sugar, and beer, and you will have one evening off each week, one day off each month. On Sundays you will accompany me to church.”
She said nothing about an annual holiday; Eliza doubted maids stayed long enough to claim such a thing. “Thank you, Mrs. Fowler. That sounds very good.” And it did, strangely enough. Twelve pounds yearly! Without her having to pay for lodgings every night, or walk miles through London’s streets shouting herself hoarse. It was more than she earned as a struggling costerwoman, and for that matter, more than she’d earned as Mrs. DiGiuseppe’s slavey. So this is what working for wealth looks like.
But it came with a price: working for Mrs. Kittering, and lying about who she was. And an under-housemaid would have less opportunity to spy upon Miss Kittering than one who worked above stairs. Eliza’s enthusiasm was therefore tempered by the time Mrs. Fowler asked, “How soon can you begin?”
“Oh, as soon as may be,” she hastened to assure the housekeeper. “Today, if you like.”
“I will show you the house, then, and tonight you may go fetch your things—” She broke off at Eliza’s muted reaction. “What is it?”
Eliza ducked her head, embarrassed. “There—there isn’t anything to fetch, ma’am. Just this.” She touched one shoe to her bundle on the floor, then jerked her foot back before Mrs. Fowler could notice the shoe was a man’s boot, with cracked leather and worn heel. Every last penny had gone into the dress and the character, with tuppence left over for a bath; shoes could run as much as a shilling, even secondhand. No one in Whitechapel could, or would, spare her that kind of money.
The housekeeper’s expression turned forbidding. “You have nothing else to your name?”
If she didn’t come up with a good explanation, Mrs. Fowler might follow up on that character, and then the entire thing would fall apart. Eliza tried to hide her worry—then thought the better of it, and let her distress show through. “I’m sorry, ma’am—I know it’s disgraceful—it’s my brother, you see, he fell sick. Measles, it was, and I nursed him, because I’d had it before; but then it got into his lungs, and we paid all we had to the doctor, but it wasn’t enough. He’s dead now. This is the last good dress I have, and I sold my good shoes, and—please, ma’am, I need this job. I promise I’ll save every penny, and make myself respectable again as fast as I may.”
Mrs. Fowler sniffed, but her expression softened by a hair. “Very well. Ann Wick is the upper-housemaid; she will lend you a dress until you receive your first week’s pay. I’ll expect you to look better by this day week.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eliza had risen from her chair during that inspired bit of lying; now she bobbed a curtsy. In one week’s time, I could be gone entirely. But I’ll have four shillings and more to show for it, and that’s never a bad thing.
“Follow me, then,” Mrs. Fowler said, opening the door and leading her toward the stairs. “I’ll show you the room you’ll share with Ann, and then you can begin cleaning the carpets in the morning room.”
The Goblin Market, Onyx Hall: March 26, 1884
“Get ’im! Come on, rip ’is fucking throat out!”
Dead Rick’s lips peeled back in a snarl. Half at the dog across from him, half at the voices egging them on. Stupid whelp, he cursed himself. Should ’ave knowed better than to do your sniffing in dog form. Gives the bastards ideas.
He had plenty of reason to curse himself out. On the one hand, he’d found Rewdan: good for him. On the other hand, Rewdan was the stringy padfoot cur snarling back at him, and the mob was howling for one of them to die.
What the other faerie had done to land himself here, Dead Rick didn’t know. Maybe he’d just wandered by in dog form, as Dead Rick had, and run afoul of some drunk goblin, again as Dead Rick had. Or maybe he’d gotten on the wrong side of Nadrett. They were
She said nothing about an annual holiday; Eliza doubted maids stayed long enough to claim such a thing. “Thank you, Mrs. Fowler. That sounds very good.” And it did, strangely enough. Twelve pounds yearly! Without her having to pay for lodgings every night, or walk miles through London’s streets shouting herself hoarse. It was more than she earned as a struggling costerwoman, and for that matter, more than she’d earned as Mrs. DiGiuseppe’s slavey. So this is what working for wealth looks like.
But it came with a price: working for Mrs. Kittering, and lying about who she was. And an under-housemaid would have less opportunity to spy upon Miss Kittering than one who worked above stairs. Eliza’s enthusiasm was therefore tempered by the time Mrs. Fowler asked, “How soon can you begin?”
“Oh, as soon as may be,” she hastened to assure the housekeeper. “Today, if you like.”
“I will show you the house, then, and tonight you may go fetch your things—” She broke off at Eliza’s muted reaction. “What is it?”
Eliza ducked her head, embarrassed. “There—there isn’t anything to fetch, ma’am. Just this.” She touched one shoe to her bundle on the floor, then jerked her foot back before Mrs. Fowler could notice the shoe was a man’s boot, with cracked leather and worn heel. Every last penny had gone into the dress and the character, with tuppence left over for a bath; shoes could run as much as a shilling, even secondhand. No one in Whitechapel could, or would, spare her that kind of money.
The housekeeper’s expression turned forbidding. “You have nothing else to your name?”
If she didn’t come up with a good explanation, Mrs. Fowler might follow up on that character, and then the entire thing would fall apart. Eliza tried to hide her worry—then thought the better of it, and let her distress show through. “I’m sorry, ma’am—I know it’s disgraceful—it’s my brother, you see, he fell sick. Measles, it was, and I nursed him, because I’d had it before; but then it got into his lungs, and we paid all we had to the doctor, but it wasn’t enough. He’s dead now. This is the last good dress I have, and I sold my good shoes, and—please, ma’am, I need this job. I promise I’ll save every penny, and make myself respectable again as fast as I may.”
Mrs. Fowler sniffed, but her expression softened by a hair. “Very well. Ann Wick is the upper-housemaid; she will lend you a dress until you receive your first week’s pay. I’ll expect you to look better by this day week.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eliza had risen from her chair during that inspired bit of lying; now she bobbed a curtsy. In one week’s time, I could be gone entirely. But I’ll have four shillings and more to show for it, and that’s never a bad thing.
“Follow me, then,” Mrs. Fowler said, opening the door and leading her toward the stairs. “I’ll show you the room you’ll share with Ann, and then you can begin cleaning the carpets in the morning room.”
The Goblin Market, Onyx Hall: March 26, 1884
“Get ’im! Come on, rip ’is fucking throat out!”
Dead Rick’s lips peeled back in a snarl. Half at the dog across from him, half at the voices egging them on. Stupid whelp, he cursed himself. Should ’ave knowed better than to do your sniffing in dog form. Gives the bastards ideas.
He had plenty of reason to curse himself out. On the one hand, he’d found Rewdan: good for him. On the other hand, Rewdan was the stringy padfoot cur snarling back at him, and the mob was howling for one of them to die.
What the other faerie had done to land himself here, Dead Rick didn’t know. Maybe he’d just wandered by in dog form, as Dead Rick had, and run afoul of some drunk goblin, again as Dead Rick had. Or maybe he’d gotten on the wrong side of Nadrett. They were
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