on the downstairs landing.
The table in the morning room was laid for two. Perhaps she was not too late after all. As soon as Rhia entered, Beth bustled in, wiping her hands on her apron. âMorning, miss. Mrs Blakeâs already abroad. She and Juliette are making their visits. She says to tell you sheâll be back at tea time.â
âTheir visits?â
âThatâs right. They collect cloth for the convict ships, from shops and such.â Beth lowered her voice. âAnd they visit prisons .â She paused for effect and arched an eyebrow. âYou wouldnât catch me walking free into Millbank or Newgate. Evil places.â She shivered melodramatically. âAnyway, your breakfast is on the table. Itâs only bread and marmalade and such, thatâs what Mr Blake has â young Mr Blake that is, of course, because thereâs no other, not any more ⦠But I can cook you eggs or porridge if you prefer.â
Rhia could tell Beth didnât want to cook either eggs or porridge . âI expect youâve better things to do,â she said.
Beth looked surprised, and then pleased. âWell, yes I have,â she said importantly, and disappeared quickly before Rhia could change her mind.
Rhia sat down at the breakfast table. Mrs Blake had left a copy of a broadsheet, the London Globe open on a page that shepresumably thought would interest Rhia. This was clearly not a household that disapproved of women reading the papers. The page was divided into narrow columns of print so minuscule that it was almost illegible. She bent over it. A commodious property was being let in Regentâs Park, complete with chaise house, water closet and counting house. It would cost one hundred and fifty guineas for five months. A parish in Limehouse was seeking to contract a butcher who could supply mouse buttocks, maiden ewe and ox beef without the bone; suet included. A respectable officerâs daughter could teach the globes and French grammar and the rudiments of Latin. This lady was apparently qualified by accomplishments and education . Rhia sighed. What chance did she have against a respectable officerâs daughter?
She felt a cold breath on the back of her neck, as if a door had opened behind her. She turned, but directly behind her was only the photogenic drawing of tall, pale tree trunks, like the columns of a classical temple. Yesterday, she had imagined sheâd seen a shadowy figure amongst those unearthly trees. Sheâd been overtired of course, and besides, whoâd ever heard of an apparition in a painting . Of course it wasnât exactly a painting, though it was very like one. Perhaps it was all those pictures of the Holy Virgin on the wall that had thrown her. Their presence unnerved her almost as much as the trees did. She turned her back firmly on the photogenic drawing, and the Madonnas, and saw a man standing in the doorway watching her. A real man, not an apparition, though she was beginning to worry that she might not be able to tell the difference. He was a smiling, boyish man with very blue eyes. She had no idea how long he had been there.
âYou must be Miss Mahoney.â
âAnd you must be Mr Blake.â
âPlease call me Laurence. Antonia does. Quakers donât believe in formalities.â
âThen I suppose you should call me Rhia.â
âVery well,â said Laurence, beaming.
âBut I thought it was impolite in London to call a stranger by their first name?â This was just the kind of etiquette she had been dreading.
âThen we must pretend that we are old friends.â
Rhia laughed. She liked Laurence Blake immediately, with his carelessly tied cravat and crumpled shirtfront. He held a top hat in one hand, as though he was on his way out. With the other hand he attempted to smooth a hillock of dark blond hair.
âI hope I am not disturbing you,â he said, suddenly awkward .
âOh, Iâm
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