A Spy in the House (2 page)

This was absurd. Nobody ever got a second chance. Mary knew that much, at least. Oh, Lord — was the unexpected praise going to her head? “What’s your angle?” she demanded.

Again, Anne appeared unsurprised by the question, the rudeness. “As I explained before, our aim is to offer girls an independent life. Too many women feel forced to marry; even more lack that choice and resort to prostitution, or worse, in order to survive. We believe that a sound education will assist our graduates to support themselves.” She paused. “Not all our pupils succeed. Some girls prefer the idea of marriage to hard work, not realizing that marriage to a brute or a drunkard is more difficult than any profession. But they choose their paths. We cannot force our ideas upon our pupils.

“But I digress. My colleagues see that you have a taste for independence and the desire to make your own way in the world. You are accustomed to making decisions and caring for yourself. Here at the Academy, we can give you a better chance of achieving that independence. We can help you to escape your life as a thief — to reinvent yourself, if you like. A chance to improve your expectations . . . to become what you might have been had fate been kinder in the first instance.”

Mary swallowed hard. This woman’s ideas were extraordinary — a giddy, improbable revelation. How was it possible for her feelings to change so quickly? Five minutes earlier, she’d been cursing the woman who had snatched her out of jail and away from the certainty of death. Now she was terrified that all this glowing promise might be merely a cheap confidence trick. “You still haven’t answered my question,” she said gruffly. She feared that her voice was shaking. “What’s in it for you? What’s the catch?”

Anne’s eyes, she noticed suddenly, were steel gray. “I hate to see girls become victims,” she said with quiet intensity. “You very nearly were. That’s what’s in it for me.” Suddenly, she folded her fingers round Mary’s cold hand. “And the catch, my dear, is that you must be willing to work hard for it. That is all.”

That handclasp shocked Mary more than a sudden blow. When was the last time she’d been touched? The wardress, of course, had knocked her about a little — all for a good cause, apparently. Men had tried to grope her skirts in the streets. Drunks had reeled against her in mobbed alleys and public houses. Small children had bumped against her as they careened through crowds. But the last time someone had touched her, Mary, with affection . . . that had not happened since her mother had died.

Shaken, she pulled her hand away.
This can’t be true,
she said to herself.
This must be another dead end. There is no hope. You learned that years ago, you little fool.
She drew a steadying breath and opened her lips to snarl all this. Instead, one word came out in a faint voice.

“Please. . . .”

Mary took the attic stairs two by two. It was tricky in a steel crinoline and buttoned boots, but she needed some sort of outlet for her nervous energy. Since requesting a meeting with the head teachers earlier that day, she hadn’t been able to concentrate on much. Her first attempt at a knock was shaky, her knuckles barely scraping the heavy oak door. She overcompensated with a pair of rugged thumps and cringed. It sounded as though she were trying to break down the door.

“Come in,” came the crisp command.

She swallowed, wiped her palms on her skirts, and turned the polished brass knob. The door glided silently on its hinges, revealing a bland scene: a pair of middle-class women taking afternoon tea. While the ladies looked conventional enough, Mary had quickly learned that between them, they controlled everything about the Academy. “G-good afternoon, Miss Treleaven,” she managed to murmur. “Mrs. Frame.”

Anne beckoned her forward. “Come in, Mary. Do sit down.”

“Th-thank you.” She dropped into the nearest seat, a slippery horsehair chair that immediately attempted to deposit her onto the floor. She didn’t normally stammer. Never had. This was a devil of a time to begin.

Anne poured a third cup of tea and handed it to her. It was a very warm day, especially up in the attic. As a curl of steam reached her nostrils, Mary blinked, her nervousness doubling. She was holding a cup of Lapsang souchong, a tea the ladies generally reserved for special occasions.

“Would you like a slice of cake?” Anne indicated the seedcake on the tray at her elbow.

The idea made Mary’s stomach clench. “Thank you, no.” The more she tried to steady her nerves, the more her cup rattled in its saucer.

“You wished to speak with us.” To Mary’s surprise, Anne rose and began to pace restlessly before the cold fireplace. Mary’s glance flicked toward Felicity Frame, who remained seated. The two women seemed opposites in all ways: Anne was thin, plain, and quietly serious, while Felicity was tall and curvy, a striking beauty with a rich laugh.

Mary moistened her lips. “Yes.” When they remained silent, she supposed there was nothing else to do but begin. “I am very grateful to you for rescuing me from the gallows and for the education you have given me. I owe you everything, quite literally. But I have been thinking of my future, and I wish — that is, I do not think . . .” Mary faltered. Her carefully rehearsed speech was evaporating before their grave, curious faces.

She took a scalding sip of tea.
Why serve a special tea today?
A strong sense of guilt prompted her to speak quickly and bluntly. “What I mean to say is that for some time I have been questioning my position as an assistant teacher. While I enjoy living here at the Academy, I know that I’m not very good at the work. I do like the girls, but I lack the patience to be a teacher.”

She hurried on without looking up. “I’m afraid it gets worse. Two years ago, I took lessons in shorthand and typing, but I do not find the repetitive life of a clerk appealing. Last year, I began preliminary medical training with the idea of becoming a nurse. But the matrons did not have confidence in me, and I was not invited to continue.” She swallowed, the taste of that humiliation still strong in her mouth. “Recently, I have been wondering: Is it not possible — is it even reasonable — to expect something more from my work?”

Anne looked mildly curious. “What do you mean, ‘something more’?”

Mary writhed inwardly. “It sounds foolish, I know. . . . I mean a sense of pride and active interest in work . . . even enjoyment. Perhaps satisfaction?” There. It was out. Ungrateful as she was, it was out.

There was a short pause, but not a flicker of surprise or disappointment showed on either face. Anne spoke first. “How long have you been teaching the junior girls now, Mary?”

“For a year; I began when I was about sixteen.”

“And you have lived here at the school since you were twelve, of course.”

“From the day you rescued me from the Old Bailey.” Mary flushed. “At least, I was roughly twelve . . . as you know, I’ve no birth certificate. But I’m certain I was born in 1841.”

“Nearly one-third of your life, then, has been spent with us.”

Mary nodded. “Yes. I know I must sound terribly selfish.”

A faint smile passed over Anne’s lips, but it was gone in a moment. “Let us leave the question of gratitude to one side. You have reached the age of seventeen. You find yourself . . . stifled . . . by the routine of the schoolroom.”

Mary nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you wish to return to your life as it was before you were imprisoned? Housebreaking and picking pockets?”

“No!” Mary realized that she had half shouted the word. She moderated her voice. “Not in the least. But I long for a little independence . . . for a different sort of work.”

“Ah.” Again, that satisfied gleam passed over Anne’s features. “What sort of work do you envision?”

Mary shook her head miserably. “That is what I do not know. I hoped you would be able to advise me.”

Felicity spoke for the first time. “Are you quite certain that you wish to work at all? Many girls try to marry in order to escape poverty.”

Mary shook her head firmly. “No. I have no desire to marry.”

“Other women find lovers to provide for them.”

Mary nearly dropped her teacup in amazement. “Mrs. Frame? You are surely not recommending . . .”

Felicity smiled faintly. “I am not recommending anything. But I wish to set aside conventional morality and speak of practical possibilities. You are not beautiful, but you are intelligent and rather . . . striking. Exotic, even. Being a mistress is a possibility.”

“I hate being looked at! People are forever asking whether I’m foreign, just because I haven’t got yellow hair and round blue eyes.”

“That’s my point: unusual looks are sometimes better than mere prettiness.”

What a preposterous thing to say. And just what was Felicity suggesting, talking about her “exotic” looks? Did she suspect . . . ? Mary struggled to find her point. “Besides, a mistress is just as dependent as a wife.” As the words left her mouth, she remembered hearing a rumor about Mrs. Frame’s own colorful personal history . . . but it was too late to retract her remark — were she so inclined.

Felicity arched one eyebrow. “You have been well trained in the philosophy of the school, Mary. We do not encourage girls to build their lives on the whims of men.”

Anne spoke again. “Very well. That is your view. Tell us, now, about your early life and your family.” At Mary’s look of surprise, she smiled. “We do know the details, but I should like to hear it from you once more.”

So this was a test of perspective. “I was born in east London — Poplar,” she began. She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. Could she trust these ladies with the full truth about her past? About her family? How would they respond? They thought they already knew everything about her. . . .

“Is everything all right?” asked Felicity.

Mary blinked, unaware that she’d halted. “Of course.” She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue. “My father was a merchant sailor and my mother an Irish-born seamstress. Although my father was frequently at sea, I remember that my parents were happy together. Their only real grief was that my two younger brothers both died in infancy.” She paused and swallowed hard. “When I was seven or eight years old, my father’s ship was wrecked and the entire crew reported dead. The shock and grief made my mother very ill, and she lost her job as a seamstress through her illness. She was expecting another child at the time, and she lost that, too.

“When she was a little better, Mother tried to get piecework so that she could work at home. But the piecework paid next to nothing. She then tried going out as a charwoman, cleaning houses, but she only got twopence a day for the work. It wasn’t enough to keep us both.” Her voice was detached now, toneless. “Mother didn’t care about herself, but she had me to look after. She soon had no choice: she became a prostitute. Late at night, when she thought I was asleep, she brought men back to our lodgings. That is how I learned to steal. Sometimes they would fall asleep, and I would take coins from their pockets.” She drew another long breath and looked up at the two women defiantly. “It was never very much; I never took notes — only coins. I must have thought . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought.

“It’s an old story, I suppose. Mother soon became ill. We didn’t have enough money for medicine from the apothecary, and the neighbors kept away. All I know is that even with the bits I’d stolen, we hadn’t enough money to live.” She paused. “I don’t remember much about the time immediately after Mother died. A few months later, I had learned how to pick pockets properly, and then someone taught me to pick locks as well. I dressed as a boy; it was easier and safer.

“I became quite good at housebreaking for a time. Then I began to take larger risks, foolish risks, really, and I was not terribly surprised that I was caught. The only mystery is that I was not caught earlier. And you know the rest — that I was sentenced to hang.” Mary flashed the ladies a grateful look. “You saved me.”

There was a minute’s pause. When Anne spoke again, her tone was unusually gentle. “Thank you, Mary. It is to your credit that you are able to tell the story of your early life so clearly and without extreme bitterness.” She half smiled. “As you know, we at the Academy place great emphasis on strength of character.

“Well, my dear?” Anne turned to Felicity, her voice crisp once more. “How do we assess Mary’s professional prospects? That she is intelligent and ambitious is evident.”

“She is loyal and capable of great discretion,” Felicity added with approval. “She is also brave, tenacious, and decisive. And she strives to do what she believes is right.”

Mary glowed under their warm and wholly unexpected praise.

“However, she has a bad temper,” Anne noted coolly. “She dislikes correction and goes to great lengths to avoid being in the wrong. She is shy of strangers, particularly men. That is understandable, given her childhood, but a fault nevertheless.”

Mary’s proud glow became a flush of shame. They were all too correct.

“Mary, you look heated,” observed Anne. “Do you wish to continue this conversation?”

Mary swallowed hard. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Very well. We understand your philosophy and know your character.” Anne looked at Felicity, who nodded once, very slightly. “As it happens, Mary, we have a post in mind that we think will suit your abilities very well.”