Harley Street

by Lynne Connolly

  I could move about with relative anonymity in London, but when I mentioned this to Richard, he smiled. “That won’t last long. As soon as your portrait’s done and your likeness is circulated, they’ll be watching for you.”

  “Who will?”

  “The Watchers, Gervase and I used to call them. Some people spend an inordinate amount of time looking at us, checking us off on their lists, so they can tell their friends all about it.” He gazed out the window at the passing throng. “Then there are the professionals, people who are paid to watch us and report on our movements in the press, which can spin a profit out of reporting where we are and what we’re doing.”

  “I don’t think I like that. Haven’t they anything better to do?”

  “It seems not but we can do little about it, so it’s best to ignore them.”

  I stared out of the window at the bustling streets. Our progress was slow because of all the other vehicles on the road, so I had plenty of time to gaze.

  The carriage drew up outside a tall building hemmed in by other tall buildings in a narrow lane. A sign swung outside and a shining brass plaque was fixed to the wall by the front door. Emblazoned on both was “Thompson’s Registry Office”.

  We got out of the carriage. Another brass plate was fastened to the wall outside the front door, under the larger plaque. “All varieties of upper servants and abovestairs staff. Providers of staff to the Quality.”

  There followed a handwritten paper list of servants required at present: ladies’ maids, housemaids, footmen butlers and cooks. All were listed under several ranks, as confusing as the ranks in society to the uninitiated. Everyone in our society was ranked, from the complex hierarchy of thieves to the nobility’s equally complicated pecking order.

  We went inside. A small desk stood at one end of the long room, which in any normal domestic building would be the hall. Two long benches sat on either side. Several people lounged or sat on them, waiting for the attention of the individual seated behind the desk. I saw all forms of dress, from the homespun to the fashionable, indicating people up from the country to experienced servants changing their situations. The better-dressed people were, from their appearance, potential employers, upper servants looking for more domestics. They were more conscious of their surroundings. They sat bolt upright, ignoring the people with whom they were obliged to share a bench. One stout lady looked as if she had dropped in after doing her shopping. A basket lay at her feet, crammed full of some of the fresh produce that flooded into London every morning.

  A multitude of gazes lifted to stare at us, except for the individual behind the desk, engrossed in his work.

  We watched his pen fly over the paper for a few lines until he lifted the quill to dip in the inkpot, then he glanced up, as though he could hardly spare the time. He stared back and his jaw dropped open. Richard fixed him with a basilisk stare. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  The man nodded dumbly and remembered to close his mouth. Richard smiled and if it were possible, it was worse than his stare. “Pray tell Mrs. Thompson her visitors are here.”

  I felt like one of the lions in the Tower Menagerie, being stared at by the populace. I didn’t like it. In return, I studied the stout woman but she met me stare for stare and put up her chin.

  The sound of someone running down the stairs at the end of the hall disrupted this tableau. The newcomer recognised Richard, because he bowed low. “Mrs. Thompson saw you arrive, my lord, my lady. Would you please come this way?”

  “Thank you, Barraclough, I know the way by now.” Richard’s smile was genuine this time. “You’re well?”

  “Very well, thank you, my lord.”

  We walked past the individual at the desk to the end of the hall, so silent the only sound was the rustle of my skirts and the tapping of our feet on the bare boards, and followed Barraclough up the stairs. On the first floor he took us to a door at the end and showed us through.

  This room was far from tidy, dominated by a large pedestal desk before the window. It was covered by piles of papers so high that I could barely see the red leather on its top. A cheerful fire blazed in the hearth and several chairs stood around it. None of them matched. A large, nondescript landscape painting hung forlornly over the hearth, so blackened by soot that the green fields and the blue sky merged in colour, both coming out as a sickly green. Several smaller pictures were dotted about the walls, none completely straight and none carefully placed. The effect was of slight inebriation.

  Before the fire stood a woman so unlike the picture of Mrs. Thompson in my mind as to be from a different world. I had expected a motherly, older individual, but this Mrs. Thompson was far from that. She was plainly but richly dressed and as tall as me. She must have been in her mid-thirties but her figure was one to envy, full about the breasts and hips and slim in the waist. Her handsome face was relatively unlined. Richard went forward, kissed her cheek, then turned to me. “You see, Alicia, I’ve brought my bride to you, as I promised.”

  The elegant woman smiled at us both. I saw nothing but welcome in her eyes, but the shock of seeing this lovely lady overtook my senses.

  Surprised to know he’d promised her as well as me, a suspicion formed in my mind, slowly hardening into conviction despite my best efforts to suppress it. Richard and Mrs. Thompson had been lovers.

  It was one thing not to be jealous when confronted by someone with whom Richard hardly remembered having an affair, but his obvious affection for this woman indicated a longstanding relationship. I couldn’t deny my jealousy and hurt. My first reaction, born from a place deep inside, was to turn to leave. I did it without thinking, the instinctive reaction of a wounded animal to seek shelter.

  Richard caught my hands as I turned away, gazing at my face anxiously. He sighed. I tried hard not to show anything in my expression but my hasty movement, not quickly contained enough, must have given me away.

  He sat me in one of the chairs by the fire, choosing another for himself. I didn’t return his pressure of my hand and he released it.

  Mrs. Thompson’s face remained stoically calm. Embarrassed for my outburst, I could say nothing, because it must have been obvious to her what I had thought.

  Some of the papers on the desk had been pushed hastily aside to make room for a large wooden tray on which reposed a large teapot, sugar, milk and tea-dishes, none of them matching. Mrs. Thompson busied herself pouring tea for us, which I was glad to see was a powerful strengthening brew. I needed it.

  I understood why Richard was attracted to her—she seemed clever and resourceful and she must have been so to run such a successful agency. She also seemed possessed of boundless energy. She didn’t sit behind her desk for long without standing up or fiddling with something, a pen or paper perhaps, but out of all this chaos she knew where to find what she needed. If it hadn’t been for my sinking heart, I might have liked her. I tried to concentrate.

  We turned to our reason for coming today and, ashamed of my display earlier, I was glad to turn to business. We discussed the previous day’s tragic events. Richard had written to Mrs. Thompson, informing her of the bare facts but now he told her what Lucy meant to him in a clear voice that didn’t falter or hesitate. He’d locked away his emotions to concentrate on the facts, something he found much easier to do than I did.

  She stared at him gravely. “I’m so sorry” was all she said but with a sincerity of sentiment.

  “We must discover who killed her. I owe her that, at least.”

  “Of course. I’ll set enquiries forward as soon as possible.” She made a note.

  Richard leaned back in his chair. “I’ll talk to my parents and make them tell me what they did with her. I never knew, they made her vanish. I searched for her at the time but there’s only so much a fourteen-year-old can do.”

  “We’ll find out.” I believed her. The matter seemed closed, the understanding complete. Although I was supposed to be a partner in this enterprise, I felt shut out and lonely. I wasn’t a stra
nger to that particular feeling.

  “So what are they saying about us?” Richard asked in a more cheerful tone. “I know our marriage created a stir, especially with the accompanying events—so unnecessarily dramatic—but are they satisfied now?”

  Alicia smiled. “At first you, Lady Strang, were called a ravishing blonde. They confused you with your sister and it might have stopped there but Richard has enemies and they made hay while you were away.” She paused and stirred her tea, studied the spoon when she took it out of the tea-dish and let the brown liquid trickle back. She looked up. “You know who I mean?”

  “Steven and Julia Drury?” I ventured without a pause.

  She nodded, still playing with her spoon. “I was astonished when I heard Julia Cartwright had eloped. I never met her but from what I heard she was a proud woman, not one to give up easily. I relied on Edward Carier to tell me about the affair. Was this man Drury really your curate?”

  I confirmed it.

  She picked up her tea-dish. “It makes me less inclined to trust the church. I’ve seen the Drurys. I went to a theatre production they also attended and I made a point of watching them. They make a striking couple and they’ve made themselves popular in a certain set of people.” She sighed. “They’ve started some ugly rumours about you. I don’t really want to repeat them. Do you need to hear them?”

  Richard shook his head. “Not unless they matter.”

  The lady smiled. “Very wise. Venomous and unfounded. There’s always gossip, in any case.”

  “Are they up to anything that might affect us?”

  Mrs. Thompson shrugged. “We’ve heard nothing. What will you do?” She looked directly at Richard.

  “Nothing, if they leave us alone.” He glanced at me and smiled. “I have too many other things to think about without pursuing useless revenge. Let them find their own way to hell.”

  Mrs. Thompson cleared her throat. “I’m sure you have. I haven’t been able to trace the people who tried to kill you. They seem to have disappeared into the rookeries. If you want me to, I can make extra efforts, but you said you’d incapacitated them.”

  Richard shook his head. “No need. I’m fairly sure they won’t bother us again. It’s the Drurys we need to watch.”

  “Hmm.”

  Mrs. Thompson straightened a pile of papers on her desk, then reached for another one on the other side.

  “Here’s a more pleasant matter, that of your secretary,” she said, her relief at being able to drop the subject readily apparent by her smile.

  Mrs. Thompson sat behind her desk but her fingers skittered on the paper, and I suspected that tapping sound was her foot on the floor. “I’ve found someone for you. He comes with excellent references and he’ll be free in a day or two. If you wish, I can send him to see you.”

  We agreed to see him and Alicia continued, “His name is Brangwyn. George Brangwyn.” She referred to the paper in her hand, then gave it to us. It listed Mr. Brangwyn’s history, from his birth as a younger son of a Welsh gentleman to his current unemployment due to the death of his previous employer. Brangwyn had worked for some eminent people. Richard glanced up from his perusal of the paper. “He knows I have no political pretensions?”

  Mrs. Thompson consulted her papers. “I’ve made what he needs to know clear to him. He doesn’t know your connection to Thompson’s and he’s not from the box but he is the best candidate we know of at the moment. He will, of course, get to know some of it but it shouldn’t interfere with his day-to-day activities, should it?”

  The box was actually two boxes; we had one and one resided here at Thompson’s. Their contents were identical, containing the names and whereabouts of people who had agreed to undertake special duties for us. It might be in a protective rôle, or even as a spy, although Richard tried not to ask anyone to reveal anything that went against their conscience. Nichols, my maid was from the box; Carier, Richard’s valet, as one of the investors in the company, was not.

  Brangwyn would be required to make sure our appointments did not conflict or overlap and would be expected to remind us of the day’s business, especially when we were in London. He would also transcribe certain letters for us, especially those of a non-personal nature and open all the other letters. We received several begging letters a week; not nearly as many as Richard’s brother Gervase, who was enormously rich and unencumbered by either personal ties or entails, but enough to take up more of our time than we could spare.

  We took our leave soon after. We walked past the long benches and out of the building and this time the man behind the desk stood and bowed to us when we passed. He must have been told we were part owners, as mere rank wouldn’t have brought a citizen of London to bow so low. The woman with the vegetables was still there but I didn’t look at her this time and all the other occupants of the benches seemed to have moved on, or farther towards the desk.

  I wouldn’t look at Richard on the way home. I needed some time to myself. I had to learn to accept this woman without comment and for my own peace of mind, I would try.

  But when we got back to Southwood House and I had taken my hat and cloak off in the hall, Richard seized my hand and dragged me upstairs. He didn’t stop until we reached our own sitting room, when he shut the door firmly and turned to face me. “What’s wrong?” His mouth was tight with tension.

  “It’s all right.” I put all my efforts into keeping my voice steady, my breathing regular. “I understand.”

  “Understand what?” He sounded angry. I hated this.

  I couldn’t bear to look at him. I walked to the window and gazed out, unseeing at the garden below. I took a breath, then another one. “You’re a man of powerful appetites. I knew I might not be enough for you when we married. It’s all right.” I thought again of the intimate glances that had passed between Richard and his erstwhile—at least I hoped she was erstwhile—mistress, piercing my heart to the core, bypassing my reasoning. It might be hard, if not impossible, for him to give up that easy relationship of many years’ standing. I would have given anything to be on my own, to think it through and sob out my grief but it wasn’t to be.

  The silence was total. I broke it. “I’d rather have you some of the time than none at all. I’m sorry, you must think me a dreadful provincial but I’ll learn to live with it, I promise.”

  It seemed oppressively hot. There was a fire in the grate but the days were becoming chillier. It must be me.

  Outside, I saw a gardener neatly pruning shrubs. I watched him clip away, not a care in the world.

  Then Richard moved and I braced myself for his touch. He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me around, seeing the tears I was fighting so hard to suppress.

  “Learn to live with what, for God’s sake?”

  “You care for Mrs. Thompson, don’t you?”

  “Of course I care for her! I care for my sister, too.” He bit his lip, studying my face far too perceptively.

  “I’m sorry, I know the fault lies with me.” Of course it did, but seeing him with her had shown me what I might have to put up with in the future. In the year I’d known him, Richard had been totally devoted to me, but I couldn’t expect that. Very few men in society remained completely faithful through the whole of their lives. Today had just forced me to face it. “Today brought a realisation, that’s all. The past year, especially the last six months have been wonderful, but now, we have to face our real lives. And that might include you taking a mistress, sometime in the future.” I couldn’t fight back the tears but I refused to sweep them away. “So very few couples are faithful. What chance do we have?”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Just that I know you and Mrs. Thompson have been lovers, and you could slip into it again.”

  He lifted his hand and swept his thumb across my cheek, pushing the tears away. “We were, but no, we won’t do it again. Because I wasn’t in love with her, or with any of the others. Rose, I love you, you know that. I’ll never stop loving you. L
isten to me.” He took me by the shoulders, gripped hard. “How do you feel about sharing your bed with someone else? Picture someone handsome, kind, loving. But not me. How does that make you feel?” I shook my head, but he wouldn’t relent. “How about Tom Skerritt?”

  I couldn’t suppress my shudder. He must have felt it but he said nothing, just waited for me to respond. I spoke slowly, working through my feelings. “I couldn’t. I would hate betraying you and it would never be the same again between us. And—you give me everything I want.”

  “As do you.” His voice had gentled. His grip relaxed and he slipped his arms around me to draw me closer. “I don’t ever want to ruin what I have with you. I’ve had women, God knows I have, too many, but in you I’ve found everything I could ever want. You’re an exciting lover, an intelligent friend and a partner I can respect. Do you think for one minute I’d risk all that for a few minutes’ gratification? Do you really think I’m so immature, so utterly stupid?”

  I swallowed back my tears. I knew the fault was mine, he had never given me cause to doubt him, but the way he coped with my fears awed me. He could have ridiculed me, shouted at me. I would have deserved it, but it wouldn’t have served to reassure me, which was what I really needed. “Put like that, no.” I lifted my head and he bent his. Our mouths met in a pure, sweet kiss, and afterwards he led me to the sofa and we sat together, sharing the bliss of each other’s company.

  “You are far more than a bed partner, my love. But I think I know what this is.”

  So did I, but I didn’t say so. He drew a thumb under one eye, collecting a tear I’d let free. “This is our life. Before now, we’ve been by ourselves, getting to know each other, loving, with all the time in the world. Now, we have to begin to fit into the world and start living together, form our partnership.” I began to see what he meant. “For me it’s a matter of a slight adjustment. For you, this is entirely new. The only thing you can be sure of is me and that worries you.” I bit my lip and nodded. Yes, that was true. “New friends, new relationships, new life. So you need to be absolutely sure of me.”