A Lady in Disguise

by Sandra Byrd

  I kissed Mrs. W on both cheeks. “You need to visit the country more often,” I said. “You’re humming with life!”

  “You shan’t get rid of me,” she said. “You need me. The visit did me more good than I could have imagined. The old goat has been buried for good, and has gone to the hot place he deserves.”

  I pursed my lips at her lively and entirely unexpected irreligious description.

  As she put her things away, I busied myself in the sitting room, waiting to hear if she’d say that her things had been gone through. But she didn’t, so I guessed that they hadn’t.

  “Constable Collingsworth is calling on me Sunday afternoon, after church, to take me to hear the music in the park,” I told her. “Do you feel it’s quite all right for me to attend with him, alone?”

  Mrs. W nodded. “You’ll be outside, and in a public place, so, yes. He’ll pick you up and see you home?”

  I nodded. So it was, Sunday afternoon, that Francis came to fetch me.

  I wore a light summer bonnet and a cotton gown. One of my favorites, it was sprigged with roses and made me feel young and free.

  “If you don’t mind my saying, I am pleased and proud to accompany such a beautiful lady,” Francis said as we left the house and started for Hyde Park, about a thirty minutes’ walk right up Exhibition Road.

  “Thank you, Constable Collingsworth,” I said, happy to be with a man I felt comfortable with.

  “That’ll be Sergeant, now, Miss Young,” he said, his face pinking with pride and pleasure.

  “Well done!” I said. “I did not know.”

  “Father just told me,” he said. “It changes things for me, more financial security, future and prospects stable.” I knew what he was driving at. I had no answer for him.

  The park was filled to the edges on the beautiful early-summer day. Some were on horses, some were in carriages pulled by horses, but most were like Francis and me, on foot.

  A variety of bands played, including some string quartets, which I loved. Little birds pecked around the ground, plucking, plying, and pulling earthworms, but their songs were silenced. I understood. Who could compete with the beautiful music reverberating from all quarters? “It puts me in mind to dance!”

  “I’ll be glad to watch, but I don’t dance,” Francis said. He must have noticed my disappointment, because he next said, “But I do have an idea for fun. Come along!”

  “All right.”

  He took me by the hand toward an artist who had set up an easel under a large spreading oak. “Oil portrait?” the artist asked, hopefully.

  I looked wonderingly at Constable, no, Sergeant Collingsworth.

  “Perhaps a sketch?” he asked. “Of the young lady.” Francis pointed toward me.

  “Oh, no,” I said. “How about one of you?”

  He smiled widely. “I’m delighted you would want one.” He turned back to the artist. “One of each. I’ll have one sketched of you that I shall keep, and one of me, for you!”

  “I can’t.” I put my hand up in protest.

  “I insist,” he said more firmly than I had ever heard him speak before. It would not do to get into an argument in public, so I dipped my head in acquiescence.

  The artist sketched us on little cards, quickly, and so accurately I could not believe it. Soon, he was finished and presented both cards to Francis with a flourish. I slipped mine into my linen pocket, which was empty but for the photograph. I should have brought some money, too, so I might have offered to pay for the sketches.

  Francis reached inside his jacket pocket to remove some money to pay for it. I could see a stash of white, folded papers in there, too; it was a thick stack. He looked at me, flushed, and then quickly closed his jacket pocket.

  After paying, he took the sketches and we began to walk home. “You saw the folded stack of papers in my jacket.”

  I nodded. No sense denying it. I would have made nothing of it if he hadn’t flushed.

  “I didn’t want the day spoiled,” he said. “But I meant to give these to you today, in any case.” He opened his pocket again. A pipe almost dropped to the ground, but he caught it in time. “New.” He winked. “A gift from Father upon my promotion.”

  Faintly, but presently, drifted the scent of the Turkish tobacco. I kept my eyes to the ground till I was certain I’d hidden my surprise. I would think upon that later. I looked up at Francis. He brought me to a bench just on the edge of Hyde Park.

  “Father has finished looking into your father’s case.”

  Papa was a case. I wanted to cry.

  “The only thing remaining to return to you are these.” He reached back into his pocket and pulled out a stash of certificates. I looked at them, one by one, and as I riffled through them, they emitted the distinctive odors of lemon pine oil and Papa’s tobacco. I leaned in and sniffed them. They had been in his desk drawer recently enough to have retained the scent.

  Francis looked at me oddly. “You’re smelling them?”

  I nodded. “They smell like my father’s desk drawer. Where did they come from?” I asked. They looked to be mostly investment certificates, a hundred shares in this, a thousand in that.

  Collingsworth pursed his lips. “I couldn’t say. We’re not the kind of people who invest in companies . . . simple coppers and all that.”

  I looked at him sharply, understanding the implication. “My father may have invested money my mother earned. How did you acquire these?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Oh. Father found them when clearing out your father’s case files.” He reached back into his pocket. “Then, there’s this.”

  He handed over a receipt, made to Papa. It was for . . . one thousand pounds? I inhaled sharply. That was a colossal sum. I could not ignore this. Where had it come from?

  The risk, Gillian. The risk! The docks! Do not pry or enquire.

  “Thank you.” My voice quivered, and I knew Collingsworth heard it, too. “I shall return them to Father’s desk drawer and then ask . . . shall ask Mr. Pilchuck, my father’s solicitor, to look into all this when I see him.”

  Francis took my hand in his own. “I shan’t say this but once more, Gillian.” He used my Christian name, and not in the way he had as a child, but to a woman, a woman he may have been in love with. “I beg you to let this matter go. Father did not give me all the details, but he did share enough for me to know that your father was involved with trouble, fraud, and perhaps . . . women. High-placed people who have much to protect often have no scruples about so doing. Father has assured me there is solid, written evidence of wrongdoing somewhere, and I believe him.”

  “But Francis, there still are avenues to pursue, though granted, they have nearly come to an end. It’s my father we’re talking about. I can’t let it go.”

  “Look at what happened to Roberts,” he said softly.

  I tilted my head. “Killed by vagrants?”

  He unblinkingly stared to convey the truth that his lips would not. “That’s what was said.”

  The docks. The girls. But . . . dearest Papa had spent his entire life helping others. Hadn’t he?

  “I understand. ‘Killed by vagrants,’ like a ‘runaway cart.’ ” I reached for my linen pocket, into which I could tuck the certificates. As I tried to arrange them within, the newly sketched portrait of Francis and the photograph of the young woman I had pulled from Papa’s secret cubbyhole spilled out onto the ground.

  “Here, let me help.” Francis bent down to pick up the fallen pictures, and as he did, he gasped and went white.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He stared at the photograph but for a moment longer before handing it back to me. “Do you know her?” His voice was sharp and angry. “Do you?” he insisted.

  How should I answer? Why would I be carrying a photograph of someone I did not know? I hoped I’d be forgiven a half-truth.

  “No, I do not know her. I found her photograph while tidying my house and decided I’d sew a dress like this one. I ca
rry it till I can sketch the idea. Do you know her?” I asked. He seemed flustered, and then turned to me, firmly, having recovered his police persona.

  “I think it’s best if I return you home,” he said with firm finality, his eyes uncharacteristically angry and hard. “And no. I do not know who that young woman is.”

  But I thought that he did. I also knew he would admit it to no one.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The next week, Mrs. Collingsworth’s fancy fair was held.

  “Here.” I handed ten shillings to each girl. They stared at the coins as if they were golden eggs laid by a goose.

  “Ten shillings?” Charlotte spoke first. Ruby just stared at them in her palm, her eyes round.

  “Earrings . . . ,” she whispered almost to herself. “With little drop jewels and clasps that will screw into my earlobes.”

  “A lovely idea,” I agreed. It was a lot of money, I knew, but they had been working very hard, and we had many late nights, poked fingers, and strained eyes ahead of us.

  “Buy something for yourself, and you’ll also do a bit of good for the charity,” I said. “All of the money from selling the fancies will go toward the underserved.” Mrs. Collingsworth had told me that the proceeds were to benefit The Guild of the Poor Brave Things—children who had been crippled.

  “Just think,” Ruby said. “Only a few months ago, we were the underserved. Now we’re not, miss, due to you.”

  Charlotte spoke up. “Our fairy godmother.” The girls twittered, and I could not have been more pleased.

  We walked to the hall, which had been let for the occasion. The hall had once been an infirmary, first for the war wounded, then for women who had lost their sanity. Perhaps because I had so much death and uncertainty in my life, I felt that I could sense the lost souls and harried spirits of those who had died here.

  Come, now, Gillian. Get ahold of yourself. Fancies about souls and spirits, indeed. I did not want morose thoughts infiltrating my sunny feelings this day, a pleasant interlude. And yet, I could not shake free from a sense of impending doom. It clung to me, tightly about the neck, covering me in full, like an unwelcome wool shawl on a hot day, which that day most certainly was. After my wild dockside ride and Francis’s odd reaction, who would have blamed me?

  The booths were mostly staffed with young women, and therefore, there were plenty of young men hanging about. Bazaars were often safe places for young men and women to flirt.

  I watched as some young gentlemen bought fancies—handkerchiefs and beaded bracelets and such—and then handed them right back to the girls staffing the booths, as gifts.

  Charlotte was drawn to the booth that sold silk slippers. “Miss Young, if I bought many of these, I could sew beautiful designs on them and then sell them next year, for a price, which may help the others.”

  I drew her close to me in a side embrace. “That is a lovely thought, Charlotte. If you wish to do that, you may. Be sure to find something you fancy for yourself, though,” I said.

  Ruby and I walked toward the end of the hall where Mrs. Collingsworth directed.

  “Miss Young!” She clasped my hands in her own and as she did, I noticed a faint tremor. “I am so grateful you made time to attend.”

  “I shouldn’t have missed it for anything, Mrs. Collingsworth. The hall is simply lovely.” She had seen to it that it was garlanded in lace and greenery, and the booths had been draped with pretty white linens. A small band played quietly from the garden in the back.

  “My dear. Perhaps you could donate next year? I know it’s a busy Season for you, sewing for the society matrons and all. Something little, perhaps.”

  I smiled. “I should be delighted. My apprentice Charlotte may even be able to embroider some slippers.”

  Mrs. Collingsworth smiled. “I’d best be off and tend to the till. Do say you’ll come by for dinner again soon? Inspector Collingsworth and I adore having you around.” She grinned slyly. “Francis does, too. But that goes without saying.”

  I muttered a polite thank-you, and she left.

  “Ruby,” I began as I turned around. But Ruby had wandered away. I looked through the hall. I caught the eye of Inspector Collingsworth, and he tipped a hat to me and smiled broadly. I ducked my head just a little and smiled back. A spontaneous wave of fear rolled through me.

  Was Francis here as well? I had not heard from him since our day in the park.

  I walked to the garden area and found Ruby deep in conversation with a young man. I recognized him as the one who had followed her home from the Theatrical Mission weeks ago and given her a posy.

  “What I want isn’t for sale here,” he said, his voice sliding into a leer.

  “What would that be?” Ruby asked. She clearly enjoyed flirting with this young man, who looked to be about eighteen years old, but she could not have had any idea what he might be after.

  “I’d start with a lock of your hair,” he said.

  “Will you donate the money to the poor?” she asked.

  “Of course I would,” he said. She laughed. I’d had enough.

  Was this an innocent flirtation? Someone from among the men Mother Rachel had mentioned? Or, more ominously, someone sent to lure Ruby to King Street as had been threatened?

  “Ruby.” I came up behind her. She jumped, nearly spilling the lemon ice I suspected she had not purchased for herself. As I did, Mother Martha appeared from behind me. She, too, must have spied what had been about to transpire.

  “Might I have a word with you?” I asked my young charge.

  Ruby nodded, reluctantly, not wanting to be seen as a child in front of the young man. I remembered that feeling, too. But this man meant her no good, I felt, and apparently Mother Martha agreed.

  “I’ll see to him!” Mother Martha marched after the young man, forcing him to hurry ahead of her. She followed him out toward the street and closed that gate behind them.

  I led Ruby to a bench. “You mustn’t speak with him again. How did he even know you’d be here?”

  She shrugged, sullen. “I suppose he followed us here,” she finally said.

  “Have you spoken with him again, since he gave you the posy?”

  She nodded. “But only through the window.”

  I took her hands in mine, but she abruptly withdrew them.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I did not mean to treat you as a child.”

  She softened. “It’s all right, miss. He said I am beautiful.”

  “And you are,” I said. “But he means you no good. I understand men like that. He will say what he needs to in order to get you to do what he likes. He likely does not have connections with fine houses that you could . . . be a maid in. Those kind of boys work for men who would rather have you work in a very bad manner.”

  She turned to me. “How do you know that? He said he’d already placed our friend Bridget in just such a house, and she’s going to live in France, miss. France! Maybe he knows the truth, and you do not.”

  I spied Inspector Collingsworth walking toward me.

  I turned back to Ruby. “I know I am right and he’s wrong because my father was a copper, that’s why.” Who was, I hoped, doing good when he died. I could hardly tell her the rest.

  She seemed to accept that. “Maybe. Still. I’m going to ask Mother Rachel about Bridget.”

  “It’s hard, I know,” I continued. “None of us wants to see the truth of what is right in front of us, do they? But for our protection, we must not sugar-coat the truth. We must have the courage to see people for what they are.”

  “Do you do that, miss? Always? Even if it’s about something you really, really want? Like visiting Paris?”

  I couldn’t tell if she was asking or challenging. “I try to, always,” I said. “I think that’s the best we can do. I try to seek the truth, even if it’s not something I wish, initially, to know the truth about. I hold you in great affection, Ruby, and want only the best for you. But if there is some other situation you should prefer to pur
sue, I cannot stop you, nor would I. You have a will of your own.”

  She nodded. “I know, miss. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. I’d like to stay with you, at least for now.” She leaned into me for an embrace, and I melted into it. We began to make our way through the hall again and saw Inspector Collingsworth laughing, his teeth glistening like a fox’s.

  “I don’t like him, miss,” Ruby whispered to me as we left.

  I didn’t like him anymore, either.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It was like Christmas, except that it was June. The first batch of materials for the Cinderella gowns arrived. First, the plain fabrics. Well, plain for theater. I made sure everyone washed her hands and then we unrolled bolt after bolt. There was a simple blue cotton, and then a red, for Cinderella’s maid costume, with a bolt of bright white for her apron. I had just the hat in mind and would ask Sarah if she could come up with something bright and beautiful that could be seen from the farthest reaches of the theater.

  A few days later, Cinderella’s ball gown material arrived. I had planned for an ivory dress with beautiful gold brocade. Mother Martha would stitch gold beads all over it. It would be bridal and beautiful, as was befitting Cinderella.

  The slippers came, too, white silk. “Charlotte, would you like to embroider these?”

  “Oh, yes, miss. I can hardly believe you would trust me with that.”

  I told her I would use a pencil to draw very lightly the design on the slippers once she had practiced the design on a sampler and showed it to me. Mother Martha was already sorting through and sighing over the gold and pearl beads.

  Ruby stood by, expectantly. “And me, miss?”

  I swallowed. I thought. I prayed. “Could you help me with the fabric for Lady Tolfee’s gown for the Silver and Gold Ball? It’s a very important project. I have an idea for fabric dipping, and you’re awfully good at that.”

  She grinned. “Sure I can. What will it be?”

  “I’ll call upon her tomorrow to be certain, but I have an idea. Then, my girl, I shall let you know. Our fingers will have to fly—the dress will be due in two weeks! Till then, please organize our cupboards and cabinets.”