The alley smelled of coal, cabbage, printer’s ink, damp brick. A cat shot past and vanished into a stack of crates. Above, lines of washing sagged under the rain. She fixed her eyes on the black shine of the cobbles where the rain had smoothed them to glass.
“What will you say if they ask you for a reference you do not have?” he asked, not unkindly.
“The truth,” she said. “That my father is dead and my skills are plain.” She folded her gloved fingers around the damp handle of the umbrella. “That I can read a hand at a glance and keep an account and mend a book with paste and patience. That I do not trouble employers with inconvenient feelings.”
At that, something like a wince flickered over his face and was gone. “Inconvenient feelings,” he repeated, voice dry. “What a world we have made that would call them that.”
As they came out on the square, a gust of wind capered round and plunged under her skirts, cold as a bucket from a well. At the same moment, a prickle rose at the base of her skull, the thin, bright tinnitus of wraiths drawing near.
A woman stood by the railings across the square, translucent gray, her hair hanging in ropes. She held a basket to her front with both hands, the posture of someone guarding a child. The wail of a babe tore at Isabella’s thoughts. A babe no longer of this world.
Isabella went still. He noticed. His hand hovered, not touching but ready to offer assistance if needed. For an instant, she thought how easy it would be to accept, not only his arm here in the street but employment, safe and familiar.
“Miss Barrett?” Mr. Caradoc said.
She glanced toward the building where a gilt board swung: MRS. ROCHE, Millinery & Mourning. “This is my appointment.”
He stopped beside the door. She had to pass very near him to reach it, and the closeness drew the air tight. She smelled the faintest trace of lemons, light and pleasant.
“My offer of employment stands,” he said softly. His gaze made steady work of her face. “Because you would do the work well. And because you would not be alone.”
The last sentence snagged in her. He could not know where it caught.
“I am not alone,” she said, more quickly than was graceful. “I have always managed.”
“Of course.” He dipped his head the smallest degree, as if acknowledging the truth and the cost both. “My carriage will meet you in Marlow when you arrive.”
His words, so calm and sure, and yes, arrogant, startled a sound from her that might have been a laugh. “You do not think very well of my chances with Mrs. Roche.”
“I think very well of you,” he said simply, and the ring of truth she heard in them confused her. “And I think you deserve employment befitting your skills.”
The bell chimed when he opened the door for her, and again later when she opened it for herself, leaving after having been declined employment.
Days crawled past. Isabella attended at least two interviews daily and came away from each with nothing but a deeper pit in her stomach. Her spirits were sorely tested, her hopes dashed repeatedly. Desperation gnawed at her. Unpaid bills sat in a tidy pile on Papa’s desk. The rent was paid on the house for only ten more days, and then she would need to find lodging as well as employment. Her first quarterly income since Papa’s death would not come until Midsummer, and that was months away.
Resting her palms on the smooth wood of her father’s desk she stared at the ticket to Maidenhead until it blurred, wondering if she dared accept Mr. Caradoc’s offer. Wondering how she would survive if she did not.
Each letter of rejection, each humiliating interview chipped away at her confidence and hope, leaving her raw.
She began to pack, not because she had any idea where she would go but because the act of folding linens and sorting her father’s belongings allowed her to pretend that she was in control of something.
Now, she opened the lower right-hand drawer of Papa’s desk, intending to separate papers to burn or donate. Would anyone even want his monographs? Perhaps one of his contemporaries or a museum… Her hand closed on a stack of letters tied with black ribbon. Curious, she drew it out and set it atop the desk. She untied the ribbon and unfolded the letter at the top of the stack.
The parchment was fine, the script bold, the sentences constructed with precision and care. As she read first letter, then the next and the next, she realized these were the correspondences Mr. Caradoc had sent to Papa, and they were exactly as he had described: offers of employment, nothing more, nothing less. No veiled messages or threats. No offensive language. Nothing to raise Papa’s hackles or send him into a rage.
Mr. Caradoc had not lied. The admission both relieved and distressed her.
She sank into the chair behind the desk, the bundle before her, the black ribbon clutched in one hand.
He had not lied about the contents of his letters, but she could not know if he had been truthful about the letters Papa had sent in return. And if he had been, then why had Papa used her as an excuse to refuse, why had he claimed she had a delicate nature?
She sent a note to Mr. Christopher asking for his opinion of Mr. Caradoc. His reply was straightforward.
* * *
Mr. Caradoc is a gentleman, Miss Barrett, sharp of mind and possessed of considerable means. I am certain his offer is made in good faith, and you would do well to consider it most seriously.
* * *
