September 1870, Brighton England

Chapter3

The next morning, a warm, grey, furry body, with sharp claws and a purr that could be felt from across the room, landed squarely in the middle of her chest. Thankfully, there were enough blankets between her and Balthazar that his claws did not leave their mark on her flesh. He pressed his face into hers and breathed his distinctive cat-breath into her nose.

Ugh! What had he been eating?

“Mrrrow.” Fuzzy goblin was as predictable as the day was long, waking her every morning to fill his not-so-little, greedy belly.

“Yes, yes, you are starving and might well waste away to nothing if I do not provide you sustenance immediately.” She sat up and rubbed grit from her eyes and perched her glasses on her nose.

Plain, tidy, and a gentle meadow blue—not that fashionable Paris green which made her headachy and sick to her stomach—her little room slowly came into focus. Though Father’s room was half again as large, she still could not bring herself to move into it. Neither silly, nor superstitious, she simply preferred to claim the warmest chamber in the house as her own.

Balthazar nosed her until she pressed her feet into the thin carpeting and wrapped her dressing gown around herself against the morning chill. All told, he was an attractive creature-except first thing in the morning, when he was a demanding nuisance. The size of a beagle, with long grey fur which tufted atop his ears, and a dignified bearing, he was the sort of cat one might expect to accompany a grizzled old wizard.

“Can’t you see? I am indeed awake.” Granted, she would much rather be asleep, and would be, if not for the hairy glutton rubbing himself around her ankles. “I swear, one of these days I am going to lock the door, bolt the window, and sleep as long as I like.”

Such a look of disdain! One only attainable by a cat. Quite motivating in the morning. One of the reasons she kept the annoying little furball employed. He was also an excellent listener, too. But that was later in the day, after he was fed.

She dressed as quickly as her corset would allow. Living alone gave her some excuse for lacing it only tight enough to provide a secure grounding pressure instead of the rib-crushing waist-nipping that fashion suggested was best. It did not hurt that spinsters were not expected to be fashionable. There were a few advantages to her independent lifestyle.

Balthazar led the way downstairs and through the mews behind the house to the pub next door. Dewy morning air, kissed with smoke and saltwater, caressed her face, as though trying to apologize for the abrupt awakening she had endured.

The tradesman’s entrance to the pub stood barely open, the signal that she should come in. Delightful scents wafting from the kitchen made the invitation irresistible.

A wooden trencher overflowing with scraps for Balthazar waited inside the door. With something between a growl, a warble, and a purr, he pounced on the offering, relishing them as one should delight in a well-earned meal. No doubt, Birdy had discovered more rats in the cellar and was bribing Balthazar to stay about and take care of them. Hardly any need for that, as he considered it his sworn duty to protect anyone who fed him from vermin of every kind.

Beside the trencher, a battered wooden box marked ‘Fix’ overflowed with bent hollowware, hard-worn pewter plates, and two flour sack bags that contained the remains of something well and truly shattered. At least Birdy was getting fair value for their trade today.

The pub kitchen boasted an oven with hob and an open fire, and Birdy made use of them all. Wood smoke mingled with the mouthwatering smells of her morning offerings. A deep sink, under the window facing the mews, was piled high with potatoes and some other veg that would no doubt grace customers’ plates later today. Shelves piled with pots and pans and pewter dishes, all of which had passed through Fuller’s Fix-All at some point in recent memory, lined the far wall. The rest of the cramped space held busy worktables covered in bread, stews, and puddings in various stages of preparation.

Plump and jolly, with rosy cheeks, deep bronze skin, and a stained apron, Birdy, owner and proprietress of the Bird’s Nest Pub and Inn, shuffled in. “I see de cat brought you with him dis time.” Her warm island accent sweetened every word Birdy spoke. For all her sweetness, she was a shrewd business woman and had taught Rebecca more about how to keep Fuller’s Fix-All afloat than her father ever had. Birdy leaned back, crossed her arms over her ample bosom, and cocked her head to study Rebecca with a maternal eye.

“I suppose he decided I needed one of your fine meals, too.” Rebecca gestured toward the box. “Looks like you have had an interesting week.”

“Ya might call it that, lass. But the names I would use for it are less proper.” She rubbed her hands down her apron, her prim lips pressing into a wrinkled frown.

“Dockworkers and the gas workers at it again? Or was it the railway workers this time? As I recall, none of them seem to get along very well.”

“All o’ ‘dem last night. I dunno. It’s a full moon, and that makes ‘em all crazier than a bag o’cats—not minding present company, of course.” She curtsied to Balthazar.

Did he acknowledge her with that mew, or was his belly full? One never knew with that creature. “What makes them all want to sup together under one roof?”

“It’s my cooking, dontcha know? I had a line waiting outside here last night ‘cause they all want to sit at me table.” Birdy snorted and rolled her eyes. “It don’t look like nothing among them got settled, though, so it wouldn’t surprise me if the box were full again in the morning. Go on and take that basket with you when ya go. I put in a cake, some extra pies, and a few other oddments for you. No doubt you have earned it dis month.”

Rebecca licked her lips. “That’s most kind of you—”

Birdy held up an open hand and pointed to the nearest worktable and a stool. “I don’t give away nothin’ fer free. You be working for yer keep, same as me.” She shuffled to another worktable and dished up a plate of sausages, eggs, beans, toast, and rich red preserves whose fruit Rebecca could not name. “I don’t know how you eat like a bricklayer and keep looking as you do, but good on you. Here ye go. Eat up, you gotta keep up your strength if you’re to chase down some sort o’ man.”

Rebecca laughed, mostly because she was supposed to. “As busy as you’re keeping me, there’ll be no time to chase anything.”

“There’s always time to chase a man, dontcha know! I’m considering it myself! Might settle the pub down to have a man to contend with.” She flashed her brows and winked.

No doubt she was joking. Birdy had outlived three husbands. The first kept bad company and met his end at their hands. She had lost the next two to typhoid and consumption. She had not gotten around to marrying her most recent beau, which was just as well when he up and left without so much as a backward glance. Word had it he boarded a fishing vessel to avoid outstanding debts of honor, and he’d never come back. They were all better off without him.

“You’ve got your eye on someone new?”

Birdy dismissed the notion with a wave. “Not today, anyhow, but a lady must keep her options open, yah?” Heavy footfalls pounded down the stairs. “An innkeeper’s work is never done. That lot will be wantin’ victuals now. Eat up, lass while I tend to them that pays the bills.” She laughed and lumbered out of the kitchen.

Thank heavens she left. No one needed to watch Rebecca wolf down food like a starving man. She was starving, though. Working into the wee hours raised up a ravenous hunger that no proper lady should ever display.

Balthazar batted his empty trencher about, but gave up with a snort a few moments later, when it became clear she would not share her breakfast. He trotted off towards the cellar. No doubt he expected that presenting Birdy with a rat might produce another serving on his platter. He could be right. And if not, he would still have the rat.

Rebecca finished her breakfast and hurried back to the shop, with Birdy’s basket of all things delicious, hanging in the crook of her elbow, and the box of mayhem in her arms.

Fuller’s Fix-All would not be open for some time yet, but that did not stop the impatient and the hopeful from trying to peek through the windows. As long as she made a good show of unlocking the door for them and telling the customers she was not open, but was willing to do them this favor, there was little to lose and much to gain from allowing her patrons to feel special and cared for.

And that made her more likely to be able to pay the bills. Maybe one day there would be more on her mind than keeping customers happy, paying off her father’s debts and the Guild’s dues, and managing the shop. But that would not be soon.

The horrid little clock whirred and clicked—warning of what was about to come. Rebecca dropped the box and basket on the counter and covered her ears. The mangy black bird appeared to shriek eight times. Somehow, Father had crafted the clock so that its morning voice was more shrill and demanding than its afternoon voice, almost as though the clock got tired during the day. He was forever tinkering with the thing. No telling what its full range of tricks might be.

Sunlight peeked around the shades and brightened slivers of the busy—no, it really was cluttered—shop, not quite reaching to the wide workbench and counter along the back wall, behind which she spent most of her days. If she had her druthers, the shop would have been neat and orderly, with shelves in tidy rows, labeled with the nature of the repairs done and the cost of said services on one side and the odd and sundry items for sale on the other.

But most people found that arrangement far too cold and unfriendly. Brighton shoppers, many of them on their holidays, preferred to explore and discover the secrets the shop had to offer, especially the neatly penned notes attached to the items she sold, describing their former existence, how she had found them, and the repairs they had been given. Somehow, knowing the history of the pieces made them more interesting, and most importantly, more likely to be sold. And for the most part, the little notes were not complete works of fiction, so her conscience could be clear. It was not as if she claimed any of the mended teacups had been owned by royalty or anything so far-fetched.

She tucked Birdy’s box under the counter with the other pending projects. Thankfully, most of the work Birdy sent was quick and easy—and in steady supply. Life would turn decidedly more expensive if Birdy’s customers became more genteel and their food-for-mending barter was no longer a fair trade.

The basket went under the counter, too—after she plucked a heavy hand pie from under the napkin. Last night had taken more from her than she wanted to admit. She opened the bulky ledger that she kept out for show. There was something official and businesslike about it that men seemed to like—as if it meant she was indeed serious about her business and not playing at it like a child might play with dolls.

No, she was not at all bitter about being dismissed as frivolous and even stupid because of her gender.

If only they understood the craftsmanship required to do what she did! Even making Father’s silver fountain pen work was a triumph of her Skill that none would ever recognize. Father refused to acknowledge it, even though he regularly asked her to cajole it into proper behavior.

She removed the filigreed pen from the drawer and held it out over a blotter. Finicky, but useful little item. Running her fingers over the length, she found the Water in the ink and coaxed it into order. No, no leaking or spotting, A nice steady trickle through the nib. Temperamental though it was, it was still better than dipping a pen into ink, which inevitably would be spilt at a most inconvenient time. Most often, thanks to Balthazar.

Not to mention, having a working fountain pen and declaring it a trade secret was also good for business.

She updated her ledgers and set last night’s work—both bespoke repairs and her own craftings—on the shelves for customers to admire. Except for Fletcher Mallory’s piece, of course. It would not do for one of his neighbors to discover the piece here and mention that to his father. She wrapped the figurine in brown paper, tied it securely, then tucked it under the counter.

Time to pull up the shades.

Wind and Fire!

Fletcher Mallory’s nose pressed to the window glass greeted her. The still-rumpled child was nothing if not persistent.

He met her at the front door, bouncing on his toes, as she unlocked and opened it.

“I suppose, then, cleaning the front glass will be your first task for me. Nose prints are most unsightly.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot.

He slipped in, barely missing her toes. His hat sat askew and the buttons on his shirt were misaligned, leaving his shirt collar on the right side pushing up toward his ear. Scamp should not have been here before afternoon. “Were you able to fix it, Miss?”

“The name of the shop is Fix-All, is it not?” She led him back to the counter and pulled out the bundle. “All is done and dusted. No more worries.”

He felt the figurine through the wrapping. “You did it! I cannot understand how, but you did it.” He swept a dramatic arm across his forehead and heaved a heavy sigh.

“As requested. Now about the charges.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you require. Please, let me take this home first, then I will come back and work for you every afternoon, and as many as you say. Just let me put this back so me father won’t chance to find it missing.”

It was a recipe to be cheated, to be sure, but the spark of genuine fear in the boy’s hazel eyes, that she could not ignore. “I expect your return in a quarter of an hour. If not, I will be speaking to your father about this.”

He flinched, the color fading from his cheeks. “Right, Miss. I will be right back, I promise.” He tucked the package under his arm and dashed away. The tinkling bells on the door wished him godspeed.

At least he believed her threat. Following through on it would be at least as bad for her as it would be for him. Would it be worth the trouble if he did not return?

She blew out a rough breath through puffed cheeks and trundled to the door. She’d sort that out when she came to it. Best lock the door, though, before—

Mrs. Helma Lackwood, short and sharp, all snoot and bluster, pushed her way in before Rebecca could turn the lock. She wore a fur wrap, though it was not the season for it, and a huge hat that all but touched the doorframe as she sauntered through. “What is that little scamp doing here?”

“Good morning, Mrs. Lackwood. What brings you in today?”

“That child is nothing but trouble. If I were you, I would not let him set foot inside. And where he wanders, his good-for-nothing father will follow.” Mrs. Lackwood shed her wrap and handed it to Rebecca.

If she didn’t have a reputation as a customer who paid well and on time, Rebecca would have dropped it on the floor and walked across it like a rug. Even so, she was sorely tempted. “Have you something in need of repairs?”

“Indeed, I do, but I could not possibly bring it with me.” Mrs. Lackwood did not deign to look at Rebecca, instead browsing the shelves of repaired items waiting to be picked up. No doubt spying on her neighbors for bits of juicy gossip. Mrs. Lackwood seemed to know something about everyone in a five-mile radius of her posh Montpelier Crescent home, effectively most of Brighton.

Rebecca steered her toward the curio cabinets of wares she might buy instead. “What is ‘it’ that you speak of?”

“I am sure you will have no troubles with it. You have quite the reputation.” Mrs. Lackwood opened the nearest glass door and removed a pair of steel and onyx earrings crafted from broken bits of mourning jewelry, and studied the tag with their story. “I will have these, I think.” She dropped the earrings into Rebecca’s outstretched hand.

“I do not do work outside my shop. If you want something repaired, you must bring it to me.”

Mrs. Lackwood turned to face her. Though she was a handspan shorter than Rebecca, and thin as a waif, she had this way of looking down on one that made her seem far bigger than she was. “But that is not possible.”

Rebecca drew herself up very tall. “I am not a doctor, Mrs. Lackwood. I do not make house calls.”

“I insist. You must.”

“I am firm in my policy.”

“I will double your fee.”

Interesting. “I don’t charge much for fixing bric-à-brac. Double that is hardly an enticement.”

“This is not bric-à-brac, as you call it.” Mrs. Lackwood tapped her foot in a loud staccato. “Triple, then.”

Heavens! “What do you need repaired?”

“Can you keep a secret?” Such irony coming from a woman who never met a word she did not repeat.

“You know my reputation for discretion. If you cannot trust me, then it would be in your best interest to find another who will better suit your needs.” Rebecca turned aside and headed for the back counter. “Shall I wrap the earrings for you?”

Mrs. Lackwood followed with sharp, echoing steps. “The stone mantel in my drawing room.”

“The white French marble one, well known in the Seven Dials as being valued upwards of a thousand pounds? I have not seen, it of course, but I have heard of it.” Heard that it was gaudy and ugly, and an ostentatious show of wealth that no one understood how the Lackwoods came by.

“Yes, that one.” Mrs. Lackwood edged back half a step, bit her lip, and looked at the floor. “It has come to some mischief.”

“Would you care to be more specific? In what manner was it damaged?” What secrets was she hoping to conceal?

“With an iron poker,” she whispered.

Rebecca winced.

Her husband and eldest son no doubt had another drunken row, with the mantelpiece suffering most of the damage. Those rows were a well-known secret—the neighbors’ servants often heard them. Did Mrs. Lackwood know that? If she didn’t, Rebecca wouldn’t be the one to tell her. “How extensive is the damage? Should not a carver or even a stonemason be called? Could not Mr. Enright, the stonemason, help you? I understood he was the one who installed it.”

“I am quite certain we are beyond that point. Well beyond. If you cannot repair it with all your special trade secrets, then it will be a total loss.” And that meant a complete loss of face in society, something worth more to her than even the mantelpiece.

Rebecca laid the earrings on the counter and leaned back against it. “This is most irregular, to be sure.”

“You can see why I require discretion, no doubt.”

“I do, indeed.” And she needed to stop wasting her time with this busybody and return to paying work. “I will make a house call—”

“Excellent, excellent. You may call—”

Rebecca stepped forward, nearly treading on Mrs. Lackwood’s toes. “I will examine the damage when it is convenient for me. And yes, I will use the tradesman’s entrance, but I will deal with you, not the housekeeper. And you will pay me for my time. Should I decide to take the job, I require quadruple my usual fee. There will be a strict set of conditions under which I will work. These will be nonnegotiable, and if you do not meet any of them, I will cease work and nothing will persuade me to continue.” Surely, that would be enough to dissuade her.

“Excellent. I knew you would have your price. Everyone does. I will expect you later this week. Do send word of the time you are coming. I have an active social schedule.” Mrs. Lackwood trundled out, as pleased as Balthazar with a rat. “And send the earrings to the house, along with the bill.”

The bells clanked flat notes as the door shut behind her.

That was not what was supposed to happen. Not at all.