Back on Willowby Street
“He likes you!” Chemmy whisper-sings into the darkness of our pre-dawn room.
It’s too early for this, and I give her a grumpy side-eye. It doesn’t dampen her spirits. “He’s a spoiled baby and he only knows how to like himself.” Stretching, I push myself up and sit on the bed.
Chemmy’s already lit our oil lamp, which flickers fitfully as if it, too, would rather be sleeping. My wilted pansies from the ball sit on the windowsill in a cracked jar Chemmy borrowed from our landlady, and the brisk morning air seeping in around the shutters spreads a faint fragrance throughout the room.
“Oh, you must like him at least a little bit. You were out with him all day!”
“Not by choice,” I say, with a laugh and a sigh together. “I told him to put me down, but he just kept pestering me!”
“And you had fun,” Chemmy accuses.
“Maybe a very little bit.” I grumble the admission, resting my chin on my hand. I did enjoy the ride itself, and Hugh can be a good conversationalist if he wants. And, since he doesn’t know where I live—or, now, where I work—I’m not worried about a repetition of the event.
He tried to convince me to eat dinner with him at some club, which was the most idiotic idea I’d ever heard. But even then, he had an air of innocent ignorance; I don't think he was hiding any seductive schemes. I’d had to be firm with him, but eventually he settled for buying something from a patisserie—and while he was making the purchase, I’d slipped away into the crowd and run home.
And I left that basket in his phaeton, so I can count myself as out of debt to Lucas.
“You know, Hugh reminds me of a dog I had once,” I say around a yawn, “the runt of the litter. He had this laugh—and I know you’re going to say dogs can’t laugh, but this one did!— and even though he was always getting in my way and tripping me up, I couldn’t help but like him. Never was much of a working dog, though,” I add thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t obey any commands.”
Chemmy ignores my canine memories. “So, when you’re a princess, will you get me a job at the palace?”
“You can be my royal advisor.”
“I don’t think princesses need advisors,” Chemmy says, buttoning her dress. She opens the packet of food I’d brought home from the ball and begins dividing it. “Here’s the last of our cheese.”
“I suppose Hugh could give me as much cheese as I wanted,” I ponder, getting out of bed. Chemmy glances at me out of the corner of her eye, so I take the time to smooth out the quilt and tuck it in place neatly. A waste of time—it will get wrinkled again soon enough—but she likes things to be orderly.
“He could move your parents to the capital, too,” she points out, placing a generous portion of bread and cheese on my side of the tiny table.
I frown. “You didn’t take enough for yourself.” I push some back to her.
“Who knows when you’ll eat again,” she says, and it sounds so grim that I’m surprised into laughing.
“I have a few coins saved, and I’m sure I’ll find another position today. I’m almost glad, really. I’m tired of sewing. I’d like a job where I can be on my feet, doing things.”
“You’ll be on your feet plenty today,” Chemmy answers, “looking for work, so you may as well have the bigger half. But you’ve changed the subject.” She takes her portion of bread and perches on the edge of the bed while I struggle out of my threadbare nightgown and into my slightly-less-threadbare dress, making sure my ward charm is tucked securely under my collar. “Prince Fitzhugh really likes you! You should take advantage of it!”
I shudder. “I don’t think so. I already lost one day’s wages! I’ve learned my lesson—no more grasping above my station!”
“I can ask Mistress Hardinge to reconsider,” Chemmy offers, but I shake my head.
“She wouldn’t go against a prince’s wishes.”
Chemmy’s sympathetic smile is ghostly in the thin lamplight. “What are you going to try first?”
“The shops on Herringbone Street.” I eat my last crumb of cheese with my eyes closed, memorizing the taste, before I look down at the empty table sadly. It had been nice while it lasted.
Chemmy finishes too, and she stands and brushes off her skirt. “Try the opera house. Maybe you could sell tickets.”
“Well, wish me luck,” I say, tucking my hair up into my snood. “I suppose I’ve got to go find a job. And since I know you’re going to ask—” I sigh. “Yes, you can tell the other girls that it really was the prince.”
Chemmy squeals and throws her arms around me. “They’ll be so jealous!”
“They’ll be employed,” I say dryly, but I quirk a little smile at her. She turns down the lamp, we put on our bonnets, and it’s time to find another future.
I wave goodbye to Chemmy on Willowby Street and forge ahead, accompanied by a fine drizzle of rain. Flower girls dart past me, clutching their baskets and weaving their ways to whatever small section of the city they’ve claimed as their own. A fishmonger lays out his goods on one side of the cobbled street, and from the other a mustardman advertises his wares with a hearty voice. A hansom cab rattles down the cobblestones, and I watch the prancing horse with admiration. Not as impressive as Kelpie, but still a pretty creature.
My destination is the department store on Herringbone Street, in a slightly more refined section of the city. I hope that richer customers mean higher wages, although I’m not sure my countrified appearance will impress the proprietor.
My fears prove true when I step into the two-story shop. An angular woman, dressed in all black, peers at me from over a tiny pair of pince-nez as the door softly closes behind me.
My home village of Lower Splott has a sort of market, but this department store is completely unlike it. Instead of packed dirt and donkey droppings, these floors are brightly-polished wood, and the dismal weather that would plague the various mongers cannot penetrate into this place. And the angular woman, far from attempting to persuade me to buy her wares, has seemingly decided I am not her type of customer.
“No begging on the premises,” she says. Her voice is stuffy, as if she’s been afflicted with a cold for most of her life.
“I’m not here to beg. I’m looking for a job.”
She sniffs. Perhaps she really does have a cold. “We’re not hiring.”
I knew the first place I looked certainly wouldn’t yield success, but disappointment still wells up in my body. “Do you know of any other places that might be, ma’am?”
“No.”
The door behind me swings open, letting in a gust of cool air and a spray of the misting rain. I step out of the way for a pair of nicely-dressed men to enter the shop, and the angular woman simpers at them. It seems that’s my final answer, so I slip back out into the damp morning before the door swings closed.
The second store I try—a haberdasher—is likewise not in need of help. Nor the third, nor the fourth, nor the fifth. Before long, I have entered every building on this street and the next: shops selling shoes, cloth, hats, beads, knitting wool, corsets, tapestries, stockings, stationary, and ready-made garments for both men and women. The replies I meet with are not all unkind, but no one has a place for me here.
I trudge out of the final building. I think I aimed too high. After all, didn’t I reach for something outside my grasp the night of the ball? And look at me now!
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth at the thought of the ball. It was exciting, even if it had unexpected consequences.
Shoppers crowd the street by now: maids and footmen with their heads bent against the drizzle, busy on errands for their lords and ladies; women in fur-trimmed jackets nimbly entering and exiting carriages, attempting to avoid the worst of the puddles; portly gentlemen swinging their canes and ogling the women’s ankles. I’d love to sit and watch them all, but I put my own head down and continue on my way.
The day is filled with disappointments. I’ve spent my life tending herds of woolly hogs, but this earns me no respect when I apply to the refined shops in the center of the city; and to secure a position on a farm outside the city would take me too far from the lodgings I share with Chemmy. Following her suggestion, I visit both the theater and the opera-house, but they are not in need of ticket-takers, and goodness knows I cannot perform. I’m too scrawny to earn a job in any of the warehouses, and though I protest to the various foremen that I’m more capable than my looks indicate, I receive only suggestions that I look for employment in a rather lewder quarter. The few shops that don’t reject me outright ask for a reference, and when I stumble over my dismissal from my last position, they quickly lose interest.
The thought floats through my mind that I could apply to the palace stables, but I certainly don’t want to see Hugh again. I suppose the wharf is an option; I might be skilled at catching rats.
I sigh, wiping a soggy curl off my forehead. If I could see the sun behind the clouds, it would be low in the west by now. I’d started the day with a belly full of cheese and a head full of bright plans, and I’m ending it with aching feet and no employment. I wend my way through the milling crowds back toward Mistress Hardinge’s shop on Willowby Street so I can meet Chemmy and walk home with her. My stomach growls, reminding me that I’ve not eaten since breakfast.
The linen shop is in a winding, narrow alley, surrounded by laundresses wringing out the last of their day’s work and other modest sewing shops issuing forth seamstresses ready to return to their various homes. I speak to two of the washing-women as I pass them, but by this time I’m expecting a negative answer to my inquiries, so their rejections don’t surprise me.
I’m nearing Mistress Hardinge’s shop when a door to my right bursts open and a pair of women spill out.
“I wish you’d never met that Barnum,” one pouts. “It’s awful of you to be leaving!”
The other, a tall girl with deep dimples, laughs and nudges her companion’s shoulder. “I think you’re jealous that no one has offered for you yet.”
Impulsively, I step toward the pair. “Are you—excuse me, I know I'm being unpardonably rude—are you leaving?”
The women look at me with varying levels of confusion before the dimpled one answers. “Leaving, miss?”
“I overheard you—I’m looking for a job, and if you’re marrying, I thought there might be an opening—?”
“Today was my last day, and I am glad to be free!” the dimpled woman confirms, beaming. “Mistress Corthope is still inside if you want to speak with her, but she’s in a fair foul mood today.”
Foul or not, I need to work. I express my thanks to the women. “And best wishes for your marriage, too!” I call as an afterthought before entering the dingy shop. I don’t even know what sort of place it is, but after a fruitless day, I’m not inclined to be particular. The floor creaks under me, and a sharp-faced woman, who is busy sweeping, stops to look at me with mistrust.
“Good evening.” My smile is not returned. “Are you Mistress Corthope?”
The woman leans on her broom and nods her assent. “What do you want?”
“A job, if you have one.”
She hmmphs once. “My best seamstress just left. Can you sew?”
“Oh yes, ma’am. I was working for Mistress Hardinge until yesterday.”
“Was?”
“She—didn’t have need of me anymore.” Which is true enough.
“Then what need would I have of you?” She purses her lips and waits for me to answer, but I flounder. Finally, she sighs and thrusts the broom at me. “If I weren’t short, I’d not take Hardinge’s castoffs, but Tessa’s leaving puts me in a bind. You can have a trial, but I don’t promise anything. Sweep up in here first.”
I’m too surprised by my change in luck to do anything but accept the broom and set to work. The mistress disappears into a back room while I whisk away the day’s grime—threads and fuzz from the shop’s wares mingled with mud and dirt tracked in from the street. It’s not a large area, just a long strip of floor in front of a rickety counter, and I finish quickly, renewed energy replacing my previous hunger and lethargy. She hasn’t reappeared by the time I’m done, so I cautiously duck my head through the doorway. The mistress is hunched over a desk in the back of a poorly-lit room, tallying something in a ledger with a scowl on her thin face. She doesn’t look up when I enter, so I set to sweeping in here, too.
After the errant threads and snips of dark cloth are cleared away, I’m obliged to wait for her to notice me, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. She doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to speak to me again, and I don’t see anything else I can do.
Finally, she closes her ledger and pushes herself away from the desk, inspecting my work. As if I didn’t know how to use a broom! I might be rustic, but I can sweep !
Apparently satisfied, she asks, “Your name?”
“Hester Flanders, ma’am.”
“I don’t like taking Hardinge’s rejects,” she grumbles again. “But I do need an extra hand about, even if you can’t sew.”
“I made this dress I’m wearing.” I spin slowly. “It’s quite worn, I know, but I’ve had it for years, so you can see that I know how to sew well enough to last.”
The woman looks at my gown more critically, and I’m suddenly aware of every frayed seam. Strange how I hadn’t even thought of my gown when the actual prince was calling on me yesterday. “Why’d Hardinge fire you, then?”
“I had a—a caller during work, but it won’t happen again.” I sound defensive even to my own ears, but it’s better that she hears the truth from me than Mistress Hardinge. I don’t need people thinking—well, I don’t quite know what people would think, but I don’t want it, all the same. I only hope I wasn’t seen in Hugh’s company long enough to be recognized.
“Come tomorrow. For a trial only.”
I beam, delighted by even this grudging acceptance. “Thank you, ma’am. How early shall I arrive?”
Chemmy is pacing in the entryway of our boardinghouse when I arrive back home.
“Hester! You’re so late! Did you find anything?”
“Mistress Corthope says she’ll give me a trial. I spent the day walking around the city only to land back on Willowby Street.” I unwrap my woolen scarf and hang my soggy cloak on one of the hooks in the hallway.
Chemmy’s face falls. “Oh, but Mistress Corthope’s isn’t what you wanted at all! She’s more miserly than any of the other seamstresses, and I’ve heard she yells. ”
“I can stand being yelled at, as long as it pays.” I sigh. “Although I fear my wages with her will be less than Mistress Hardinge’s.”
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” Chemmy reaches into her pocket and retrieves a creamy envelope, holding it out to me with a knowing look on her face. “This came for you.”
It can’t be from my parents—my heart skips a beat when I recognize the elegant handwriting on the outside. I tuck it in my own pocket, attempting nonchalance.
“Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Not yet.” I glance to the right of the entryway, where most of the other boarders spend the evening in the large common room, warmed by the cheery fire. “I have my chores first.”
My stomach growls. “Food before chores,” Chemmy declares, dragging me to the kitchen. “I suppose you didn’t get any lunch.”
I’ve missed supper, but Mistress Mungon has laid by a few leftovers for me, which I snarf by the kitchen fire before starting on the scrubbing. Chemmy grumbles, wanting to know what the letter says, but I don’t want to disappoint Mistress Mungon again. The envelope burns a hole in my pocket as I work, but I force myself to finish everything before climbing the dark stairway with Chemmy.
She squeals as soon as we’re safely in our room and lights the lamp. “Well! Is it from Prince Fitzhugh? I can’t think who else would have such a pretty hand!”
I take the envelope out of my pocket. Miss Hester Flanders is written in a neat flourish on one side, and a red wax seal with the initials ILC is affixed to the reverse.
It’s not from Hugh.
I bend closer to the desk where our lamp flickers, eyes skimming over the message inside.
Miss Flanders,
Pray forgive my boldness in writing to you, but my brother has told me of his antics and their effect on your employment. I would be happy to speak to your former mistress, should you desire to return to your position, or you may ask for my man Rodering here at the palace, and he will help find a suitable place for you. I apologize for my brother’s thoughtless actions. Please rest assured they will not be repeated.
I. L. C.
“Well?” Chemmy prompts. I hand it to her—reluctantly, which is foolish, for why would I keep anything from Chemmy?—and wait for her to read it.
“This is wonderful!” she exclaims. “A job at the palace! That’s what he means, don’t you think?”
“I doubt it. Probably he means nothing at all by any of it.”
Chemmy scoffs. “Nothing at all? Why take the trouble of writing, then?”
She gives me back the letter, and I handle it rather more tenderly than it warrants. My stomach churns as I reread it, but it’s not an entirely unpleasant sensation. I’m sure Lucas is only attempting to make up for Hugh’s deficiencies, but even so … Warmth creeps from my toes to my hair as I think about the fact that Lucas— Prince Lucas, that is—has taken the time to think of me.
“Will you go to the palace tomorrow, then?” Chemmy’s question interrupts my daydream.
I blink away the vision of grave brown eyes. “What? Oh, no, of course not. I’m already employed.”
“Only with Mistress Corthope! The prince could get you a much better job than that !”
I shrug one shoulder, carefully tucking Lucas’ letter away beneath my mattress. “I told Mistress Corthope I’d be there, so I’ll be there. Besides, Hugh lives at the palace, and I really don’t want to see him again.”
Chemmy sighs at my lack of romance and settles herself on a chair, beginning to unwind her blonde braids. “Will you write him back at least?”
“Should I?”
“It wouldn’t really be that improper, since he wrote to you first. ”
I laugh. “Not that improper? So still mostly improper?”
Chemmy runs a brush through her hair, giving me a chiding grin. “Knowing it’s mostly improper probably makes you want to do it.”
Well, she’s not wrong.
“I wouldn’t know what to say, and besides, I can’t afford the postage. The poor prince will have to do without the great delight of hearing from me.”
Still, once I’m huddling under my quilt in the darkness, I lay awake for a long while, pondering what I would say to him if I could.