Never Run From Love (Kellington Book Four) (8 page)

The house was a few blocks away from the Covent
Garden market.  It belonged to a very wealthy widow who’d married a cloth
merchant some fifty years earlier.  Rumor had it that the widow had once been
one of London’s most sought-after courtesans before stealing the heart of Mr.
Phineas Mitchell.  The marriage may have started out one-sided in affection,
but it soon grew into a love match.  Mrs. Mitchell was said to be heartsick to
this very day, some ten years after the death of her husband.

As a wedding gift, he’d given her the deed to the
building she’d once lived in.  Mrs. Mitchell had kept the rents low – far below
the market price – and through her agent was very selective in whom she allowed
to live there.   All were women.  Many were actresses and opera dancers.  A few
were courtesans.  And all were hoping to transition to a better life.

While Mel had only met Mrs. Mitchell once, she
worked very closely with the housekeeper of the boarding house, Anne
Cartwright.  Mrs. Cartwright was a former courtesan in her early twenties whose
career had been cut short when a jealous lover had taken a knife to her face. 
The resulting scars had faded, but she remained extremely self-conscious of
them and only rarely ventured outside the house.  But she was not only an
excellent housekeeper, she’d become Mel’s staunch ally in persuading women to
turn away from prostitution.  She was, after all, the living embodiment of the
violence that so often went hand in hand with the flesh trade. 

It was Mrs. Cartwright who greeted Mel as she entered
Mitchell House.  Mrs. Cartwright was petite, with blonde hair and blue eyes. 
It was easy to see how she’d been considered such a beauty.  Despite the scar
which made part of her mouth curve downward, she had a smile filled with
warmth.

“Miss Sutton, thank goodness you’ve come” said Mrs.
Cartwright, as she took Mel’s pelisse, “we were worried something had happened
to you.  You take an awful chance, you do, in coming to this part of town
alone.”

“I can hardly do my work without coming here,” said
Melanie with a smile for her friend.  “And I do wish you’d call me Melanie.”

Mrs. Cartwright looked horrified by the very notion
of being so familiar.  “I couldn’t do that, miss,” she demurred, then quickly got
back to the business at hand.  “There’s a few girls who’ve come to hear you
speak, though not as many as were here a half hour ago.  Some had to get back
to work.”

Mel inwardly cursed the meddling nature of lords who
kissed well but thought altogether too highly of themselves.  “I am sorry I was
not here earlier, but was unavoidably detained.  I shall meet with the
remaining women straight away.  Might there be any tea?”

“Of course there is,” said Mrs. Cartwright.  “I also
tried my hand at scones.  I’m getting right good at it, if I do say so.  I’ll
fetch some now.”

Mrs. Cartwright seemed to gain confidence with every
accomplishment.  Mel had only known her a few months, but the woman had
blossomed even in such a short time.  She still kept to the house unless it was
absolutely necessary to leave.  But she believed in her abilities more and
more.  It was heartening to see.

Mel walked through the narrow hallway with the
Persian runner that had seen better days.  Everything in the house was clean
but old, verging on threadbare.  Mitchell House had some funds to refurbish it,
but never enough to do everything that needed to be done.  Mel contributed as
much money as she was able, but even she had limits.  Her inheritance was
substantial, but since she was a minor her uncle had control of it.  He was
generous with her quarterly allowance and would give her advances if she
requested them.  But if she asked for too much money, he would have questions. 
And they were the type she couldn’t provide answers for that her aunt and uncle
would approve of, regardless of how good they were to her.

Mel entered the sitting room and tried not to let
her disappointment show.  Only four women were there and she’d been hoping to
see more than three times that number.  Nevertheless, she smiled and greeted
each of them.

Sonia Kinne was originally from Spain and had been
orphaned by the peninsular war.  Well-meaning relief workers had sent the girl
to England at the age of thirteen.  Lindella Dupuis spoke with a French accent
by way of Cornwall.  She and Sonia worked and lived at Madame Thurmond’s.

Angela Evans and Lydia Robinson were boarders at
Mitchell House.  Angela was an opera dancer at one of the Covent Garden
theaters.  Lydia was in the early stages of working as a courtesan.  Neither of
the two lovers she’d had so far had been able to set her up in a house but she
still held out hope she might luck into such a situation. 

Anne brought in the tea and the women began the familiar
ritual.  The cups did not match, but the tea was fragrant and the women all
complimented Anne on her scones.  The scene might have taken place in any
sitting room in Mayfair, save the topic they were about to discuss.

Mel knew the women had only limited time to be away
from work, so she began.  “I have good news.  My friend Mr. Parker has the
funds to transport four women to Philadelphia.  His friend Captain Clinch’s ship
has not yet arrived, but four women could be on their way to new lives in as
little as two weeks.”

As she expected, her announcement wasn’t met with
cheers or requests to be one of the four.  Sonia and Lindella looked at each
other nervously.  Lydia frowned and Angela ate a third scone.

“Do you have a question, Lydia?”

“I know you said some of the other girls who went to
America married.  How rich was those gen’lemen?   Do they live in a big house
and have lots of servants?”

With Lydia, it was always some variation of that
question.  Mel knew it was the result of having grown up in poverty and living
hand-to-mouth in the present.  “Well, no,” honesty required her to reply.  “At
least not right now.  Most of the women who marry are on their way to the
frontier.  They’ll work alongside their husband and build a farm or a ranch or
maybe even manage a store.  It’s the chance to start over again.”

“Don’t they have them savages on the frontier?”
asked Lindella with a shiver.  “I wouldn’t like to move all the way to America
only to get my scalp taken.”

“The frontier can be a dangerous place,” admitted
Mel.  “In addition to some hostile tribes, there are dangers presented by
animals and the land itself.”

“I would like to see a bear,” said Sonia.  “Not too
close, of course.  But it might be interestin’ to see one from a distance.  Can
you see bears in America?”

“There are bears in some places,” said Mel.

“Did you ever see one?” asked Sonia.

“I spent most of my time in Philadelphia, so I’ve
never seen one.”

“That must have been very disappointing,” said
Sonia.

“I wouldn’t want to see no bear,” said Angela, as
she finished her scone.  “But I wouldn’t mind seeing one of them savages.  Who
knows, maybe I’d want to see one of them up real close.”

The girls all laughed, then Anne cleared her
throat.  “I believe Miss Sutton is telling us that starting a new life in
America wouldn’t be easy.  But it’s not like life here is without risk,
either.”

“There are times I’d rather face a tribe of them
Indians than some of the gents I have to service,” said Lindella.  “And there
are prob’ly plenty of bears that smell better, too.”

All of the women laughed at that.

“You shoulda seen the cove who met me backstage at
the interval last night,” said Angela.  “Smelled like that bear.  And wanted me
to suck his cock right there in front of….”

The other women shushed Angela, who then looked
sheepishly at Mel.  “Sorry, miss.  I keep forgetting you don’t know nothin’
about rot such as that.”

In spite of her fiery blush, Mel smiled and reached
out to squeeze the girl’s hand.  “Please do not worry.  I’m not as unworldly as
you all think.”  That pronouncement was met by skeptical looks all around.  “I
mean, I do not have experience in the way you think.  But I have spent
considerable time in the streets and am not completely unfamiliar with how
things work.”

Complete silence greeted her words. 

“No offense, miss,” said Lindella.  “You may have
visited these streets, but you don’t know ‘em.  Not the way we do.”

“Of course,” said Mel, embarrassed by her own
insensitivity.  She had no real idea what it was like for these women to eke
out a living.  To survive in a dangerous world.  She’d heard stories.  She’d
even seen dead prostitutes in the street, the victims of violence or the
effects of opium, gin or disease.  But she didn’t truly know what it was like
for them.

And these women would never fully trust her because
of that.

The meeting broke up twenty minutes later with
Angela taking a final scone and Lydia telling the girls about a new clothing
shop that allowed one to buy on credit.  Just as in Mayfair, the talk soon
turned to fashion.

When Mel was alone again with Anne she collected the
tea service to take into the kitchen.

“You mustn’t do that,” said the housekeeper.  “It
isn’t proper for a lady to do such work.”

“I like to feel useful,” said Mel, as she carried
the tray to the back of the house despite her friend’s protests.  “And I
certainly didn’t accomplish anything in the meeting.”

“That’s not true.  You gave the girls hope.  You
showed them there’s a whole other world out there.  They might not be ready to
go right now.  But maybe in two weeks they will.  Or maybe two months.  You
never can tell.”

Mel watched the young woman prepare the cups for
washing.  “Would you care to go to America, Anne?  I know I have asked before
but thought perhaps now you might have changed your mind.”

“Thank you for thinking of me.  But my place is
here.  I already look like the Indians got hold of me.  Wouldn’t want to look
any worse than this.”  Anne deflected further conversation by drying her hands
on a towel.  “I hope you don’t mind, miss, but I wanted to air out the bedrooms
whilst it’s still light.”

“Of course,” said Mel with a smile.  She knew Anne
was deliberately changing the subject, but she couldn’t force her to discuss
the future even if Mel believed the chance to start over in America would
benefit Anne a great deal.  Perhaps there she could see beyond her
disfigurement.  But Mel knew there was only so much you could push people
before they turned away. 

Perhaps it would still work out somehow.

*                    *                    *

Mel took her leave, then hailed a hack to take her
to the meeting at Mrs. Seton’s house.  As much as she hated lying to her aunt
and uncle about anything, she knew that the best lies had some truth to them. 
There really was a reform meeting at Mrs. Seton’s house, only it had started
two hours later than she’d told her aunt.  After her stop at Mitchell House,
she would only be slightly late for Mrs. Seton’s, which was not a hardship
since she dreaded these meetings.

As the hack made its way toward Cheapside, Mel’s
mood darkened considerably.  It’s not that she disagreed with the goals of the
group, as much as she found its leader to be disagreeable.  Mrs. Seton was a
widow past her fiftieth year.  Her late husband had been a successful solicitor
and had done business with some of the realm’s most distinguished peers.  Mel
knew that because Mrs. Seton took every opportunity to bring it up in
conversation.  Mel believed the older woman would never have allowed a lowly
American into the group had it not been for her connection to the Earl of
Heffner. 

The reform group itself was comprised mostly of the
wives, widows, sisters and daughters of the wealthy merchant class.  Their
goals were laudable – the abolition of the harsh, cheaply made spirits that
poisoned those who drank it.  Although if Mrs. Seton had her way, all spirits
would be banned from sale, even those that were safe when consumed in
moderation.  Mel’s uncle had a store of French brandy that he enjoyed on
occasion and she could see little harm in that.  But Mrs. Seton was fond of
rants which lumped everyone who imbibed into one group of sinners.

Mel also took issue with some of Mrs. Seton’s
methods.  While peaceful protests in the parts of town most frequented by peers
out for a night of adventure could do some good, Mrs. Seton favored taking her
fight to the enemy directly.  She wished to storm the premises of gaming hells
like Dill’s.  Mel wasn’t sure just what Mrs. Seton would do if she gained
entrance, but Mel was concerned the patrons wouldn’t take too kindly to the
interlopers.  When they protested on the streets, they usually just had to put
up with hecklers.  But who knew what dangers lay within the walls of the
establishments.

As Mel arrived at Mrs. Seton’s, she briefly
contemplated having the driver take her home instead.  But she paid him off,
took a deep breath and entered Mrs. Seton’s house.   The butler took her
pelisse, then escorted her to the drawing room where Mrs. Seton and the other
ladies were having tea.  Mel was a bit late, but was confident she hadn’t
missed much of note.

Once she was announced, she walked into the room
where about two dozen women were congregated.  There was something a little
different about the women, most of whom were matrons of middle age.  They were
smiling and one or two of them were tucking back their hair.  That was
certainly odd.  Mel continued to look around the room, but then found the cause
of the ladies’ unusual behavior.