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They turned onto Wardour Street, lined with brick buildings five stories high, the white-enameled door and window frames gleaming. Shops with large plate-glass windows occupied the ground floor.
While not upscale, these commercial establishments weren’t seedy like those a few streets away. They walked north, passing by a currier, wine vault, boot maker, print shop, tobacconist, and cheese monger.
It was daring for Clara to walk down a street, let alone in an unknown area, unescorted by family or servants. In recent years, she’d darted between the library to Violet House, but she didnotsimply walk down the street!
Most of London didn’t exist for someone of her class. Thanks to her work with the LLS, she occasionally escaped her small orbit, witnessing bits of the squalor, disease, and danger spawned by the city’s swelling population.
Peering from under her hood and clutching her reticle, Clara walked in step with Stella, mimicking her friend’s purposeful stride as if walking thusly was her habit. She observed the exchanges of ordinary life with great interest, feeling like a visitor and hoping not to stick out.
They crossed Oxford Street into respectable Fitzrovia, traversing residential streets until they turned onto Charlotte Street. There, Stella guided her into a well-kept, recently built lodging house.
They passed the common parlor and dining room and went upstairs. The proprietress, the widow Mrs. Arden, employed servants to operate a kitchen and bathing room for those who paid for board, and a handful of maids to assist the tenants.
Stella welcomed her into her two-room quarters, a sitting room next to a small bed chamber. Sunlight filtered in from the windows, as golden as Stella. The rooms were modestly sized but lovely in appointment.
After Stella hung their capes and reticules on the tree next to the door, she invited Clara to sit on the gold-silk settee with a scrolled, mahogany arm.
“Where shall we begin?” asked Stella, her voice rich with promise.
