessed by Dowager Lady Lockwood. What other options did he think there might be?

  “Winton Park is dear to me, very dear, but I am, of course, considering all options,” I said slowly. I had said nothing about donating the property to anyone. Surely he could not know about the letter? I had just barely read it for the first time myself. Had my mother possibly mentioned something like that when Grandmamma had died, and she’d been at Winton? Or Papa, to Lord Lockwood, when he’d been there of late?

  I had nothing but my sewing salon and my homes, and now, with the Cinderella commission and Lady Tolfee’s patronage, I might just be able to barely take care of both. But not if the repairs were too costly. I could not underwrite major renovations.

  “I’d be happy to look after things for a month or two until you return to Winton and get things properly assessed,” he said.

  “Thank you. There will be no need to go inside, but if you note something on the property, please let me know.” My resistance to his supposed kindness strengthened.

  “My father, though passed, and I would have it no other way. It’s a welcome duty to care for a neighbor.” He smiled and seemed warm and natural again. “You seem to understand duty, Miss Young. It was charitable of you to take those girls in and apprentice them.”

  “Not a duty, Lord Lockwood. A pleasure, and wisdom, too, I think. They have . . . mostly . . . been a great help to me. I hope I have been to them, too. I wish I could take on more girls but I cannot just now. I can do for one, or two, what I cannot do for many. Is that not so?”

  He softened and set his cup down quietly. “It is so, Miss Young, and so aptly put. Very selfless of you.”

  I smiled at him. “Oh, it’s not quite as selfless as it may seem. I am passionate about my designs and I will do whatever it takes to see them shine.” I took a bit of a jellied biscuit and then spoke again. “Which is why I am exceedingly enthusiastic about my appointment to design this year’s Cinderella costumes at Drury Lane. Are you passionate about anything, Lord Lockwood?”

  I caught the shocked look that crossed Mrs. W’s face, from the foyer, where she tarried with her correspondence. Oh my! One did not speak of passions with a man.

  “I meant, do you have interests?” I smoothly corrected.

  He suppressed a smile. “I’m enthusiastic about my investments,” he said.

  I pursed my lips and said nothing. He seemed uncomfortable in the silence and spoke up again.

  “I’m very close to my brother.” His face softened. “He was wounded in the Boer War and is unable to provide for himself and his wife. I shall see that they never want, no matter the cost.”

  “Better!” I commended. Whyever was I being so forward with this man? I said nothing more.

  “Fencing,” he finally admitted. “I love fencing and make time for it, though I often feel regret for those hours wasted in pleasure when I might be working toward something meaningful for others.”

  I rewarded him with a smile. “But no! Fencing is noble sport and one my father very much enjoyed watching.”

  Mrs. W cleared her throat; calling hours were nearly over.

  “I must return to my salon.” I stood and kept my face much steadier than the flip-flops my heart was doing inside. “Thank you so much for calling and please do convey my kindest regards to your mother. Please let me know if you notice anything unusual at Winton. I do appreciate your concern.”

  He put his hat on and took my hand in his. “I shall. Please let me know if I can be of service in any other way, as you consider your options.”

  I withdrew my hand, gently, but firmly. “I shall.”

  • • •

  As I sewed that evening, I reflected upon him. He was such a mixture. Hard man of the City investments. Titled. Landed. And yet—he’d tease with the girls and me, own up to a silly nickname, and seemed genuinely interested in helping me. Wasn’t he?

  And then. That sandalwood. And oh, to see him smile!

  I finished working on my sewing and turned down the lamplight. I thought I heard footsteps on the entryway. Bidwell was still fussing about in the coal room so I asked him to check outside and I went with him.

  “I see no one, miss. No one on the street, neither.”

  “Does that look like a muddy footprint?” I asked, pointing to a light impression on the stairwell.

  “Er, no, miss. I don’t see nothing.” He looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. Perhaps I had. I summoned up my authority.

  “Thank you, Bidwell. That will be all.”

  We went back inside, and once there, I sat in the sitting room with the lamp down. I knew I had heard something, someone. Or was I perhaps imagining it and allowing my fears to become outsized?

  Nonsense. Anyone would be frightened and cautious if they had concerns about the cause of their father’s death and someone strange had appeared, whispering threats and warnings outside their front door.

  I retired for the evening, into my new room, sitting on the bed and finally opening the cubbyhole within the headboard once more. I set aside the love letters, though they grew most compelling. I didn’t know why. Perhaps because Mamma and I had had little time to discuss the affections of a man and a woman before she’d died? I had been younger, and not yet interested in a man in that way.

  Was I now? Perhaps. But which man? At least one was clearly interested in me, though I was not sure he was the one to whom I would return like affections.

  I picked up the letter Mamma had written to Papa and me. What should I do with Winton? I prayed. I want to honor my mother’s wishes, and she had been deeply devoted to the Cause. Now, with the Theatrical Mission, I was, too. And yet Papa had not spoken of my giving the property to the Cause once I came of age to receive it. Perhaps he was waiting for me to marry, or turn five and twenty? He’d grudged them Mamma’s death, but I’d never seen Papa fail to carry out her wishes. Perhaps nothing had ever pained him as much as that had.

  I reviewed the card upon which was scrawled the King Street address. It had a clear meaning. If it had been nothing of consequence, I would not have been warned away. I must find a way to learn with certainty what was happening at that address. I shivered at the risk to myself, to the girls. I read the address over and over in my head, memorizing it, in case the card should somehow disappear.

  Did I believe that my home, even my very bedchamber, could be breached again?

  Yes.

  I picked up the photo; the girl stared at me. Smiling, but empty, some
how. Was she smiling now, right this moment, in real life? Where was she? Who was she and why had Papa kept her photograph? Was she even still . . . alive?

  What a macabre thought! I took the photo and slipped it into the finely embroidered linen pocket I always wore deep beneath my dresses. I did not want to lose the photograph. And yet I also felt uneasy with it so close to my person: because it might taint me or because we would grow closer, mysteriously, than I wished, I did not know.

  Mamma, Papa. I want to understand, and I desperately need you each to be whom I believed you to be.

  I changed into my nightgown and glanced at the stack of precious books still resting on the dresser. I should have Mother Martha read Little Women to the girls, in the late afternoons. The girls in the book often chattered together while sewing. It would give Mother Martha’s gnarled hands a rest, too.

  I picked up the Dickens book, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and lifted the train stub out. My eyes caught a phrase on the page where Papa had slipped the train ticket:

  Circumstances may accumulate so strongly even against an innocent man, that, directed, sharpened, and pointed, they may slay him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lady Tolfee sent an embossed card instructing me to be at her residence promptly at noon the following Monday. I would take Mother Martha with me so she could measure Lady Tolfee’s hands for a new set of gloves. I walked up the flights to the sewing room where Charlotte was hard at work pumping the treadle machine, and Ruby was single-mindedly cutting fabric, roughly, slowly. The scissors seemed an awkward fit for her; for me, they felt like a natural extension of my hand. I hardly sensed them there anymore.

  “Mother Martha and I will be gone for some hours. Do you have all you need to continue working?” I asked.

  “Yes, miss,” Charlotte answered, then bent over her work again.

  I picked up the copy of Little Women; Mother Martha had laid the book facedown at the page where she’d stopped reading. I well remembered this section and read it aloud.

  “Meg’s high-heeled slippers were dreadfully tight, and hurt her, though she would not own it, and Jo’s nineteen hair-pins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable; but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.”