by Anna Elliott
The cook will be picking up the bread and turning around at any second.
Without stopping, I dart through the kitchen towards a doorway I can see at the back of the room. It opens on a set of stairs—the back stairs, clearly, the ones used by the servants—and I take them two at a time, not stopping until I reach what must be the second floor landing.
Then I stop, fighting—above the noise of my own breath—to listen for any sounds of alarm.
Everything is quiet. From downstairs in the kitchen, I can hear the occasional clank and rattle of pots and pans, but nothing else.
Slowly, cautiously, I push the door to the stairwell open and peer out into a plushly carpeted hallway. The contrast is instant and shocking, between the areas of the house reserved for the servants and those frequented by the mistress. The servants’ stairwell is rickety, the floor bare except for some matting on the landing, the space unlighted.
Outside in the lady of the house’s living space, the walls are papered with a heavy gold brocade pattern. Gas lights are set at intervals along the walls, interspersed with paintings in elaborate gilded frames.
I wait for a count of ten before emerging from the stairwell, but the hallway remains empty.
Picking up my skirts and moving as quickly and as softly as I can, I step to the first doorway I can see on the left and turn the knob.
It opens easily—but peering inside, all I see are neat stacks of household linens and a single, straight-backed chair. The chair is surrounded by baskets of thread and needles and piles of mending.
As a hiding place, it might suffice—but it doesn’t provide the rest of what I need.
I step on to the second doorway along the hall, pausing for a moment to listen at the keyhole for any sounds from inside.
If the theoretical elderly companion is a resident here, she’s going to get quite a shock when I come barging in.
All sounds silent and uninhabited beyond the door. I turn the knob, bracing myself—but this room is unoccupied, as well. It has to be the disagreeable woman’s own bedroom.
I have no definite proof, of course—but the deep burgundy walls and heavily curtained bed; the smell of cloying perfume intermixed with what I think must be camphor; the fussy array of china figurines on the mantle, and even fussier lace antimacassars covering every available surface; the windows shut tight against even the hint of a suggestion of any draft of fresher air—
It all so perfectly matches what I glimpsed of the woman’s personality that the room must be hers.
I slip inside, easing the door shut behind me and making straight for the washstand, which sits to the side of the four-poster bed.
Another stroke of luck: the water jug is full.
I’ve dampened the towel, scrubbed it across my face and hands, and am in the process of unbuttoning my jacket when the fates decree that I have had all the luck I am owed for one morning.
The bedroom door swings open.
For a sluggish second, the young maidservant and I stare at one another in more or less equal measures of astonishment. Her hair is pale blond and her face is round, fresh and rosy-cheeked under her white cap. Her blue eyes are flared wide, and her mouth is set in a perfect round O of surprise.
Then she takes a breath—I’m certain in preparation for screaming the house down.
“Please!” I drop the dampened towel and hold out both hands to her. “Please, don’t give me away. Are you”—I try desperately to remember what the plump woman said just before driving off.
Tell Sarah that the state of the front stoop is disgraceful. That was it.
“Are you Sarah?”
That makes the girls’ eyes widen even further, but she gives me a scared-looking half nod.
At least she is not screaming—yet.
Think.
“You’re worried that you won’t be able to clean the candle wax out of your mistress’s carpet here, and that she’ll be angry with you.”
Sarah’s mouth drops open again.
“What did you … how do you …”
“You’re carrying a hot iron,” I go on, nodding to the article that seconds ago I had no memory of in Sarah’s hands. “And a towel—though plainly there are no linens to be ironed in here. I can also see a great blob of wax over on the carpet beside the bed. Your mistress must have dropped her candle as she was getting into bed last night.”
Sarah still stares at me, her expression torn between alarm and bemusement. “That’s right. Dripped wax all over the floor, she did. And then shouts at me for it—as if it was my fault!”
Indignation at the injustice replaces Sarah’s surprise at seeing me. “She said she’ll take the expense out of my wages if I can’t get the wax out.”
Another of those vague wisps of memory is flickering at the edges of my mind.
“You’ll have better luck using a sheet of blotting paper with the iron than a towel,” I tell her.
It is not exactly life-saving advice—but the best that I can do under the circumstances.
Sarah blinks at me. “Really? I never heard that.”
“I used to stay up reading late at night and drip wax onto the sheets and blankets.”
I can remember that—I think. What I cannot remember is who I was afraid would find out about my late-night reading habits. A parent? A schoolmistress?
Sarah’s eyes narrow with a look of sudden appraisal. “Look here, who are you?”
I put my hands together. “Please.” I don’t even have to work to put a convincingly pathetic wobble in my voice. “I won’t hurt you and I’m not here to steal anything, I promise. It’s just that I’ve been attacked”—that much is true, even if I don’t remember it—“and I needed someplace safe.”
If Sarah’s eyes widen any further, they will be as large as teacup saucers. But she casts a quick glance over her shoulder, then takes a few steps into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“Was it white slavers, miss?”
“Was it what?”
“White slavers, miss. Cook’s always warning me about them when I go for my afternoon out. She says there’s immoral men out there who’d snatch up a girl like me as soon as look at me.”
“Well—” I put a hand up to the throbbing lump on my head.
I suppose it could have been white slavers—whatever those are.
My memory of the world may be patched with haziness, but I’m fairly certain that the city of London contains more than enough ugliness to turn the cook’s immoral men from the theoretical to the all-too real.
If I shot one of them, at least I wouldn’t have to feel so guilty.
“I don’t know who they were,” I temporize. “It was nighttime—dark.”
Since I only woke up at dawn this morning, that must be true.
“Ooh, miss how frightful!” Sarah’s expression is both horrified and a little admiring. “How ever did you get away?”
How did I?
That is an excellent question, and one I had not fully considered before. I was knocked unconscious. Did whoever struck the blow assume I was dead? But if they wanted to kill me that badly, why not stay to make sure the job was truly done?
Did some casual passer-by happen along and frighten them away?
That’s possible.
Sarah is waiting expectantly. She’s still wide-eyed—but there’s a faint flicker of enjoyment, or at least excitement, in her gaze.
I can’t blame her. My arrival is probably the most exciting thing to happen in this household in the last month.
I don’t have the heart to disappoint her.
“I fought them off,” I say. “There were only two of them. I kicked the big one’s ankle—he was the one who’d grabbed me—so that he let me go.”
Is any part of this true? I would love to think that I’m somehow remembering, but I don’t think so, I’m just inventing freely, with the same ease with which I forged a false accent with the baker’s boy outside.
Whoever I am, I seem to be an ac
complished liar.
“Then I hit the smaller one over the head with my”—what might a lady be expected to be carrying?—“with my umbrella. And then I ran.”
“Ooh, miss,” Sarah breathes. “How thrilling!”
The note of enjoyment is definitely present now—but it’s impossible to dislike her.
I manage a small smile. “I suppose that is one way of putting it.”
A frown furrows Sarah’s brows. “Why not go home, though? I’d have thought you’d want to be in your own place after a fright like that.”
I hesitate. Shall I tell her the truth? I may be good at lying, but the effort of spinning untruths to this girl is making me feel even more sick to my stomach.
If I involve her too much, though—or give her too many details about myself—I could unwittingly put her in danger or get her into trouble.
What if the police somehow find out that I’ve been here? She needs to be able to honestly state that she knows nothing about me at all—definitely not the fact that I may be a murderess.
“I’m afraid to go home,” I tell her. “What if those men know where I live and are somehow waiting for me?”
It’s a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me until now—but as I say it, I can hear how horribly likely the idea really is.
Even if I eventually remember where I belong, it may not be safe for me to go anywhere near there.
Panic begins to creep up the back of my throat again, but I quash it down.
One step at a time.
“I came in here because I was hoping to wash and maybe change my clothes,” I add. “In case they’re out there, searching for me.”
I wave my hand at the window, indicating the street outside.
Sarah continues to stare at me—but then she gives me a quick, decisive nod.
“You just leave it to me, miss. We’ll get you properly fixed up.” She gestures with her free hand towards the washstand. “Finish up your washing there, and I’ll go and see what I can find for you.”
I smile with relief. “Try the blotting paper on the wax stain first,” I tell her. “Before your iron goes completely cold.”
4. COSTUME CHANGE
The blotting paper—taken from the room’s writing desk—and hot iron work like magic, removing the ugly blob of wax without a trace. Which is a relief. At least one of my returning memories has been proven accurate.
Still smiling her thanks, Sarah leaves me, pausing at the doorway to say, “You go ahead and enjoy your bath, now.”
I do as she says. Though it cannot be said that I enjoy it. My heart pounds sickeningly as I strip down to my chemise and take what I imagine must be the hastiest sponge bath of my life.
I want to trust Sarah not to turn me in—but all the time she’s gone, my imagination keeps painting helpful pictures of her going straight to Cook and Jenkins—or the nearest police constable—and telling them everything.
I feel horribly exposed without my clothes on, too.
I know I ought to examine the corset and petticoat I’ve just removed—but my hands are shaking and my fingers are too clumsy to do more than note that they appear to be of the same good quality as my outer garments.
The click of the door latch makes me whirl around, my heart trying to leap up out of my chest.
But as it turns out, my fears are unfounded.
It’s Sarah—and only Sarah—who slips back into the room.
She’s carrying a bundle of fabric under one arm and a steaming cup of tea in her other hand.
“Sorry it’s taken me so long, but I thought maybe you could do with a cup.” She hands me the tea, taking away the dirtied wash towel, and gives me a small smile. “Had to tell Cook I’d seen a mouse in the pantry so that I could get it out of the kitchen without her seeing.”
I raise the cup to my lips, wrapping both hands around it for the sake of the warmth. “Bless you.”
I mean it sincerely, too.
The tea is strong, made with plenty of milk and sugar, and as I swallow, I feel my exhaustion retreat a step. Even the throbbing in my head is a little better.
Sarah waves my thanks away. “It’s nothing, miss.”
She unrolls the bundle of fabric, revealing it to be a dress of brown poplin, sprigged with a pattern of small white flowers. “It’s my Sunday best,” she explains. She eyes me critically, her head on one side. “It’ll be a bit too loose on you, but the length should be all right—and anyway, it’s clean.”
“I can’t take your dress!”
Sarah waves away my protest, too. “It’s all right, miss. You need it more than I do, I reckon. And anyway, I won’t be getting a chance to wear it for another week, almost. Maybe by then you’ll be safe and you can get it back to me.”
I feel even worse about the lies I’ve told her, but I nod. “Thank you.”
A thought occurs to me as I glance down at the gray walking suit I’ve just stripped off. It’s dirty, but it is still considerably higher quality than the dress Sarah is offering.
At the least, maybe she can clean it and sell it for a profit.
“What if we trade?” I ask. “You can have my things if you like. Just in case I can’t return your dress to you before next Sunday.”
Or if I don’t ever manage to return it at all.
Sarah hesitates, so I add, “Please, it’s only fair.”
“Well, all right then, miss.” She hands the brown poplin over to me. “Here, put this on, and we’ll see what can be done with your hair.”
The dress does hang loosely on me, but it’s serviceable, and easily slipped on over my own underthings. Sarah helps me with doing up the buttons at the back, then gestures to the dressing table and mirror that stand on the opposite side of the room.
My heart speeds up as I move to the upholstered stool.
I’ve been avoiding the mirror expressly because I’m afraid of what I’ll see—or remember—at the sight of my own face.
But I drop onto the seat—and then I’m staring my own reflection in the eyes.
“If I looked like you, I’d be a bit happier about looking in a mirror,” Sarah says behind me with a half-laugh.
Am I pretty?
I suppose, objectively speaking, that I am. My face is a smooth oval with delicate, clean-cut features and a very faint hint of an olive tone to my skin. My lips are full and rosy. My eyes are large and thickly lashed—and a striking shade of green.
What concerns me far more, however, is that the sight of my own face is not familiar at all.
Save for the dark eyebrows that draw together when I feel my own scowl deepen, I might imagine that I was looking at a portrait painting of a complete stranger.
I shake my head, trying to focus on the task at hand.
My hair is thick and dark—and as I suspected, in complete disarray, with straggling waves spilling over my shoulders. I pull out several pins, and the rest tumbles down.
“Do you want me to help, miss?” Sarah asks.
“That’s all right.”
I may not recognize my own reflection, but my hands seem automatically to know what to do: deftly twisting and smoothing the long thick locks into order. Working quickly, I smooth my hair straight back and coil it into a low, plain knot at the nape of my neck. Severe, but neat—and it helps to hide the swollen lump behind my ear.
I finish securing the last of my hairpins and then survey the dressing table. There are a surprising number of little gilded pots of creams and powders. Surprising, because I would have guessed the lady of the house the sort to view all cosmetics as an instrument of the devil.
I’m also surprised by how easily I recognize them; the jars of rouge for the cheeks and rice powder for the face are familiar, somehow.
“Go ahead, miss,” Sarah says, following my glance. “Use whatever you like, she’ll never know the difference.”
My cheeks could use a touch of color. Either I’m naturally pale, or else getting hit over the head does not agree with me.
; But I want to look inconspicuous, not glamorous or alluring—so I avoid the rouge altogether, instead dabbing my face with a light dusting of the powder.
Then I frown as I examine my eyes in the reflection. There’s unfortunately nothing I can do that will obscure their color, but I dip into a small pot of black Kohl. Instead of using it to darken my lashes, I lightly trace it along the length of my eyebrows, making them a shade thicker and darker.
Not exactly an infallible disguise, but the best I can do.
As I sit back to study the effect, I’m hit with a sudden jarring sense of familiarity—so intense that for a moment the room seems to tilt and spin all around me.
I’ve done this before.
The face in the looking glass is no more familiar than it was a moment ago. Less, even, since the thicker eyebrows accomplish their goal of altering my expression.
But I’m certain that I’ve done this before: sat at a dressing table like this one and made up my face this way with quick, practiced strokes.
“That’s very good, miss,” Sarah says—and the faint hint of memory pops like a soap bubble.
“Thank you.” I straighten up. “And now I need to leave before I get you into trouble by being discovered here.”
“That’s all right, miss. The mistress has gone to visit her sister in Clapham for the day. But I had best be getting on with the dusting. She’ll be cross enough to bust a stay lace if I don’t get it done by the time she’s back. You can stay, though, if you want to rest a bit.”
“No, thank you. You’ve been incredibly kind. But I really ought to leave.”
“Well, all right, miss.” Sarah looks at me, a furrow of worry marring her brow. “You’ll be all right out there, on your own?”
She’s frightened for me. For the first time maybe since I arrived, she’s realized fully that the attack on me actually happened; that it’s not just a thrilling story, but a real danger that I could face out there.
“Oh, yes.”
Judging by my reflection, Sarah and I are the same age but right now I feel older than her by practically decades.
I don’t want her to lose her faith in the world on my account.
I smile. “I shall buy another umbrella directly I leave here—and then if those men try to trifle with me again, I shall teach them a lesson they will not soon forget.”