No Place for a Lady (3 page)

“Mostly I do ciphering and write out fair copies of letters. It is demmed boring work, I can tell you, and there is no fortune in it, either, for us at the bottom of the pole. I am trying to get into Whitehall. So you say you are selling the house?”

“I am afraid so, Mr. Butler.”

“I wish you would reconsider. I daresay we could all eke out a few more shillings for a higher rent, if that is—”

“No, it is not that,” I said hastily.

I felt somehow responsible for the difficult lives of these youngsters. I noticed Mr. Butler had ink on his fingers, and the seat of his trousers was shiny from sitting on some stool, poring over columns of figures, or copying letters. I had not realized life was so very difficult for some people. My greatest hardship was Mrs. Hennessey, and what did Papa’s marrying her amount to in the end? I would have to share Miss Thackery’s bedroom, and have to live with Mrs. Hennessey and her vulgar daughters. It was bad enough, but nothing to poor Mrs. Clarke and even Mr. Butler, who already looked haggard. He could not be much more than twenty or twenty-one.

And when I sold the house, their lives would be even more difficult. They would have to move into quarters even worse or more expensive than the ones they inhabited now.

Mrs. Scudpole shuffled to the doorway and said, “The bed’s changed. I don’t do laundry. These sheets will have to be sent out. You owe the laundress for the last wash.”

“Make up an itemized list of the expenses owing, Mrs. Scudpole, and we shall go over it tomorrow.”

She left without replying. Mr. Butler said, “You want to have a word with the laundress yourself. Old Scuddie is a famous cheat. Your aunt never trusted her with a penny. I do wish I could convince you to keep the house running. You will find it a very convenient location, I promise you. Close to Temple Bar and Mam’selle Lalonde’s Modiste Shop and Drury Lane.”

Neither Temple Bar nor Mam’selle Lalonde’s shop was of much interest to me, and I knew from yesterday’s drive through Long Acre that we were far removed from polite London. Wild Street had not a single thing to recommend it to me, but I did not go into that with Mr. Butler. He pocketed his receipt and left, secure of at least one more month’s lodging in this decrepit paradise.

“Take a look in that receipt book and see who else owes for the month’s rent, Cathy,” Miss Thackery suggested.

I checked through the past month’s stubs and saw that we were still to hear from a Professor Vivaldi (attic), a Miss Irene Whately (3A), Mr. Eric Sharkey (3B), and Mr. Alger (2A). Six tenants in all. Mrs. Clarke (2B) and Mr. Butler (3C) had already paid. After a little ciphering I had figured out my annual rents.

“Aunt Thal was making three hundred pounds a year on this hovel!” I exclaimed. I checked my arithmetic to see I had not erred. “That is more than the interest on my five thousand dowry. I get only two hundred and fifty on it. Surely these rents must be usurious!”

“It seems to me Mr. Butler and Mrs. Clarke think they are getting a bargain, or why would they be asking if you plan to raise the price?”

“I wonder what I could sell the place for? Perhaps it is worth more than I thought.”

“We shall have an estate agent call tomorrow. If the new owner fixed it up, he could raise the rents and make himself a tidy fortune. You must bear that in mind when you sell, Cathy.”

We discussed the matter for half an hour. Tomorrow we would arrange to have a builder tour the house with us to see that it was in solid condition as to roofs and rafters and so on. The next day, we would call in an estate agent and put it up for sale. And meanwhile, there were still those four rents to collect. They would help defray the cost of our visit.

After our strenuous day, we retired at ten o’clock, to spend a very uncomfortable night crowded two into a bed, listening to assorted troublesome noises in the street beyond. At Radstock, we were not accustomed to hearing carriages into the small hours of the morning, drunken revelry, loud talking, and even an occasional bloodcurdling scream, which Miss Thackery half convinced me was only caterwauling. I had no idea what the arrangements were for the locking of the front door. Did each tenant have his own key, or was it left open twenty-four hours a day? That was another thing to check in the morning. Eventually I slept.

Chapter Three

I spent an unsettled night. The timbers of the old house squeaked and squawked. Doors were opened and shut at all hours. Not just the front door the tenants used, but the back door as well. The noises from the kitchen area were not loud, however. If Mrs. Scudpole had visitors, she was at least quiet about it. Almost stealthy ...

I finally slept, and was awakened by a pounding on the steps at seven o’clock the next morning. I lay for a moment with my eyes closed, wondering who could be making such a racket at the rectory. Then I felt an elbow prodding my back and remembered where I was—and why I had company in my bed. I opened my eyes and stared at the collection of used furnishings packed around the walls. I had forgotten that chore when Miss Thackery and I were discussing what we must do before selling the house. We must have someone in to remove this lumber. A close examination had proven it to be virtually worthless. With luck, the man would take the furniture as payment for removal, and we would get the job done without expense.

I lay quietly, for I did not wish to disturb my friend’s slumber. My inheritance was a slum; my housekeeper was a slatternly cheat; I had several days’ work ahead of me dealing with business people I was totally unequipped to deal with—and yet I was happy. Some festive air had attached itself to this unlikely holiday. It would give my quiet life a good shaking up to see how other people lived. Hopefully I would be a more understanding person as a result. But I doubted I would be generous enough to be happy with my new stepmama.

When Miss Thackery stirred to life, I rose and prepared for the day, giving her a few moments to collect her thoughts. The water in the basin was cold, but at least it was clean. I washed in it, and when I had dressed, I rang for Mrs. Scudpole. She did not answer the bell. Thinking she might be sweeping the stairs or performing some necessary chores about the house, I took the washbasin to the kitchen myself. The cold stove told me she was not yet up.

There was some commotion in the alley by the house. I went to the window to see what was afoot. A wagon, its load covered by a tarpaulin, was just pulling out. My alleyway was private property, and I went to the door to see who had been using it.

A disreputable-looking workman lifted his hat and said, “Good morning, miss.” There was another man on the wagon as well. He was small, and had a hat pulled down over his eyes. I noticed he did not wear the fustian jacket of a workman, but a gentleman’s blue worsted with big brass buttons.

“What are you doing here?” I inquired, politely but firmly.

“Just leaving, miss,” the driver replied. “I lost my way, and used your alley to get my bearings. No harm done.” He whipped up his bedraggled old jade and left.

The fellow was certainly up to no good. With so little traffic on the street, he could have stopped and taken his bearings there. I did not see what mischief he could have been doing in the alley, however, so I thought no more of it.

A door off the kitchen was open, showing me an unmade bed. I went in, but Mrs. Scudpole was not there. I thought she might have decamped on us, which would explain the noises coming from this area during the night. I half hoped she had left, but a second look showed me her clothing and personal effects were there. Perhaps she had dashed out to buy us fresh milk or eggs. I filled the basin and took it to Miss Thackery.

When she was dressed, we went back to the kitchen. There was still no sign of Mrs. Scudpole. We would have gone without breakfast were it not for Miss Thackery, who was raised on a farm and knows the trick of getting a fire going. We boiled water, boiled eggs, made tea, and had our meal with untoasted bread, as we could find no facilities for making toast. While we ate, the front door slammed a few times, but it must have been the tenants going out to work, because it was not Mrs. Scudpole returning.

At nine, she still had not come back, and we began to worry about her. I thought perhaps we should send for Bow Street. Miss Thackery came up with the more sensible suggestion of asking our tenants if they knew where she might be. We were about to go upstairs and start knocking on doors when Mrs. Scudpole straggled into the kitchen, still wearing her abominably soiled apron. She carried neither milk nor eggs, nor anything else, nor did she come from outside, but from the hall leading to our rooms.

“Where have you been?” I demanded.

“I fear I must have slept in.”

“Indeed you did. It is after nine o’clock. We didn’t know what had happened to you.”

“Your aunt didn’t get up so early.”

“But you were not in your bedroom,” I said.

A sly look came into her eyes and she replied, “Mrs. Cummings gave me the other bedchamber to use. She said it was all right. My mattress is as lumpy as a bag of stones.”

“You mean there are two bedchambers besides your own! Why did you not tell us? Why did you not show me that room yesterday?”

“She said I could use it.”

I may not be much good at business, but I know when a woman is lying. Her shifty eyes refused to meet mine. All her belongings were still in her own room. She had moved into that good room on her own.

“We shall require the second bedroom now, Mrs. Scudpole,” I said coolly. “Naturally we shall expect clean linen. And as you only act on orders, I shall tell you to put on a clean apron and brush your hair. Miss Thackery and I rise at seven-thirty. We take tea and eggs and toast for breakfast. Have you prepared that list of debts we spoke of last night?”

“I don’t do ciphering. I’ve got it all in my head. If you just give me the money, I’ll pay it.”

“Give me the names of the people who are owed. I shall pay them myself.”

She mentioned a local butcher shop and a Mrs. Lawson, the laundress. They appeared to be the only bills outstanding. In fact, after some sly comments about my aunt’s unexpected death, she was not certain any money was owing at all, and I was morally certain it had all been a ruse to rob me.

“I shall personally handle all household finances in the future. After you have cleaned up yourself and this kitchen, I would like you to sweep and dust the front stairs, Mrs. Scudpole. We shall begin on the rest of the house after I have the excess lumber removed. It is impossible to clean with the house in this jumbled state.”

On this haughty speech, I left the room, with Miss Thackery darting out after me. We went to examine the other bedchamber and found it the best room in the place. It was done in light oak furnishings, with seafoam green carpet and hangings. The walls were covered in a delicate Chinese paper with birds and flowers. The room had not been inundated with excess furnishings. In fact, I knew at a glance it was the bedroom my aunt had actually used, for her personal belongings were there. The toilet table held a large assortment of brushes and bottles and cosmetics. The clothespress was bulging with exotic gowns.

“Thal Cummings was always a clotheshorse,” Miss Thackery said, as she sorted through the gowns. “There is some lovely material here, Cathy. And she was so big that there is plenty of it. We can make some of these over for you.”

“Perhaps I shall pick out a few of them to take with me when I leave. Now, what should we do first? I believe we must be rid of the excess furnishings before we call in the builder to assess the building. He would not be able to see the walls and floors for all this stuff.”

“Let us make a list,” she suggested. Miss Thackery is a great one for making lists.

We went to the saloon and began itemizing what we must do. Before we had gotten far with it, there was a tap at the doorway, and an elderly gentleman came in. He was tall and lean, with pince-nez glasses and wispy gray hair. He looked like a retired cleric or schoolmaster. His clothing was of good quality, and he wore a gold watch, or at least a watch chain, but the clothes were shiny from prolonged wear.

“Ladies,” he said, with a gallant bow. “I am Professor Vivaldi. I have come to pay the rent on the attic rooms.” He had a slight trace of an accent. Italian, would it be, with a name like Vivaldi?

We introduced ourselves, and I got out the receipt book. Like the others, he paid in cash, and like the others, he inquired whether we meant to continue hiring rooms and at what rate. I told him what I had told the others. He seemed distressed and said “Pity,” in a rather pathetic way, but he did not urge us to keep the house operating.

Then he rose and put on his curled beaver. “I am off to the British Museum. A little work I am preparing on the antiquities in Greece,” he explained. “I used to go there often during the summers when I was teaching at Oxford.”

We watched from the window as he walked down the street. Here was another unfortunate soul to feel sorry for. I did not think we were very close to the British Museum, but perhaps Bloomsbury was closer than I realized. However far it was, that shiny jacket told me the professor would be walking, and at his age. A sad comedown for an Oxford professor.

After he had left, Miss Thackery and I discussed our tenants. We agreed that they were a cut above what one would expect to find in such a derelict neighborhood. A professor, an officer’s widow, a young man working upon ‘Change, and Mr. Alger, whose occupation we had not yet learned, but who gave the best appearance of the lot.

Within a few minutes, there was another clatter of footfalls on the uncarpeted stairs, followed by another tap at the door. My spirits lifted to see it was Mr. Alger who stood, waiting entrance. I do not mean that my heart fluttered in any silly, girlish way, although he was exceedingly handsome. What made me feel better was that he was one tenant who did not make me feel guilty. He looked prosperous, and well able to take care of himself. In short, he looked completely out of place on Wild Street.

“The day of reckoning is at hand,” he said, entering with a bow and a teasing smile. I looked at him in alarm. “How foolish of me,” he said, laughing. “I do not mean the biblical end of the world, but only rent day.”