Chapter Three
A village in Oxfordshire
I t surprised neither Kat nor Miss Ellen that Miss Miller took offense at the size of Miss Ellen’s purse. Indeed, if the entire household and the solicitor had not been watching, Kat believed Miss Miller would have denied the money to her youngest sister.
As it was, the mean cow told Miss Ellen she had a week to quit the premises. “You have your own money now, so I do not need to provide for you,” she said.
But Miss Ellen didn’t want to wait, and neither did Kat.
“Soonest begun, soonest done,” she said.
It had been a favorite quotation of the housekeeper who had been at the Millers’ for several years and who had been the nearest thing to a mother Kat had ever known.
Mrs. Kirby had been stern, but fair, and she had protected Kat, and later Jacob, from the other servants.
Miss Ellen went up to her chamber to finish her packing, and Kat ran across the fields to Miss Francine’s stables to ask Miss Francine if she could hire a handcart.
Miss Francine was glorying in her ownership of her beloved stables, and her benign mood extended further than loaning her sister the handcart.
“Tell her she can come and stay with me for a few days if she likes,” she offered.
“I don’t mind Ellen, and my cottage has a spare bedroom. ”
“I shall let her know,” Kat said. “I think she is anxious to be on her way. We shall come by to tell you her decision.”
Miss Ellen agreed, and they called in at the stables on their way out to the main road. Miss Francine was busy schooling a young colt, but she stopped long enough to shake Miss Ellen’s hand and wished her well.
“Be happy, Ellen,” she said. “I am, but I doubt Clara ever will be. She doesn’t have it in her. Leave the handcart in town at the Crown and Anchor, and I shall retrieve it.”
“I do not need to wish you happy, Francine,” said Miss Ellen. She waved a hand around at the stables and horses. “You have everything you want. So instead, I wish you good health and prosperity. We shall do what you say with the handcart.”
“Thank you. Tell them I’ll pick it up when I come over for the horse fair next week. Send me a note now and then, will you? Letting me know how you get on?”
And that was it. With no further ado, the sisters parted, and Miss Ellen and Kat were on their way.
“I cannot believe that Mother left me one hundred and fifty guineas,” said Miss Ellen to Kat, as they walked. “I am astounded. She must have thought more highly of me than I ever knew.”
Kat nodded. “She must have.” Kat had been astounded, too, at the measly single guinea in the purse with Miss Ellen’s name on it.
Just one guinea! A tenth of the largesse for the senior servants, and the same as the minor servants.
The value, only twenty-one shillings, was insulting.
It was less than the wages of the scullery maid, the lowliest servant in the house, who received her board and keep, and was paid one and a half guineas a quarter, besides.
Kat was also surprised at the quantity of guineas stored in the safe. More than four hundred, Kat estimated, for when she had counted out one hundred and forty-nine, the stack had diminished by less than half, so there should have been enough left to cover the other bequests.
There were too many coins for the little purse that Lady Miller had prepared for her youngest daughter, but Kat had dusted the attic often enough to know where to find a larger one, and after that, it was simply a matter of transferring the label, putting Miss Ellen’s new inheritance into the purse from the attic, pocketing the little one, and relocking the safe.
Kat yawned. It had been a busy night, for she had also packed for them both, in case they were thrown out once the contents of the safe had been distributed.
However, she had been an orphan all her life and a servant for most of it.
And so, she knew that sleep could come when they had a roof over their heads for the night.
She shifted her hands to redistribute the weight of the two-wheeled handcart, and she kept pushing.
It was no more than an hour’s walk to the nearest town, where they would be able to get a coach for the village of Ealing.
It was, fortunately, a fine day, and the walk would have been pleasant had the hand cart not been a temperamental thing, requiring constant attention and adjustment.
She was used to heavy work, though, and refused to allow Miss Ellen to help.
The first elements of a plan were taking shape in Kat’s mind as she paced along beside Miss Ellen.
She knew the goal, of course. A good marriage for Miss Ellen—not in the sense that Society called a marriage good, but marriage with a husband who suited the lady who had always been kind to Kat.
Someone who could give Miss Ellen a comfortable life and keep her safe. Someone to love her.
In Ealing, Lady Miller’s former housekeeper Mrs. Kirby, who had been Kat’s old protector and friend, now worked at a house called Carr Abbas . It was purportedly a fine mansion, and—even more significant to Kat’s mind—a place with an absentee owner.
Put that together with all the gossip she had read in The Teatime Tattler about the Black Widow of Whitehall, and the lady’s kindness toward ladies in difficult circumstances… Yes, Kat had a no tion about how to proceed, though whether it would work or not, she could not predict.
“There are the spires of the town churches,” commented Miss Ellen, and sure enough, they could see several spires in the distance, beyond a low rise.
Soon, they passed the first row of cottages, and then another and another.
Before long, they were walking down a street with houses, cottages, and businesses on both sides.
As she and Miss Ellen approached the center of the town, they saw the square filled with market stalls. A few other pieces of Kat’s plan slotted into place. “Miss Ellen,” she said, “it will be safer for you to travel with a groom or a footman.”
“A manservant, Kat?” Ellen exclaimed. “I cannot like the idea of traveling with a stranger.”
“Not a stranger, Miss Ellen,” Kat said. “Me. Buy me some men’s clothes and a fine pair of boots, and I’ll help you to make your fortune.”
London
Jake Flynn eased his employer out of the hackney.
Captain Harraway was rocky on his feet, but still more or less mobile, with Jake propping him on one side and guiding him.
Jake fumbled in his pocket for money to pay the jarvey.
He’d managed to sequester a few coins from the captain’s purse before the man could lose the lot, which he usually did.
Tonight was like almost every other night in the months since the captain had recovered from his injuries enough to stagger to the nearest gaming hell. He drank, he gambled, he lost.
Mind you, he normally didn’t drink quite so much. Tonight, he had been celebrating, and his friend Podger had been buying, for the envelope with Captain Podger’s name on it had been handed over, and Podger was endearingly grateful.
It was potentially a problem, because—though Podger had promised to keep the identity of his savior secret—the man was loquacious when in his cups.
Jake was worried about what Waterford might do when he discovered Captain Harraway was the reason all his blackmail materials—and therefore his sources of income—had disappeared overnight.
Not that the captain was concerned. When Jake had suggested finding a way to return the envelopes anonymously, he had been told he was worrying about nothing.
“What, after all, can he do, Jake? If he makes a fuss, he shall be outing himself as a blackmailer, and if he tries to have us arrested, we’ll just deny we were ever there. ”
I doubt it will be that easy , Jake thought. Waterford will find a way to take revenge, I’m certain of it. The captain’s problem was that he thought like a decent man. Waterford didn’t, and neither did Jake, come to that. Which was just as well, because it would help him protect his employer.
“Come on, captain. Time for beddie-byes,” he encouraged, as Captain Harraway wobbled uncertainly on one step after the other, leaning heavily on Jake one minute and lurching against the wall the next.
At least the captain had not been losing tonight, and at least, however drunk he might be, he never forgot his promise to Jake, that he’d only lose what he had with him, and only cash. No wagering his possessions. No writing promissory notes. A decent man, that was Jake’s captain.
Thanks to that promise, they still had food in the pantry and the month’s rent, which was due at the end of the week.
Though perhaps that was not a good thing.
If they lost their place to live, the captain might finally consent to leave London.
Jake had ridden out to Ealing to have a look at the place the captain had inherited.
It was a fine mansion no more than two hours from London, and the nice bit of land with it made a tidy income.
Some pretty scenery, too. The captain had enjoyed painting at one time, to hear him tell it, and certainly some of the drawings he made when they were out on reconnaissance made their way into reports and from there into battle plans.
There were even a couple French spies who owed their capture to sketches by the captain that had been circulated among the officers attached to arrest orders.
A pity he ignored all suggestions to take up painting again.
“We should move to your estate,” Jake said, and not for the first time. He’d not intended the captain to hear, but the man’s ears were sharp.
“Too many memories and not enough,” he said. “Leave it, Flynn.”
When his employer called him “Flynn”, Jake knew better than to argue. Besides, he knew what the captain meant. The previous owner had been the captain’s mother’s much older brother, who had taken his sister and her son to live with him when her husband had died.