The Shadow and the Star (7 page)

"
You should be married, my dear," said Mrs. Wrotham
to Leda. The older woman did not, unfortunately, amplify on how this desirable object might be achieved, but sat perched on the edge of her bobbin-turned chair. "I don't care for typing." She tapped her blue-veined fingers gently together. "Only think how very dirty one's gloves must become."

"I don't suppose I shall wear gloves, Mrs. Wrotham," Leda said. "At least, perhaps I shall take them off when I'm working on the machine."

"But where will you put them? They will collect dirt, my dear—you know what gloves are." She nodded slowly, and the silver rolls of hair at her temples bobbed in time beneath her little bonnet, as coyly as a girl's of long ago.

"Perhaps there will be a drawer in my desk. I'll wrap them in paper and put them in there."

Mrs. Wrotham didn't answer, but still nodded in her slow way. Against the pale rose-pink walls and fading curtains of apple-green, she looked fragile, as delicate and antique as the garlands of Georgian plasterwork that adorned the ceiling and mantelpiece.

"It makes me very unhappy," she said suddenly, "to think of you at a desk. I wish you will reconsider, Leda dear. Miss Myrtle might not have quite liked it, do you think?"

This reference, made in a voice of tender reproach, touched Leda sorely. There was no doubt that Miss Myrtle would not have liked it at all. Leda bent her head and said rather desperately, "But only imagine how interesting it must be! Perhaps I might copy a manuscript written out by an author the equal of Sir Walter Scott."

"Very unlikely, my dear," Mrs. Wrotham said, nodding more emphatically. "Very doubtful indeed. I do not think we shall see the like of Sir Walter again in our lifetimes. Would you like to pour tea?"

Leda rose, conscious of the honor done to her with this request. It was very good of Mrs. Wrotham to ask, since Leda could see that her hostess was a little ruffled at the idea that an author might someday be born who could equal her favorite.

As they ate their thin-sliced bread and butter, the cockney maid announced Lady Cove and her sister Miss Lovatt. For a moment there was the eternal complication at the door, as Miss Lovatt tried to hold back and allow her sister the baroness to take precedence, and Lady Cove wavered and motioned helplessly and wished her elder relation to proceed first. It was resolved as it always was: m'lady finally preceded her sister meekly into the room and looked up gratefully at Leda as she placed chairs for them near the tea tray.

It was just like olden times as Miss Lovatt settled her wiry frame into a chintz-covered chair and demanded of Leda exactly what she thought she had been about to keep herself away from her friends for so long. As Leda struggled to explain without causing the ladies undue distress by too exact a description of what it meant to be employed for wages, Lady Cove saved her by saying in her soft voice that it was very good of Leda to come whenever she might honor them. Leda smiled at her, thankful for the reprieve.

With this addition to the party, the conversation passed to other matters, including the tenants in Miss Myrtle's house. "Coarse-featured," Miss Wrotham said sweepingly of the new mistress. "You can see her nose beyond her bonnet. We have not called."

"He is an animal merchant," Miss Lovatt said.

"An animal merchant?" Leda echoed.

"He deals in animals," Miss Lovatt amplified, with an enigmatic lift of her finger. "Deceased. On a large scale."

There was no more to be said to that. Whatever the gentleman did with deceased animals on a large scale was better left to the imagination. A moment of respectful, melancholic silence passed, as everyone contemplated the sad fate of Miss Myrtle's house, and Leda thought of her snug bedroom with the velvet Brussels carpet and
irise
wallpaper patterned in dark blue on shades of pink and red.

"Have you made any improvements to your new flat, dear?" Lady Cove asked Leda.

"Oh! Improvements?" She cast about for an appropriate answer, something to deflect further inquiry into the parlor flat that she hadn't been able to keep. "I have not decided yet what improvements to make. I don't like to be hasty."

"Very wise," Miss Lovatt said, nodding. "You are always such a steady girl, Leda. We have worried about you, but I believe you shall do very well."

"Oh, yes, ma'am."

"Leda tells me that she wishes to become a typist," Mrs. Wrotham announced. "I must allow that I don't like it."

"Indeed not!" Miss Lovatt set down her teacup. "No, we all agreed that a typist was not suitable. The couturiere is the preferred choice."

"I was—that is—you see—I find I am not quite comfortable at Madame Elise's," Leda said.

"Then you must change your situation," Lady Cove said in her kind, whispery voice. "What can we do to help you?"

Leda looked at her gratefully. "Oh, Lady Cove—it would be a very great compliment to me if I might have a character—" She broke off, aware of the inelegant abruptness of the request, "—a sentence only—really, I fear Madame Elise won't—if it would not impose—your good nature—" She bit her lip on the tumble of words.

"We shall consider," Miss Lovatt said. "It isn't that we are not happy to recommend you, Leda dear, you understand. But perhaps you should not be too previous about leaving Madame Elise to become a typist."

"But, ma'am—"

"You must listen to wiser council, Leda. A typist is not suitable. It is an occupation for strong-minded females."

"You will dirty your gloves," Mrs. Wrotham added.

"But she needn't wear gloves, need she?" Lady Cove asked timidly.

"Of course she must wear gloves, Clarimond. There will be persons of a common class involved in such a post. Runners. Shopboys." Miss Lovatt's nostrils flared. "Actors, perhaps."

"Actors!" Lady Cove squeaked.

"Perhaps she might be required to type their parts. I myself have seen an advertisement for the Ladies' Typewriting and General Copying Office, offering to copy actor's parts and documents for solicitors."

The three ladies all looked reproachfully at Leda. She lowered her eyes in disgrace and took a sip of tea, having no defense to make. She would very much have liked to eat several more of the paper-thin slices of bread and butter, but that would have been gauche.

"We shall consider," Miss Lovatt said—meaning, of course, that she would consider and the other ladies would listen humbly to her discourse and conclusion on the topic. "We want the best for you, Leda my dear. Miss Myrtle would wish us to take every care for your future. You must come back Friday next, and we shall see about it then."

Leda spent the rest of the day sitting in the anteroom of Miss Gernsheim's Employment Agency. Her interview with Miss Gernsheim did not go smoothly from the moment that lady understood that Leda would have no written character from her former employer. Typist, Leda was given to understand, was a most sought-after position, generally given to those with prior training and experience. Without even a character… Miss Gernsheim tapped her fountain pen against the side of her inkwell and looked grave.

Leda mentioned her South Street connections.

"I have not heard of Lady Cove," Miss Gernsheim said unencouragingly. "Is the family listed in Burke's?"

"Certainly," Leda said, stung. "They have held the barony since 1630. And Lady Cove is a Lovatt on her maternal side."

"Indeed. You are related, then?"

Leda looked down at her gloves. "No, ma'am," she murmured.

"Ah. I thought perhaps an ancestral connection would account for your command of the family tree."

"No, ma'am," Leda said again, and was silent.

"I believe 'Etoile' is also an unfamiliar name to me. What district does your family inhabit?"

"My family is no longer living, ma'am."

"How sorry I am," Miss Gernsheim said in a businesslike tone. "But what are your origins? In a case such as yours, with little experience and a history of resignation with prejudice, prospective employers will wish to know who you may be. There is all sorts of trouble these days; all sorts of disagreeable persons are known to be at large. Socialists. Housemaids who murder their mistresses. The dangerous classes. You've heard of Kate Webster, of course."

"No, ma'am," Leda said.

"Have you not?" Miss Gernsheim raised her thin eyebrows and looked candidly surprised. "It was in all the papers. Richmond. Some years ago, now. The maid of all work—the one who cut up a poor old widow and boiled her in her own copper. And then there was Madame Riel�throttled by her woman right in her own house in Park Lane. This sort of thing makes employers most suspicious. You are not Irish, I hope?"

"My origins are French, ma'am," Leda said steadily.

"Can you be more specific, Miss Etoile? How long has your family been in England?"

Leda began to find the little office stuffy. "I'm not certain of that, I am afraid."

"You seem to be more conversant with the history of the Lovatt family than your own."

"My mother died when I was three. Miss Myrtle Balfour of South Street took charge of my upbringing at that time."

"And Mr. Etoile? Your father?"

Leda sat helplessly silent.

"Are you a relation of this Miss Balfour's, then? Can she not supply a character?"

"No, ma'am," Leda said, and was horrified to hear a tiny flutter in her voice. "Miss Balfour passed away a year ago."

"And you are not yourself a relation of the Balfour family?"

"No, ma'am."

"You were adopted?"

"Miss Balfour took me into her home."

The other woman looked impatient. "I cannot call this an auspicious background, Miss Etoile. Perhaps we would do better to seek positions for you that do not require the most stringent qualifications. Have you considered the shops?"

Leda spread her gloved hands against one another. "I would prefer not to engage in shop trade, ma'am, if you please."

"Come, come—this is too nice. You don't suppose your breeding puts you above it?"

"I would prefer something more respectable than a shop, ma'am," Leda said stubbornly. "I really wish to be a typist."

"If that is the case, you will have to present me with a strong letter of character from a high source. Lady Cove at the very least."

"Yes, ma'am."

Miss Gernsheim was making notes. "I understand correctly that Etoile is your mother's name, then?"

"Yes, ma'am." Leda's voice had gone to a whisper.

"She was not married?"

Leda gave a little speechless shake of her head. Miss Gernsheim lifted her eyes from the paper, regarding Leda with a frown, and then wrote. "What is your present direction?"

"Mrs. Dawkins at Jacob's Island, ma'am. Bermondsey."

"Jacob's Island!" She closed the notebook and laid down her pen. "You are something of a challenge, Miss
Etoile. It's most unusual for sensible girls to look above their background. When you return with your character, we shall see what we can do. Will Monday a week be convenient?"

"I believe that I can bring the letter earlier than that," Leda offered.

"You may bring it by as soon as possible, Miss Etoile, but it will be Monday at best before I have reviewed the openings to find what might be appropriate to your circumstances. Close the door gently behind you, if you please. My head quite tortures me today."

Leda, too, had the headache. She left the office in a gloomy mood. She would have somehow to manage to find Lady Cove at home when her sister Miss Lovatt was not there, a formidable task in itself, and then coax the timid baroness to write a character which Miss Lovatt had plainly hinted was not to be written, including a line expressing clearly that Leda hadn't the temperament of a murderess… just the sort of thing that would excite a conversation on the topic of sanguinary servants, and end by putting Lady Cove into a tremble over the possibly evil designs of her butler, a quavery-voiced, stoop-shouldered man who had been employed in her home for thirty-five years.

And to have to wait for more than a week just to hear of openings! Leda mentally totted up her accounts and trudged grimly onward.

It was late dusk when she reached her neighborhood. The night-inspector was just stepping up to the station-house stairs. He stopped when he saw Leda on the walk behind him and held open the gate. "You're early again, miss! Heard you was by early yesterday."

"How do you do, Inspector Ruby? Have they left everything properly in order for you?"

"Certainly have, miss. Certainly have." This part of their exchange was a ritual. Leda asked after his wife and children and what his supper had been, and offered to pass along Miss Myrtle's receipt for ox tongue.

"Thank you kindly, miss. Come up then and I'll put it into my memorandum book, if you're not in a hurry."

Leda climbed the stairs and went through the iron wicket door that he held open for her. Inside the stuffy station room, the Inspector's podium stood alone in a pool of gaslight, like a pulpit in the gathering dusk. A woman lay full-length on the floor inside the single cell, a dark heap mumbling and moaning softly to herself in the shadow, while a policeman jumped to his feet off the outer bench and saluted his superior.

Leda felt it would show a vulgarly prurient curiosity to examine the woman in the cell too closely, so she sat down on the bench and leaned against the whitewashed wall, taking the inspector's book into her lap to write. In spite of the sultry atmosphere, the reserve policeman began to stoke up the coal beneath a copper kettle on the hob grate, apologizing to the inspector for not having his tea at the ready.

The inspector grimaced. " 'Tis no nevermind; you brew the bitterest cup o' stable muck I ever did drink, MacDonald."

"Sorry, sir," MacDonald said. He straightened up, looking as if he couldn't think what to do with his big, freckled hands. He hooked them in the webbing of his white belt and popped the shiny buckle, giving Leda a shy glance. "Never have got the way of it. Me sis always does the honors at home."

Leda put the book aside. "Let me make your tea for you, Inspector. I'm quite practiced."

"Why, that's capital of you, miss." Inspector Ruby rubbed his mustache and smiled. "I'd be obliged to you, I would. Nothing like a lady's touch."