entered, Beth bustled in, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Morning, miss. Mrs Blake’s already abroad. She and Juliette are making their visits. She says to tell you she’ll be back at tea time.’
‘Their visits?’
‘That’s right. They collect cloth for the convict ships, from shops and such.’ Beth lowered her voice. ‘And they visit prisons .’ She paused for effect and arched an eyebrow. ‘You wouldn’t catch me walking free into Millbank or Newgate. Evil places.’ She shivered melodramatically. ‘Anyway, your breakfast is on the table. It’s only bread and marmalade and such, that’s what Mr Blake has – young Mr Blake that is, of course, because there’s no other, not any more … But I can cook you eggs or porridge if you prefer.’
Rhia could tell Beth didn’t want to cook either eggs or porridge. ‘I expect you’ve better things to do,’ she said.
Beth looked surprised, and then pleased. ‘Well, yes I have,’ 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 Regent’s 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 officer’s 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 officer’s 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 she’d seen a shadowy figure amongst those unearthly trees. She’d been overtired of course, and besides, who’d ever heard of an apparition in a painting . Of course it wasn’t 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.
‘You must be Miss Mahoney.’
‘And you must be Mr Blake.’
‘Please call me Laurence. Antonia does. Quakers don’t believe in formalities.’
‘Then I suppose you should call me Rhia.’
‘Very well,’ said Laurence, beaming.
‘But I thought it was impolite in London to call a stranger by their first name?’ This was just the kind of etiquette she had been dreading.
‘Then we must pretend that we are old friends.’
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.
‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’ he said, suddenly awkward.
‘Oh, I’m pleased to be disturbed. I might otherwise be forced into looking for a position.’
‘I see,’ he said, though he didn’t look as though he did. ‘If you need further assistance in the matter, then perhaps you will permit me to join you for breakfast.’
‘But the table is laid for
‘Their visits?’
‘That’s right. They collect cloth for the convict ships, from shops and such.’ Beth lowered her voice. ‘And they visit prisons .’ She paused for effect and arched an eyebrow. ‘You wouldn’t catch me walking free into Millbank or Newgate. Evil places.’ She shivered melodramatically. ‘Anyway, your breakfast is on the table. It’s only bread and marmalade and such, that’s what Mr Blake has – young Mr Blake that is, of course, because there’s no other, not any more … But I can cook you eggs or porridge if you prefer.’
Rhia could tell Beth didn’t want to cook either eggs or porridge. ‘I expect you’ve better things to do,’ she said.
Beth looked surprised, and then pleased. ‘Well, yes I have,’ 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 Regent’s 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 officer’s 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 officer’s 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 she’d seen a shadowy figure amongst those unearthly trees. She’d been overtired of course, and besides, who’d ever heard of an apparition in a painting . Of course it wasn’t 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.
‘You must be Miss Mahoney.’
‘And you must be Mr Blake.’
‘Please call me Laurence. Antonia does. Quakers don’t believe in formalities.’
‘Then I suppose you should call me Rhia.’
‘Very well,’ said Laurence, beaming.
‘But I thought it was impolite in London to call a stranger by their first name?’ This was just the kind of etiquette she had been dreading.
‘Then we must pretend that we are old friends.’
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.
‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’ he said, suddenly awkward.
‘Oh, I’m pleased to be disturbed. I might otherwise be forced into looking for a position.’
‘I see,’ he said, though he didn’t look as though he did. ‘If you need further assistance in the matter, then perhaps you will permit me to join you for breakfast.’
‘But the table is laid for
Similar Books
