No Place for a Lady Read Free Page A

fading gold coverlet and saw a set of sheets that might very well have been slept in by the aging actress a dozen years ago.
    “Why did you not change the linen, Mrs. Scudpole? You knew we were coming.”
    “Nobody told me to.”
    “Would you please change the linen now,” I said, quelling my temper. No doubt the linen closet held dozens of sheets seized from Thali’s tenants.
    “I shall call in a used-furniture dealer tomorrow,” I said to Miss Thackery. “No one would buy the house in this condition. I must turn off the tenants as well, I daresay.”
    “Unless they have signed leases, of course,” Miss Thackery said calmly. “You may be required by law to honor their leases. You will have to speak to Duggan about that.”
    “I shall hire my own solicitor. Duggan has not been very helpful. He did not tell me the house was fall of tenants.”
    “If they are all as respectable as Mr. Alger, perhaps the new buyer would be happy to have them.”
    I had not forgotten Mr. Alger by any means. His was not an easy face to forget, but I was by no means sure of his respectability. While Mrs. Scudpole changed the linen, Miss Thackery and I returned to the saloon. We had just taken a seat when a young woman appeared at the doorway.
    “Good evening,” she said in a good provincial accent, and curtsied. “I am Mrs. Clarke, from 2B. And you must be Miss Irving,” she said to Miss Thackery.
    We soon straightened that out, and I asked what she wanted. “I came to give you my month’s rent, ma’am,” she said. She peered to make sure we were alone, then added, “I could not like to give it to Mrs. Scudpole. We had thought the lawyer would come to collect it. Perhaps I should have sent it to him.”
    The girl was pleasant, and respectable in appearance. She was younger than myself. I judged her age to be about eighteen.
    “Do you and Mr. Clarke live in 2B?” I asked, as she had introduced herself as Mrs.
    “Oh no, Ma’am. I am a widow. My husband was killed in the Peninsula. He was an officer,” she said proudly.
    “I am very sorry to hear of his death.”
    “It was a great tragedy,” she said sadly, “but at least I have little Jamie to bear me company. My son,” she said, smiling softly. “It is difficult to raise him on my husband’s pension, but I was fortunate to find a woman who looks after him while I work. That is Bea Lemon—Miss Lemon.”
    “What sort of work do you do, Mrs. Clarke?” Miss Thackery asked.
    “I am a modiste,” she said. “You would not think it to look at me, but I am quite good. I get it from my mama. She was French. Not that I speak French myself,” she added hurriedly, and looked to see that I did not think she was giving herself airs.
    Indeed I would not have taken her for any of the things she claimed to be. She did not look like a widow or mother or French modiste. She looked like a yeoman farmer’s young daughter, halfway up the ladder to becoming a lady. Her blond hair was arranged somewhat haphazardly about a pale but pretty face. Her eyes were blue, long-lashed, and had the glow of youth. But the girl looked tired, as well she might with the hard life she lived. One had to feel sorry for her, soldiering on alone to raise her little son.
    “You won’t be raising the rents, will you?” she asked timorously. “Mr. Butler mentioned it.”
    “Nothing has been decided. I shall very likely sell the house, Mrs. Clarke.”
    “Oh I wish you will not! Some horrid old rack-rent will buy it, and either turn it into a gin mill or raise the rents on us. I don’t know what I shall do! It is so hard to find decent rooms within walking distance to the shop, and I cannot afford to hire a cab twice a day.”
    I felt extremely sorry for her, yet I could not base my whole future on the convenience of one poor widowed mother.
    “We shall see,” I said vaguely.
    She looked at me with tears brimming in her big blue eyes. “I wish you will stay. You seem so nice.” Then she lifted her