Ridiculous (2 page)

She never in her life had been so angry. Not when she had learned that her father had made no plan, had written no will for the protection of his wife and children and what little he had possessed had gone to male relatives. Not when she had been turned out of her home, forced to endure months of degradation and uncertainty in the workhouse then forced to fetch and carry for an abusive and unfeeling cousin. Never.

Until this moment she had not realized it was possible to tower in her own rage.

“Do you believe, Mother, that it is better for us to be penniless dependents? To be servants? To be slaves to the whims of miserly men? That it necessary we permit everything we own to be taken from us, as when Father died? Heaven forbid we protest. Heaven forbid we take action to protect ourselves.” Millicent fairly vibrated in her anger. “Do you believe it better that we starve in the street rather than I should wear men's trousers? We may die of starvation, but at least we will have maintained the proprieties; that is the most important thing! By God, Mother, are you so lost to simple sense that propriety is more important to you than life itself?”

“Yes. No. Oh, Millicent. Do not shout at me. I am so afraid.”

“Then let me take care of you. Please, Mother, I can do this.”

“Think of your sisters. Think of the disgrace when you are found out. You cannot shame them like this.”

“Oh, really, Mother,” said Mildred. “I agree with Millicent. Indeed, we are lucky that she can attempt this. I am too short for such a thing, with too much bosom. No one would be deceived for a moment. But Millicent is tall; everyone will believe she is a man.”

Millicent grinned down at her sister. That was the simple, honest truth. Though there was only one year difference in their ages, Millicent towered over her middle sister. She was, in fact, taller than most of their acquaintances. Her sisters and mother were all tiny pocket Venuses with thick golden curls, as opposed to Millicent's straight sandy hair that resisted the most tightly knotted curling papers – back when they had time to bother with such things. Their petite forms were graced with generous curves and tiny waists. Compared to them, Millicent frequently felt like a hulking giantess. A skinny, flat-chested giantess. Well, to be honest she did have bosoms, but she anticipated no particular difficulties concealing them. The only thing the women had in common were eyes of golden brown that glowed catlike when strong emotion moved them.

“I will fetch a chemise and stays … well, no, not the stays,” said Mildred thoughtfully. “You are right, of course. We deserve to be comfortable in our graves, if nowhere else.”

“But it will not work,” repeated Felicity.

“Mother!” Millicent stopped, sighed, and continued in a softer tone. “Let us at least try and see what we can make of him. Consider the alternatives.”

Mildred returned with chemise, stockings, and shoes and the two women set to work dressing the body.

“We have to work quickly while the body is still soft,” said Millicent.

“His hair is a problem. ‘Tis too short,” said Mildred.

“I told you it would not work,” murmured Felicity and was ignored.

“We have to cut my hair, anyway,” said Millicent. “Fortunately, he and I are of much the same shade. If we cut my hair while it is still in braids and wrap them around his head…?”

“It will fall off or come undone.” Mildred finished her task of tying frayed ribbons to hold up Mr. North's stockings. “Wait. I have an idea.”

Shortly thereafter, they were finished. Millicent's hair was shorn, shorter than Mr. North's and loops of her carefully braided hair were sewn to a frilly cap Mildred had found and tied onto the dead man's head. It took all three women working together to carry the heavy body out of the master bedroom and down the corridor to an empty guest room. The body was dressed in Millicent’s oldest brown dress, arms folded over the flat bosom, masculine hands hidden beneath a bouquet of dried flowers from the still room and the whole wrapped tightly in old, patched but clean sheets, awaiting the arrival of the undertaker.

As soon as the body was prepared, Millicent and Mildred set to work on Millicent's transformation. Her face was whitened with flour and her nose reddened with rouge. Her recently trimmed hair was hidden under a sleeping cap. Dressed in her cousin’s thick powdering gown and with the room curtains closed tight, the two women hoped that their trick would succeed. Sitting up in the recently vacated master's bed, Millicent huddled under the quilts just as a heavy cart rumbled into the forecourt.

It was decided that Mildred should handle the vicar and his brother since Felicity could not yet be relied upon. Instead Felicity was banished to the servant rooms in the attic where Mr. North insisted the women should live, to sit with Maude.

Three years ago, after the death of her husband had left them alone and penniless, Felicity wrote politely to all her acquaintances and relatives explaining her plight and that of her three daughters. The first round of letters was met with universal rejection. A second set of letters, desperate and begging, went out. That time Felicity received but one positive reply, from Mr. Anthony North.

Relieved, the women had traveled to Mr. North's principal estate in north Yorkshire to be met with the news that Mr. North had dismissed all his female servants in anticipation of the Boarder family arrival. It was his expectation that those positions would be filled, unpaid, by the bereaved ladies. Without other recourse, the ladies had done so for three long years.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew about Mr. North's nip-farthing ways; therefore, the vicar was not surprised when Mildred answered the door instead of a footman, butler, or housekeeper, and led the way upstairs to where the body rested. Mildred’s fingers were tight crossed behind her back all the time the vicar and undertaker stood beside the bed. At any moment she expected an outcry. To her relief and astonishment, neither man protested – “surely this is no woman.” Indeed, the undertaker barely glanced at the body, spending more time staring about the room at the furnishings.

“My mother is upstairs with Maude,” said Mildred, after Mr. Abram, the vicar, said a short prayer over the deceased. “We are still concerned about the health of my youngest sister. Fortunately, Mr. North's fever has broken. He is still weak and would prefer no visitors.”

“The neighborhood has been much afflicted by this fever,” said Mr. Abram. “This is hardly my first visit to a house today for this same sad reason. We must pray for Mr. North's and Miss Maude's continued improvement.”

“I must speak to Mr. North, at least,” rumbled the undertaker. “I must have instructions regarding the coffin.”

Mildred blinked, then realized what the man meant. He wanted to know how much Mr. North, known skinflint, was prepared to pay for the burial of a woman who had been, for all intents and purposes, his maid.

“And I must speak to him regarding the eulogy,” added Mr. Abram.

Another petition for money.

With a nod Mildred led them to the master bedroom. After a soft knock, she opened the door and permitted the two men to precede her. If this subterfuge were going to fail, it was best they know it now when they could still pass it off as Millicent’s miraculous recovery.

“Mr. North,” said Mr. Abram with a cough to clear his throat. “Please accept my condolences on your loss.”

“Keep away from me,” rasped Millicent and covering her face, went into a spasm of sneezing and coughing. “I have barely survived one foul pestilence; I do not need yours.”

“My apologies.” The vicar retreated a few steps.

“And close the door. You are letting in drafts.”

With the light from the corridor blocked by the door, the bedchamber was plunged into a deep gloom, making it impossible to tell if the figure in the bed were male or female. Even so, Millicent took no chance. Covering her face with a large handkerchief, she sank further back under the many coverlets and quilts.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.

“I only wish to know about the funeral…”

“Take the body away and put it in the ground,” snarled Millicent. “Do you not know your own business?”

“Ah.” The vicar blushed and glanced across at Mildred, who put a suitably distressed expression on her face.

“Mother would appreciate it if the body could rest here tonight,” said Mildred hesitantly, “so we may take leave of our sister.”

“There is no need for that,” muttered Millicent around another faked sneeze.

“Please, sir.” Mildred did a fair job of pretending to be meek and grieving. “I will never see my sister again.”

“All right, damn you. Just keep it far from me,” said Millicent.

“Do you have a particular preference for her placement in the cemetery?” pressed the vicar.

“I shall not pay to have that worthless chit buried under the nave if that is what you are getting at,” growled Millicent. “Bury her with the paupers; it matters not at all to me, but she must be out of the house at first light.”

Both Mr. Abram and the undertaker paled at that cruel dismissal. Mildred managed a choked sob that she covered when the figure in the bed turned to glare in her direction.

“About the coffin. I have a fine…” began the undertaker.

“Wrap her in newspaper. Put her in a sack like a drowned cat. I will give you one pound between you. Do what you will with her.”

Wisely, neither man asked about grave markers.

“Fetch my purse,” commanded Millicent, pointing to where it rested on a dressing table.

Weeping softly, Mildred carried it, unopened, to the bed. Millicent muttered and grumbled as she searched vaguely through the contents. She knew Mr. North’s habits better than anyone. She made sure to caress each coin, rubbing it between thumb and finger before returning rejected coins to the purse. Eventually, she drew forth ten tarnished shillings that she counted one by one into Mildred’s hand to be carried to the vicar.

“I shall not be well enough to attend the internment,” said Millicent, as the men retreated from the room, “and her sisters and mother, well, rather than allow them to cause a scene, I shall keep them home, as is proper; there will be no need for church prayers.”

The two men bowed their way out of the bedchamber without meeting Mildred's eyes. With the aid of the gardener, and with Mildred watching from the shadows to be sure no one closely examined the body, Mr. North was encoffined in a thin pine box and carried down to the drawing room.

“I will be back first thing tomorrow to collect her,” said the undertaker with a professional pretense of sympathy.

“Thank you for your kindness,” said Mildred.

As soon as the men departed, Millicent descended from where she had kept watch from the top of the stairs.

“We did it,” cried Millicent. “They did not suspect a thing.”

“You were everything that was miserly, mean, and unfeeling,” said Mildred, hugging her sister. “Of course they believed you were Mr. North.”

“It will not work, you know,” said their mother, emerging from the servant’s stairs. “You cannot go into local society. Mr. North may not have gone about much, but he was well enough known hereabouts. One day, two at the most, is all we have. We should pack our bags, take as much as we can carry that can be sold, and leave tonight.”

“Mother, you underestimate me,” said Millicent. “I have been giving the matter some thought while we waited and I know exactly what to do. Mr. North may have gone about in
local
society, but since he inherited he has not ventured further from this estate than twenty miles.” She paused and grinned at her sister. “In a few days, we are going to put the story about that Mr. North has recovered somewhat from his fever and he has decided to go to Bath, where no one knows him, to take the waters for his health.”

“And taking us with him?” asked Mildred. “Why would he?”

“But of course. Otherwise, he would have to hire servants in Bath, and you know how expensive city servants are. Far better to have us since we cost him no more than food and lodging. We will hire local people to clean and maintain this house, to scrub it from top to bottom, and drive out the disease while he is away.”

“That is all very well to say,” said Felicity. “But we have no money to live in Bath.”

Millicent rolled her eyes and glanced across at her grinning sister. “Mother, you forget. I shall be traveling as Mr. North. We have his money!”

Felicity waved a hand around the gloomy hallway. “Look at the way he lived. He had little. We must be careful to husband every penny.”

“He may have given you and everyone hereabouts the impression that was the case, but it is not true. I have been managing Mr. North's accounts and correspondence for three years, Mother. He has an annual income of nearly twenty thousand pounds. He lived like this because he was a mean, unimaginative miser.”

“Why did you not say?” demanded Felicity.

“Would it make any difference? He made it clear to me he had no intention of paying us a salary no matter what his income was. I did not want to torment you with the knowledge.”

“We are rich! Rich!” Mildred laughed and clapped her hands. “Excellent. Then we can afford to hire staff. I so look forward to having a bath I have not had to heat and haul the water for myself. Dresses. Hats. Oh, I do long to wear gloves without holes again. My hands are so cold!”

“And so you shall,” Millicent assured her.

“But, you are not looking to the future,” Felicity's teeth worried at her lower lip. “This masquerade cannot hope to succeed.”

“That is because you have only seen me in my night cap and powdering gown. Come, Mildred. Let us garb Mr. North in his Sunday best, such as it is.” Holding hands, the two women ran upstairs to plunder Mr. North's dressing room.

The late Mr. North was so much a miser that most of his clothes had been obtained secondhand, and, therefore, not tailored to his form. Likewise, he was not much concerned with fashion and content for his clothing to hang loosely on his skinny body; he did not bother with the expense of a valet, or fancy cravats and such.

 It felt quite peculiar, Millicent found, to put off her chemise and stays and wrap layer upon layer of Mr. North's cravats about her torso to bind down her breasts. None of his collars were particularly high, but the cravat Mildred tied was good enough to conceal Millicent's lack of an Adam's apple. Millicent was quite shocked to discover how close in size and form she and her cousin were. Even his shoes fit, after a fashion, once she had layered on two pairs of knitted stockings. Mr. North’s one and only walking stick and hat were fetched from the hall closet to complete the ensemble.