“I think that is when the company engaged for this season arrived in London.”
“Now that is an interesting coincidence.” Harriet passed the little book back to him, and Crowther slipped it into his coat, then her eye was caught by the violin case that lay open on the bed beside her.
“Poor orphan,” Harriet said, and let her fingers rest on the honey-colored wood. It was her thought that if Fitzraven had no relatives to claim the estate of newspaper cuttings, some printed music and clothes, it would in all likelihood be sold by Mrs. Girdle to cover the rent he had agreed to pay. She wondered about buying the violin herself as a present for her son. Graves could tell her who was best to teach the boy. James would have loved his son to develop an affection for music like his own. Would have. She had squeezed her eyes shut, trying to close the thought away and on opening them again lifted the instrument from its case. She was turning it in her hands to catch the light creeping apologetically in from the street outside, when Crowther picked up the case and turned it upside down, shaking it vigorously.
“Good Lord, Crowther, what on earth are you. .?” Then Harriet found herself interrupted by the sound of the case’s inner lining giving way and a little tumble of letters fell onto the bed between them. She picked one up and had just unfolded it, hoping for state secrets but catching only a flowing feminine hand, when she heard footsteps in the outer room. Turning toward the door in expectation of seeing Mrs. Girdle, she was surprised to find herself looking into the shocked face of Isabella Marin. From behind her, as if appearing out of the folds of the soprano’s skirts, a short, bullet-headed woman stepped forward, saw what Harriet held, and whistling put her hands on her hips.
“Well, that’s torn it, Issy. I told you we should have started out earlier, but no you have to go and show off at church, and then show off to Lady Georgiana, yabbering away about millinery as if it’s something you either knew or cared a damn about.”
Miss Marin remained still and silent throughout this little speech. She blinked and parted her lips, but no sounds issued forth.
Her maid, or so she appeared by her dress, if not her manner, nodded to Harriet and Crowther. “I’m guessing you are Mrs. Westerman and Mr. Crowther that Harwood mentioned to us last night. I’m Morgan, and this chatty little piece is Isabella Marin. Though I suppose you know that.”
On hearing that the famous French soprano Miss Isabella Marin was in her house, Mrs. Girdle was only too ready to put her parlor at their disposal and provide tea for her guests. She seemed reluctant to leave them to themselves, but she soon quailed under the eye of Miss Marin’s formidable maid. Harriet was amused. She would never have thought it possible at a time when French maids were regarded as essential to any woman of fashion in London, that a Frenchwoman would hire a Londoner to see to her needs; particularly one with such unusual manners. Morgan spoke like the urchins and street sellers that rolled along in the London muck. It seemed she had managed to get her position without troubling herself to learn the more refined accents used by most upper servants.
Harriet watched Morgan bustling Mrs. Girdle out of her own living room with some admiration. She reminded her of the wife of a master shipwright in Gibraltar. A woman born in the back streets of Plymouth, she had dealt with the social niceties of the naval community by cheerfully ignoring them. She would treat an admiral in the same way she would a midshipman or her own servant, and had ended up with friends in every rank of the service.
Miss Marin herself had hardly said a word since they met her and now she turned toward the fire and fell into a study of the flames. She seemed only a ghost of the woman Harriet had heard singing the previous day, and she wondered what toll the rigors of performance took on women like this slight French girl.
Having secured the room, her maid took a seat a little way behind her. The fire cracked and Harriet was beginning to cast about in her head for some words that could wake the young lady into conversation again, when the maid, without shifting her head from the study of Mrs. Girdle’s mantelpiece, said, “Well, Issy love, if you are to tell, then do so. They have seen the letters, and I don’t think they’ll hand them over till they know what’s in them from us, or read them on their own-not now that bastard is dead. You must confess, so do so and have done.”
Harriet was startled. Whatever the relationship was between the two women, it was very different from the one she had with her own maid.
“I reckon you can trust ’em, dearie.”
Isabella gave herself a little shake. “Yes, I suppose I shall have to, Morgan. Lord, but how to begin! You were right-I should never have replied to his bloody letters.”
At this, Crowther and Harriet had to struggle to keep their jaws closed. Isabella spoke with the same accent of the London slums as Morgan. She looked up at them and smiled ruefully at their expressions.
“Yes. I am more a native of this place than you, or Mr. Crowther I think, Mrs. Westerman. I was born and raised in London and I’m sorry to say it, but there it is: Nathaniel Fitzraven was my father.”
Crowther and Harriet continued to look at her in astonishment. Morgan peered round at them both carefully.
“Well, they weren’t expecting that, Issy.”
Sam bobbed along behind Jocasta looking scared and getting tangled up with Boyo at her heels.
“Is it because of the note, Mrs. Bligh? It meant something bad, didn’t it? I knew it soon as Ripley said, that’s why I ran back so fast.”
Jocasta powered on. “Yes, lad, you did well. Out along Oxford Street?”
“Yes-” Sam said, and almost got a crack around the ear for knocking into a man with a pie halfway down his throat. “Maid said that puckered-faced woman had been asking for a quiet place to walk.” He had no idea that Mrs. Bligh could have anymore speed left in her, but her pace picked up again and Sam danced among the mess and mass of people to keep up with her.
Isabella shrugged, then looked back toward the fire and began to speak. “I was born and raised in London. Not this part of town, though-never made it out of Southwark till I was seven years old. My mother died about then, and she asked Morgan here to take care of me. She was always a good friend to Mother-helped her out when she could and showed me how to make enough money to feed myself by the time I could walk. Tell them, Morgan.”
Crowther looked at Morgan as if for the first time. She was perhaps in her sixties, small and rounded in her figure. Her eyes were uncannily blue. Crowther did not think himself a snob, despite his ignored title and his still considerable wealth, but he was aware that the woman in front of him was changing in his eyes from an addendum to Miss Marin to an individual herself.
“I used to sing ballads in the bars and streets for pennies. That was my trade and that’s when I met Issy’s mom, Tessa. She used to hang about to hear me sing for hours, when she was just big with this little bird.” She frowned at the floor between them, and scratched her chin. “Issy’s mom was a good girl, but she was never going to get to old age in this town. Too feeble to do the hard work, and too much an easy mark for bad men. Oh I’d tell her, time and time again, I’d tell her. I learned to spot a wrong ’un young, but she’d never listen. She’d defend them, not speak to me for a month then come round to my room dragging Issy behind her with fresh bruises and nothing to cover herself with but her stays and a skirt too raggedy for even them to steal off her. Some people learn. Some people just roll about in the mess they’ve made and complain about the stink.”
Isabella twisted in her chair as if about to argue, but Morgan held up a hand. “Oh, don’t fret, Issy! Your mother was a good kind girl and I miss her still, but she wasn’t fit or fighting enough to be poor. You know it. Bless me! By the time you were five, if someone cheeked you on the street you’d let fly and they’d be crawling off with the crowd laughing at them before the minute was out.” Morgan put a hand to Isabella’s face, pulling back a strand of her black hair. Isabella squirmed in her seat, but allowed it, and Harriet and Crowther saw a jagged little scar on that otherwise velvet skin. Morgan let her fingers brush it, and the hair fall back. “One of the last did that when Issy took against him for knocking poor Tess about. At seven she tried to fight a grown man, daft little bird.”