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Chapter Two
Madame Vallencourt of Paris (more accurately, Sadie Brown, born years before on the London docks) could scarcely believe her luck. The proprietress of a very successful milliner’s shop on the edge of Mayfair, her hardest task was hiring girls of decent breeding to give her shop “tone.”
And now she had found two such girls. Josie Johnson and Hetty Glump—the names no doubt as fictional as her own—had shown up that morning in response to the discreet advertisement in her window.
Madame noted that neither girl had the callouses on her hands associated with manual labor. They both spoke well, as if some education had passed their way. Were they runaways, perhaps: a couple of parsons’ daughters escaping unpleasant marriage prospects or burdensome family obligations?
Madame did not care. The girls said they were of age and new to London.
She placed them first in the back room with her other trimmers. She found their sewing stitches small and neat. Convent girls, perhaps? Then, sensing they might wear the hats even better than they trimmed them, she tried them out in the front of the shop with the customers.
They were an instant success. Their manners were demure and unobtrusive. Still, no sooner did a patron see an elegant feathered hat atop Hetty’s ice-blonde, upswept curls, or a perky bonnet setting off Josie’s brightly shining eyes, than that customer wanted the hat in at least three colors.
Business was soon booming. Within a week, Madame gave each girl a substantial raise, along with a black silk dress more suitable than country woolens for attracting high-end customers at the front of the shop.
* * *
With money once again in their pockets—much more carefully guarded, now!—the girls decided to spend an evening at Vauxhall Gardens.
Usually, this extraordinary pleasure park on the south shore of the Thames was shuttered during the colder months. But with the New Year’s re-opening of Parliament and resumption of the social Season, the owners were offering the public the park’s glories for a few select winter evenings.
Lady Josephine and Lady Hermione did not hesitate. Who knew where they would be by summer? And they had often heard of this place, full of odd amusements and exhibitions, where thetonandhoi polloimixed freely along the lanterned, shrub-lined walks.
They set off at twilight and traveled across the Thames by boat with a throng of other Londoners.
“Look!” cried Lady Josephine. “The whole park just came to light!” And it was true—as if at a signal, glimmering lights suddenly shone everywhere, creating a festive, holiday air.
They disembarked from the boat and began their explorations. There was the Egyptian exhibit, with its mummified statuary and its exotic, costumed dancers. There were fire eaters and jugglers, ten-foot men and Pygmy ladies. The Russian band played a lively number that had couples dancing freely among the hedgerows.
Lady Josephine was hungry, but Lady Hermione advised avoiding the formal supper pavilion—prices on the bill of fare looked high, and there did not seem to be any unaccompanied ladies dining in the boxes. Instead, the girls nibbled on snacks, familiar and unusual, being sold by vendors around every corner.
It was a magical night for girls their ages, one not meant ever to end. But the crowds seemed to be disbursing, so the girls finally decided to make their way back to the river landing to catch the next boat.
As they stood in queue, Lady Josephine felt a stout, foul hand slip behind her and grab one of her buttocks, squeezing hard. She screamed loudly. She had never been touched in such a way before, and it was disgusting. As she screamed, she caught her shoe on a tree root, and she fell to the ground. Falling, she caught a glimpse of the molester, a small, greasy fellow, running away down the path.
She vaguely thought she might hit her head on the riverbank rocks. But before she could reach the ground, a strong set of arms caught her and cradled her.
“Are you all right, then, Miss? We saw what the loathsome fellow did—but are you hurt in any way?”
She opened her eyes, then almost swooned again. For it was the face from her fantasies: the piercing, deep blue eyes, the firm, chiseled features. And it was those dreamed-of broad shoulders protecting her; those powerfully muscled arms holding her aloft as gently as if she were a kitten.
“Charley! Paddy!” he called out in a tone of command, and a couple of good-looking young toughs appeared from nowhere.He’s like a genie,she thought woozily,summoning up his minions.
“Begging your pardon, Miss,” said one, touching his hand to the front of his woolen cap in salute.
“—but we’re that sorry for your trouble, now,” said the other.
The second one must be Paddy, given the purity of that brogue.His accent was sweeter, more lilting, than that of Mrs. McCurdy.
“Enough of the blarney,” said their leader. “Get down the path and lay hands on that animal. Teach him a bit of a lesson. We can’t have young ladies in London treated so shamefully.”
“He wore a red neckerchief, I seen it,” said Charley. And the two of them broke into a run down the hedge-lined path. “No worries, Miss, we’ll find the bliddy cove!”
Lady Josephine’s protector asked again, “Are you hurt, Miss?”
She pulled herself together enough to say, “Just...just my left ankle. I must have sprained or twisted it on the way down.”
“Forgive me, Miss, I mean no impropriety,” he said, as he reached down, lifted the edge of her skirts and palpated the sore ankle.
