Jane Steele (26 page)

The first thing to be done was to purchase new—by which I mean secondhand, but far more opulent—togs, which would further two out of my three schemes.

I obtained a glass of porter and a good penny plate of bread and fried haddock at a pub first, and then took a crowded omnibus towards Aldgate. Far from Highgate House, my abandoned frocks were recalled as spinsterish and depressing rather than merely dull, for I had never dressed so in the city; I had sometimes been destitute and never wealthy, but it must have been my French half insisting upon the richest plaid capes despite their threadbare edges, the daintiest buttoned boots.

Aldgate was a veritable sea of plate glass, a thousand welcoming eyes reflecting happy glints from the gas jets. Even in the wet grey mire of winter, the countless shops were a cheery sight—but I had no intention of making purchases on the main thoroughfare. Instead I veered towards St. Paul’s by way of Fenchurch Street, and after traversing salt-strewn cobbles for a few blocks, I found the haven I had sought: a nondescript window gleaming citron and edged with holly branches, with no sign posted save for
PRIVATE ALTERATIONS UNDERTAKEN
. I rang the bell.

So close to Aldgate, secondhand shops kept as demure as middle-class whores, but this was the best of them, and soon I was prattling away with two familiar saleswomen who cooed and clucked over my present drab attire, waltzing about to find something of the sort I had used to like. When I explained money slipped easier through my fingers of late, and that I must dress more like a lady than my previous blithe showiness, our budding friendship was sealed—I suspect they imagined I had a dalliance with the master of the house where I tutored, a hypothesis only vexing because I had failed to do exactly that. I departed the shop with my arms full, promising to return for three more frocks they were altering to my shape.

Next stop after another omnibus ride was the Soho Bazaar, where the rosy-cheeked craftswomen rent stalls inside the row houses at the northwest of Soho Square. By the time I quit this fairyland—equipped with new gloves and a stole and several hats—I was fagged enough to take a hansom back to the Weathercock, drawing a sly but amused stare from my new friend the clerk when he saw me dressed colourfully as a child’s top and laden with plunder.

My room, after I had piled my twine-adorned parcels and beribboned hatboxes upon the bed, seemed much the barer for the additions. Mr. Thornfield may not have known my real nature, but he had spoken compass-true when he observed I sought companionship as bees do nectar.

Restlessly, I pulled off my gloves and hung my new powder-blue hooded cloak, and surveyed the afternoon dress I wore in the long glass.

It was the finest dress I had ever owned: dull silk, of a colour as much green as it was brown that made my eyes gleam like mahogany, painted asymmetrically with vines of delicate vermillion roses; along the bosom, the cinched waist, and the fully draped sleeves were barred pairs of emerald stripes. A single cascade of tiny buttons dripped from neck to waist, and it occurred to me, seeing the mischievous tilt to my lips, that I had never looked better.

I am far too vain to even attempt the prevarication this brought me no foolish pleasure; but my eyes soon prickled because there was no one of importance to see me, and I turned hastily away to store my new belongings.

That task accomplished, I sat down to write a pair of letters. The first need not be recounted as it was merely the request for an appointment with Mr. Cyrus Sneeves, eagerly informing him I was now in London; the second had required more imaginative plotting.

Room 26,
the Weathercock,
Orchard Street,
Westminster

Dear Mr. Augustus Sack,

I hope you will remember meeting the governess, one Miss Jane Stone, upon your dramatically terminated visit to Highgate House not two months previous. My note concerns matters confidential in nature, for I gather through your own curtailed speech and hints dropped by the always sinister Messrs. Charles Thornfield and Sardar Singh that acquaintances were renewed at Mr. John Clements’s funeral which rekindled old grievances.

I hereby confess that I was so frightened by their display of weaponry that I embarked upon my own private investigation. As a governess, I was in no financial position to quit any master even if he should be a scoundrel—pray exercise your empathy, Mr. Sack, when I tell you I was determined to learn all I could in the interests of my own safety.

Pausing, I poured myself a glass of the claret I had rung for, reading my lies back over. It should not do to lay it on too thick;
however, Sack had seemed more of a vicious bully than a master criminal. I dipped my pen once more.

The results of this amateur exploit have been most fruitful—indeed, I may well have learnt the whereabouts of a long-lost object.

Letters to me can be sent to the above address under the name Miss Jane Smith, as bloody deeds were enacted which precipitated my flight from Highgate House. Speak to no one of Miss Stone, if you would be so kind; a Mr. Jack Ghosh, or so I have been told he was identified, broke in during the small hours and died of some misadventure. Singh and Thornfield give out to the police inspector that he cut his thigh upon a piece of window glass when entering, but I cannot believe this account, and when I made the discovery which enabled my departure, the devil himself could not have spirited me away quick enough.

It is this matter of finances of which I wish to speak with you. Do not entertain the idea of coming to my lodgings, for I am not in immediate possession of the item in question; send me a summons for an appointment, however, and we may be able to assist each other.

Expectantly,

Miss Jane S——

I addressed the envelope to Mr. Sack in care of the undersecretary at the Company’s headquarters, which was the intentionally imposing East India House in Leandenhall Street. Having passed it before, I realised it suited what I knew of the Company itself: opulent, powerful, and cold as marble.

An equally frigid smile touched my lips at the thought I might soon enter its stone maw, a predator in the guise of a slender young woman.

The fact is, I was a trifle beside myself; or rather out of myself, as the French would say. . . .

D
ays of preparation followed, reader, ones which left me in a strange daze of commingled purpose and despair. By now, I thought I might actually expire without Mr. Thornfield, sudden heartaches piercing with the lances of a hundred Khalsa cavalry; at others, I felt haler to know I served him still. I read my borrowed novel twice through, then bought a copy at a quaint bookstall—I have not yet got
out
of the habit of reading
Jane Eyre
, come to that—and idled, and schemed, and awaited answers to my letters.

I had only to wait one day to hear from Mr. Sneeves; he was from home, the message having been forwarded, and so I must wait two more days to meet with him. Hastily agreeing to this via his clerk, I gnawed my thumb and hoped for a missive from Mr. Augustus Sack.

I got one, too, on the very morning I was to meet with my solicitor, and it read as follows:

East India House, Leadenhall Street

My dear Miss Smith,

Of course I recall the pleasure of your company, a boon which rendered bearable an otherwise profoundly distressing journey. I
confess that, though I may have an inkling of the matter to which you refer, the less said in written form the better, for this is very much a Company affair, and therefore I propose you visit me in my office. My hours are from eight to seven, but a request from you could find me there at any time.

Very sincerely &etc.,

Mr. Augustus P. Sack

My lips twisted into what resembled a smile, but may have invested the casual observer with more fear than mirth.

Then I donned another of my new frocks in order to properly present myself to Mr. Sneeves. This costume was all of the same patternless fabric, a shimmering fawn colour, but the detailing was exquisite—ten deep pleats, a plain band of the same fabric at the waist, and then it blossomed into fold after fold, like a modern woman’s dream of a Renaissance belle.

My eccentric looks did not quite do the workmanship justice; but next I added a calculated finishing touch, a demure but real set of necklace and earrings, the stones of which the jeweller assured me had travelled straight from the Punjab. I had sixty pounds of Mr. Thornfield’s advance remaining, and I assured myself that the rest of the money could not possibly have been better spent.

•   •   •

T
he first sense engaged upon entering Mr. Sneeves’s offices was that of smell; the reek of snuff greeted me long before the man himself did, though he was scrupulously prompt. Mr. Sneeves introduced himself in a reedy voice, hastened me into his consulting room, and shut the door.

As soon as we were alone, he lifted a teak snuffbox. “You don’t mind, I hope?”

“Not at all.”

I must waste no time over describing the chamber—the usual maelstrom of ledgers, untidy bookshelves, and the like—for Mr. Sneeves had my passionate attention. He was a little man with a great round balding dome covered in freckles, as if his shoulders had sprouted a mushroom. Though of fine quality, his black coat was in no way ostentatious, and I realised that—apart from the almost dizzying aroma of snuff—Mr. Sneeves preferred his clients to forget they had ever required his services at all.

“You are most accommodating. Thank you.” Mr. Sneeves set the snuffbox down and commenced staring at me with pale eyes beneath thistly brows.

An interminable period passed, during which my sweat began to seep forth like morning dew.

“Pardon, Miss Steele, but you stir up old memories,” Mr. Sneeves concluded at last, sitting back in his chair. “You resemble your mother, you know, save in colouring—that is entirely upon the paternal side. What should you prefer to drink?”

I sat there, dumb; resembling my adored mother was enough news, leaving me hotly aglow, without the fact that I apparently took after my unremembered father as well. Meanwhile, Mr. Sneeves was already headed for the sideboard with a shuffling gait. I reminded myself of the role Jane Steele was to play today—a moderately interested but well-off woman, that she might get all answers not generally imparted to a beggar at the door.

“Thank you, but I—”

“You must have a taste of something fortifying, Miss Steele, for I fear I may shock you. There are a few solicitors, you will find, who are actually aware their clients possess sensibilities. Sherry?”

“Please,” I said rather faintly, “though . . .”

“Brandy, then,” he curtly suggested. “Considering your
background, it must have been administered as a restorative at one time or another, and once having had brandy, one ought not go backwards.”

The man, for all his resemblance to your more affable variety of fungus, was riveting. I drew my soft blue cloak, which I had neglected to shed, closer about my frame as Mr. Cyrus Sneeves planted a brandy snifter before me; he deposited half as much before himself and resumed his place behind the desk.

I soon came to understand from his complete silence that I was expected to make an overture.

“Mr. Sneeves, thank you for seeing me—you must have wondered at my letter’s contents.”

“Heavens, no.” Mr. Sneeves took another great pinch of snuff, making my own eyes water. “No, Miss Steele, I only wondered who told you about me.”

Faltering, I removed my gloves. “My mother left a few letters—”

“May I see them?”

Turning over my mother’s letters felt a strangely intimate act, for all that my solicitor would learn nothing he did not already know; I had so little of Mamma left that all my relics were magical, more talismans than mementoes. At last, finished, Mr. Sneeves scrubbed a hand over his mottled pate.

“Miss Steele,” he questioned, “do you know more of your legal standing beyond what I have just read?”

When I shook my head, he rapped his desk, as if signalling the start of a race. “I was first recommended to your father in Paris, where Englishmen often preferred to do business with a firm operating upon both sides of the water. His concerns had to do with his status as a landholder. Highgate House was in good repair, but your father desired to settle minor liens and generally ascertain whether keeping the manor was feasible; I am happy to state that he was
doing very well indeed in Paris, no less than were his partners in London, and so my advice was, if the property gave him pleasure, to keep it. It was not only matters of his estate upon which he consulted me, however.”

Mr. Sneeves waited as my heart pounded a brisk martial beat.

“And these other matters?”

“Were matters to do with your mother.” His voice softened, and he smoothed errant grey wisps behind his ears. “Mrs. Anne-Laure Steele was such a woman as you do not meet twice in life, Miss Steele—beautiful, charming, and artistic. Sadly, not long after your first birthday, your father fell prey to an inflammation of the lungs, and your parents wished to know your precise legal standing in Britain should the worst happen. I was tasked with setting measures in place to ensure both you and Mrs. Steele were protected. You remember your aunt, Mrs. Patience Barbary?”

“Naturally.”

Mr. Sneeves, dappled head bobbing, made quick work of gathering papers. “She was very strongly against your and your mother’s residing at Highgate House—and your father proved to be ill with consumption at an advanced and virulent stage, so your parents were forced to act quickly. Here is the marriage license between Anne-Laure Fortier and Jonathan David Steele; here also is a special contract they devised to be signed by your aunt as a dowager, stating that Highgate House should be your sanctuary for life.”

I examined the documents. Rather than clearing the mists, however, the atmosphere thickened—
sanctuary for life
did not mean
inheritance.
For the first time, I examined my mother’s statements against the backdrop of what I knew to be true as an adult woman. Unmarried females scarce ever inherited, particularly when wills were disputed; my mother had assured me of my place time and again, but had never explained the whys or wherefores.

Meanwhile, supposing it was mine, why should Mamma and I have lived in the cottage, why not the main house, why should not Aunt Patience and Edwin have lived in—

“Miss Steele, do you know the man in this picture?”

I found myself holding a sketch from a French newspaper describing a series of audacious trades enacted at the Palais de la Bourse.

“Of course—this is my uncle,” I answered readily. “Richard Barbary.”

“That is your father,” Mr. Cyrus Sneeves said, “who for a time—when courting your mother in the guise of a rich gentleman of leisure—went by the name Jonathan Steele.”

“No, no.” The words emerged before I even had thought them. “That’s impossible.”

Mr. Sneeves made no answer; I stared at the artist’s rendering, all breath ripped from my lungs.

Richard Barbary’s portraits had occupied many places of honour at Highgate House before the arrival of Mr. Thornfield, and here he was in starkly inked miniature: a calculating businessman with an air of mischief about him. Effortlessly, I recalled how those portraits had beckoned to me, with their brown eyes like mine, their mocking half smiles, their air of roguish mystery.

I felt as if my bones were curling up inside my body.

“It can’t be,” I whispered, knowing it true.

Mr. Sneeves took a fortifying pinch of snuff.

“Mr. Richard Barbary was one of our best clients, Miss Steele, and when he informed us of the . . . situation, we strove in every way to accommodate him. Initially, he had only sought an affair with your mother, who was quite destitute save for the odd sou made from her street portraits and work as a cabaret dancer in Montmartre, which I believe is how the pair met. But when Anne-Laure Fortier and Richard Barbary had lived together for over six months and she informed him of her pregnancy, he impetuously determined that her
pleas for wedlock be indulged, and he married her under the false name he had given, fearing to reveal all and lose her regard. This was no light task, but your father was a rich man, and so managed the necessary documentation—he avoided mentioning the fact, of course, that he had already left a wife and child behind in England.”

Fighting dizziness, I marked him, the words falling as lightly upon my ears as the patter of rain upon a window.

My half brother. Edwin, who tried to rape me, was not my cousin, he was my half—

“Here you are, Miss Steele,” a smooth voice intoned.

I drained the brandy Mr. Sneeves had thrust beneath my nose and watched as he poured another, setting it within easy reach. Memories untangled themselves before my eyes, twisting and contorting—Aunt Patience’s calling my friendship with her son
family feeling,
my mother’s open disgust for Edwin, my aunt’s visible loathing of me. Sickened, I tasted the spirits again.

“Tell me,” I rasped. “Everything. Please.”

Mr. Sneeves sniffed, not unkindly. “I fully intend to. Miss Steele, when your father first fell ill, another event threatened the tranquillity of his, ah, French family life: your mother found a portrait of Patience and Edwin Barbary amongst his belongings. These led to a frenzied quarrel, but your father soon fell into agreement with his illegitimate second spouse: he had no intention of abandoning you, not even in death, for a match begun in the sort of lies wealthy men tell had developed into profound mutual devotion. Mrs. Barbary, I ought to mention, was dealt a bad hand—she was an arrangement made by your paternal grandfather in the interests of money and pedigree, and though your father never loved her, I believe she loved your father, or so Anne-Laure Steele led me to conjecture.”

Recalling all the times my aunt begged my mother not to speak of Jonathan Steele, recalling in my mother’s own letter to the firm her reluctant,
when I imagine myself in her shoes, I cannot bring myself
to censure her
, I felt as if my world had been blasted to shrapnel, and I left clutching the shards with bleeding fingers.

“Why did my father create such a wretched quagmire?”

“As much as in looks you resemble your mother, Miss Steele, you have your father’s direct manner about you, and I find I must battle nostalgia in your presence.”

“I cannot begin to imagine whether or not that is a compliment,” I rasped. “Please continue.”

“Very well, then. Mr. Barbary was the heir to an estate which might once have proven impossible to maintain; he was told to marry Patience Goodwill, whose holdings after her elder sister, Chastity, eloped were considerable. After he proved himself an expert trader here at Capel Court and her wealth proved superfluous, the marriage, already fragile, fizzled despite the birth of a son named Edwin.”

“Is that the reason he fled to France?”

“I believe so, though the story given out emphasised the professional benefits of his temporarily relocating. In any case, Mr. Barbary travelled to Paris when offered a liaison with one of la Bourse’s officially licensed
agents de change
, and he presented himself to your mother as a gentleman of leisure named Jonathan Steele. You were conceived, your parents were married, your father fell ill, your mother found out his true marital status, and he and your mother threatened Patience Barbary with exposure of all his sins should she refuse to cooperate—your father blackmailed his wife with his own ill-usage of her, knowing the second marriage illegal.”

It fit everything I knew, and it hurt accordingly—from my scalp to my soles, I was altered.

I am not who I thought I was.

Neither had Edwin been—he was my dear, repellent, spoilt brother rather than my dear, repellent, spoilt cousin. What other grotesque errors had I made in my life that I should find myself sitting in an office being told my own father’s name?

Meanwhile, my mother—oh, my
mother.
It had been a love match; I had not needed Mr. Sneeves to tell me so. She had been mad with grief over him, and now I understood that Aunt Patience had been similarly afflicted; two women, both in love with a different name, forced to live with revolting insults right before their eyes. It would have been sensible to have hated my aunt Patience all the more now I knew she had kept me in ignorance, to have loathed my father as a philanderer and my mother as a blackmailer; rotten as my own core had proven, all I could do was pity the lot of them.