The Orphan's Dream (3 page)

He shook his head, a sly grin creasing his thin face into a mocking mask. ‘You've no authority in this house now, miss. I'd advise you to do as your stepmother says.' He moved closer, pinning her to the door without actually touching her body. ‘Perhaps this will teach you not to cross Septimus Wiley.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.' She faced him squarely even though she was quaking inwardly.

‘I'd advise you to watch your tongue in the future, miss. Telling your father that I helped myself to his cognac was not a friendly action, and I take exception to being branded a thief.'

‘But you are a thief, and now you're trying to intimidate me. I'll have you sacked, Wiley. My father won't allow such behaviour in a servant.'

He moved a fraction closer so that she could feel the heat from his body. ‘He won't sack me, Miss Cutler. I know too much.'

‘What do you mean by that?' Her heart was thudding against her tightly laced stays, but she managed to keep her voice level and she faced him unblinking. The man was a liar as well as a bully and he must be stopped, but she needed to know the reason for his outrageous behaviour.

‘Wouldn't you like to know? But I'm not going to tell you – not yet, anyway. We'll keep that for another time, but let's say I saw what went on in the warehouse, and I know what happened to old man Pendleton.' His mirthless laughter echoed off the high ceiling, coming back to mock them both as they stood locked in silent combat.

Mirabel felt the hackles rise on the back of her neck and a shiver ran down her spine. Fear turned to anger and she gave him a mighty shove, catching him unawares, and he staggered backwards, righting himself against the curve of the balustrade. ‘You little bitch.'

She tossed her head. ‘I'll tell my father what you just said. You won't be laughing then.'

‘Now you listen to me, Miss Cutler.' He righted himself, his eyes narrowed to dark slits and his lips drawn into a tight line. ‘One word out of place and your father will swing from a hangman's noose.'

‘You're lying.'

Wiley opened his mouth to reply, but at the sound of footsteps on the stairs his whole demeanour changed. He bowed and backed away. ‘I think you'll find everything to your liking in your new bedchamber, miss.'

Charity and Prudence came bounding up the stairs with their skirts bunched up above their knees. Charity came to a sudden halt. ‘That's my room, not yours. Ma said so and your pa agreed. You're not to let her in, Wiley.'

‘And the other room is mine.' Prudence ran to the door, extending her arms in a dramatic gesture to block the entrance. ‘You can't come in here. I won't let you.'

‘You two are spoilt brats,' Mirabel said coldly. ‘Make the most of your room, Charity, because you won't have it for long. I'll sort this out later.' Ignoring Wiley she left them and made her way up the next flight of stairs, although she had no intention of letting the matter rest. She would wait until her father had sobered up and choose a moment when she could catch him on his own. He must have been blinded by passion for his bride to have agreed to such a thing, but he would soon see the woman he had married for what she really was.

The top landing, in contrast to the lower floors, was uncarpeted and shabby. When Jacob had sent in the workmen to renovate the old building no one had thought to redecorate the servants' quarters. It was clean, Mrs James had seen to that, or rather Flossie had been set to sweep down the cobwebs and scrub the floors, but the paintwork was the original blue-grey, and the once pristine whitewashed ceilings had dulled to ochre with the passing of time.

Mirabel let herself into her dreaming place. If she had hoped it might have been transformed into a boudoir fit for the eldest daughter of the house she would have been disappointed. As it was she was barely surprised to see a truckle bed abandoned in the middle of the floor, with the entire contents of the clothes press in her old room piled upon it, together with some threadbare blankets, a patched coverlet and a couple of pillows. The only other furniture was the wooden rocking chair which had always been there, and the trunk where she kept the few treasures she possessed away from the prying eyes of Miss Barton. These included a painted paper fan, a string of blue glass beads and several hair combs, which were the only things she had to remind her of her mother. There was Sukey, her rag doll with an embroidered face and yellow woollen hair, and there were books purchased from second-hand stalls in the market. None of them were in very good condition, but all were loved and well read, especially those on foreign travel.

Mirabel was about to investigate in case anyone had tampered with her belongings when Charity and Prudence burst into the room. They stopped, staring around wide-eyed. ‘Ma put you in your place all right,' Charity said with a spiteful twist of her lips. ‘This is where you belong.'

‘Yes,' Prudence added, giggling. ‘There'll be spiders and rats, and it's probably haunted too.'

‘Get out.' Mirabel made a move towards them, holding on to her temper but only just. ‘Go away and don't come up here again.'

‘You can't tell us what to do.' Charity shuffled a step closer. ‘This is our home now and Ma makes the rules.'

‘Yes,' echoed Prudence, following her sister's example. ‘Ma does.'

‘Out.' Mirabel advanced on them with her hands fisted and they fled, screaming for their mother as they hurtled down the stairs. Mirabel slammed the door and turned the key in the lock.

She had to wait for two days to snatch a moment alone with her father, but Jacob was not in a talkative mood. ‘But Pa,' she cried in desperation. ‘You can't mean me to live like this. Why am I relegated to the attic? Couldn't the girls share the schoolroom?'

He looked away, staring at the windowpanes as if the raindrops sliding down the glass were the most interesting sight ever. ‘You'll have to take it up with your stepmother, Mirabel.'

‘She's the one who put me there in the first place. You're the head of the house, Pa. Tell her, please.'

Jacob rose from his seat at the dining table where he had been taking a late breakfast. ‘I have to get to the counting house before nine. If I allow Williams to handle things on his own he'll be giving credit to people who can well afford to pay on the nail for their purchases.'

‘Please, Pa,' Mirabel said, following him to the door. ‘It's not much to ask to have my old room back.'

His answer was lost as the door opened and Ernestine swept into the room, but her smile was banished by a frown when she saw Mirabel. ‘What has she said to you, Jacob?'

He kissed her on the cheek. ‘I'm in a rush, my love. We'll speak about it when I return from business this evening.' He hurried across the hall to where Wiley stood, holding his master's hat and cane. ‘Good man, Wiley. Is the carriage outside?'

‘It's waiting in Seething Lane, sir.' He moved to open the front door, an obsequious smile pasted on his thin features.

‘Good man. Look after the ladies while I'm away.' Jacob hurried outside with Wiley hurrying after him clutching an umbrella.

Ernestine pinched Mirabel's arm. ‘Your father will do as I say, so don't think you can go behind my back to get what you want.'

‘Why are you doing this?' Mirabel turned to face her, ignoring the pain where Ernestine's fingers had bruised her tender flesh. ‘What have I done to make you hate me?'

‘You may think that you come first in your father's affections, but you don't. You're nothing now, and the sooner you're out of my house the better.'

‘This is my home. You can't simply throw me out.'

‘Why aren't you married? You're twenty-one, so I'm told, practically an old maid, and I don't want a spinster daughter interfering with my life.'

Mirabel stared at her aghast. ‘What a nasty mind you have, stepmother. I can't see what my father ever saw in you.'

‘That just shows how little you know about men. They're like putty in a clever woman's hands. You just have to know how to handle them.'

‘I pity you, ma'am. He'll see through you one day and then it will be you and your horrible daughters who are out on the street.' Mirabel was about to walk away when Ernestine caught her by the sleeve.

‘I haven't finished with you yet.'

‘What do you want now? Haven't you done enough already?'

‘I've decided that your expensive education shouldn't go to waste. I want you to teach my girls how to be ladies. You'll pass on everything your governess taught you.' Ernestine's lips curved into a smile, but her eyes glittered like chips of green glass. ‘They have the looks and I want them to have the polish that will catch them rich husbands. You might not know how to please men, but you can leave that part of their education up to me.'

‘I won't do it.'

Charity was sullen and Prudence struggled with her lessons, spending more time moping and complaining than she did paying attention to the work Mirabel had set for her. Without the authority to discipline them in any way, Mirabel knew from the start that any effort on her part would be wasted. She had begged her father to intercede on her behalf, but he seemed unable or unwilling to argue with his wife, and Ernestine appeared to revel in her newly acquired position of power.

The saving grace for Mirabel was that lessons were conducted in the morning and she was able to escape from the house after luncheon each day. Volunteers were always needed at the soup kitchen in Crispin Street, and it was the one place where she felt welcome. With a white mobcap covering her hair and a clean pinafore to protect her plainest gown, she was an anonymous helper and part of a cheerful group of women who gave their time willingly in order to help the poor and needy. Most of her efforts involved peeling potatoes, carrots and turnips or chopping onions, which made her eyes sting painfully and caused tears to pour down her cheeks. She had been doing this one afternoon, alone in the scullery attached to the larger kitchen, when the door leading to the back yard opened and a stranger sauntered into the room. He stared at her, eyebrows raised. ‘What's the matter? Why are you crying?'

‘It's the onions,' she murmured, sniffing as she wiped her eyes on the back of her hand, taking in his appearance with a puzzled frown. He was not the usual type of vagabond who turned up in search of a free meal. His clothes might not be those of a city gentleman or a respectable clerk, but they were reasonably clean, and although casual his waxed jacket with its leather collar and cuffs was of good quality, as were his oddly dandyish waistcoat and check trousers. Even so, there was something louche in his attitude, with an underlying hint of danger which was both frightening and strangely exciting.

He regarded her unsmiling, his forehead creased into frown lines. ‘You're not the usual girl.'

‘Who were you looking for? Maybe I know her.'

‘Why is a young lady like you doing the work of a skivvy?'

She recoiled at his tone. ‘What has it to do with you?'

An appreciative glint flickered in his startlingly blue eyes, but was replaced by a suspicious lowering of his brow. ‘All right, hostilities over, I'll introduce myself.' He whipped off his soft felt hat with a flourish and a mocking bow. ‘Jack Starke.'

‘Mirabel Cutler.' She scooped up the onions and dropped them into the large iron stewpot, adding the carrots and potatoes to the small amount of chopped beef and several handfuls of oats. ‘I think you'd better go. The lady who organises the soup kitchen doesn't approve of gentlemen callers.'

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘I've never been called a gentleman before. You're obviously new to this area, Miss Cutler.'

She glanced anxiously at the doorway leading into the main kitchen, which had been left ajar. ‘Shh,' she said, holding her finger to her lips. ‘You'll get me thrown out.'

‘Considering you're doing this for nothing I don't think they'd be so stupid. Anyway, I'm well known round here.'

She lifted the pan with difficulty. ‘Move out of the way, please. I need to get this onto the range or the soup won't be ready in time for supper.'

‘You'll drop it,' he said, moving swiftly to take it from her. ‘Let me.' He carried it through into the kitchen.

Mirabel hurried after him. ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Hamilton. This person barged in before I had a chance to stop him.'

Adela Hamilton was seated at one of the trestle tables with a quill pen in her hand and an open ledger spread out before her. She looked up and to Mirabel's astonishment her severe expression melted into a smile of welcome. ‘I wasn't expecting to see you again, Jack.'

‘I've no quarrel with the Hamiltons, Adela. Edric and I parted company on amicable terms.'

‘My brother-in-law is a weak fool, and you are a rogue.' She rose to her feet. ‘Put the pan on the fire and come and sit down. Mirabel will make us a cup of tea.'

Mirabel shot a withering glance in Jack's direction as she lifted the simmering kettle from the hob, receiving a disarming smile in return. She made the tea, but she could not resist the temptation to look over her shoulder, and was surprised to see him seated at the table with the casual air of someone who regularly took tea with the wife of a City alderman. Her curiosity aroused, Mirabel served them in silence.

‘Thank you, my dear,' Adela said, smiling. ‘Won't you join us?'

‘I think perhaps I'd better clean up the scullery,' Mirabel said hastily. ‘I'll take my tea with me.'

She was about to walk away when Jack reached out to catch her by the sleeve. ‘Sit down and take tea with us. This isn't slave labour.'

‘Indeed not.' Adela nodded her head, causing her tight grey curls to bounce like springs on either side of her plump cheeks. ‘You've worked hard, Mirabel. I'm sure the clearing up can wait a few minutes.'