Steadfast (25 page)

Well there was no use in pretending that the idea of extra money wasn’t strongly appealing
to her. . . .

“You also won’t have to worry about coming in too late for supper, or oversleeping
breakfast,” Jack pointed out. “You can do what you want when you want it. You can
practice your magic all you like without being interrupted—and practice your dancing
if you need to.”

It was dreadfully tempting . . . the idea of being able to have a bath no matter how
late she came in . . . or make a sandwich and tea and eat it in bed . . .

“But the shopping—” she protested feebly. “When will I ever have time to shop?”

“Just tell me what you want and I’ll have Mrs. Buckthorn get it when she does my shopping,”
said Lionel, instantly. “She shops in the morning before I’m awake to get all the
freshest things. I’ll bring it along to the hall, and you can take it home that night.
Milk, cream, butter and eggs will come to your doorstop with the milkman in the morning.”

Well, that settled it, then. She’d seen the milkman turn up at Mrs. Baird’s door every
morning, and had marveled how easy it made things once Mrs. Baird had explained it
to her. “Wouldn’t I need . . . beds and things?” she said, hesitantly. You didn’t
need that sort of thing in a caravan. Beds and cupboards and everything else were
part of it.

“My rooms are let furnished,” Jack said with a smile. “Not to worry, that sort of
thing is usual, especially in places like Brighton, where there are a lot of holiday
visitors. Given the chance to rent a little house for an entire year at a time instead
of a week or two at a time during the season and scramble for a renter the rest of
the year, a man would be mad not to take it.”

Well, they were in a better position to know these things than she was. And the more
she thought about it, the more attractive it sounded. No more girls over her head
dropping shoes and waking her up. No more lying there listening to two girls talking
loudly in the room next door when she was trying to concentrate on the magic. Being
able to take her meals when she wanted to—never being too late to get an egg—cool
baths when she wanted them—

“If you can find something that’s no dearer than what I’m paying now . . .” That was
the sticking point of course. She had no idea what a whole house, however small, would
cost.

“There are plenty of little cottages that are no more than a room, a bathroom, and
a little kitchen,” Lionel assured her. “You’re probably used to a kitchen even smaller
in a caravan.”

“There’s nothing I can’t do with a fireplace and a spirit-kettle, perhaps a spirit-stove,”
she declared.

“Well then, that’s settled. Now . . . show us those shields, while we still have time
for a lesson,” Lionel ordered. And she did.

•   •   •

For several days, Lionel’s banker sent daily messages telling him that small cottages
were not to be had at any price. But then, within the course of a day, everything
changed.

And it was the railroad strike that changed them.

Railroad workers, like the dockworkers, had been threatening to strike for many weeks
over their wretched pay and hazardous working conditions. Only King Edward’s coronation
had prevented them from striking earlier this year. But now—despite promises of talks,
nothing had changed, and the men were getting desperate. Some had even died, working
in the terrible heat without respite, or sometimes, even without drinking water.

They struck, at the height of summer holiday season, knowing that striking now would
affect the broadest range of people, including the wealthy, most of whom had given
up carriages in favor of first class rail. No escaping from the city on the weekend
to cooler country estates. No taking the family away for the more elevated version
of the common man’s seaside holiday.

This was dreadful for everyone who made his living catering to holiday-makers, but
worst on the holiday-makers themselves, many of whom found themselves stranded far
from home with no way to get back, or found themselves with no way to get to their
destinations.

But it was excellent for Lionel and Katie. Because the morning of the strike—which,
providentially, occurred on a dark day—the banker sent an urgent note around to Lionel.
Have prospect, but must leap upon it now,
said the note, and gave him the address of a leasing agent.

Lionel went straight there as soon as he finished breakfast.

It was another brilliantly sunny day, portending more un-English heat, when he walked
into the little office staffed only by the agent and a clerk. The leasing agent was
just short of tearing his hair out, and so upset was he that he vented his feelings
to Lionel, a complete stranger, as soon as Lionel entered the door. “This
strike!”
he cried, flinging his hands wide and scattering papers which his little clerk scrambled
to pick up. “It’s ruinous! I have cottages with people who won’t leave and won’t pay
any more! I’m having to hire carters to go around to toss ’em out because the constables
won’t do it! I have people camping in cottage gardens and having to send lads around
to throw
them
out! I have cottages going empty because the people that hired ’em can’t get here!”

“It’s the latter I am interested in, my good man,” harrumphed Lionel, who had donned
a long-abandoned persona of “Professor Pennywhistle” to aid him in his ruse. “Need
a cottage. Long-term lease. The wife needs sea air. I’m a busy man. Brought her down
from Crawley in me trap. Can’t abide these filthy railroads. Tried a hotel,
ruinously
expensive. Need a cottage for a year at least. Maybe more, dependin’ on how long it
takes her to get over her collywobbles.”

The moment that Lionel said “Need a cottage for a year at least,” the agent stopped
his laments and paid instant and complete attention. “I have just the thing!” he said,
but before he could proceed to lay out a selection, Lionel interrupted him.

“Don’t think I’m made of money! She don’t need a palace!” he barked, and named a price.

The agent wilted a little, but came back gamely. They jousted for a bit, before they
settled on a price. “It won’t be on the seaside—” the agent warned.

“Brighton’s on the seaside. Sea air on one side of it is sea air on the other side
of it,” Lionel said indifferently.

“Well then. Harry—come take the gentleman to see Hare Cottage, Violet Cottage, Li—”

“Which one of ’em has plumbed-on water and a full bathroom?” Lionel interrupted. “And
gas. Or electricity. She’s not to be hauling coal or wood about, says the doctor.”
Then he muttered, just loud enough for the agent to hear, “Lot of demmed nonsense
if you ask me.”

Now, Lionel was very, very good at reading people; he’d had a mentalist act as well
as the magic act before he settled into magic-aided-by-Elementals. He’d been gauging
this man from his own remarks and attitude as he went along, and very early it had
been clear that the agent had a wife that he considered himself to be “saddled” with.
He wouldn’t dare rid himself of her—divorces were a matter of scandal and respectable
people didn’t get them. But he resented her, and even though Lionel’s attitude was
avuncular to say the least, by this point he was entirely on Lionel’s side.

“Only Lily Cottage,” he said. “It’s the best-appointed but it’s . . . well, it’s out
of the way. No amusements nearby, and a walk to the ’bus. It’s in a very quiet neighborhood;
no shops, mostly professional offices. . . .”

“Perfect!” Lionel exclaimed. “Doctor says ‘quiet,’ ‘quiet’ is what she’ll get. She
wants amusement, she can read her magazines and do her fancywork. She wants anythin’
else, well, she can get strong enough to walk to it, eh?”

“You’ll have to find a girl, or a char,” the agent said, tentatively. “I can suggest
several agencies.”

Lionel took the cards the agent offered, but of course, he had no intention of hiring
anyone. “Done,” he said, and opened his wallet to hand over the first six months in
rent. He winced a little at the hole this put in his own savings, but reminded himself
that if
he
hadn’t bought his little house, he’d have been paying that much for some time. Besides,
it was for Katie. He signed the lease as “Richard Langford,” just to make things easier
on Katie so she wouldn’t have to remember a false name, and took away the address
card and the keys; tonight they could all take the trap over to it and have a look
around, then he could have Mrs. Buckthorn put everything to rights.

The agent seemed only too relieved to get the property settled on
someone
in this day of otherwise disaster.

•   •   •

Katie sat squeezed in between Lionel and Jack on the seat of the pony-trap, feeling
nervous and excited at the same time. She’d given her week’s notice to Mrs. Baird
with the excuse that she was taking her act to Blackpool, who had said, kindly, “I’m
sorry to see you go, but Blackpool may do better than Brighton if this strike goes
on.” So that was done. And she was half afraid of what she might find when they opened
the door of this “cottage.” Black beetles and wood rot? Earthen floors and a hip bath?

But Lionel had said it was surrounded by professional offices, and lawyers and doctors
and so on liked their comforts . . .

Well, one thing was certain. The agent had not lied about it being quiet. Most of
the buildings here were newish or newly renovated, with gaslights all up and down
the street. They were mostly three stories tall, with shining brass plaques at the
highly polished front doors saying whose offices were within.

And then, finally, they found it. A little one-story cottage squeezed in at the
back
of the row of buildings, just as Lionel’s own house was squeezed in and overshadowed
by others. Clearly it had once been the carriage house for the larger building, which
had been turned into offices, but no one wanted an office that would be so dark and
gloomy that you would have to burn expensive gas to see even in the middle of the
day. From the outside it looked very neat and trim. They tied up the pony at an iron
ring that was an indicator of what the cottage had once been, and Lionel opened the
door.

It was, of course, dark inside. But they had, of course, come prepared. Jack handed
down a lantern from the back of the trap after lighting it, and Lionel led the way
inside.

“He said the gas was still on . . . ah, here we go.” Lionel moved forward, confidently
lighting lamps as he went, while Katie trailed behind.

You could easily see the antecedents of this place, although it
had
been finished up rather nicely. It was all one floor with a loft above where the
hay and feed had once been stored; presumably if a family took it, the children would
sleep above, in the loft, while the parents slept below. To Katie’s relief, the floors
were wood, not dirt, nor polished cobblestones. It was all one room; a bed was behind
a screen for privacy, there was a bit of a kitchen with a modern gas stove fitted
into a hearth, a small sink for washing-up, and behind a partition, a cabinet-bath
and a boiler. Well, she wouldn’t need that for a while. There was also an indoor,
water-flushing loo, like Mrs. Baird had.

For the rest, well, it was obvious that the cottage was not as well cared for as the
rooms at Mrs. Baird’s. The level of general cleanliness was nothing like as high as
Katie’s Ma had maintained in the caravan. But it was just as obvious that this would
be a very nice, if dark, place to live.

“No one is going to pay any attention to comings and goings here,” Jack observed from
his spot by the door. “No neighbors to poke into your business. No one asking why
there was a man here, when there was only supposed to be a lady. No one asking why
the lady was coming back so late at night, if she really
was
a lady.”

“Place is filthy,” said Lionel, with the air of distaste of someone who is used to
immaculate surroundings. “Mrs. Buckthorn will sort it out, though. I’m sure I have
some old china and linens of my mothers stored away somewhere; you can have that.
Otherwise does this suit you, Kate?”

Over all, the cottage had about four times the space of her room at Mrs. Baird’s—and
a great deal more convenience. Interestingly, when it came to comfort and luxury—the
family caravan had more than this cottage did, but it had all been squeezed into a
very small space. And Mrs. Baird’s rooms were nicer. But the advantages far overwhelmed
the disadvantages. “It’s going to be lovely,” she said, with genuine warmth. “Absolutely
lovely.”

Then she grinned. “Especially without the caterwauling of that Irish soprano beside
me, and the chorus girl practicing her kicks above me!”

Lionel grinned back. “All right then. Mrs. Buckthorn will have you set up within the
week; she’ll find out when the milkman comes round and what he has and charges, get
this place cleaned up and decent, and stock the pantry. In a week, it will be yours,
and we’ll move your bits over in the trap.”

“A place to practice . . .” she sighed. “That’ll be worth it, alone.”

As of to underscore that, one of the gaslights suddenly brightened, and a salamander
poked his head up over the glass shade.

“It seems your friends approve,” Lionel chuckled. “All right. Let’s get you back to
Mrs. Baird’s. Before you know it, the week will be over.”

•   •   •

Lionel’s words were prophetic, although it was slightly less than that, as the move
was scheduled for the evening of dark day. All of her things fit into a couple of
secondhand trunks Mrs. Buckthorn had found, which neatly fitted into the back of the
trap. It was just Mrs. Buckthorn and Katie this time; the men were coming later after
the housekeeper brought the trap and pony back.

It was quiet once again, although it was at least two hours to sunset, as they tied
the pony up at the ring and the two of them pulled the trunks out of the cart and
brought them inside. Mrs. Buckthorn showed her how to put a penny in a slot to make
the gas flow, and then, once the lamps were lit, waited for Katie’s reaction.