A Lady of Hidden Intent (12 page)

Lydia looked at the closed door and moved away quickly as if their conversation had already been revealed. She sat down beside Felicia and twisted her hands together. “Are you sure we should do anything at all? I mean, well, Catherine is usually very nice. I know she’s in charge and sometimes makes me redo my work, but it’s only because I’ve done it poorly to begin with.”

“Bah. She likes her authority too much. She loves to pick apart perfectly good pieces and make you rework them, because it makes her feel that she has control over you—over all of us. She may act one way and fool you into believing her considerate, but believe me, I know better. She has threatened me more times than I care to remember.”

Lydia’s brown eyes widened in surprise. “She threatened you?”

“Yes,” Felicia said, trying to sound as ominous as possible.

“And she’ll threaten you as soon as she sees how good you are at this job. Anyone who shows skills to match her own constitutes a problem for Catherine Shay. She’s afraid we’ll remove her from her throne.”

“But Mrs. Clarkson said we should all strive to do a job of which we might be proud. She says that one day we’ll all be so accomplished that every one of us will be a Second Hand and—”

“And you can hardly believe that,” Felicia said, jerking an unworked piece of tulle to the table. “How can everyone be a Second Hand? It’s a position of authority. We can’t all be in charge.”

“Well, I know that, but Mrs. Clarkson said that she’d like to have a house with several people who are able to work at the Second Hand level and then have additional girls hired under them. She wants to create the largest, most popular sewing house in the city.”

“Lofty dreams, to be sure, but they aren’t realistic. She also said she’d like to see each of us master our skills and start our own sewing houses in other cities. I don’t think Mrs. Clarkson truly knows what she wants. But I do. I want Catherine Shay gone from this place before she can hurt anyone else I care about.”

Lydia’s brows drew together. “She hurt someone you cared about?”

Felicia did her best to put on a face of grave sorrow. “Yes. I don’t like to talk about it.”

Pushing the tulle away from her, Lydia leaned forward on the smooth wooden table. “Can you not tell me?”

“I’m not certain I can. It’s very painful.” Felicia put aside the material and looked past Lydia to the window. She hoped her faraway expression would stir deep sympathy from the young girl. “I had a friend here. An older friend. When I first started with Mrs. Clarkson, Betsy was the Second Hand. She was so considerate and . . . well . . . she had to leave. And all because of Catherine.”

“But why? What did Catherine do?”

“She stole something and blamed it on Betsy. It was so sad and no one would believe Betsy, except for me. Catherine had staged it all too well, and even Mrs. Clarkson was certain that her version of the story was true.”

“That’s awful. What did she steal?” Lydia asked, engrossed in the story.

Felicia shook her head. “It was a necklace. Betsy and Catherine went shopping together and while they were at the store, Catherine slipped the necklace into Betsy’s reticule. The necklace was quite valuable. It was, in fact, at the store to be repaired and belonged to a wealthy woman in town. Anyway, Betsy came home and found it in her bag and was so upset. She had no idea how it had gotten into her purse, you understand.” Lydia nodded, as wide-eyed as ever.

“Well, apparently someone at the store recalled Betsy and Catherine being near the necklace, and the police came to investigate its disappearance. Betsy, being a poor girl, had decided to try the necklace on before returning it. I know this to be so, because I was with her when she found it. She had just tried it on when Mrs. Clarkson entered the room to ask Betsy to come speak to the police. It was so horrible.”

“Did they take her to jail?”

Felicia pretended to dab at a tear. “Yes. They wouldn’t even listen to her try to explain her side of it. They condemned her before she even had a chance to clear her name. It was all Catherine’s fault.”

“How can you be sure?” Lydia asked in a whisper.

“Because Betsy and I were good friends. The best of friends.

Besides, I overheard Catherine admit to the deed.”

“Oh my.” Lydia was obviously considering the entire story, just as Felicia had planned.

“You see, my dear, some people aren’t at all what they appear to be. You must be on your guard at all times. And sometimes you must bend the rules in order to protect the better good of all.

That’s why we must gather information that will see Catherine either arrested or at least forced to leave.”

“But what if she’s done nothing to be arrested for?” Lydia questioned.

“Of course she has. She’s broken the law on many occasions,” Felicia replied. “She’s just managed to get away with it. We’re going to see that she gets caught.”“How?”

Felicia took up the tulle again and began to smooth it out.

“We’re going to go through her things—maybe go to the fourth floor and go through her parents’ things as well.”

“We’ll get caught.” Lydia pulled back as if already facing apprehension. “You know about Mrs. Clarkson’s rules regarding other people’s rooms. We’re never to go in uninvited. If she catches us—”

“She won’t. We’ll wait until an opportunity reveals itself.

Maybe we’ll feign sickness on Sunday. Then while everyone is out to church, we can snoop about.”

“I don’t know,” Lydia said, sounding more than a little troubled about the matter.

“You’ll do as I say,” Felicia said sternly. “If you don’t, you’ll have to leave Mrs. Clarkson’s. I could never work with or ap- prove the work of someone who could not be trustworthy and obedient.”

“Oh, please don’t say such things. I’ll help you however I can. I have to work and now that I’m an Improver, I can actually make money and help my family. If I lose this job, I’ll have no references and no hope of securing another position.”

“Then you must do everything I tell you and all will be well.” Felicia smiled. “I’ll have no reason to speak against you if you do whatever I say.”

CHAPTER 8

S
undays, Mrs. Clarkson had ordered, were to be days of rest. No matter how many gowns were yet to be made or customers clamoring to be satisfied, the Lord called them to remember the Sabbath, and they would. Catherine was quite grateful for the rule. She cherished her time away from the sewing house. Going to church with Selma and Dugan reminded her of the life she’d once known. Closing her eyes, she could almost believe her father was beside her, safe and happy. Sundays always managed to restore Catherine’s sense of peace and hope. This Sunday was no exception.

The service had been quite gratifying, and Catherine had put Felicia’s angry words behind her. Strangely enough, both Felicia and Lydia had fallen ill that morning and remained behind at the sewing house. Worried that her girls had contracted something serious, Mrs. Clarkson had also stayed behind.

Catherine didn’t believe them to be all that sick. They had been well enough the night before, but then again, she knew illness could come on quickly. She prayed for them, despite her frustrations with Felicia.

“A good Christian woman,”
her mother had once said,
“puts aside the wrongs done her and prays for her enemies.”

So Catherine prayed for Felicia’s recovery and that her attitude might be sweetened. She prayed, too, for Lydia and hoped that Felicia’s bad habits would not overcome the girl’s gentle nature.

Catherine put both young women out of her mind, however, as she climbed the stairs to her room. She had done her duty to pray for both and now the day was her own on which to dream.

She had already decided to change her clothes and go out for a walk in the park. Selma had promised to pack her a little picnic to take along, and Catherine looked forward to the peace and quiet she might enjoy.

Finding her door slightly ajar, Catherine wondered at it but gave it no deep thought. It was possible Mrs. Clarkson had needed something or that Catherine herself had not secured it when she’d left for church. She focused instead on undressing.

The three-flounced green silk gown she wore was something Catherine had found at a secondhand store. The hem had been quite ragged, but it wasn’t of concern to Catherine, as she was shorter than the former owner. She had purchased the quality piece for very little money and had remade it. It suited her Sunday needs quite well. Amazingly, Catherine found that she didn’t miss the large wardrobe she’d once owned. She had new appreciation for the things she possessed, as well as the servants who had once waited on her.

Grateful that the style buttoned down the front, Catherine was able to undress without seeking out Beatrix’s help. The girl had gone home the night before to help her mother prepare the family for church and to take home her first bits of pay.

Catherine smiled, knowing that it would mean a great deal to the large family. She liked Beatrix very much and was happy to find the girl quite talented and quick to learn. It wouldn’t be long before she surpassed Lydia and maybe even Dolley.

Shrugging out of the gown, Catherine then carefully hung it in her wardrobe and took out a walking-out gown of dark blue. The dress was quite simple in its lines, and the little fitted jacket that accompanied it reminded Catherine of riding habits she’d once owned.

She thought of England and her father. Funny how little things triggered her memories. One day she’d been at the market, and the overwhelming aroma of lavender had assaulted her senses to send her back in time. Her mother had loved lavender soap and she always carried the faint scent with her after a bath.

Life had been so different when they’d all been together—her mother and father and brothers. Influenza had robbed her of so much, taking even her beloved Nanny Bryce, the woman who had tucked her into bed each night . . . who had taught her intricate skills with a needle and thread. Her thoughts went back to their last Christmas.

“I hope Father remembers that I want some toy soldiers to play with,” her brother Nelson announced. Named for their father, the boy was his spitting image, and he stood watching at the window in hopes he would glimpse their father’s arrival from London.

“Toys are for babies,” her thirteen-year-old brother, John, declared.

“They are not,” Nelson protested, turning from the window.

At ten years of age he wavered between childhood and the grander responsibilities of becoming an adult. “Father said they are good to teach strategy and technique. Isn’t that so, Cat?”

Catherine smiled at her little brother. The nickname only served to endear him to her. “It’s true, Nelson. John, you know very well that Nelson hopes to join the navy one day. He must learn all about such strategies.”

“He could read about it in books.”

“And what did you ask Father to bring you for Christmas?”

Catherine asked John. She hoped if she turned the focus to him, he might be less inclined to belittle Nelson’s choice.

“I want the materials to make a sailing ship. Father is going to show me how to create one of wood. He said I must understand ship construction so that I might one day take over the business.”

Catherine’s thoughts returned to the present, leaving an ache in her heart that could not be filled.

“They’re all gone now,” she whispered as she secured the buttons of the jacket. “All but you, Father, and I cannot seem to find any way to help.” The thought of him wasting away in some dark, damp prison often brought nightmares and left her with a dread she couldn’t shake.

“This kind of thinking will do me no good, and it certainly cannot help Father,” she admonished aloud. “I must be strong for us both. I must trust that God has not forsaken us.”

Catherine hurried downstairs to find the little cloth bundle Selma had prepared for her. She couldn’t and wouldn’t allow the past to overshadow her thoughts. If she did, she might well lose hope. The reverend had said just that morning that hope was necessary in the face of adversity.

“There you are,” Selma said as she came in from the pantry.

“I packed you some cheese and bread and an apple.”Catherine smiled. “It sounds perfect.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have lunch with Dugan and me? You could still go for your walk later.”

“No. I need to be alone for a while. I hope you understand.”

Selma came and gently patted her arm. “Of course I do, dearie. You needn’t fret about that. You go along now. Enjoy your day. The sun is shining and the weather is quite mild. It’s perfect for dreaming.”

Catherine shook her head. “I doubt that I will allow myself a dream. Unless, of course, it’s a dream of . . .” she lowered her voice, “how to help Father.”

“I know. I pray for that daily. God will answer in His time.

You can be sure of it.”

“I want to believe that,” Catherine said, “but I find it hard sometimes. Five years it’s been! I’m trying my best not to fret, but there are days when the hours seem so long, and I fear I might never see him again.” Catherine took up the bundle and squared her shoulders. “I should go or I’ll soon be in tears.”