But it made Mrs. Fowler look pleased. “How would you wash a silk handkerchief?”
Mrs. DiGiuseppe had never owned such a thing. “Gently,” Eliza said, trying to think what would make sense. “I would, ah—soak it for a time, and see if that lifts the dirt free, and if not—ah, perhaps scrub at any stains with my fingers—”
The pleased look faded; clearly there were secrets to the washing of silk handkerchiefs that Eliza did not know. “And the recipe for starch?”
There, she was on firmer ground. “Half a pint of cold water, and one quart boiling, for every two tablespoonfuls of starch; but the hot water must be properly boiling when it’s added. And I stir it with a wax candle to prevent the iron from sticking.”
“Which also gives a smooth appearance to the linen.” Mrs. Fowler seemed satisfied with that answer, at least. “Show me your teeth— Well, I suppose they will suffice. What illnesses have you had?”
“Measles and scarlet fever. And my mum took me to be vaccinated against smallpox.” Actually it had been Mrs. Darragh, behind the back of Eliza’s mother. They had to go to an English doctor for it, and many of Whitechapel’s residents were suspicious of that, even though the vaccination was free. Or perhaps especially because it was.
Mrs. Fowler pursed her lips at Eliza’s character again, as if something about it was bothering her. But after a moment, she folded it briskly and said, “I can take you on as an under-housemaid. You don’t have the skills for more, but if you last here you might learn enough for a better position. Your pay will be twelve pounds yearly plus an allowance for tea, sugar, and beer, and you will have one evening off each week, one day off each month. On Sundays you will accompany me to church.”
She said nothing about an annual holiday; Eliza doubted maids stayed long enough to claim such a thing. “Thank you, Mrs. Fowler. That sounds very good.” And it did, strangely enough. Twelve pounds yearly! Without her having to pay for lodgings every night, or walk miles through London’s streets shouting herself hoarse. It was more than she earned as a struggling costerwoman, and for that matter, more than she’d earned as Mrs. DiGiuseppe’s slavey. So this is what working for wealth looks like.
But it came with a price: working for Mrs. Kittering, and lying about who she was. And an under-housemaid would have less opportunity to spy upon Miss Kittering than one who worked above stairs. Eliza’s enthusiasm was therefore tempered by the time Mrs. Fowler asked, “How soon can you begin?”
“Oh, as soon as may be,” she hastened to assure the housekeeper. “Today, if you like.”
“I will show you the house, then, and tonight you may go fetch your things—” She broke off at Eliza’s muted reaction. “What is it?”
Eliza ducked her head, embarrassed. “There—there isn’t anything to fetch, ma’am. Just this.” She touched one shoe to her bundle on the floor, then jerked her foot back before Mrs. Fowler could notice the shoe was a man’s boot, with cracked leather and worn heel. Every last penny had gone into the dress and the character, with tuppence left over for a bath; shoes could run as much as a shilling, even secondhand. No one in Whitechapel could, or would, spare her that kind of money.
The housekeeper’s expression turned forbidding. “You have nothing else to your name?”
If she didn’t come up with a good explanation, Mrs. Fowler might follow up on that character, and then the entire thing would fall apart. Eliza tried to hide her worry—then thought the better of it, and let her distress show through. “I’m sorry, ma’am—I know it’s disgraceful—it’s my brother, you see, he fell sick. Measles, it was, and I nursed him, because I’d had it before; but then it got into his lungs, and we paid all we had to the doctor, but it wasn’t enough. He’s dead now. This is the last good dress I have, and I sold my good shoes, and—please, ma’am, I need this job. I promise I’ll save every penny, and make myself respectable again as fast as I may.”
Mrs. Fowler sniffed, but her expression softened by a hair. “Very well. Ann Wick is the upper-housemaid; she will lend you a dress until you receive your first week’s pay. I’ll expect you to look better by this day week.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Eliza had risen from her chair during that inspired bit of lying; now she bobbed a curtsy. In one week’s time, I could be gone entirely. But I’ll have four shillings and more to show for it, and that’s never a bad thing.
“Follow me, then,” Mrs. Fowler said, opening the door and leading her toward the stairs. “I’ll show you the room you’ll share with Ann, and then you can begin cleaning the carpets in the morning room.”
The Goblin Market, Onyx Halclass="underline" March 26, 1884
“Get ’im! Come on, rip ’is fucking throat out!”
Dead Rick’s lips peeled back in a snarl. Half at the dog across from him, half at the voices egging them on. Stupid whelp, he cursed himself. Should ’ave knowed better than to do your sniffing in dog form. Gives the bastards ideas.
He had plenty of reason to curse himself out. On the one hand, he’d found Rewdan: good for him. On the other hand, Rewdan was the stringy padfoot cur snarling back at him, and the mob was howling for one of them to die.
What the other faerie had done to land himself here, Dead Rick didn’t know. Maybe he’d just wandered by in dog form, as Dead Rick had, and run afoul of some drunk goblin, again as Dead Rick had. Or maybe he’d gotten on the wrong side of Nadrett. They were in the pit outside the master’s chamber, and that was the place for two things: entertainment and punishment.
The crowd was out for blood, sure enough; the pit floor was strewn with the broken bodies of three dead dogs, mortal beasts thrown down here to challenge the padfoot, and if Dead Rick wasn’t careful he’d be the fourth. Rewdan was tired, though, and waiting for his opportunity. Dead Rick circled, crouching low, trying to think of a way out that didn’t involve one or the other of them bleeding his last into the filthy sand of the pit. He couldn’t ask the padfoot any questions if either of them was dead.
The mob didn’t like the delay. A chicken bone clipped Dead Rick’s ear, hurled into the pit by some impatient spectator, and he flinched; in a flash, Rewdan attacked.
Dead Rick twisted under the padfoot’s rush, barely managing to keep his feet. He reared up, trying to get an advantage of height, but the other faerie did the same; their chests slammed together, paws scrabbling for purchase, breath hot in each other’s ears. Dead Rick managed to get a bite of something soft, and Rewdan yelped, but then toenails raked his ribs and he echoed the sound. They broke away from each other, snapping, feinting lunges, and the watchers cheered them on.
Now he had to keep a bit of his awareness on everything else, not just the other dog, for fear he’d be caught by surprise again. But the padfoot was panting hard; he probably couldn’t manage so quick a rush again. Tire him out a bit more, then go for his throat—
They wouldn’t let him stop short of tearing it out, though. Unless…
A shift in the air made him tense, expecting another hurled bone. What it brought instead was a new scent, barely discernible over the blood-stink of the pit, and the oddly sour smell of the other dog. And it gave Dead Rick a very dangerous idea.
Probably won’t work. But I ain’t got nothing better.
He feinted another lunge, then pulled up short as if it pained the bleeding scratches where the other dog had raked him. Rewdan took the bait, and leapt for him again.