"That's a charming costume," she said. "What is it?"
Feeling vastly superior, Margo said, "It's one of the most prestigious school uniforms in London, from the Royal Masonic Institution for Girls." She dredged up Connie Logan's lecture and added, "It was founded in Somers Town, London, by a chevalier in 1788."
"It's delightful. Could I see the whole costume?"
Margo dimpled and set down her teacup, then slipped off the cape and pirouetted.
"Oh, look!" exclaimed another tourist. "It's darling!"
"Where did you get it?"
"Connie Logan, Clothes and Stuff."
"I wish I'd thought to dress Louisa like that," one lady laughed. Her daughter, looking dowdy in a plain grey morning dress, was pouting under a stylish hat decorated rather hideously with dead birds.
"And look at that brooch. What an intriguing design. Is that the school's crest?"
"Yes. It's a badge. All the charity schools issued them to identify their pupils."
"Ladies," Malcolm smiled, bowing slightly, "if I might rescue my ward, our cabriolet is waiting. Here, let me help you on with that cape, my dear. The night is dreadfully chilly and John neglected to bring along our lap rug."
A flutter of excited laughter ran through the room.
"Who is that gentleman?"
"Oh, I wish our guide sounded like that!"
"Or looked like him ..."
"I don't care what Time Tours says, the next time I come here, I'm going to hire him. I don't care what it costs!"
Malcolm smiled, murmured, "A moment, my dear," and handed around business cards with a polite bow and smile to each lady. He then offered Margo his arm. "A moment's attention to business works wonders, don't you agree?"
Margo laughed, waved goodbye to her brief acquaintances, then strolled out into the London night on Malcolms capable arm.
By the time their cab had swayed through five dark streets, thick fog had left them blind. Swirling, foul yellow drifts blanketed the streets. Even the horse vanished from view. Only the soft clip-clop of its hooves assured Margo they weren't drifting along by magic.
"London stinks," Margo whispered. "Like a barnyard. And that fog smells awful."
"London is full of horses," Malcolm whispered back.
"Some hundred tons of manure fall on London streets every day."
"Every day?'
"Daily," Malcolm affirmed. "And the fogs have been known to kill hundreds in a single day. If you find it difficult to breathe, you must tell me at once and we'll take a train for the country until the worst of it clears."
"I can breathe," Margo whispered, "it just isn't pleasant. Are we going to a hotel?"
"Actually, no. We'll stay at a boarding house near Victoria Station for the night, then rent a flat on the morrow. That will give us privacy to come and go without undue notice. John, here, will be staying on at the flat once we've gone."
"Mr. Carson be terrible gen'rous, Mr. Moore," John said in the darkness.
Margo giggled. "You sound so funny."
"He sounds exactly as he should," Malcolm said sternly. "You do not. Charity schoolgirls are demure and silent, not giggling, brash things given to rude comments."
"Well, excuse me," Margo muttered.
"Certainly not. Study your part, young lady. That is an order."
Margo sighed. Another domineering male ...She almost looked forward to trading the schoolgirl getup for the rough clothes of a country farmer or the even rougher getup of a costermonger. Masquerading as a boy, she wouldn't need to worry so much about observing all these confining social conventions. She began to catch a glimmer of what Kit had meant when he'd insisted women would have a rough go of it trying to scout.
The sound of water lapping against stone and a hollow change in the sound of the horse's hooves told Margo they were very near the river. The occasional complaining grumble of a steam whistle drifted on the evil yellow fog like the distant cries of dying hounds.
"Where are we? I can't see a thing."
"Crossing Lambeth Bridge."
A few rents in the murk revealed a distant, dark wall. "And that?"
"Millbank Penitentiary. New Bridewell's not far from here, either."
"New Bridewell?"
"A rather notorious prison, my dear. You do ask the most shocking questions."
Fog closed in again the moment they left the open bridge with its fitful breeze. Margo heard the heavy, muted rumbling of not-too-distant trains. A shrill whistle shivered through the foul, wet air, so close Margo jumped.
"Don't be alarmed, Miss Smythe. It is merely a train arriving at Victoria Station."
"Will we hear that all night?"
Malcolm's chuckle reached her. "Indeed."
Fiend. He'd done this on purpose, to leave her groggy and off balance tomorrow. He knew she was already running on virtually no sleep. Well, when you start scouting, you may be short of sleep, too. Consider it part of the lesson. At length, their driver halted. Malcolm left her shivering inside the cold carriage. He made arrangements with the lady who ran the boarding house, then offered his hand and assisted her from the cab.
"Oh, you poor dear, you must be tired," the plump lady smiled, ushering them up a long, dark staircase. A gaslight at the landing threw feeble light down the stairwell. Margo had to watch the hem of her dress to keep from tripping in the shadows. "Your guardian said how you'd come all the way from Honduras and then by train, poor thing, orphaned by them terrible fevers, and now he's enrolled you in the School, but can't bear to part company wi' you yet. Such a nice gentleman, your guardian, watch your step, dear, that's good, and here's your room. Mr. Moore's is directly along the hall, there, second on your right. I'll have hot water sent up. And here's your bag, dearie," she said, taking the carpet bag from John and setting it on a heavy piece of furniture that evidently was meant as a dry sink, judging from the basin and pitcher her hostess took from its lower recesses.
"I'll leave you now to rest and see you at breakfast, dearie. Pull the bell if you need anything."
And that Margo gaped as the landlady left in a rustle of petticoats and firmly closed the door-was that.
And she died more than a hundred years ago ....
Margo shivered, momentarily overcome by the unreality of it. It wasn't at all like watching an old film or even like participating in a stage play. It was like stepping into someone else's life, complete with sounds and smells and the sensation that if she blinked it would all vanish like a soap bubble. But it didn't. She sank down slowly on the edge of a feather tick. Bed ropes creaked. The room smelled musty. Gaslight burned softly behind a frosted globe on the wall. Margo wondered how in the world to turn it off. She untied her hat and took it off then removed the cap and the heavy woolen cape. The once-white cap was grey from coal smoke. She shivered absently. The room was freezing and damp. No central heat.
"Now what?" she wondered aloud.
A soft tap on the door brought her to her feet. Margo, clutched the cap in knotted fingers. "Who is it?" Her voice came out shaky and thin.
"It's Mr. Moore, Miss Smythe. Might I speak with you for a moment?"
Margo all but flew across the room. She snatched the door open.
He smiled widely at her expression, then nodded toward the gas light. "See that little chain on the side?"
Margo peered toward the light. "Yes."
"Pull it once to turn off the lamp. Don't blow out the flame or your room will fill up with gas and we'll all die rather messily."
Oh. "Thank you. I-I was wondering about that."
"Very good. Any other questions before I retire for the evening?"
Margo had about a million of them, but the only thin that popped into her head was, "How do I get warm. It's freezing in here."
Malcolm glanced around the room. "No fireplace. No stove, either. The landlady is doubtless afraid of fires and rightly so. But there should be plenty of quilts in that linen press." He pointed to a heavy piece of furniture across the room. "Pile them on and snuggle in. Anything else?"