A Spy in the House (4 page)

“We will support and assist you in any way possible, and we will never ask you to go against your conscience. But there are times when you will feel very alone indeed. Don’t rush, Mary, and consider carefully. We will not think less of you if you choose to return to the schoolroom.”

Mary took a deep breath and sat tall. Her decision was already made. Her voice was perfectly steady as she said quietly, “I am ready to choose. I accept your terms, and I will carry out all assignments to the best of my abilities.”

There was a moment’s silence. And another. And a third. Then came the sound of chairs scraping against wooden floorboards as the ladies stood and clasped Mary’s hands in theirs.

Anne beamed, pride ringing in her voice. “Mary, welcome to the Agency.”

“Number twenty-two,
may-dams
.” The carriage juddered to a halt and the cabman tipped his hat with an ironic flourish to the two primly dressed women who descended.

Anne paid him with fussy precision, counting out the tuppences and ha’pennies under her breath. The cabman rolled his eyes, as if to say,
Bloody spinster governesses.
Once he was gone, Anne shot a small, encouraging smile at her companion. “Ready?” she murmured.

Was she? Mary felt a surge of nausea. It seemed as though all the vigorous instruction of the past month was evaporating before her mind’s eye. All the physical training — self-defense, disguise, fitness — seemed irrelevant here, a short flight of whitewashed steps away from her first assignment. And what sort of spy craft could she need? Would there be scope for lock picking and knot tying, not to mention sleight of hand and questioning suspicious parties? The assignment entailed only listening and tea drinking. Perhaps she wasn’t prepared at all. . . .

But Anne was still looking at her with a steady, watchful expression.

Mary lowered the handkerchief she’d raised to her nose. “Ready.” Here beside the river, the smell of putrefaction was so strong she could taste it. Vegetation. Flesh. Sewage, both human and animal. All rotting. Add to that coal smoke and, beneath it all, the tang of salt water.

Anne pressed her lips together. “Ghastly, isn’t it? Once this hot spell lifts, it ought to be quite a lot better.”

“I hope so,” Mary muttered. Her attention was focused on the house. Number twenty-two Cheyne Walk was a strange choice for a businessman. The Chelsea district was famous — perhaps notorious — for its bohemian atmosphere, but it was still rather seedy.

The house itself was a tall slice of Georgian wedding cake. Being so close to the Thames — it was right across the street from the embankment — its whitewashed façade was an uneven gray, frescoed with lumps of bird guano and soot. The steps, however, had been scrubbed that morning, and the door was promptly answered by a footman. Mrs. Thorold was expecting them; would they walk up?

It took several moments for their eyes to adjust to the dim stuffiness of the interior. The staircase leading up to the second floor was lined with oil portraits: a golden-haired girl, pretty but overdressed; a pallid boy in a sailor costume; a portly middle-aged woman displaying a splendid ruby necklace; and last, a middle-aged man with puffy eyes and the jowls to match. Mary studied this one with special interest.

The drawing room was at the front of the house. Its large windows were swathed in elaborate velvet drapes that excluded all daylight and any possible breeze. The air inside, still and stale, nevertheless held a definite suggestion of the river’s stench, overlaid with rose potpourri.

“Misses Treleaven and Quinn, madam.” The footman’s voice was rather nasal.

Anne advanced and bowed. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thorold. May I present to you Miss Mary Quinn? She is the young woman I mentioned in my last letter.”

“I hope you will excuse my not standing, my dears.” The lady’s voice was flabby and tremulous. “I feel rather weak today.”

Mary bowed, then raised her eyes cautiously. Despite the heat, Mrs. Thorold was wrapped tightly in a lace shawl, her face pale beneath an old-fashioned lace cap. Her blue eyes blinked shortsightedly at Mary and Anne. She was like a faded version of the woman in the oil painting, except that the painter had tactfully ignored her pockmarks, which were pronounced.

“This heat must be very trying for you, Mrs. Thorold.” Mary’s voice was hesitant.

“Yes indeed.” The older lady nodded. “Enervating, that’s what my medical men say.” Her gaze wandered over Mary’s face and plain, unfashionable dress. It was unclear just how much those unfocused eyes could make out in the gaslit gloom.

“Do sit down.” Mrs. Thorold indicated the sofa immediately facing her armchair and turned to the footman. “William, you may serve tea. And — and tell Angelica I wish her to meet Miss . . .” She struggled briefly.

“Quinn,” Anne suggested. It was Mary’s mother’s surname, adopted during her early days at the Academy. Mary Lang was still a wanted woman, having escaped her fate at the gallows — and besides, Mary preferred a less conspicuous surname for reasons she refused to name, even to herself.

Anne skillfully led the small talk, describing Mary’s abilities as a paid companion — letter writing, reading aloud, good French, genteel taste in literature — and providing Mrs. Thorold with opportunities to quiz Mary on these subjects. Mary was just describing her current reading (a collection of sermons) when the drawing-room door opened and Mrs. Thorold’s face brightened.

“Angelica, darling. Come and meet Miss Treleaven and Miss Quinn.”

It was the girl from the portrait — still pretty and still overdressed, although the eyes were now narrowed and hostile. Her gaze swept from Anne to Mary. “So you’re
it
?” she demanded.

“I should like to be your companion, if your mother thinks it suitable,” Mary replied.

“I don’t want a companion.” Stony blue eyes raked her over, taking in her meek posture and unflattering dress. “Especially a foreigner. Where are you from?”

“London.”

Angelica snorted. “With those eyes and that hair?”

Mary couldn’t prevent a defensive blush. “My mother was Irish. Some Irish people have dark eyes and hair.”

“Only half English. . . .” Angelica twisted her mouth in distaste. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.” The lie felt strange in her mouth. Mary knew she looked nothing like twenty, but no one was going to hire a seventeen-year-old.

Angelica’s obvious disbelief was preempted by her mother’s anxious quaver. “My sweet girl, where are your manners? Miss Treleaven will think you so rude.”

The sweet girl dropped her gaze to the carpet and muttered a barely audible “How d’you do.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Miss Thorold,” murmured Anne. “I understand you’re a musician.”

Mary took her cue and jumped in with a gentle question about music. Between them, she and Anne cajoled Angelica into something like an ordinary conversation and eventually persuaded her to play for them. Mary braced herself for a syrupy popular ballad executed with a simper; instead, Angelica gave them a Bach prelude, very fast and stormy, and then pretended not to hear their startled expressions of admiration.

When the tea tray arrived, Angelica took charge automatically. She dealt out the cups with a clatter, deliberately stirred too much sugar into Anne’s cup, and all but hurled the plate of biscuits at the guests. One or two tipped onto the carpet, but Mrs. Thorold seemed not to notice.

Despite the efforts of Mary and Anne, tea was drunk mainly in silence. Mrs. Thorold settled drowsily into her chair, smiling absently from time to time, while Angelica simply shoved a biscuit into her mouth and shrugged whenever a remark was directed at her. Through persistent questioning, though, they learned that Angelica was eighteen; had left her finishing school in Surrey last year; did not miss her schoolmates, as they were a dull and stupid lot; had no particular friends in London; took pianoforte lessons twice a week at the Royal Academy of Music; and otherwise filled her time with boring parties. It was difficult to tell whether she disliked Anne and Mary especially or if she was angry at the whole world.

When the tea tray was removed, Mrs. Thorold seemed to awaken. She struggled to sit upright in her armchair and sighed, “Well, my sweet girl?”

Angelica flicked a glance at Mary. “No.”

Mary tensed. She had failed just like that? She fought an impulse to look at Anne.

Mrs. Thorold blinked twice, then sighed again. “Oh, my dear. We cannot continue this indefinitely, you know. It is so very tiring, for one thing.”

“We can. Until you understand that I don’t want a bloody companion.”

Mrs. Thorold blanched. “Language, my darling!”

“Mama, I will not have a paid companion. Do you understand me?”

The silence stretched for several seconds, with all four women frozen in their chairs. It was Anne who finally broke the impasse. “Mrs. Thorold, I shouldn’t like to force Miss Quinn’s company upon Miss Thorold; that would be most uncomfortable for both.”

Angelica smirked.

Mary inwardly slumped.

“But perhaps,” continued Anne, “Miss Thorold would appreciate a different sort of companion? Someone older, perhaps, who could act as a steadying influence? I have in mind a senior teacher at the Academy who is —”

“Oh, no,” interrupted Angelica. Her eyes flicked from Anne to Mary to her mother. “Not an old biddy.”

Anne turned her cool gaze on Angelica. “It’s merely a suggestion, Miss Thorold. But as your mother wishes you to have some sort of companion and knows your best interests . . .”

Angelica scowled. “Oh, no, you don’t.” She turned to her mother. “Mama, tell her! Tell her we’re not having anybody at all!”

A slight gleam appeared in Mrs. Thorold’s faded eyes. She gingerly moistened her lips. “Er . . . that is, Miss Treleaven . . . I see the wisdom in your suggestion.”

“Ma-MA!”
It was more a howl than an exclamation. Mary half expected Angelica to throw herself onto the carpet and beat it with her fists.

Mrs. Thorold glanced at Anne. “Yes . . . I see now. Angelica, you must choose. Will it be Miss Quinn or an older chaperone?”

“You can’t be in earnest!”

“But I am, my dear.” Her voice was still soft, but Mrs. Thorold seemed to gain conviction from Anne’s lead. She met her daughter’s angry glare with a placid blink. “Miss Quinn is the eighth candidate we have considered for this position. She seems entirely suitable and very pleasant as well. You must choose, unless you wish me to choose for you.”

Angelica was still sulking. Did she get that temper from her father?

Anne turned to her. “Perhaps a trial period might be best,” she said calmly. “To see how you get on. If at the end of, say, a month’s time, you find that you cannot tolerate Miss Quinn’s company, I shall introduce you to Miss Clampett. She’s a very brisk, efficient lady with many years of schoolroom experience. She’s a great proponent of early morning constitutionals and cold baths.”

“You’re only trying to frighten me.” But Angelica didn’t sound certain.

Anne merely shrugged and consulted her watch. Turning back to Mrs. Thorold, she said, “I have enjoyed our meeting, madam, but regret that I must be on my way.” She paused, then asked casually, “Shall I try to keep Miss Quinn disengaged for a few days? We’ve another client who requires a young lady companion, but I
might
be able to put her off. . . .”

Three heads swiveled toward Angelica, who threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, very well! I suppose even Miss Quinn is preferable to an old bag who plunges one into cold baths.”

Mary reduced a triumphant grin to a demure smile. “Why, thank you.”

The speed of her installation at Cheyne Walk was breathtaking, even by Anne’s standards. Within a quarter of an hour, Mary’s salary was negotiated, her duties reaffirmed, and the delivery of her small trunk arranged for later that evening. She would begin on the spot. As Anne took her leave, Mary felt a wave of sheer panic. Although her assignment was clear in her mind, she would have given much for five minutes’ private conversation with Anne. Instead, she dredged up a shaky smile and made a modest bow. It wasn’t as though she was completely adrift, Mary reminded herself. There was a simple letter-writing code by which she and Anne could exchange information. And above all, she had asked — pleaded, even — for this new task. This new challenge. This new life.

Before the drawing-room doors had closed on her so-called former employer, Mrs. and Miss Thorold had relapsed into what seemed their normal state: Mrs. Thorold dozed in her chair while Angelica practiced the pianoforte.

The music ended only with the appearance of the men. The sound of footsteps on the staircase made Angelica put away her sheet music, and even Mrs. Thorold appeared to wake up when the drawing-room door clicked open.

“Here you are, my dears, hallo, hallo . . .” A small, moonfaced, great-bellied man bustled into the room, dropping his hat on one side table, his gloves on another, and smoothing down a few wisps of combed-over hair that had come unstuck from his bald crown.

“You’re rather early this evening, Papa,” said Angelica sweetly, coming forward to have her forehead kissed.