Page 11 of Miss Dauntless
A peaceful, cozy retreat, very much in contrast with the earlier scene at breakfast.
“Tommie was rather subdued as well,” Matilda said. He’d sat at Matilda’s left hand at the head of the breakfast table, silently spooning porridge into his maw and goggling at the other diners. Mrs. Winklebleck had taken the chair to Matilda’s right, while a half-dozen former soldiers had lined each side of the table.
Their profanity had been prodigious and their manners nonexistent. Mrs. Winklebleck had made a general announcement rather than attempt specific introductions.
“This be Mrs. Merridew. Lord Tremont sent her here to civilize you lot, may God have mercy on her soul. Treat her right or learn to go without your meals, your laundry, and your mendin’.”
Matilda had offered a polite “good morning,” taken her seat, and asked Mrs. Winklebleck to please pass the porridge. After a beat of silence, a roar had ensued, involving the damned salt, the perishin’ butter, the bleedin’ honey ye damned stinkin’ sot, and worse.
Matilda had sent for Tommie in hopes that his example might do for the men what Matilda’s had not, which wasn’t quite what had transpired. The men had fallen all but silent as a staggering amount of food had disappeared.
“Where did they get off to?” Matilda asked.
“Biggs and Bentley go for a ramble. We don’t ask them what they get up to, but the law hasn’t snabbled ’em, so maybe they’re looking for work. Dantry and Davis report to Major MacKay for stable help and other odd jobs. Most of the rest spend the day at dice, cards, or whorin’, unless we’ve a churchyard to spruce up. I do fancy me this tea. His lordship don’t skimp on the larders.”
“You have eight men sitting idle underfoot all day?”
“The whole dozen if it’s a rainy afternoon. Winter is hard on ’em, and none too easy on me nerves either. They’re a good lot, though. Better than most. Watch out for that Amos Tucker. He’s a pincher.”
“A… pincher?”
“Yer bum. He’s quick too. Wants a good clout to the ear, and from me, he usually gets it.” Mrs. Winklebleck tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear, the gesture oddly girlish.
As housekeepers went, Mrs. Winklebleck was young and robust in every dimension, rather than fat. She wore a spotless mobcap and clean apron, but something about her seemed familiar.
“You are Big Nan,” Matilda said. “You and your… friends once shared a fellowship meal at St. Mildred’s.” At least two years ago, maybe more.
She set down her tea cup, her gaze wary. “And what if we did?”
“The congregation could talk of little else for weeks. Major MacKay’s ladies, they called you. Miss Dorcas—Mrs. MacKay, rather—holds you all in sincere affection, as does the major.” A lot of streetwalkers, side by side with the likes of Mrs. Oldbach. The occasion had been memorable, to say the least.
“Life on the stroll is hard,” Mrs. Winklebleck said. “‘On the stroll’ sounds so merry and fine, My Lady La-Di-Da. Half the time, you starve. The other half… It’s hard. I tried my hand at drawing caricatures in the pubs—I got a good eye for a likeness—but that don’t hardly pay. Major MacKay said his lordship were looking for a housekeeper, and I kept house for me brother until he died, so here I am. Jessup and Jensen came with me.”
Two sturdy, smiling maids.
Former streetwalkers. Harry would laugh himself to tears at the thought, and from his celestial perch, Papa was doubtless unsurprised to know the company his Jezebel of a daughter was keeping.
“People can change, missus,” Mrs. Winklebleck said. “Major MacKay forgot how to smile, but since he married Miss Dorcas, he’s all sunshine. The boy John has the major’s sunny nature. You were married, now you are a widow. I was a light-skirts, now I’m a housekeeper. Only the Quality get so bound up in everybody knowin’ their place. For the Quality, their place is usually proper wonderful.”
The next question had to be asked, because the answer would decide whether Matilda stayed on or gathered Tommie up and returned to her frigid basement.
“You don’t… That is… Your former livelihood doesn’t overlap with your current duties?”
Mrs. Winklebleck laughed heartily, the sound filling her little parlor. “How fancy you talk. I’m done with all that. Whorin’ is a young woman’s game. A few years of that here in the capital, and a girl can take her coin and go back to the village. She’ll lie about being in service or working in a shop, but nobody will mind, and some lad will be glad to find a wife with even a small dowry.”
Harry had posited the same theory many times: A man or woman of enterprise could simply hop on the next coach, travel fifty miles, and take up life in any market town with nobody the wiser about his previous affairs. Too late, Matilda had realized that Harry had spoken from repeated experience.
“And the maids, Jessup and Jensen? They aren’t expected to… extend favors to the men?”
“They are not. I suspect Jensen is sweet on Amos Tucker, but Tuck hasn’t even regular wages, so how could he take on a wife? They might rub along well enough on Jensen’s wages for a time, but then the children arrive, and somebody has to pay for the coal.”
Matilda sipped her tea rather than comment on that observation. “What, in your opinion, would the men most like to learn if they’re to better their prospects?”
“You’ll have to ask ’em. They like good food and plenty of it. They’ll tidy up a churchyard or some fancy toff’s garden, if his lordship says they ought. For Major MacKay, they’ll muck out a stable. For Captain Powell, they will try to spin straw into gold, though I haven’t met the man myself. I’m too busy beatin’ the rugs and makin’ the beds to bother about what else the lads might be fit for.”
That wasn’t exactly what Matilda had asked about. “Who is Captain Powell?”
“Major MacKay’s cousin, married to Lord Tremont’s sister, Lady Lydia. Get his lordship to draw you a family map. More tea?”
