Wilful Impropriety (15 page)

“Miss Constance! Miss Constance! Drat the girl, where have you gone?
Miss Constance!
”

The sound of Miss Martin’s voice drifted into the library, and Colonel Kingsley winced, breaking off his Crimean War reminiscences in mid-sentence. Walter Somers, his secretary, allowed himself a brief sigh. Such interruptions were all too common, as the young man knew.

“Drat the girl indeed,” muttered the Colonel. “And drat that fool of a governess, for not being able to keep her in order. Four sons I’ve raised, and all of them put together never caused half as much bother as that slip of a girl. I had less difficulty maintaining discipline among my soldiers in Sebastopol.”

“Perhaps there is another school which would take her?” asked Walter, conscious that he was on delicate ground. Miss Constance’s escapades at her most recent school—which had resulted in the establishment declining to accept her for a further term—were still all too fresh.

Colonel Kingsley made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. “I have made enquiries, but they all appear to have no vacancies, either now or in the foreseeable future. It would appear either that a sudden mania for sending girls to boarding school has swept the nation, or that my daughter is not welcome at any of them.”

“Another governess, then?” suggested Walter, knowing he was moving on to equally delicate territory. “Miss Martin seems an admirable woman, from what I have seen of her in the short time she has been here, but she does not appear to be quite the companion Miss Constance needs.”

As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door of the library. Before the Colonel could answer, the door opened and Miss Martin’s face appeared. Her pale complexion went an unbecoming shade of pink when she saw her employer.

“Oh, I am
so
sorry, Colonel Kingsley. I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for Miss Constance.”

“So I gathered,” said the Colonel drily. “I would have thought, Miss Martin, that of all the rooms in the house in which my daughter might be, the library is the most unlikely.”

“Oh, I agree, Colonel,” said Miss Martin hastily, prompting Walter to suppress a smile. She might not have been in the house long, but the governess had obviously taken the measure of her charge. “I’ve looked everywhere else, though, and not a trace of her have I seen. She is to go out with your sister, to pay a call on the Meades, and I promised that she would be ready on time.”

“Very rash of you, Miss Martin, to promise anything like that where my daughter is concerned.” The Colonel sighed. “I suggest you—What in the name of heaven is
that
?”

That
was a bellow of rage from the grounds outside the library, the windows of which were open to allow the late-April breeze into the room. The Colonel moved to look outside, with Walter behind him, and Miss Martin—clearly suspecting that the outcry had something to do with her charge—bringing up the rear.

A horse and rider were cantering across the lawn, with the figure of Perkins, the groom, vainly pursuing on foot. The bellow had clearly come from him, as the onlookers could tell when he paused, shaking a fist in the air.

“You come back here right now, Miss Constance! Right now, d’you hear? That horse ain’t fit for you to ride; half wild, it is! What would the Colonel say if he knew?”

Judging by the shade of red the Colonel’s face had gone, Walter could guess that anything he might have to say would not be fit for the ears of respectable company. The horse drew to a halt opposite the window, and the rider waved in the direction of the watchers.

“There he is now, Perkins, ask him! Hello, Father! Hello, Mr. Somers! Why, Miss Martin,
there
you are!”

“Constance! What on earth do you mean by this—Good heavens, girl, are you riding astride?”

Constance laughed, and moved the prancing horse closer to the window. Strands of light brown hair tumbled down her shoulders, and her eyes flashed with delight. She looked far older than her sixteen years as she kept the horse—clearly skittish and ready to bolt at any moment—under control.

“Yes, I
am
riding astride, and I can see why men do it. It’s
so
much easier and more comfortable than riding sidesaddle. I think I shall start a movement to encourage more women to try it.”

“You shall do no such thing,” retorted her father. “And if you carry on in this way, there shall be no hunting for you this season, sidesaddle or in any other fashion. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Father,” replied Constance, in a tone which fell far short of the perfect deference the Colonel was seeking. Perkins had, by this time, caught up with her, and after a quick nod toward the window he seized the horse’s bridle.

“Now back to the stables with you, Miss Constance, so I can get this horse rubbed down. You’d no business taking it, and as for riding astride—well, all I can say is that I had no idea she’d done such a thing, Colonel.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Perkins.” Colonel Kingsley sighed. “Please assist Miss Constance down from the horse. Miss Martin, be so kind as to retrieve my daughter and do your best to ensure that she is ready to go out with her aunt. Perhaps then we might all have a little peace, at least for a time.”

The Colonel stayed at the window for some minutes after the various players had departed the scene. Walter, who had returned to his seat, waited in silence. Finally his employer turned toward him.

“What am I to do?” he asked in a plaintive tone, which would have surprised everyone who knew him as a man who had more than once stared down death. “I really am at my wits’ end, Somers. My sister is a good woman, and she does her best, I know, but she has her hands full running the house. My dear wife was able to keep some measure of control over Constance, but since her death—” His voice trailed off.

“Well, sir . . .” began Walter, after a respectful moment of silence. “I have had an idea,” he continued, “although I’ve hesitated in broaching the matter. I thought that I would see how Miss Martin worked out before mentioning it.”

“Please do go ahead,” said the Colonel. He sat down. “I am, at this point, willing to entertain almost any suggestion.”

“It occurs to me, sir, that Miss Constance might benefit from the presence of another girl. She has grown up with four brothers, but no sister to act as a tempering influence. A governess is all very well, but someone closer to her in age would be more in the way of a companion, and might well achieve what a governess cannot.”

“Or what a string of governesses cannot. Your idea has some merit, Somers, but where on earth am I to find such a companion? I can advertise for a governess, but I cannot very well put a notice in
The Times
asking for a girl to come live with us. We have no relations who would answer, and there is no one suitable in the village.”

“I think I might know the place to look, Colonel, if you will put your trust in me.”

Colonel Kingsley rubbed his brow, closed his eyes, and sighed. When he looked up it was with an air of profound resignation.

“Do what you will, Somers,” he said resignedly. “If you can find a solution to this problem, you are a better man than I am.”

•   •   •

Dusk was falling over London, and Walter marveled—not for the first time since his arrival in the city, three days after his conversation with the Colonel—at the contrast between the place he had left and the place where he now found himself. It was not only that the weather had taken a turn for the worse, although that was undoubtedly part of it. A chill wind snaked through the streets, doing little to dispel the thick pall of smoke that hung over the metropolis. The air was laden with the smell of food, the vendors of which thronged the pavements, and whose cries—“Chestnuts, all hot, tuppence a score!” “Potatoes, fresh-baked!” “Buy my hot spiced gingerbread!”—fought against each other to be heard by the crowds of people hurrying about their business.

The great market at Spitalfields, which Walter passed, was quiet, although a few workmen could be seen finishing their day’s business of constructing the new market buildings, a few of which were already complete. His business lay in nearby Albert Street, and he made his way to the quiet building, above which hung a modest sign: Refuge Aid Society, Mile End New Road.

He had contacted his brother-in-law, Mr. Audley, the direct or of the society, who greeted him warmly, and led him to a small, modestly furnished office within the building. After the exchange of a few pleasantries, Mr. Audley addressed the matter at hand.

“I have, my dear fellow, given your letter a great deal of thought, a very great deal. If I understand you correctly, you are looking for a girl, aged sixteen or thereabouts, who is suitable to act as a companion to a well-born young lady. If you had asked me a week ago, I should have said there was no one here who would answer that description, either in terms of age or character. On the very day your letter arrived, however, we took in a girl who came to us of her own volition. This is somewhat unusual, as most of the girls who come here are brought by others—a concerned friend or relative, usually, who cannot look after the child but wants her taken care of so as not to fall into bad ways. I have met with her, and she strikes me as well-spoken—at least, compared with many of the poor wretches I see—and intelligent.”

“Do you know anything of her history?”

Mr. Audley nodded. “She has told me some of it, but I should like you to hear it for yourself.”

“You say that the girls come here—or are brought here—to avoid falling into bad ways. Is that the case with this girl?”

Audley hesitated for a moment, then said slowly, “No. She has confessed that she has already fallen into a life of crime.” Seeing the look on Walter’s face, Audley added with a rush, “However, I believe that the child is sincere in her desire to take a different path.” There was a sound of footsteps in the hallway outside, and the director said with some relief, “Ah, that will be her now. I would like you to talk with her, then tell me what you think.”

There was a knock on the door. A large, pleasant-faced woman, naturally red of cheek and cheery of countenance, entered, holding a young girl by the hand.

“Here she is, sir,” she said, with a neat bob of her head to the director. “Come in, child, and don’t be afraid,” she said to the girl, who entered the room with some hesitation. She looked from one man to the other; then, with a belated realization that something was necessary, dipped her head toward the two men, and eyed them with curiosity.

“Please sit down, Mary,” said Mr. Audley, his voice kind. When the girl had done so, he continued, “Mary, this is Mr. Somers. He is secretary to a gentleman who lives in the country, and he is very interested in your situation, for reasons that he will explain by and by. However, I want you to tell him your story, as you did to me.”

Mary turned and looked at Walter, enabling him to see her properly. She was dark haired, and her skin was pale, with the pallor of one who seldom sees the sunlight, and to whom fresh air and nourishing food were but passing acquaintances. She was slim, and somewhat above the average height, so that she looked thinner still. She remained silent, however, and Walter tried to put her at her ease.

“Mary, is it? And what is your last name, Mary?”

“Daniels,” she said. “Mary Daniels, I am. Sir,” she added. She had a pleasant voice, somewhat coarsened by her recent circumstances, Walter suspected, but firm and clear.

“As Mr. Audley said, I am most anxious to hear your story.”

Mary’s gaze had not wavered from Walter’s face, and he could not help but feel that the girl was making up her mind. She appeared to come to a decision, and after gathering in her breath she began to speak.

“My da was a groom at a big house in Shropshire, and my ma was a schoolmaster’s daughter,” she said. “When she married Da her family turned their back on her, on account of her marrying beneath her station, and she was taken on at the house as a maid. She taught me how to read, and write, and do some ciphering, and tried to bring me up genteel. Then Da got kicked in the head by a crazed horse, and were never the same man after. He took to drink, and then one day he up and left us, and we never heard tell of him again. Ma got let go then, and we had to leave. Ma had no family who would take us in, and there was no work to be had thereabouts, so we came to London, and got took on by a firm of dress makers in the West End. It was all right for a year or so, but Ma took poorly, and died when I was fourteen. As I was a good worker I was kept on by the dressmaker, but not long after, one of the young gentlemen of the family what owned the firm tried to have his way with me, and when I complained I was turned out.”

Mary had recounted her story in so matter-of-fact a tone that she might as well have been speaking of someone else. Walter, by no means ignorant of what went on in the metropolis, was still shocked at such a bald acceptance of the situation.

“Did they give you a reference, or character?”

The girl shook her head. “What do you think, sir?” she asked derisively. “I tried for a place with other dressmakers, but couldn’t get one. Then I tried getting a place in service, but there’s not much hope for girls without references. I had a bit of money put by, but it didn’t last long, and I told the landlady what state things was in. She weren’t a bad old soul, and I guess she meant well, ’cause she told me about a woman that ran an academy, she called it, who was always looking for quick, bright children to train. I thought she meant for service, and went along, and that’s when I found out she trained ’em to be thieves.”