Devilish Lord, Mysterious Miss

by Annie Burrows

  ‘I thought you liked Joe,’ protested Mary faintly.

  ‘Liking has nothing to do with it. It is one thing coming to an understanding with a man, where you both get something out of it. Quite another being completely under his thumb…’

  ‘That’s right, Mary,’ put in Josephine, a plump girl with a gap between her front teeth. ‘Accepting carte blanche from a gentleman, and letting him set you up in style, is a far cry from being stolen out of your place and being held against your will by some depraved monster.’

  ‘Like you would know anything about being kept in style,’ sneered Lotty, a sallow-complexioned, slender girl with stooped shoulders. Lotty and Josephine were currently at odds. Any conversation that took place up here lately seemed to fuel their simmering resentment of one another.

  Before the conversation could descend into yet another slanging match, Mary hastily interrupted. ‘Lord Matthison will not kidnap me.’

  ‘How would you know?’ breathed Josephine in a thrilled tone. ‘You heard what that woman downstairs said.’

  ‘Well, for one thing, Madame will not let me outside any more, so I don’t see how he could possibly do it. And for another, he, well, he just would not.’

  When Lotty made a noise that exactly expressed the depth of her contempt for such a naïve comment, Mary exclaimed, ‘He is not evil! Even that woman did not really think so, or she would not be so set on having him marry her daughter.’ That did give the other girls pause, she could see. Emboldened, she went on, ‘I think he is just confused. I mean—’ she frowned, trying to find words to explain how she was certain he felt towards her ‘—I am quite sure that he really, truly believes I am his long-lost fiancée. He asked me why I had run away.’

  ‘Ooh,’ breathed Josephine, ‘do you think you are really a runaway heiress?’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’ snorted Molly. ‘Why would an heiress want to run away? Especially if she was betrothed to someone as rich and good looking as that Lord Matthison. No one in their right mind would give up that kind of life, to work in a place like this!’ She gestured round the spartan room with contempt. It had skylights, as well as floor-to-ceiling windows on the south-facing wall, to maximise the hours of daylight, during which Madame Pichot could keep the girls working without the expense of having to light the oil lamps. It meant the room was like a hothouse in summer, yet impossible to keep warm in winter.

  It took Lotty only a few seconds to come up with the scathing rejoinder, ‘But then, we all know our Mary ain’t exactly in her right mind.’

  Everyone, except Mary, began to snigger quietly. She went to her stool and sat down, her cheeks burning with humiliation. It was not as if she was that bad! Not nowadays! Yes, she still got confused and scared sometimes. But she could read and write. And once, when she had caught a glimpse of Madame’s account books, she had been able to grasp the significance of all the neat little columns. And had she not learned to find her way about the labyrinthine courts and alleys of London? Madame never worried that she might get lost when she sent her out on errands!

  What she could not do, though, she accepted with mounting chagrin, was to come back with some really cutting remark that would put a stop to their mockery as effectively as scissors snipping off a loose thread. She was still desperately trying to come up with one, when she heard Madame’s heavy footsteps on the stair. They all bent to their work with renewed concentration.

  When Madame Pichot marched into the room a few seconds later, she went straight to Mary. Raking a look over her embroidery frame, she said, ‘How long will it take you to finish this up?’

  Mary looked down at the intricate tracery of roses in their varying stages of bloom, which were to decorate a pair of evening gloves. She had already worked the same design on to a spectacularly opulent evening gown, and the satin slippers that went with it.

  ‘There are several hours work left still.’

  ‘Then get to it!’ Madame snapped. ‘Molly, when it is time for the noon break, make sure Mary comes down to my office.’With that, she turned and swept out of the workroom.

  ‘Phew!’ Lotty whistled. ‘You’re for it, Mary. Marching orders.’ She drew one finger across her neck in a gesture denoting her fate was sealed.

  Mary made no reply. Her mind was in turmoil. She could not decide whether it would be better to eke out her work, in the hope that Madame would keep her on until it was finished, or whether shirking would make her more likely to lose her job altogether. A shaft of pure terror shivered through her, at the sudden realisation that any of the other girls in this room could have accomplished as much as she had done, this week, even on a design as complex as this one.

  Worry had reduced her to such a state that by the time Molly pushed her from her stool, and nudged her towards the stairs, she had set scarcely one stitch that would not have to be unpicked and reworked.

  ‘Take a seat, Mary,’ said Madame, when Mary timidly entered her office. Madame pointed to a low stool beside a table that was set for a light lunch. Mary decided it was a good omen when she noted two thick slices of plum cake as well as an array of sandwiches. Surely, if Madame was about to turn her off, she would not be doing it over a beautifully prepared repast, served up on the second-best china? She took her place at table, feeling somewhat relieved.

  ‘Now, Mary, I do not want you getting upset by what I have to say. I do not believe a word of it myself, but I have a business to run, and the welfare of the other girls under my employ to consider.’She cocked her head, examining Mary with pursed lips, muttering, ‘Not that I suppose you will understand the half of it, but there…nobody will be able to say I did not do my best.’

  With a resigned sigh, she poured tea into Mary’s cup, adding a splash of milk, and, after an infinitesimal hesitation, half a teaspoon of sugar.

  ‘Sadly, because of a complaint I received today, I am going to have to send you away from London for a while.’

  Leave London! Just when it had finally started to feel like home. And go somewhere else, where she would have to start all over again! Her heart began to pound hard. ‘No, Madame, please—’

  ‘It is for your own good,’ Madame Pichot broke in. ‘London is not safe for you any longer. I told you,’ she repeated with exaggerated patience, as though to an imbecile, ‘a woman came here this morning and lodged a complaint against you.’

  Mary was finding it hard to breathe now. She clutched at the arms of the chair, as though clinging to something tangible could somehow prevent Madame from forcing her to leave.

  ‘I have not done anything—’ she began.

  ‘I am sure you have not!’Madame Pichot interposed, with an imperious gesture of her hand. ‘Nevertheless, I have to demonstrate that I have taken steps to clear my name. You do understand, don’t you?’

  Madame squeezed her eyes shut as though recoiling from the impossibility of what she had just said. ‘Well, even if you do not, the fact is, just having you under my roof is enough to jeopardise everything I have worked so hard to build up here. So you cannot remain under my roof.’

  Mary wondered whether it was worth reminding Madame that she would not even be under this particular roof, if it wasn’t for her. When she had first come to work for Madame Pichot, her shop had been only moderately successful. Mary’s malady had completely transformed the whole nature of her business. She needed to work like other people needed air to breathe. She accomplished whatever task Madame gave her with a fervour wholly alien to girls who were only there to earn their pay. It was not long before Mary began to turn out gowns that were works of art. Soon, anyone who was anyone simply had to have at least one gown from the previously obscure French dressmaker. Madame had begun to be more discriminating about the clients she took on, and moved into larger premises in the more fashionable Conduit Street.

  Mary must have made some inarticulate sound, because Madame’s eyes flew open, and she looked at her sharply. ‘You need not be alarmed, girl. I am quite sure the whole ghastly business will blow
itself out before the end of the Season, and then, well…’She shrugged in that expansive way that indicated anything might be possible.

  ‘You mean, I can come back?’

  ‘You have always been a good worker,’ Madame replied, with a wry smile. ‘Better than I expected when I took you on. Drink some tea, girl,’she said in a bracing tone, ‘and stop looking as though you were facing the end of the world. I am only sending you to Bath.’

  ‘Bath?’

  ‘Yes, on the six o’ clock mail. I have already purchased your ticket. Have you finished that piece of work yet? Because if you have not, I shall have to get one of the others to pack your overnight bag. And put the rest of your things into a trunk, which I shall send on by carrier.’

  ‘Bath,’ Mary repeated, in a daze.

  ‘Yes, Bath. Not so fashionable as it once was, but still full of shops that cater to the wealthy patrons of the city. And plenty of work available for a girl with your skills with a needle. I still have contacts with several dressmakers in the town. While Molly is packing up your things, I shall be writing a letter for you to take with you.’

  Bath. She was not simply being turned out on to the streets to fend for herself. She would have work, and presumably somewhere to live. But before she could gather her thoughts and form them into questions, Madame put an end to the interview.

  The afternoon rushed past in a flurry of activity, during which she had no leisure to speak to anyone except in snatched, furtive asides. Madame seemed to be everywhere at once, getting a trunk and a small valise hauled out of storage, and thoroughly dusted down, sending Molly to separate her things into two piles, one to tide her over the first few days, and the rest for sending on later.

  Joe winked at her solemnly as they got into the cab that was to take them to Cheapside, reminding her again of the threat Madame had made regarding Molly’s position.

  ‘You will need Molly more now, won’t you?’ she managed to pluck up the courage to say once they set out for the coaching inn. ‘Since I am leaving. You will not turn her off now, will you?’

  ‘Impudence!’ Madame muttered, turning her head away sharply.

  Mary knew there would be no point in arguing any more. From the grim set of Madame’s mouth, she had already made up her mind. The further they got from Madame’s shop, the more upset Mary became.

  Her one, meagre consolation was that she had managed to scribble a note on a slip of tracing paper, and hide it in Molly’s scissor sheath, warning her that Madame did not mean to keep her on once the Season ended. It might give her the chance to make plans, at least. Perhaps she would finally marry Joe.

  It was not easy to clamber out of the cab with her overnight case in one hand, and the basket of provisions Kitty had made up for her, in the other. But Madame did not stop to offer her any assistance. She strode off down the passage that led to the Swan with Two Necks, forcing Mary to trot to catch up with her.

  She paused for a moment when they entered the yard, stunned by the sheer volume of noise that reverberated round the enclosed space. Horses whinnied and snorted as grooms led them towards the line of coaches drawn up beneath an overhanging balcony. There was the regular thumping of bags being tossed into the boots of coaches, the occasional crash of another being dumped onto the cobbles. The owners of the goods thus casually handled protested, and were answered with a volley of derision from insolent ostlers. The whole place appeared to her like a scene of utter confusion. Scores of people seemed to be scurrying about, ducking into doorways, or emerging from them with bewildering rapidity.

  Mary instinctively clutched her belongings tightly, as though they were her only safe anchor in this whirlpool of transient humanity.

  ‘There is your coach,’Madame suddenly announced, plunging through the maelstrom towards one of the smaller vehicles, a black, rather dusty-looking coach with the royal coat of arms emblazoned on the doors. The lower half of its body, she saw when she got a bit closer, was not covered in dried mud as she had supposed, but painted a dull brown. Mailbags were already piled high on its roof, while various other items of luggage were still being lifted from the ground, and tossed into the forward boot.

  A large man, swathed in a wide-skirted green coat with large brass buttons swaggered up to the coach, clambered on to the driving seat, settled himself with a regal air, and pulled out his pocket watch. The bustling around his particular vehicle increased in frenzy.

  Mary’s own heart picked up speed.

  ‘Make haste,’ said Madame Pichot, pushing her in the small of her back. ‘I know you do not wish to leave, any more than I wish to part with you, but at least in Bath you will be safe from That Man.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mary replied, her eyes skittering over the flaking paint, which made the coat of arms look like a crumbly cheese, to the rather gloomy interior of the coach. She could just, barely, make out a double stripe of crimson through the mud that coated the worn carpet. ‘Yes,’ she repeated, bolstering herself with the thought that it was far better to have honest work, than to fall into the clutches of a man about whom she knew virtually nothing. Leaving London would at least deliver her from the temptation he had been posing. And she would get used to Bath. Same as she had got used to London. ‘I want to be safe,’ she declared, ducking her head as she got inside, and took the one remaining seat.

  She placed her valise on the floor between her feet, and set the basket on her lap.

  ‘Here,’ said Madame, leaning in and holding out a coin. ‘You will need this to tip the guard.’

  Mary took the proffered half-crown from Madame’s outstretched hand with a rush of heartfelt gratitude. Madame had not had to pay the extra for an inside seat. She need not have arranged for her to get work in Bath at all, come to that. She knew Madame was motivated more by practicality than true charity, and yet, over the years she had grown quite fond of the gruff, no-nonsense woman who had taken such a risk in employing her at all.

  ‘I will miss you, Madame,’ she admitted shyly. ‘I hope I may come back soon.’

  Madame reared back, two spots of colour staining her cheeks. But she did not have the chance to make any reply. Somebody slammed the door, the guard blew the horn, and the coach lurched forwards. Mary pressed her face to the window to wave farewell, and saw Madame standing with her fists clenched, her brows drawn down into a fierce scowl as she watched the coach depart.

  The scowl put some heart back into Mary. Madame seemed really angry at having to do without her, even temporarily. She might have known Madame would not want to lose the worker who had achieved so much for her, at so little cost.

  She patted her pocket, feeling the letter that Madame had given her rustle reassuringly. She still felt somewhat nervous to be leaving the only home she could remember, but it was not as if it would be for ever. Madame valued her enough to want her to return.

  She couldn’t help contrasting the way she felt now at leaving the noisy, bustling metropolis, from the day she had first come here. She kept her face glued to the window as the coach rattled through familiar streets, bidding them a silent farewell. She had been almost beside herself with fear, back then, the letter of introduction she’d had in her pocket then bringing her no reassurance whatsoever. It had been even worse when she had alighted. The citizens of London were all so busy. Far too busy to stop and give directions to a bedraggled little waif fresh from the country.

  But she had made it to Madame’s shop, she reminded herself, lifting her chin. Madame had taken her in, and encouraged her to focus on what she could achieve, rather than getting all worked up about things she had no control over. That was what she must do now.

  She had no idea what her new employer would be like, or if she would find another friend like Molly to help her settle into her new surroundings. But she had survived a far bigger upheaval in her life once. And she was stronger, calmer and more confident now than she had been when she’d arrived.

  The choked city streets gave way to suburbs that were completely alien to her
far sooner than she would have believed possible. Jostling buildings petered out into hamlets interspersed with fields. She craned her neck to keep her eyes fixed on the pall of smoke that hung over the horizon where the town’s chimneys still breathed, but eventually even that last link with the only home she had ever known was severed.

  Only then did she sit back in her seat and glance timidly at the other occupants of the coach. When she had boarded, she had only taken note of three bundles of assorted clothing occupying three corners of the dingy interior. Now they resolved themselves into human form.

  All three, she noted on a swallow of dismay, were men.

  Quickly, before any of them noticed her furtive glances, she looked down at the basket on her lap, her heart thudding alarmingly. It would be hours and hours until they reached Bath. The coach travelled non-stop right through the night. Already the shadows of the trees and hedges they were rattling past were growing longer. Soon it would be completely dark, and she would be shut up in here with three strange men…She sniffed, suddenly recognising the sweet fruity smell of spirits that hung in the air. Three strange men who were very far from sober.

  Her stomach lurched. And not only because of the pothole the coach had bounced over.

  She gripped the handle of her basket tightly, keeping her attention focused on its contents. The men would take no notice of her, if she took no notice of them. Why should they? As Madame was always telling her, she was naught but a scrap of skin and bone, of no interest to any red-blooded male…