A Lady in Disguise

by Sandra Byrd

  An hour later, we reacted with shock when a new young lady suddenly appeared in the salon. “What? Do you not recognize me?”

  “Ruby!” Charlotte burst out. She had made a new wig out of the stray pieces I’d brought from Drury Lane and then changed her gown.

  “It’s almost like magic!” I said.

  Ruby beamed, delighted, I knew, to have discovered a talent of her own. “Mother Martha remembered a few things I’d done in pantomime and suggested I might have a talent with the hair pieces and, well, I guess she was right!”

  Right indeed. I should think upon this after we were finished sewing Cinderella.

  • • •

  I’d thought all of the fabric had arrived but soon came another delivery. It was addressed to me, no return address, but arrived with a note saying it was for me, personally.

  Oh, Wilhelm. All was forgiven, and his long years in theater costume, and as my mother’s friend, helped him to know exactly what would please me.

  The fabric was a light-silver silk that caught and reflected the light upon every fold. It had been overstitched with lilies. “Whatever should I use this for?” I asked Mrs. W, who had taken the delivery. “I don’t know that I shall ever be invited to an event which would require fabric as grand as this.”

  It was almost as beautiful as the fabric for Cinderella’s ball gown, which had cost Mr. Harris, the theater manager, a fortune.

  “Come,” Mrs. W said. “Let’s have tea.”

  Louisa brought tea to us in the drawing room. The tea was lukewarm, which did not meet with Mrs. W’s approval, but did with mine, as the day was insufferably warm. The girls had propped open the windows upstairs—at my bidding. The young man had not returned after Mother Martha’s stern rebuke.

  “The lilies on the fabric . . . ,” I said. “They put me in mind of something.” I spied my mother’s pressed flower book on the console. “Ah, yes! Mamma’s book. How did you meet Mamma?”

  “We lived near one another in Hampshire, of course, and although we were not of the same social set, I had met her a time or two at charity events. I was already deeply devoted to the Cause and had reason to mention it to her. Later, when she was in London, we met again at an event in the East End, for the ministry; in the early days, the meetings and speeches were primarily held in unused theaters and she was around the theaters often. From then on, we were friends.”

  Mrs. W smiled and continued. “Sometimes, when she needed to flee the city for a time, we would take the train to the country for the fresh air it provided, even visiting Winton Park a time or two, though your grandfather would not see her. I well remember searching for field flowers with her and then pressing them. We had a wooden press, and we’d screw the plates together as firmly as we could, right in the field, to keep them fresh. Next day, we’d place them in our books and make notes before returning to London, leaving the book at Winton for the next time.”

  I opened the book and spied a simple flower. “Daisies?”

  Mrs. W smiled. “Oh yes. Victoria would not see a flower go unrecognized for its commonality or a lowly position. At first, in our book, she put it ahead of the rose. I switched it later, though, just because it seemed proper that the wild flower should come after the cultivated.”

  I touched the daisy, pressed into the page, knowing my mother’s hand had touched it, too.

  • • •

  Mamma and I sat on the lawn at Winton. I turned my new patent leather shoes this way and that so they would catch the sun. Mamma had not wanted to be inside, where Grandfather had begun a new argument. Maybe I could cheer her.

  I picked a daisy. “Let’s play He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not, Mamma.”

  She laughed at me and plucked a daisy for me from the ground. It was small and delicate. “In French, the game is called Effeuiller la Marguerite, or ‘Pluck the Daisy.’ ”

  “Oh! That sounds painful,” I said.

  “So let’s not pluck them,” she answered. “We’ll count instead.” She touched the petals one by one. “He loves me, he loves me, he loves me, he loves me.”

  I swatted at her. “Mamma! That is not how you play the game. Even I know that.”

  “Do not marry a man if you are not sure he loves you for yourself alone, dearest little daisy,” she said. “Never a man about whom you even think, for a moment, he loves me not.”

  • • •

  “I miss her.” I brushed away a tear.

  “So do I,” Mrs. W said. Her eyes welled.

  I turned the page of the flower book and noticed that Mrs. W had written next to the rose; it had been her flower selection.

  “That was how our friendship worked. Victoria was flighty and spontaneous, impulsive and sometimes slack with the details but always decisive. I was there to help her see those good intentions through.”

  “And so you came to live with us?” Hadn’t she ever wanted to marry? I dared not ask for hurting her and breaching protocol, which she would most certainly rebuke me for, though gently.

  “I did,” she said. “When my position as a companion ended upon the death of the elderly woman I looked after, I came to your home and took care of the household events and also her correspondence, responding to the many admirers who would write after seeing her perform. I took care of the duties she would mean to tend to and your father kept me on after she died, at her insistence, I am sure, as she knew I had nowhere to go. She was extremely generous.”

  I wondered why she could not have gone to her sister’s, but did not ask, lest she think I regretted having her live with us.

  I turned the page and found the pressed lilies; Mrs. W had written some notes here, too, and a reference to Scripture.

  “I wish I had a generous heart like Mamma’s,” I said.

  “You do,” Mrs. W said. “There is something you could do if you like. Perhaps it is a holy suggestion, brought about by the discussion of lilies and”—she pointed to the page—“the Scripture.”

  I tilted my head. “What is that?”

  She began to quote Saint Matthew. “And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?”

  I looked at the beautiful silver lily fabric that had just been delivered. “But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.”

  She nodded. “You could sell the fabric—to Lady Tolfee, for example. And give the proceeds to the poor, if you like.”

  Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. It was written above the door of the Theatrical Mission. I cast my eyes down. What if I didn’t like to give it away? I, who toiled in those fields all day every day for other women, purposeful women, women with unlimited purses, had never owned such a beautiful piece of fabric for myself.

  “I only suggest it because you said you wished you had a heart like hers.”

  I had said that. But I did not want to sell the fabric.

  “It is quite possibly the right thing to do,” she repeated before sipping her tea. She was subtly pressuring me again. When I was a girl she’d forcibly pried pennies from my little hands to give away to the poor. She’d insisted I read my Scriptures before I read my novels. I would have given my pence and read my Scriptures first anyway but because she forced me, the pleasure, the meaning, was stolen. It became her compulsion and not my spirit that had given.

  And yet, though my heart was heavy, I suspected she was correct. “You’re right,” I said. “I won’t even need to ask her. She’d covet this material upon first sight.” I carried the material upstairs and began cutting the design I’d already had in mind. At bedtime, I heard the girls giggling in their room, and that cheered me. I would give the proceeds to the Theatrica
l Mission.

  I thought about the gowns I’d been designing, and about Cinderella—maid to princess, toiler turned beloved. Would it ever be my turn? I rubbed cream onto my raw hands and slipped my sleeping gloves on them, hoping they, and I, would not be red and angry in the morn.

  • • •

  The following Monday I asked Louisa if she could bring lunch upstairs for us so we would not have to slow down. It was full steam ahead if we were to finish Lady Tolfee’s dress by the Silver and Gold Ball.

  “Yes, Miss Young. I can bring up some egg sandwiches for you and the girls. A letter came for you, too.”

  “Mrs. W usually handles the post,” I said, wondering why Louisa had this time.

  “ ’Twas not by post,” she replied.

  Louisa handed an envelope to me; my name was not handwritten but had somehow been crudely typeset.

  A feather of fear waved through me. Through the lightweight white envelope, I could see a page that had been mostly blacked out.

  “Thank you, Louisa; that will be all.” I smiled weakly and waved her away. My fingers trembled as I opened it. Another page of the Gospel of St. Matthew, torn from the Bible and mostly blacked out. What kind of brute desecrated Scripture?

  “But whosoever hath not, from him shall be taken away even that he hath.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  JULY, 1883

  Mother Martha placed Lady Tolfee’s new white gloves with silver beading on top of the gown I had in my leather garment transport bag. I was always hesitant when taking a hired carriage, but I could not bring the gowns to Tolfee House on foot. Lady Tolfee waited for me in her dressing room. Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a cap, I withdrew the beautiful silver gown from my bag.

  “Oh, goodness gracious . . .” Lady Tolfee fingered it as though it was a treasure, a work of art. “Wherever did you come upon this, Miss Young?”

  “I knew it would suit you perfectly,” I answered. “And as it’s silver, and the ball is Silver and Gold, it must have been meant for you.”

  My heart hurt like a medallion pressing too firmly against the base of my ribcage. I wished I’d kept the fabric.

  Her lady’s maid helped her into it and then I took in a tiny tuck or two, so it fit her perfectly.

  “It’s beautiful, dear.” I showed her the invoice; I’d added 15 percent, as all the proceeds were going to charity. She barely blinked. “Have it delivered to my husband’s man.”

  I would. With all speed.

  “How comes Winton Park?” she asked as her lady’s maid finished her hair.

  “In need of some maintenance, but the lady is as grand as ever,” I said. “I’m proud.”

  “As you should be,” she said. “Listen, dear, Mary and I have reconciled ourselves, but as you’ve no mother, heaven rest her, I feel I should take you under wing a little. Lord Tolfee and I are holding one more ball this season . . .”

  “The Twin Ball,” I said. I’d known already, of course, and had been planning for it.

  “Yes.” She looked at me through her reflection in the mirror. “I’d like you to come. You might meet someone . . . you never know.”

  I’ve already met two someones, I wanted to tell her. Of course, she would only find one of them suitable—Francis. In the manner of things, Lady Tolfee would most probably feel a viscount was beyond my current station.

  “I couldn’t, really,” I said.

  “But I insist!” she said. “Just this once. Now, what kind of design had you in mind? I’ve just been telling Lady Amberley how boring and unimaginative it is to purchase gowns from Worth like everyone else. I’d much prefer you. I trust your designing eye implicitly.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I said. To be compared to the House of Worth, in any way, by a lady of her stature. It was unbelievable. “I thought you may like to go as Fire and Ice?” The Twin Ball was a favorite of each Season; costumes were designed so that half exhibited one thing, and the other half its opposite. “I could dip the fabric ombré, so the flames will seem to climb, and the ice descend, melting as it gets closer to the fire.”

  “Yes, dear, perfect. Plan to come early and bring your costume, too. If need be, I shall add to your stipend so you may have the resources available.”

  After having sewn for her for so many years, I knew her measurements perfectly, allowing her to forgo many fittings. She turned from me and I said nothing more. I had no intention of attending another ball, and even if I had decided to attend I most certainly would not expect her to pay for my gown. Now, what I decided to charge her for the Fire and Ice gown, that would be another matter. Mr. Worth’s creations were very dear indeed. Perhaps I should raise my fees, and take on another apprentice, or even a full-fledged seamstress!

  Lady Tolfee went to meet her husband and greet her guests. After tidying up, I took my bags and descended the servants’ stairway. There was music in the ballroom, already. I stood by one of the false serving doors that staff used to deliver champagne, wine, and water. There was a window, partially obscured and hidden by design from the ballroom, by which servers may keep an eye on the festivities in case one were needed. I stood there for a moment; no one could see me from the ballroom, and I was ignored from the inside, as I was not truly staff and they had other duties to attend to.

  The room was already half filled. I willed myself to have some self-control, to not scan the room looking for one man, one particular man alone.

  But I did. I relented, overcome by the desire to see him. I spied him laughing with a young woman, sharing that smile with her and her alone. She was a deb, surely, and not a dowager, a deb with a dowry, no doubt, and property, perhaps. A short time later, he led her to the dance floor, and I watched them then, too.

  Yes, I was very much like Cinderella, with my mop and rags, watching from the outside. I was more like my girls than I cared to think. I did not belong in this world, but behind stairs. And sometimes I did not belong there.

  The dance ended and I swore that Lockwood turned and looked directly at me. I did not turn away because I did not think that he could see through the glass that was lightly tinted on the outside to match the wallpaper.

  His words, the last time we were at a ball together, challenged me.

  Is everything so black and white to you, Miss Young? Not of this world, definitely of that? Do you consider where you want to be, regardless of the world to which you believe you have been assigned?

  He turned toward Lady Tolfee, so beautiful in her silver gown with her silver hair, and walked briskly toward her. He seemed to be asking her a question with intent. Could he be asking about me? Oh, Gillian, truly. You are likely not in his mind.

  I think of you constantly, Miss Young, he’d said. Had he been telling the truth?

  He walked away, looking angry. Angry? I wondered why.

  I took my bag and finished walking outside to the hired carriages. I’d decided two things.

  I would stop, right now, at the Theatrical Mission and tell Mother Rachel that I would be making a very large donation within the month when Lady Tolfee’s invoice was paid.

  And I would attend the Twin Ball. As Cinderella, my two costume halves would be Princess and Maid.

  I walked to the street to hail a carriage. There was a line of them, and the third from the back came forward. I held my breath.

  Why the third?

  Every time I got into a carriage now, I hesitated just a little. In fact, I refused to get into one until I saw the face of the driver. He did not come out to let me in. I held my breath and walked round to the front of the carriage. “Hello?” I asked.

  “Oh, sorry, miss.” It was not the man who’d stalked me; I exhaled and he came to help me in. I should let go of my fears. It was never the man who had stalked me anymore; perhaps those who had pursued me had realized that I had nothing left to investigate as far as Papa was concerned and had left me be after searching my home.

  That made me both happy—I felt safe—and sad. I could not reclaim his r
eputation and he’d been murdered. Who but I was left to right what was wrong?

  “Please tarry,” I asked the driver as he pulled up to the Mission. “I’ll be but ten minutes and then I would like you to take me to Cheyne Gardens, please.”

  He agreed, and I made my way up the stairs. Mother Rachel had just finished serving soup, and the house was quiet.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting,” I said. “I could come back . . .”

  “No, dear, that’s fine,” she said. “It’s late.”

  I nodded. “It is, and I shan’t stay. But I have good news, and I wanted to share it right away. I’ve received a commission—one which paid very handsomely, but for which I had little cost. I want to donate it all to you.”

  When I told her the amount, she started crying and pulled her stained apron up to her face. Then I started crying, and suddenly I did not care at all about the silver gown.

  “It’s too much, my dear. You’ve already taken on Ruby and Charlotte. I can help many more with that amount. Where would you like it spent?”

  I thought. “As you wish, except . . . for the purchase of a treadle machine. To help one more girl. To prepare one more for a productive, and safe, life.”

  “It shall be as you say,” she said. She walked me back to the door; I could see the carriage waiting.

  I had just gone through to the steps when I turned. “Oh. The girls were asking about a friend of theirs . . . a Bridget?”

  Her face grew sad. “She’s gone. To France, with some men . . . a pretty little thing.”

  She did not need to say any more.

  • • •

  The day was hot and as I buckled myself into my many layers, I wished, just once, for the simplicity of the clothing I’d worn as a child. Everything had been simpler then, but I was no longer a child.

  Lord Lockwood and his friend Colmore Dunn and Colmore Dunn’s wife were to arrive shortly and then we’d be off to the fencing exhibition.

  “You’re sure you’ll be fine, then?” Mrs. W asked as she pottered about the parlor.