Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Eliza Downing looked around the small room that had been her home for the past two years.
It held the narrow bed she’d shared with her friend, a chipped washbasin on a wobbling stand, and a battered trunk that held all their clothes if they packed carefully.
The small window was curtained with a length of bright red material Sylvie had brought home from work, its edges neatly hemmed, the color far too bold for the rest of the drab furnishings.
They’d made it as comfortable as they could, with folded shawls for extra pillows and a rag rug by the bed to keep bare feet from freezing on winter mornings. But for Eliza, most of the comfort came from the woman seated in the room’s only chair, lacing her feet into her boots.
Eliza picked up The Holton Agency Etiquette Manual, the book she’d read through yet again last night, and placed it in her bag. Eliza had memorized the lists of rules, not wanting to jeopardize her employment in any way.
“Sylvie, have you ever had reason to doubt the Holton Agency?”
Small with elfin features and a determined chin, Sylvie had the kind of beauty that made people look twice and the kind of personality that made them think, also twice, before crossing her. To Eliza, she was the strongest, most wonderful person she’d met since the day she’d lost her family.
“Not really—”
“Which means what?”
“That I haven’t until recently. Mrs. Holton has been quite rude and dismissive to me. She told me she was sending me to the Nightingales, as no one else would work with such a family.”
Eliza remembered the conversation and wasn’t sure how she’d gotten on the wrong side of the woman.
“What’s wrong with the family? I thought you said they were lovely during the interview,” Sylvie demanded.
“They were, but apparently there was a scandal many years ago. Mrs. Holton wouldn’t go into details.”
“Why didn’t you ask her what you’d done if she was being rude to you?” Sylvie asked.
“Because I need work, and I did not want to annoy her further. I will take anything at the moment.”
“I think that the questions they asked were too personal when we first joined Holton’s,” Sylvie added. “Like, do you have any family and do you have a suitor?”
Eliza nodded. “Which is why you lied about Tommy.”
“Yes, especially after Heather Blackwell told me they dismissed her from their books, and the only reason she could come up with is that she’s engaged.”
“Surely not.” Eliza was horrified. “I don’t understand why that should matter.”
Sylvie shrugged. “She was right upset.”
“I like Heather.”
“Me too. Now, enough about that. You need to get moving, as it’s your first day.”
“I will miss you, Sylvie,” Eliza said quietly.
“Now don’t go getting teary-eyed,” her friend said briskly.
“It’s not forever. You’ll go play nursemaid to those Nightingales, I’ll finish this commission for Mrs. Renton’s shop, and when we’re both done, we’ll go to the country and find a nice little place to settle.
Chickens, apple trees, and no landlords who glare at us as if we’ve dragged muck in on our boots. ”
“You’ll be wed to Tommy, with children, by then,” Eliza said, attempting lightness.
“Then you can live with us,” Sylvie declared. “Tommy can build another room onto the back. He’s handy, my Tommy. Or we’ll put you in the attic and call you our mysterious lodger. It will be terribly romantic.”
Eliza smiled. It tugged at something in her chest, that easy certainty Sylvie had that there could be a future with rooms added on and apple trees and enough bread for everyone, when she knew different. Happy-ever-afters weren’t for Eliza. Once, perhaps, but no more.
Sylvie Cooper had been her friend for two years now, ever since they’d met at Holton’s Agency on a bitter, cold morning.
Sylvie, a seamstress, had arrived clutching a parcel of references and wearing a blue dress that had seen far better days. Eliza had been there to answer an advertisement for a nursery maid in Kensington, her gloves darned so many times, the patches were nearly more thread than original fabric.
They’d stood in the same draughty corridor as Mrs. Holton shuffled papers and called names in a brisk voice.
“You here for the governess post?” Sylvie had whispered, sliding closer. “Or maid?”
“Governess,” Eliza had whispered back. “If anyone will have me.”
“Well, we’ll see that they do.” Sylvie had nodded as if that settled the matter, and somehow the weight of uncertainty had lifted, just a fraction.
Later that day, with their prospects no better than they’d been that morning, they’d both found their way to Miss Dot’s Lodging House For Young Ladies. There had been only one room available.
“Do you snore?” Sylvie had demanded the moment they were shown into the narrow hallway, turning to Eliza as if she’d known her forever.
Eliza had blinked. “I… I don’t believe so.”
“Good, me either. Or so my sisters said.” She’d then turned to Miss Dot, the landlady, and announced, “We’ll take it together, if you don’t mind, ma’am.”
Miss Dot had peered at them over her spectacles. “You friends, then?”
“For many years,” Sylvie had lied without blinking. “It’s a very solid acquaintance.”
And that had been that.
They’d spent their first night lying stiffly side by side on the narrow bed, blankets pulled up to their chins, strangers bound by necessity and the mutual terror of ending the day with nowhere to go.
Eliza had stared into the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house settling, to someone laughing downstairs, to Sylvie’s soft little huffs of breath.
On the second night, when the silence had grown too heavy, Sylvie had said into the darkness, “I still believe in happy endings, you know. Even if it’s hard to see them from here.”
Eliza had turned her head on the pillow. “Happy endings are for stories, Sylvie.”
“Stories have to come from somewhere,” her friend had said stubbornly. “Someone had to have experienced them first.”
They’d debated that point for hours, whispering so as not to disturb any other residents, as the walls were thin. Sylvie had refused to surrender her belief in something better. Eliza had refused to trust in anything she could not hold in her hands.
It had been Sylvie who had given her the final push to take the position at the Nightingales when it had arisen, and so soon after leaving her last.
“Stop worrying, all will go well,” Sylvie said.
“Go. Teach their girls to curtsy and hold a fan and avoid idiots like Lord Whatever-his-name-was. And if it doesn’t work out, you can come back, Eliza.
But this is for the best now, and you can forget about what nearly happened that night.
I know you’ve been having nightmares, because I’ve heard you whimpering.
This is a fresh start. Take it with both hands. ”
Eliza shivered just thinking about what could have happened had that man not stepped in to help her.
“Always remember this is your home,” Sylvie added.
Sylvie’s words echoed in her head like a promise she wanted desperately to believe. This would always be her home, but hopefully, for a while, she could be happy somewhere else.
Eliza bent over the bed, fastening the straps of her bag.
It was sad, really, that everything she owned fit inside it.
Some plain shifts, two serviceable dresses, three pairs of worn gloves, as she wore them all the time, a shawl, a small packet of letters, and the very few trinkets that had belonged to her mother.
She shut off that thought, because if Eliza allowed herself to think too long of the house where they’d all lived and laughed and then died, the memories would threaten to drop her to her knees.
Not today.
She took a steadying breath and straightened her shoulders.
“I think Tommy will propose tonight,” Eliza said because it was easier to talk about Sylvie’s happiness than her own loss. “Or Mr. Stanley, I should say, if we’re being proper.”
“He’d better do it soon.” Sylvie sniffed.
“I didn’t waste all that time letting him court me in the park only to be left without a ring when the nights turn cold.
Now, I have your new address, so I’ll send a note with the confirmation when he does.
‘Dear Miss Eliza Downing, I am officially betrothed. You can picture me wearing a ring too fine for the likes of me.’”
“You’ll deserve every sparkle,” Eliza said, managing a genuine smile this time.
Sylvie rose and smoothed her skirts, then fussed with the bodice of Eliza’s gray dress. “Stand still. Honestly, it’s like dressing a nervous foal. Now, I’ve repaired those boring dresses of yours, so they’ll last you a while longer.”
Eliza looked down the length of her gray skirts, the fabric sturdy and plain. “Not boring,” she said. “Efficient.”
“A little lace, Eliza—”
“Absolutely not.” She stepped back before Sylvie could pin anything decorative to her. “I’m not there to be looked at, and don’t want to draw attention to myself.”
Sylvie’s mouth flattened, but she let the matter drop. However, they both knew where Eliza’s words stemmed from—a night not that long ago when her life would have changed again for the worse.
Eliza shuddered. Despite the warmth of the small room, a chill chased down her spine.
The fog. The reek of his breath. The weight of his hand on her arm as he’d shoved her to the ground.
The way her heart had thudded, frantic and helpless, because she had known, every woman knew, what might come next if no one heard her. But someone did.
She swallowed. It was done with. In the past. She was safe today thanks to a large Scotsman called Mungo who had appeared out of nowhere like some furious guardian angel and hauled the man off her as if he weighed no more than a sack of flour.
After that night, Eliza had braced the chair against the door each evening.
She’d also walked about with a sewing pin stuck cleverly in her lapel, ready to jab the next man who thought to corner her.
She wondered if the fear would ever leave her completely even as she refused to let it rule her life.
“Go on, then, before Mrs. Holton finds out you were late for your first day.”
Eliza hesitated, then abruptly dropped her bag and wrapped her arms around Sylvie, holding on tight. Sylvie’s arms came around her, too, just as fiercely.
“Thank you for being my friend,” Eliza whispered. “For giving me a home.”
“Always,” Sylvie said, her voice muffled against Eliza’s shoulder. “We’re each other’s family now, remember? We said so. Blood or no blood. You’re stuck with me. Now go before I cry, and you know how much I loathe doing that.”
In truth, Sylvie was one of the softest-hearted people Eliza had ever met.
She just preferred to hide it beneath sarcasm and formidable glares.
When Eliza had finally told her about her parents and brother, about the fire, Sylvie had fetched the thin, worn shawl that had been Eliza’s mother’s and folded it around her shoulders.
“We’ll carry them with us,” she’d said. “In memory and along with all the things they taught you. But we’ll not let grief swallow us whole, do you hear me?”
Eliza heard her now, the echo of that kindness a steadying weight in her chest.
She picked up her bag once more. At the door, she risked a last look back.
The red curtain. The narrow bed with its mismatched blankets.
The trunk with its stubborn dent in the lid.
It was all shabby and small, and yet it had been the first place since her parents’ house where she’d felt something like safety.
“Goodbye,” she whispered to it.
“Not goodbye,” Sylvie said behind her.
Eliza stepped out into the corridor, then down the narrow stairs, her boots scuffing on the worn treads that had carried a hundred other girls to and from work.
Miss Dot popped her head out of the parlor as Eliza passed. “Goodbye to you, Miss Downing,” she said. “First impressions, remember, are the most important. You make them see what you are, steady and capable, and they’ll treat you as such.”
“Yes, Miss Dot. Thank you,” Eliza said, bobbing a small curtsy.
Outside the boarding house, the door clicked shut behind her, and the chill of the day wrapped around her like a damp cloak. The sky was a low, sullen gray, threatening rain, and the air carried the mingled smells of the city.
Eliza drew in a deep breath and looked up and down the street.
It had become familiar to her. The crooked row of houses, the lamppost leaning a fraction too far to one side, the cat who eyed passersby from the top of the wall as if judging their worth.
Somewhere, a costermonger called out his wares.
She shifted her bag to her other hand and set off, her boots clicking on the damp cobbles. She knew the directions to Crabbett Close because she’d walked there just yesterday to ensure she wouldn’t get lost.
Turn left at the bakery with the striped awning. Follow the curve of the road past the little park with the black iron railings. Each landmark was a step away from everything she had known these past two years and a step toward something entirely different.
Something made her stop and look behind her, a prickling sense that she was being watched, but Eliza did not see any familiar faces. She was unsettled, clearly.
What if she failed?
She’d worked as a governess before, in houses where she’d been no more than a shadow, praised when the children recited their lessons perfectly and blamed when they did not.
She knew her letters and sums well enough.
She knew how to curtsy, how to pour tea without rattling the cups, how to speak when spoken to and not before.
But this position was… more. She was preparing young people to enter society, which she’d never stepped foot in.
Eliza had read book after book on the subject until she was sure she knew all she needed… but still there were those kernels of doubt.
What if I fail? What if I am not good enough? What if they don’t want me?