“The girl doesn’t want the job. One look at her face and I knew the truth of it. She let the name of the manor slip...” Her voice trailed off in an odd way.
“I can’t steal her post!”
“Now you think to be ethical? Right now, when your whole future is blank—a black hole—and your present is nothing but hunger. Yes, life did you wrong. But you don’t even have money for the rent! I’ll have to move your room again, to the porch this time. And after that, who knows?” The threat hung in the room.
It would be easier to stand up and grab a future than to sit around The Winding Stair wallowing in the slim pickings that came her way. “I’ll do it.” She didn’t feel entirely convinced, but somehow the words came out sure and strong.
“Very well,” said the landlady. “The plan is simple enough. You only have to show up a day early. Let them know the agency sent you instead of her. Plead prudence on your early arrival. Better to be early than late. I’ll let the young lady downstairs know the bad news. Let her down easy, let her know it was for the best. By arriving early, there’s no mistaking the job is yours. I’ll break the news to the young lady.” Mrs. Capshaw looked away as she spoke.
“Ah, I get it now. I wondered why you were so generous with an opportunity,” Penrose said spitefully. “And once you tell the poor girl she’s been wronged, you’ll give her the good news that you have a room to rent her. That, strangely, one was just vacated...”
The woman laughed, short and bitter, and her belly heaved. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you? Yes, I’ve seen her purse, and it’s heavier than yours. Don’t judge me. I have to survive. Just like you.”
The tight feeling in Penrose’s chest constricted even further. It became hard to breathe. “Mrs. Capshaw, I don’t know... It seems like such a scheme.”
“Well, you only have to listen to the girl to know I’m right. She’s downstairs right now, blabbing away to Charlie, telling my husband all her woes.” She plucked the heavy black gown from the peg on the wall and tossed it in Penrose’s direction. It sailed across the room like a dark ghost and covered Penrose in an embrace.
Mrs. Capshaw continued, “At the very least, come and hear her for yourself.”
The dress hung limply over Penrose. She felt small and uncertain all of a sudden.
“Don’t dally,” said Mrs. Capshaw, coming over and grabbing the dress, then holding open the bodice so that Penrose could step into it. “Here. Time’s wasting, always wasting. We have to hurry.”
Penrose stepped into the dress. The gown swallowed her. She had always been petite, but now she was thin—too thin.
Mrs. Capshaw didn’t seem to notice and she stood back, admiring Penrose. “That’s more like it. You’ll see. It will all work out. Turn around, dear,” she said.
Penrose turned, and the woman drew the gown tight and began buttoning it up. “This is your only dress?” she asked with concern. “The one you wore to your mother’s funeral?”
“I’m sorry. It’s all I have.” The rich black fabric had faded to gray at the elbows and the hem had turned to fringe. “I sold the others,” she whispered, hating the need to confess the small, shameful adjustments she’d had to make in the past few months.
Mrs. Capshaw sighed. “It’s so morose. I can only hope a somber look will work in your favor.” She tightened the final button and cinched the ribbon into a bow. “Now, where’s your bonnet?”
“I’ll get it. It’s at the window. I need to comb my hair, too.” In her heart she was still reluctant, her decision not yet made. But she went through the motions, fighting the comb through her inky hair. While she wrestled her hair into a tight bun, Mrs. Capshaw explained what she was to do.
“Charlie can drive you to the manor,” she said, referring to her husband and bartender. Even though Charlie was married to Mrs. Capshaw, he was no Mr. Capshaw. Simply Charlie. She continued, “You’ll have to sleep the night outside. We can’t risk you leaving tomorrow. She might catch on in the light of day. Anyhow, it shouldn’t be too hard. The gentleman’s name is Mr. Carrick Arundell. Remember, seven sharp. Very specific about that. Don’t worry about the little miss here, it’s all for the best.” She took Penrose by the hand. “Come now, let’s go down the stairs.”
When they reached the landing, Mrs. Capshaw put a hand on her shoulder. “Hold it,” she said. “Hmm. Can’t do to arrive without any belongings. It will make you look wanting. Needful.” She twisted her lips as she thought and then lifted a finger. “I’ve got it. Just a moment.” She left Penrose on the stairs.
Penrose heard her then. A breathy, feminine voice wafting up the stairwell. She couldn’t help herself and crept lower, down the winding staircase until she could see her—with the benefit of a wall that partially hid Penrose from view. The woman sat at the corner table. Even though the late crowd had begun to arrive, Penrose could still see her clearly.
No, this woman hadn’t sunk to the level that she had. Oh, certainly she oozed that refined look of genteel suffering, a bit worn at the edges. No doubt, there was even a small, graciously suffering smile on her lips. The kind of smile that Penrose couldn’t quite muster anymore.
The little blond head bobbed as she spoke. “It might not be worth the fear, the fright of living with such a man,” she drawled.
What could be so frightening about a mere man? Nothing, that’s what. But to make matters worse she continued, “I’m not so hungry that I will endure fright and intimidation. Not me. I can always stay with my sister. Perhaps another might endure such a thing, but I’m hesitant. Are things so bad that I must suffer for employment?”
Penrose’s eyes burned, and her fingers itched with the urge to strike out. Yes, they are, you silly woman. Yes, they are.
“But what about those wages?” Charlie asked.
The woman named the amount of pay, and a small choking noise escaped from Penrose’s lips. Both the woman and Charlie turned in her direction and she slunk back into the shadows.
“They say,” the woman continued in a grave voice, “that he must pay such a wild sum because of all the awful things that go on in that house. I’ve heard he’s wicked. I’ve heard he’s...dark.”
“The men talk, you know. I’ve heard the same.” Charlie stood leaning over the counter and wiping a whiskey glass with his rag. “And worse, too. Still, those wages. Any man would be proud to earn such a sum for a year’s labor.”
“Oh, that’s not a year of wages. That’s for a month.”
The shrill clink of the glass slipping from Charlie’s hand and hitting the counter rang out. Or maybe it was the sound of her conscience turning to ice. But whatever decency was left inside her hungry soul fled when she heard that sum. Right then and there, her mind turned rock-solid certain. The risks be damned. Dark arts meant nothing to her. That job would be hers. All she needed was one paycheck, just one, and she could recover. She could start again in a new city. She could open her own school with a new identity.
Distinctive footfalls came down the stairs. Penrose turned and saw Mrs. Capshaw standing on the rise above her. “Well?” she asked in a hearty whisper. “Heard enough?”
Penrose nodded. “Have you the bag?” she asked pointedly.
“Of course.” Mrs. Capshaw held it out. “I stuffed it with newspapers to look full.”
“It’s perfect,” said Penrose, taking the bag. It was dusty black and light as air. “I’ll go and wait outside for Charlie.”
“Of course. I’ll let him know.” The woman grabbed Penrose by the arm. “Penrose, you won’t regret this. Trust me.”
Trust was not a word she associated with Mrs. Capshaw, but the woman seemed sincere, and she nodded in reply. They descended the rest of the stairs