Chapter Eleven
‘G ood heavens, Mrs Moore.’ Anna glanced out of the window to see the sun barely up.
‘He’s waiting downstairs,’ her housekeeper said with panic in her voice, so unlike the Mrs Moore who never faltered.
Anna threw on her clothes and hurried downstairs. Mrs Moore directed her into the sitting room. ‘Oh, dear,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, dear.’
Anna steeled herself to see the curate waiting to pounce again. Instead, she saw a mild-looking man with a leather business case.
‘You are Miss Anna Fontaine, sister of William Fontaine, late of the Royal Navy and current holder of the lease on this property?’
‘I am,’ she said calmly. ‘My brother was deceased after the battle of Trafalgar. If it is a matter of this property’s lease, I am quite able to continue payments.’
Mr Business Case shook his head. ‘You have been evicted.’
Her heart plummeted to her stomach. ‘There must be some mistake, sir. I am quite able to pay.’
He ruffled some more papers. ‘Anna Fontaine? Ah, yes. The Bishop of Exeter has declared you a menace to the parish of St Andrew.’ He glared at her. ‘The issue is moral turpitude.’
She gasped. ‘That is impossible!’
‘Hardly. Most of Plymouth heard yesterday’s sermon. Are you aware that this house, and many others, are the property of the Exeter diocese?’ He held out a paper with wax seals. ‘This eviction has been signed by Edward Maddy, curate of St Andrew’s, and counter-signed by Vicar Montague.’
‘I will find another house,’ Anna declared.
‘Unlikely. Word has got out about you. I work for Darius Bledsoe, who controls the rental properties in Plymouth and Devonport for the diocese.’ He pulled out a gold timepiece, glaring at it as though it was as much a disappointment as she was.
‘You have six hours to vacate the premises. If you persist in staying here, you and your possessions will be thrown onto the street and the constable summoned. I will see myself out.’
The front door closed with a distinct click. She stared at Mrs Moore, whose face probably reflected the pallor of her own.
‘That beastly man,’ she said finally. ‘This is monstrous.’
The roaring in her ears subsided enough to hear her housekeeper’s gusty sigh. ‘I would like to twist the head right off that warty little scoundrel!’
Anna sat in silence, imagining such a sight. She wanted to laugh, because Mrs Moore looked as if she could do just that—wipe off her hands, stamp on the curate’s corpse and kick it aside.
‘I believe you could, Mrs Moore,’ she said. ‘I would pay good money to see it, but that will never do.’ She did laugh then. ‘What would the neighbours say?’
‘Do you think that wretched nuisance was teased by fellow classmates as a child? They probably turned his smallclothes inside out and made him wear them over his trousers.’
‘I wouldn’t doubt it for a minute. He probably tattled on them, too.’ She laughed again, hoping it wouldn’t turn into hysterics. It didn’t.
In a minute, Anna heard the early-morning sounds of the fishmonger, who called, ‘Oysters! Oysters! They’re fresh as a sailor back from sea!’ as she made her usual rounds. Life was going on as normal. She had money in hand and more available.
Still…she knew she bore a heavy burden, thanks to a desperate man. She possessed no more power than any woman, which equated to none.
‘Mrs Moore, we have a challenge ahead.’
‘Would you say so?’ Mrs. Moore grinned. ‘Six hours isn’t much time. Do you have a plan?’
‘I will. Give me a moment. Allan and Pru will rise soon and want breakfast. Let me think.’
When the door closed, she told herself, I can do this; I gave him my word . She put her hands over her eyes for one blessed moment.
She spent little time blaming herself. The ladies in Covent Street had seemed welcoming, until an innocent hug had unleashed a storm of censure she could never have anticipated.
‘Think,’ she demanded. ‘You have six hours. Have you a friend anywhere? You only need one. You’ve had your fill of Plymouth.’
Fill… Fillion. I wonder , she thought, then, I barely know her . Anna ordered herself to stop dismissing an idea, any idea. She made herself remember their brief conversation.
I am always here if you need me .
If you need me .
‘I need you now, Mrs Fillion. I know it’s a common thing that polite people say, but I pray that you meant it.’
There was one way to find out. Her promise to Captain Beattie gave her the strength to get her cloak and bonnet, then find Mrs Moore in the kitchen, staring with vacant eyes at a pot of oats.
‘I have an idea,’ Anna said. ‘I’ll return soon. After the children have breakfast, get those empty boxes in the cellar and pack the essentials.’
‘Where are you going, love?’ Mrs Moore asked, panic written all over the face of someone usually in charge.
‘I’m going to the Drake.’
‘That’s in the Barbican!’ Mrs Moore warned her. ‘I’m coming, too.’
‘No. You are to organise the children,’ Anna said calmly. ‘Get them up and start packing.’ When Mrs Moore opened her mouth to protest, Anna kissed her cheek. ‘I am twenty-nine years old and capable.’ I hope , she added to herself.
She hurried away before Mrs Moore could voice more objections, setting out at a spanking pace, aware that people rarely bothered someone with a determined look.
Her expression was sufficiently quelling. A lounging sailor near a grog shop whistled at her, then slunk away when she glared. Even a constable backed away. Better and better.
It was one thing to walk bravely through the Barbican. It was quite another to stand at the entrance to the Drake and wonder at her boldness. It doesn’t matter , she thought. I need help . She opened the door.
Mrs Fillion stood behind the front desk, sorting through papers, spectacles perched on her nose. She saw Anna, yanked off her spectacles and hurried around the desk, her arms open.
With a sob, Anna threw herself into her embrace.
‘How did you know I needed this?’ Anna managed to say.
‘I knew I would never see you here without Captain Beattie if it weren’t an emergency. What happened?’
Soon they were seated in the alcove between the front desk and the stairwell.
Mrs Fillion took her hands. ‘You’re freezing,’ she scolded, but in that way of women looking out for each other. ‘Why are you here and how can I help?’
Aware of time passing, Anna started with Captain Beattie’s impulsive embrace on the steps of her home, and the rumours that had started. She only faltered on that terrible moment when the curate had pointed at her in church.
‘Somebody should thrash that man!’ Mrs Fillion declared.
‘Then a horrible man with a leather case arrived this morning and said we had six hours to vacate our premises. Mrs Fillion, I am desperate. Please help us.’
Her tired heart seemed to start beating again when the hotelier grasped her hands and said, ‘Yes, Anna, a thousand times.’ Anna wept as Mrs Fillion held her, like mother and daughter. ‘It’s going to be fine,’ she crooned.
Anna pulled herself together. ‘I can pay for lodging. That is not the issue.’
‘I knew Captain Beattie would never leave you penniless,’ Mrs Fillion said. ‘Take your money? No. I have a better idea.’
‘I could use a good idea,’ Anna said simply.
‘I need someone at the front desk. You, perhaps?’
‘At the front desk?’ Anna asked, surprised and, if she was honest, intrigued.
The front desk meant Navy men, who lately—especially one man in particular—had disrupted her orderly life.
Her humour returned. ‘Men? The old biddies on Covent Street will lose their minds if they hear I work at the Drake.’
Mrs Fillion laughed. ‘It’s a cliché, but living well is the best revenge. Officers are as gentlemanly as they can be. True, some haven’t seen a pretty face in a long time, but everyone knows I run a tight ship at the Drake.’
‘I’ll be safe,’ Anna agreed, ‘but no one ever said I had a pretty face.’
‘Look in the mirror occasionally,’ Mrs Fillion said crisply. ‘Front desk for you. Your housekeeper cooks? My chef will collapse in gratitude if Mrs… Mrs…’
‘Moore…’
‘…Mrs Moore agrees to help him. You mentioned a scullery maid. Pru? There are never enough choppers and dicers in my kitchen,’ Mrs Fillion said, ticking off the chores on her fingers. ‘Captain Beattie’s son? Is he useful?’
‘He will do whatever you like, and with good cheer,’ Anna said, amazed at the racehorse speed of this conversation. She reconsidered. ‘He can be a little tentative, but he has been through so much.’
‘So has his father, Miss Fontaine. Please, may I call you Anna?’
‘Certainly, you may, Mrs Fillion.’
‘I am Grace.’ She stood and tugged Anna up with her.
‘My Ben—he’s a handy man to know—will drive you back to Covent Street and help with the packing.
We’ll beat that six-hour deadline. I’ll have rooms ready when you return.
’ She hesitated. ‘I can put you on the third floor, which is where officers and their wives stay, or…or with me below-stairs.’
‘Below-stairs,’ Anna said promptly, then felt the greatest sense of belonging, knowing in her heart of hearts that it was not a step down into lower status, but an opportunity. ‘I can learn a skill. Mrs Fillion…’
‘Grace.’
‘Grace, I am in your debt forever,’ Anna said quietly.
Grace Fillion cupped her hands around Anna’s face, hands roughened by work but so tender. No one had touched her like that since the death of her mother.
‘When you are settled and comfortable, we will both write to Captain Beattie,’ Grace said. ‘He must know what is going on. Do you have a black dress?’
‘I do.’
‘Good. You’ll be perfect for the front desk. My clientele is always respectful. They’re rowdy sometimes over at the Perpetual Whist Game, but I make allowances.’
‘I won’t mind that,’ Anna said, dismissing her quiet life, which—truth to tell—was a boring business. Things were going to be different from now on. If she really thought about it—and why not?—life before Captain Beattie had knocked on her door was a trifle slow. ‘I won’t mind at all.’
Grace clapped her hands. ‘Bravo! My dear, welcome to the Drake.’