The Orphan's Dream (10 page)

She recoiled at the smell of bad breath and stale alcohol. ‘I won't listen to this.'

‘That's right, run away, and don't come back. You're not welcome here.'

‘I'll take what's mine. I want what's left of my possessions.'

‘Too late, Miss Cutler. I cleared the attic and the stall holders in Petticoat Lane were pleased to take the lot. I daresay you could buy some of the things back, at a price.'

If she had doubted Wiley's words she realised that he had been telling the truth when she found her best gown displayed on a market stall, together with several of her bonnets and her fur-trimmed mantle. Her boots and shoes were for sale further along the street and two women were fighting over her favourite lace-trimmed nightgown. Mirabel walked on. Even if she had had enough money to redeem her clothes she would have resisted the temptation. They were part of her old life and she must look to the future, there was nothing to be gained by living in the past.

She attended the church next day, sitting in the back pew as far away from Ernestine and her girls as was possible. Wiley was there as well as Cook and Flossie, who was snivelling into her handkerchief. The ceremony was brief and the interment was to be at Brookwood Cemetery. The glass-sided hearse was waiting outside, and the coal-black horses pawed the ground with their mourning plumes waving in the cool breeze.

‘Are you a member of the funeral party, miss?' The solemn-faced undertaker eyed her curiously.

‘No she ain't. She can't afford the rail fare.' Ernestine walked off, heading towards the second carriage with her daughters tagging along with obvious reluctance. Prudence stuck her tongue out at Mirabel but Charity chose to ignore her. Wiley strode past with his nose in the air. He was dressed like a gentleman, although Mirabel suspected that his suit had been hired for the occasion, but she recognised the silver-topped ebony cane he carried as being her father's favourite. It was plain to see that he had assumed the position of head of the house even before his old master was laid to rest. Mirabel stood stiffly erect, chin up and determined not to let them see that she was close to tears. ‘Goodbye, Pa,' she whispered as the horses moved forward at the coachman's command, heading towards the London Necropolis railway station where the party would board the special train to Brookwood Cemetery.

She stood motionless, watching until they were out of sight. It was farewell to her old life, she realised with a sigh, and now she was truly alone and virtually penniless until Zilla chose to pay her the small wage they had agreed. Her home for the foreseeable future was a brothel in Tenter Street.

Zilla looked up from her desk as Mirabel entered the parlour. ‘I can't keep on calling you Mirabel,' she said thoughtfully. ‘It's too grand a name for a parlourmaid.'

‘Yes, Miss Zilla.'

‘You needn't put on that humble air with me, because I see through you as if you were a pane of glass, Miss Cutler. You look down on me and my girls.'

‘That's not true,' Mirabel said, stung by the unfairness of this remark. She had been with Zilla for a month and had done her job to the best of her ability. The hours were long, and she often found herself helping in the kitchen when Cook had imbibed too freely. At any time of the day or night she might be called upon to clear up spilled wine or food, broken glass or overflowing chamber pots. It was not a job for the squeamish or anyone with a delicate constitution. In four short weeks Mirabel had learned more about the intimate amorous dealing of men and women than she had in her whole life. She doubted whether there was anything much that would shock her now.

‘Well, it doesn't matter to me what you think. As long as you do your work and keep yourself to yourself I'm content to keep you on.'

‘Thank you.'

‘But from now on I'll call you Mabel, which is more fitting for a servant.'

‘Will that be all, Miss Zilla?'

‘Not quite.' Zilla leaned back in her chair. ‘Gertie is completely recovered now, isn't she?'

‘It's taken a long time, but yes, I'd say she is quite well now.'

‘And there's still no news of her brother?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘I've told you before that I'm not a charity and I meant it. Gertie will have to work or she'll have to find somewhere else to live.'

‘What exactly had you in mind?'

‘To put it bluntly, she was a prostitute before she came to me and I can make use of her talents. Some gentlemen have a fancy for the waiflike creatures, while others prefer more meat on the bones of their women. Am I shocking you, Mabel?'

‘After the things I've seen here I don't think anything will ever shock me again.'

Zilla nodded, eyeing her thoughtfully. ‘You're a good-looking woman and you have a well-rounded figure. You could earn a lot of money if you chose to.'

‘No.' Mirabel shook her head. ‘I'm willing to work hard, but not that. Never that.'

‘Oh, very well. Don't make a song and dance about it. But there is something you could do which might benefit you.'

‘Which is?'

‘I have an old and respected client who is, shall we say, rather past the age when he enjoys the carnal delights of my girls, but he still appreciates the good things in life. Am I making myself clear?'

‘I'm afraid not. What are you suggesting?'

‘This gentleman is very rich and quite eccentric, which is why he still likes to come here even if he doesn't avail himself of all that's on offer. I think he is lonely and he likes pretty women, but he needs someone who can converse with him on an equal level.'

‘I'm still not quite clear what you want me to do.'

‘You could engage him in conversation and provide a sympathetic ear when he wishes to talk about himself and his passion for flowers.'

‘Flowers.' Mirabel stared at her in surprise. ‘He likes flowers?'

‘He is an orchid collector and very wealthy. As far as I can tell he has devoted his whole life since leaving the army to travelling the world in search of rare specimens. I find it a terrible bore, but you must hang on his every word.'

‘I think I would find it very interesting.'

‘As I thought, you are a strange young woman. You and he might do well together, but you would have to look the part. He might not want a woman in the physical sense, but he has eyes in his head and he appreciates beauty. When you're suitably dressed I believe you will look quite presentable.'

‘I've nothing to wear.'

Zilla shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘You need not worry about that, Mabel. I've already sent for my dressmaker and she will make you a gown. All I ask is that you keep him entertained, for which I'll pay you according to how satisfied he is with your company.'

‘But if I agree to do this would I still be a parlourmaid?'

‘That goes without saying. You carry on as usual except for the evenings when Mr Kettle requests your presence. Assuming he takes to you in the first place, of course, although I pride myself on being a good judge of character. What do you say?'

Mirabel thought quickly. ‘I'll do it, but only if you make it clear to the gentleman what my duties will be.'

‘That's settled then.' Zilla opened the ledger and picked up a quill pen. ‘You may go, Mabel. Send Gertie to me now. I'll deal with her next.'

Mirabel found things to do in the entrance hall, dusting and then polishing the brass candle sconces while she waited for Gertie to emerge from Zilla's parlour. She caught up with her just as she was about to enter the room they had been sharing since they arrived in Tenter Street. ‘Well?' she demanded. ‘What did she say to you?'

Gertie turned away but not before Mirabel had seen the tears sparkling on the tips of her long eyelashes. She followed Gertie into their room, closing the door so that no one would overhear their conversation. ‘Zilla told you that she wants you to work for her, didn't she?'

Gertie sank down on her bed. ‘I knew it was coming. I'm well now and she's been good to me. I'd have ended up in the workhouse if you hadn't brought me here.'

‘We both might have had that fate.' Mirabel sat down beside her. ‘You don't have to do this if you don't want to.'

‘Of course I do. What choice have I got?'

‘You could go into service. I've done it and I hadn't any training.'

‘I was a scullery maid until the master's son tried to get me into his bed. His mother caught us and blamed me for trying to seduce her precious boy. I was sacked and sent away without a character. Who'd take me on now?'

‘Zilla would give you a reference.' Mirabel met Gertie's quizzical gaze and they both dissolved into giggles. ‘Perhaps that wasn't such a good idea.'

Gertie's cheerful smile faded. ‘I might have died but for Zilla. I owe her, Mirabel. I didn't have any choice but to agree to her terms.'

‘I'm so sorry.' Mirabel gave Gertie's hand a gentle squeeze. ‘I know that Zilla's very strict with the gentlemen clients, but you must speak to the other girls and they'll help you. They're all nice apart from Winnie. I don't trust her at all, but you don't have to have anything to do with her.'

‘It's nothing I haven't done before, but I thought I'd left all that behind me.'

‘I have a plan, Gertie. As soon as I've saved up enough money I'm leaving and renting a room of my own. Then I'll look for work, any sort of work where I can earn enough to live on, and you'll come with me.'

‘Really? Would you do that for me?'

‘Of course I would. We've come this far together.'

‘And one day Bodger will turn up,' Gertie said eagerly. ‘I know he will. He's not dead. I'm sure I'd feel it in my heart if anything bad had happened to him.'

Mirabel jumped to her feet at the sound of the doorbell. ‘I have to go. We'll talk more later.'

‘I dunno about that. I'm to have my own room. Zilla said so. We won't be able to have a natter afore we go to sleep.'

‘I'm sure we'll snatch time in the day.' Mirabel hurried from the room and ran the length of the hall to open the front door.

‘I'm Miss Standish, Miss Grace's sewing woman.'

Mirabel stood aside. ‘Please come in.'

‘I'm to measure up a young lady for a gown.'

‘That will be me, Miss Standish. I'll take you to Miss Grace and no doubt she'll tell you what she has in mind.'

The gown fitted perfectly. Mirabel studied her reflection in the tallest of the mirrors that lined the entrance hall and did a twirl, catching sight of her swirling skirts as she pirouetted. Her small waist was whittled to a hand's span by the new corset that Zilla had provided, and the décolletage was not too daring. It was the prettiest gown she had ever possessed, and the iridescent blue-green silk reminded her of a picture she had seen depicting the colourful plumage of a peacock. Gertie had done her hair, showing a surprising talent in creating a coronet of thick coils and glossy ringlets that bobbed flirtatiously with every turn of her head. She came to a sudden halt, staring at the new self who gazed back at her with eyebrows raised.

‘You do indeed look quite passable, Mabel.' Zilla's brisk tone shattered the silence.

‘The gown is beautiful, Miss Zilla. Thank you.'

‘Don't thank me, thank Mr Kettle; he paid for it.'

‘Why would he do such a thing? I thought you said . . .'

‘Come along now, girl. You've been here long enough to know that the gentlemen always pay for the services we provide. You didn't think that you would be giving your time for nothing, did you?'

‘It didn't occur to me that I'd be beholden to him for my clothes. I really can't accept such a gift.'

‘Don't be a fool. Of course you'll take the gown. You're wearing it aren't you? It was made for you and Hubert Kettle paid good money to have a pleasant evening with a beautiful woman. He's waiting for you in the morning room. Come with me and I'll introduce you.' Zilla walked away without waiting for Mirabel's response, leaving her little option but to follow and allow her mentor to usher her into the room. ‘Hubert, my dear, this is Mabel, the young lady I told you about.'

He rose from his seat by the fire, which had been lit despite the fact that it was a relatively warm evening. His expression was serious. ‘How do you do, Mabel?'

Zilla smiled and inclined her head. ‘I'll leave you to get acquainted, Hubert. Mabel will see that you have everything you want.' She backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

The sound echoed in Mirabel's head, and it might as well have been a prison door closing. She had to curb a sudden urge to escape. ‘Good evening, sir,' she murmured, bobbing a curtsey, which seemed appropriate in the circumstances.

‘Won't you take a seat, Mabel?'

She hesitated, wondering what sort of man chose to visit a brothel simply for an evening of conversation about flowers. His voice was cultured and she supposed him to be in his late sixties, although he looked older. His skin was prematurely aged, tanned and wrinkled from exposure to the sun in foreign climes. His hair was thick and bushy and snow white, as were his mutton-chop whiskers and moustache. These features, when combined with pale grey eyes the colour of snow melt, gave him a startling appearance, made even more arresting by his alert expression and upright military bearing.

She met his gaze with a steady look. ‘It's not Mabel, sir. My name is Mirabel.'

‘I'm sure my hearing is as acute as it ever was. I distinctly heard Zilla call you Mabel.'

‘Yes, she did. She chooses to use that name because I'm just a parlourmaid and it keeps me in my place, but that isn't the real me. If you and I are going to get along then I feel we should be honest with each other from the start.'

He sat down suddenly, motioning her to take the seat opposite. ‘Well now, you are an unusual young lady. Tell me about yourself, Mirabel.'