Betina Krahn (41 page)

“And then I’m coming straight back home.”

“Absolutely.”

“And his carriage can rot in the street the next time,” she declared, giving the soft velvet upholstery and gilded trim of the carriage a glare of warning.

When they entered the lobby of Remington’s building, Antonia immediately noticed a number of strange men milling around, and it took a moment to realize why they seemed so out of place. They were wearing wool coats with eye-popping checks, and cheap bowlers that would have been much more at home on the rough East Side. They were not a part of the financial world, she was certain. They looked more like—

“There she is—that’s her!” one of them yelled, pointing at her.

In a heartbeat she was besieged by a dozen men with stubbled faces and hungry eyes. They crowded around her, assaulting her with smells of sen-sen and cheap cigars, and questions.

“Is it true the earl attacked you on the street yesterday?” She grabbed Hermione’s arm and tried to pull her along, but whatever direction she moved, the newshounds scrambled to block her path. “Is it true he’s making you keep your half of the Woman Wager, after all?” “Does that mean you lost?” “What kind of men’s work does he make you do?” “Do you deny that it was you and the earl who were caught together last week by a pack of gents?” “How do you feel about giving women the vote?”

She tried to make her way through them, but they squeezed together, shoulder to shoulder, and refused to let her pass, still hammering away at her with their questions. When she pushed, they pushed right back! She had never been treated with so little respect in her life! Just as panic
was setting in, a black-clad arm broke through that pack to take hold of her wrist. She looked up to find Remington snarling at them to clear the premises before he had them removed. When they began firing insulting questions at him instead, he turned to several men on the stairs and motioned for them to intervene. A brief shoving and shouting match ensued that sent the pernicious newshounds into a hasty retreat.

The gratitude Antonia felt as Remington pulled her and Aunt Hermione up the stairs and out of the writers’ reach was humiliating to her moments later, when she faced him in the upstairs corridor. He was, after all, the cause of the entire mess.

“What are they doing here?” she demanded, flinging a finger toward the stairs. “And how did they learn about your requiring me to fulfill the wager?”

“Someone may have heard us speaking in the hall. Or it could have been that nasty little article in
Gaflinger’s
this morning about the contretemps in the alley yesterday, or the fact that you were seen in my offices—but it doesn’t matter. I won’t let them near you again.”

“It doesn’t matter?” Then the rest of what he had said struck her. “What nasty little article?”

“There was a story on the front page of that scandal-rag,
Gaflinger’s
. Apparently someone witnessed my little misunderstanding with the constable yesterday and decided to turn it into a headline.” He eyed her accusingly. “This sort of upset could be avoided entirely if you’d just accept my offer of protection.”

“What you have offered me is a form of eternal servitude, not protection. And for your information, your lordship, I am quite capable of fending for myself,” she snapped, reddening a moment later as she realized how ridiculous that sounded in the wake of what had just happened. He smiled.

“Good day, Mrs. Fielding,” he said, turning to Aunt Hermione. “I believe Uncle Paddington is eagerly awaiting your arrival. And you, Antonia”—he narrowed his eyes—“are late for work. One of the things men prize in their employees is punctuality, you know.”

“
Late for work
?” Only the prospect of being arrested and carted off to jail kept Antonia from committing mayhem just then. The effort of stifling her violent urges momentarily robbed her of words, and he seized the moment.

Ushering her into his offices, he took her straight to a conference room containing a large table ringed with chairs. He introduced her to a number of men in dark suits, some of whom had helped to clear the news writers from the lobby. She quickly learned that they were all employed by him in one or another of Carr Enterprises’ various financial or commercial concerns.

Remington pushed her gently down onto a chair, and one by one his managers and directors began to lay out charts and diagrams detailing his financial empire. They quoted prices and government policies and tossed out numbers, categories, and percentages until they began to run together in her head.

“All this is fascinating, to be sure,” she said finally, with a thinning air of civility. “But it has nothing to do with me.”

“Oh, but it does, Antonia,” Remington said confidently, stepping around the table to meet her as she rose. “You see, I’ve decided to give you not only a taste of commerce, but a taste of power as well. These gentlemen will not only explain my commercial interests to you, they will also help you make decisions on various matters. Just the sort of thing
men
are required to do every day.”

“I—I’ll do no such thing,” she protested, sensing a trap of some sort like a small animal senses a snare. “I don’t know anything about sheep farming, or knitting mills, or import-export regulations, or the mercantile trades—it’s
ludicrous to expect that I would. And I have never been in a ‘departmental store,’ as you call it, in my life.”

“No?” He seemed ungodly pleased by her admission. “Not prepared to start at the top, eh? Then I take it you prefer to work your way up, instead. For that is how it is with men’s work, you know. If you don’t inherit, marry, or buy into the upper ranks of a concern, then you have to start with a modest position and improve yourself as you go. Something of a burden, wouldn’t you say … having to prove yourself constantly?” His gaze connected with hers, letting her know he was speaking of more than just men and their work.

“But I believe it can be done,” he continued, gesturing to the men around the room. “Every one of my managers, directors, and heads has come up that very way.” As she looked around, she saw them nod and glimpsed the pride in their eyes.

“His lordship has a policy about making opportunities for self-improvement available,” Hallowford, the director of the central offices, put in. “A number of the younger men take advantage of the program. And then there are the reading and typewriting classes for the wom—”

“Yes, thank you,” Remington interrupted, “but we’ll not burden Mrs. Paxton with details. What we need is a place where she can start—at the bottom.”

He sighed and rubbed his lip as he was wont to do when thinking. Then one of the others, a bookish, tidy-looking fellow spoke up. “The mercantile has always been a good starting place for those with little experience of the business world.”

“Excellent! Thank you, Markham,” Remington declared. He took her by the hand and headed for the door. “Come with me. I have just the place for you.”

Over her protests he led her out a little-used rear door tucked away behind a series of cabinets and cartons. She
found herself on a rickety set of wooden steps that zigzagged down the outside of the building and lowered toward a dark service lane.

“You’re putting me to work in an alley?” she demanded, straining against his grip as she stared anxiously at the ground far below.

“A shortcut to avoid prying eyes,” he said, looking up at her pale face. “Unless you would rather face another gauntlet of news writers.”

She couldn’t argue with that and reluctantly allowed him to guide her down those steps, then out of the alley and to a cab stand.

Three hours later Antonia found herself standing atop a ladder in the departmental store, Carr’s Emporium, wearing a bib apron and an ugly dust cap, and wielding a feather duster. Spreading before her were what seemed like miles of shelves stocked with every form of dry goods imaginable: fabric, sewing notions and trims, flat irons, lamp wicks, linen sheeting, ready-made pillows, machine-knitted socks, children’s knickers, and manufactured shoes, to name a few. Looking out over the huge store, across the bustling walkways and past racks of ready-made clothes and displays of housewares that were touted as the latest conveniences, she felt a bit bewildered by her presence there. What on earth was Remington trying to prove, installing her as some sort of menial and then disappearing for hours on end?

What sort of seduction was this? She glared at the feather duster in her hand, wondering just how this was supposed to convince her to marry him.

Before she completed the dusting of the upper shelves, the department head, a fusty old fellow named Hanks,
appeared, scowling at the way her ankles were revealed by her position on the ladder.

“Mrs. Paxton, would you please step down from there,” he commanded shortly. When she was safely on the floor, he gave her a dour look. “In future you will confine yourself to work on the floor. It is most unseemly to have you dangling about in customers’ faces with your …
footwear
… showing. Go help Davidson tidy displays instead.”

As she surrendered her feather duster and walked away, she could feel the department head’s glare boring into her back. He hadn’t been told who she was or why she was there, only that she would be working in his department. And he clearly resented having her added to his staff without his consent.

Davidson proved to be one of the junior clerks, a lanky young fellow with a generally pleasant face—which just now was drawn taut. With terse efficiency he showed her how to tidy and reposition displays to show the goods to advantage. When they finished, they were set to restocking shelves and dusting lamp globes, and Antonia watched him turning frequently to stare across the other departments to where the other young clerks were busy with customers. When she dropped a lamp globe, he managed to catch it before it reached the floor, and glanced up with a scowl.

“I’m sorry you’re saddled with me,” she said. “I hate this as much as you do.”

He set the globe back on its shelf and turned to her with a severe look that melted when he saw the distress in her face. “I don’t hate the work … or you,” he said. As he relaxed his guard, a tired but boyish smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth. “It’s just that I’d rather be waiting on customers. We’re paid on commission, and the more I sell, the better my wages. And if I want to advance
and someday make a marrying wage, I have to keep on my toes and make every sale I can.”

“A marrying wage?” she said, reaching for another lamp globe.

He frowned. “You know … enough money to get married and support a wife.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know, had never heard the term.

“If Hanks sticks me with too many other duties, like cleaning, my pay suffers.”

“It does? You mean they don’t pay you to do this work?”

“No. Didn’t they explain all this to you when you started?” he asked with genuine concern. When she shook her head, he made a noise of disgust. Then he eyed her and her tailored silk dress. “You’re new to working, aren’t you?”

“Not really,” she said with a defensive edge.

“Those are mourning colors. You must be a widow.” She nodded and he smiled sympathetically. “I thought so. Those are mighty fine clothes for a shop clerk.”

His consoling look made Antonia realize that he believed her bereavement was recent. She sensed that to correct that impression could open a number of other questions about her being there. As they progressed to rearranging a display of bed linens, she ventured a few questions of him and was surprised to learn he was the son of a knitting-mill foreman from New Market and had come to London hoping to find an entry into the world of business. He worked at the Emporium by day, attended classes by night, and had a fondness for a girl named Meg, which made the need for a marrying wage more urgent every day.

“What sort of classes? From what sort of a school?” Antonia asked, warming to this good-hearted young man who seemed to think marriage a desirable state.

“It’s a company-sponsored school, with classes taught by leading men from banks and companies and firms in the
City. It’s the best part of working here. We learn bookkeeping, the laws of commerce, and the principles of good business. If my commissions are good and I study hard, I can work my way up … someday have my own department, or even my own store.”

Antonia watched the light in his eyes and recalled that the men in Remington’s employ spoke proudly of having worked their way up to positions of trust and authority. Young Davidson seemed to have pinned his hopes for the future on just such a possibility. A sweet ache developed in her chest at the thought that Remington’s liberal policies might give Davidson the chance to marry his Meg and fulfill his dream.

The young clerk had a sudden thought and leaned eagerly across a stack of pillow covers. “Say … play your cards right, and maybe they’ll let you into the classes. The store’s owner is known to favor giving females a hand.”

“He is?” Her suspicions came alive as she realized how her thoughts were softening. “Well, any man would give a woman a hand,” she said primly, “for a price.”

Davidson frowned, puzzled, then took her meaning and reddened. “Well, I know what they say about Lord Carr in the papers, but I don’t believe it. He’s a good man. He’d never attack a woman on the street.”

“Attack a woman?” Her shock was genuine.

Davidson glanced around to see that no one was looking, then slipped around a counter and snagged a copy of a newspaper hidden beneath it. Holding it low, he showed her a front page bearing
Gaflinger’s
gaudy masthead and a story title on the lower half that declared:

Below that hideous accusation was a subtitle that only muddled the issue further: “Landon Forces the Lady to Do
Men’s Work!” Antonia’s heart stopped as she read the rather bizarre account, in which Remington was supposed to have seized her in the street, dragged her back to his offices, and forced her to perform “degrading male labor.”

The story, like the ink and paper used to print it, presented everything in stark black and white. Once again she was the courageous woman and Remington was the jaded, world-weary beast who was determined to ruin her good name and virtuous spirit. The sensational way they described his actions struck her with unexpected impact, and she reddened and gripped the paper tighter. How could they print such obviously false things?