Chapter 5
A month had passed, though Catherine measured it in rules:
Be clean.
Be prompt.
Be clever without being seen to be clever.
Answer when addressed.
The notebook lay under her bolster at night. She had read and reread the four lines until she heard them in her sleep.
Fanny Murray’s was not cellar, nor chapel. Not brute confinement, nor pious cruelty. It was polish instead—paint, silk, perfume.
Order wearing luxury.
The girls had names that sat heavy with crowns—Bridget, Anne, Harriet, Victoria.
Catherine soon learned each one carried a different weight.
Bridget, the boldest, pinched and bullied the new arrivals until Mrs Murray clipped her ear in front of a client.
Anne wept prettily on command and was rewarded with gifts of lace.
Harriet whispered gossip like coin, always knowing who was wanted and who was not.
Victoria carried herself like a duchess, chin high, laughter precise, and then one night she was simply gone.
Catherine held herself small. She spoke little.
She watched much. Her training began with Mrs Ellison—an older woman who smelt of starch and vinegar.
She corrected posture with a sharp rap of her knuckles, taught how to fold linen, how to enter a room without creaking a floorboard, how to pour wine without spilling a drop.
“Appearances,” Mrs Ellison would say. “Let them believe in your grace. Make charm a habit.”
Meals were plain for the untried: bread, weak broth, water.
The favoured girls ate roasted fowl, drank chocolate, and dabbed their lips with linen napkins embroidered in red.
Catherine ate her bread without complaint.
Hunger sharpened her notice. Who reached for seconds, who dared leave crumbs, who tucked morsels into their sleeves for later.
She counted the small rebellions and kept them.
At night, she lay among whispers and names—men she half-recognised from her father’s card table, his laughter, his debts. She did not move. She set each one in its place.
Her new name—Catherine—clung to her like a fresh-stitched garment, stiff at the seams. The first week, she turned at the sound of Winnifred and earned a sharp cuff from Bridget. “That girl’s dead,” Bridget hissed. “Learn it.” Catherine did.
Mrs Murray herself appeared little in that first month, except in the mornings.
She would sit in her parlour, glassy-eyed, stockings half-rolled, sipping chocolate, receiving tributes.
Catherine watched: the fingers to the throat when a falsehood passed, laughter that counted only when the eyes joined it, silence that struck harder than words.
Training was not all correction. Sometimes Mrs Ellison set her to practice. One afternoon, Catherine stood in a chamber set with two mirrors and was made to curtsey a dozen times. Her ankles ached, but she steadied her chin, lowered her gaze, and rose again. Ellison grunted approval. “You learn.”
The girls tested her too. Anne tried to frighten her with tales of a lord who preferred girls who cried; Catherine only said, “Then cry for him.” Harriet baited her with secrets and promises; Catherine kept her silence.
Bridget slapped her once across the cheek when no one was looking, but Catherine did not flinch. She held the sting where it would keep.
By the month’s end, she had ceased to startle at her new name. She answered to Catherine as if it had always been so. And when Mrs Murray summoned her at last, she curtseyed low and steady.
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
Fanny Murray’s, March 1811
The large salon was crowded, laughter spilling into the corridor. Catherine kept to the edge of the crowd, balancing a tray of glasses as instructed. She had learned in six months to keep her chin lowered just enough, eyes lifted just so, to look busy, yet beyond a gentleman’s reach.
And then she saw him.
At the far end of the room stood Mr Sutcliffe, one of her father’s card-table friends.
His voice carried above the others, telling some anecdote about a broken axle and a ruined hunt.
She had seen him often as a child, with his loud laugh and sharper eyes, the sort that had counted her father’s debts before the last hand was even dealt.
Her hand tightened on the tray. The glass stems trembled against each other. Heat surged up her throat, bitter and metallic, as if she had bitten her tongue.
If he sees me, he will tell it by supper. Mother shamed. My brothers never letting me forget it.
She stepped back, slipped behind a pair of curtains, and waited until he had gone.
The next morning, Mrs Murray summoned her.
Catherine entered the parlour carefully. The fire was low, the curtains half-drawn, light falling in angled bars across the carpet. Mrs Murray sat at her escritoire, chocolate in hand, her wrapper perfectly arranged. Another small vial sat beside an empty teacup.
“You avoided a gentleman last night,” Mrs Murray said without preamble.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said softly.
“Why?”
Catherine clasped her hands together. “I knew him once. He was… acquainted with my family.”
Mrs Murray stirred her chocolate. Her eyes never left Catherine. “So—you thought to hide. Why?”
Her chest tightened. “He would have known me.”
Mrs Murray’s voice cut, cool as glass. “And why would that matter?”
Heat pricked her skin. “Because then—my father would know where I had fallen.”
Mrs Murray snapped the book shut. “So—still your father’s creature. Still begging breath from the fiction he wrote of you.”
Catherine frowned. “Fiction?”
Mrs Murray rose, crossed to the fire, and stirred the coals with the poker. Sparks leapt. She smiled faintly, as if the sparks amused her. “Do you believe your father’s estate was truth? The table, the governess, the portraits—chains dressed as comfort?”
She turned; poker balanced in her hand like a sceptre. “Costume, child. Costume and play-acting. You mistook it for flesh.”
She returned to her chair, poured a measure from the vial into her tea, and drank as if it were ordinary milk. Her palms were damp against her skirts. “It felt true.”
Mrs Murray’s laugh was low, without warmth. “That is the finest trick of all. To make a girl mistake her cage for her skin. And what is owed to such a trick? Nothing.”
“It pained me to see him.”
“Of course it did,” Mrs Murray said, laying the poker aside. “That is the tether. Pain is the leash that drags you back to the role they chose for you. Some die with it still biting their neck.”
Heat climbed her throat; the carpet blurred a little. She stood silent, the fire’s heat biting her shins.
“You are less than what you were,” Mrs Murray said, “Less by their measure. Tell me—do you still feel it?”
Catherine dropped her chin. “Yes.”
“Then you are still bound. And until you sever that cord, you will ever be theirs.”
She drew in a breath. A spark flared. “Then I owe them nothing.”
She paused. “Not truth, not falsehood.” She looked up.
“Not fear.”
Mrs Murray leant back, eyes hard. Her lips curved, slow, predatory. “Better. That is honesty sharpened to a blade. I find I value it.”
Silence stretched. Then Mrs Murray said, “You will change your hair. A different cut, a darker shade. No one will mistake you again.”
Catherine’s fingers touched her own braid unconsciously. “Yes, ma’am.”
“In return, you will read to me one hour each day. A bargain, I daresay.”
Catherine blinked. “Read?”
“Yes. I find few people honest enough to speak plainly. Books can sometimes do it better. You will give me your voice, and I will give you anonymity. Do you agree?”
She closed her eyes. Not Maud’s whip, not King’s cellar, not Father’s cards—this at least she could choose.
She opened her eyes, raised her chin, and curtseyed. “With pleasure, ma’am.”
Mrs Murray sipped her chocolate. “So long your pleasure proves to my profit.”
Catherine’s lips tugged. “Indeed.”
* * *
Fanny Murray’s, July 1811
The man laughed too loudly, fingers warm on Catherine’s wrist. She leant in when he beckoned, the smile rehearsed, yet light enough to appear girlish.
Across the room, Bridget’s painted mouth tightened.
Anne sat at her side, whispering into her ear, both of them watching.
Anne’s eyes narrowed, the look sharp enough to prick across the distance. Catherine turned back to the gentleman.
The next morning, the corridor to breakfast smelled of coffee and spiced ham. Catherine entered last, plate in hand. Anne’s heel caught her ankle—sharp, deliberate. The tray tilted, cutlery clattered, a spoon skittered across the floor.
Anne’s voice rose, sugar over acid. “Dear me, Catherine. How clumsy. No wonder he chose you over Bridget. Men do crave novelty—though it rarely lasts.”
Laughter rippled from the table. Bridget’s smile caught crooked, like a stitch drawn awry.
Catherine lowered her head, gathered the fallen spoon, and set it back in place. “Excuse me.” Nothing more.
Afternoon shadows stretched long against the wall. Bridget’s arm struck her shoulder hard, slamming her into the plaster. The breath left her in a gasp. Fingers like claws pinched deep into her arm, once, twice, leaving hot stings.
Bridget’s breath close, sour with wine, burned against her cheek. “You think you’ll climb above me? Gentle-born drab. You’ll learn.”
Silence. Catherine pressed her lips together, turned her cheek, waited until the hands slid away. Her arms burned with pinches, but her hands stayed still.
Strike and she’ll strike harder.
From some remembered hour, Mrs Murray’s voice: “Scripture says turn the other cheek. Nonsense. The blow only goes to the parent instead. A clever girl learns to wait.”
She breathed steady, said nothing, and walked to her room.
That early evening, the book felt heavy in her lap. She held it open, sleeves drawn short for the summer heat. Mrs Murray’s gaze paused mid-sentence.
The older woman’s finger tapped the margin. “Those bruises. A client?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Derek?”
A small smile flickered before Catherine caught it. “No. He actually dotes on me, dear boy.”
“Who then?”
She hesitated. “I was clumsy.”
Mrs Murray’s eyes narrowed, but her mouth curved almost pleasantly. “I see.”
Later, candlelight thick in the air, Catherine was summoned again.
Mrs Murray’s suite smelled of wax and musk.
Bridget and Anne were bent across the back of the sofa, pale shifts loose about their shoulders, eyes wide and wet.
Derek and his cousin Jonas held them fast, pressing their arms hard into the upholstery.
Mrs Murray’s voice cut like steel. “This is what happens to anyone who injures my property.”
Catherine’s breath stopped short.
With a sharp rip, the night-rails fell away. The lamplight revealed pale flesh, bent and trembling, its sheen more fear than sweat.
“Count them. I want the house to hear you,” Mrs Murray commanded.
The first strike landed—sharp enough to sting, not enough to break.
“One,” Bridget gasped.
The next. Anne whimpered. “Two.”
Five lashes each. Their voices shook—but held, as if terror alone kept them upright.
When it was done, Mrs Murray leant close, her words like ice. “If you cry, I will slap away your tears.”
Sniffles. Whimpers. No tears.
“Get back to work. And your earnings had better not fall off.”
Anne clutched her shift to her chest. “But—how will we entertain? My back—”
Mrs Murray’s lip curled. “Then stay on your knees. I daresay some will pay double for the novelty.”
The girls fled, bare feet slapping down the corridor. Catherine stayed where she was, her pulse hard at her throat.
Mrs Murray glanced at her once, then turned away. She poured wine, unhurried, tipped a measure from the vial, and drank as though quenching thirst.
“Catherine.”
“Ma’am?”
Mrs Murray set the glass down with a soft click. “Must I remind you of the rules? Our callers dislike waiting.”
* * *
Fanny Murray’s, September 1811
Victoria’s slim shoulders hunched as her fingers stumbled over the keys. She sang in a shy, quavering soprano,
“There was a jolly cobbler, and he had a merry song…”
Anne laughed from across the room. “Best save that one for a drunkard, love. You’ll have us all in stitches.”
A ripple of smirks passed between the girls. Bridget didn’t laugh, but her silence felt like agreement. Catherine felt the weight of their glances sliding her way, as though she were the one who’d struck the sour note.
She leant closer on the bench, her hand light on Victoria’s wrist. Her voice stayed low, measured. “Play it through.”
Victoria blushed but obeyed, softer now:
“With a hey down derry, he mended them strong—”
When the final note died, Catherine stilled her hand on the keys.
“Your voice is lovely, Victoria. But listen to me—if you sing a bawdy tune, let it be bold. Your boldness must be believed. Otherwise, choose what suits you. Gentle, tender. Play to your nature, and the men will recognise you—and favour you for it.”
Victoria’s eyes widened, relief breaking through her timidity. “Thank you, Catherine.”
Around them, the others busied themselves with their tasks: polishing buckles until they gleamed, stitching roses to slippers, tagging seams for the needlewoman.
Yet their glances turned—sideways and sharp—towards the pianoforte.
Anne’s needle jabbed too hard into the silk, her sniff covering a slip.
Bridget’s hands paused in her lap, then resumed with a little too much force.
The air shifted; Catherine’s felt the weight of being heard.
She smiled faintly, letting the looks pass while she counted them.
Later, when the room had emptied, Mrs Murray stepped out from the shadow of the doorframe. Her voice was dry silk. “Wise advice, my girl. You’ve learned quickly: a lie told badly is weakness. A truth played well is power.”
Catherine noticed her eyes were faintly dulled but let the praise weigh more. She bowed her head. “I only wanted her not to be laughed at.”
When Catherine dared lift her eyes, the older woman’s mouth curved—not warmth, not quite approval, but something like recognition. “You’ve begun to place yourself above them. Continue.”
Catherine lowered her lashes, obedient, and a small heat gathered low.