Page 17 of To Claim the Long-Lost Lover
“As I said, my name is Lady Sarah Winderfield. And you are?”
“Elizabeth Cotton, my lady,” said the brunette, who appeared to have appointed herself spokesperson. “But I’m mostly called Bets. And this is Sadie Fletcher.” Her accent was almost gone, Sarah noticed. She might almost pass for a gentry woman, by her voice alone, when she made the effort to speak well.
“Sarah,” the blonde corrected. “I’ve always been called Sadie, but my for real name is Sarah, if you don’t think it impertinent, my lady.”
“Cor. I never knew that,” Bets told her friend.
Sadie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter none. I just thought it was maybe a sign.” She turned hopeful eyes on Sarah. “You and me having the same name, like.” She flinched at her own words, as if expecting a blow.
“Perhaps it is,” Sarah told her.
They were interrupted by another knock on the door. Sarah called, “Enter,” and a maid backed into the room with a tray of tea things.
“Thank you, Anne,” Sarah said. “Just put it on the table here, and we’ll serve ourselves.”
She busied herself preparing a cup for each of them, with an internal smile at what the Earl of Colyton would think of her serving tea and cake to a pair of harlots.Pompous prat.
If she’d made a wager on which of them would return to the purpose of the meeting, she would have picked Bets, and she would have won.
“Excuse me for speaking out of turn, my lady, but how can a lady like you help the likes of us to”—she put on an exaggeratedtonaccent—“‘safety and a new life’?”
Sarah put her cup on its saucer. “That is a fair question, Miss Cotton.”
Bets turned a delighted face to her friend and whispered, “Miss Cotton.”
Sarah ignored the interruption. “I am going to trust you with a secret.” Not as much of a secret as it used to be. Since her uncle had become duke, she, her mother, and her Aunt Georgie had had his full support for their rescue work, and a duke’s support protected them from the worst consequences of their actions. “I am one of a group of ladies who help gentlewomen escape from violent men.”
“We ain’t gentlewomen, my lady,” Sadie pointed out. “I’m a foundling and Bets was a farmhand’s daughter before she came to London.”
Sarah nodded her acknowledgement. “Through my work, though, I’ve come into contact with others who help those who are not gentry. Have you heard of the Theodora Foundation?”
Both women shook their heads.
“It is a training school for women who have been selling sexual favours and who wish to leave that life. It offers a place to stay while they recover, and teaches new skills where needed. If a woman remains with the school for three months and is of good character during that time, the sponsors of the school will help her to find employment.”
“Like...a sort of Magdalene Hospital, my lady?” Bets asked, cautiously.
“Most unlike,” Sarah assured them. “The founders see little reason to punish those who have decided to turn over a new leaf. However, if you are not interested, my sister and I can help you get to a city beyond the Beast’s reach, with enough money for a place to stay until you find another position within your current”—she paused, trying to find the right word—“trade.”
“If I went to the Fedora, I could leave?” Sadie asked.
“The Theodora Foundation? Yes. At any time. The doors are never locked, and women come and go all the time. Though I warn you, if you left and went back to your former life, you would not be welcome back.”
The two women had more questions, and Sarah answered as best she could. Bets was pleased to discover that the Foundation was in the country, some way from London. Sadie, who had seldom left London’s slums and never the sprawling metropolis itself, was more apprehensive. In the end, they both decided to, as Bets put it, “Give it a go, ’cause we ain’t getting any younger, and the way we’re going we’ll wind up dead.”
“I’ll send a message to the London agent of the Foundation. You will need to go for an interview. But I will speak for you and so will my sister. I am sure you will be accepted.” A vicar of her acquaintance, Alex Basingstoke, ran the London end of the Foundation from his parish on the outskirts of Clerkenwell. Sarah had known his wife, Lady Freddie, all her life. Alex and Freddie had heard every story possible, but Sarah was sure they’d judge Bets and Sadie as sincere.
Sarah left the two women in a cheerful discussion about what sort of job they might want to learn skills for, and headed up to the suite she shared with her sister.
* * *
The Beast had brooded all day, ever since one of his minions had found a witness who had seen the boy Tony. The brat had been treated for a broken leg at that free clinic the Ashbury bitch had founded. The Winderfield cow, the one who taught at the free school that stole children from their jobs, had picked Tony up and taken him home.
Toffee-nosed aristocrats, interfering in the slums with their schools and clinics and safe houses for runaway whores and others. He would make them pay. He would make them all pay.
His sister argued against it. “Punish them by taking their money at the tables, brother. By collecting their secrets in the chambers upstairs and blackmailing them. You will have the army down on us again.”
Stupid female. Did he think he was foolish enough to show his hand? He called for the lieutenant he trusted most.
