The Anonymous Amanuensis Page 2

  He gaped at her.

  Quickly Eve went on. "You must obtain the garments for me tomorrow, so I can be ready for an interview. I have already written to Mr. Quinton, requesting one. I told him I would be free to call on him any time after Monday.

  "Please, Tom," she pleaded, seeing the doubtful expression on his face. "Say you will do this for me."

  "You must be insane!" Tom said. "You could never hope to get away with such an imposture."

  "Why should I not? I am taller than many men. My voice is nearly as low in pitch as yours. And I certainly do not appear dainty and feminine, as young women are expected to be." Caught up in her enthusiasm, she grinned up at him. "This may be my only opportunity, Tom. Do say you will help me."

  It took much persuasion to convince Tom. Finally, however, he agreed, reluctantly. Once she was assured of his cooperation, she told him the whole of her plans.

  "Here are the measurements. I have allowed for the garments, particularly the trousers, to fit loosely. Here is every penny I can spare, nearly five pounds. See if you can obtain several changes of clothing for me. I will purchase my own shoes, for there is nothing too unusual in a woman wishing to have stout shoes. And do not forget a nightshirt. And underclothing. Do you think there will be enough money?"

  "What I think is that I shall live to regret this, Eve. Won't you change your mind?" Tom said, his voice filled with concern.

  "No. I am determined. Oh, Tom, please do not worry about me. I shall go on swimmingly, you will see."

  "I hope so, but I fear that you are more likely to end up in disgrace, or even in gaol."

  "Nonsense! Now, will you remember I cannot wear the pale shades? In fact, I would prefer that you would purchase all my clothing in somber brown and dark blue."

  "Just like my sister. Worrying about colors, even in men's garb." Tom smiled, although to Eve's eyes, the expression seemed strained. "Very well, Eve. I will do as I am bid, although I have a terrible premonition that no good will come of this. But what will you do about a hat?"

  "Oh, heavens! I had forgot. I have no idea of my hat size. May I try yours?" Eve took the beaver that Tom handed her and set it upon her head. It fell down to rest on her ears. Before she could remove it, Tom caught her hand. He raised it to sit properly and slipped his fingers inside, pulling the hat against the back of her head. Holding it carefully, he removed it and put it upon his own head, still with his fingers inside. It sat high on his forehead.

  "There, I think I can estimate your size from this. Have you any objection to used clothing, Eve? It would be less costly."

  "Not at all, as long as it is clean. I cannot indulge in false pride if I am to succeed in my scheme." Eve could hardly contain her excitement. "Do stop looking so worried, Tom. The very worst that could occur is that Mr. Quinton would unmask and discharge me. But I will have made the attempt."

  "At least Quinton is a gentleman. Your virtue should be safe if he does twig that you're a female."

  Eve became aware that the sky had darkened. She opened her pelisse to look at her watch. "Oh, dear, I must hurry. Will you call tomorrow with the clothing, then, Tom?"

  "Either that, or I will send you a note. Have you thought about where you will go to make the transformation?"

  Eve admitted she had not. They decided that Tom would engage an inexpensive room at a nearby inn and would call for her the next evening to escort her there.

  Chapter Two

  The young person who ran down the outer stairs of the Blue Bear the next evening was handsome enough, clad in loose garments of good fabric and acceptable style. Still certain he had let himself be talked into the worst sort of imprudence, Tom watched as Eve doffed her beaver and bowed. Her golden hair was cut to approximate a fashionable brutus, although a bit shorter than usual and somewhat shaggy in the back. The bow, however, was less than graceful.

  "Good God, Eve, that was no bow! And you walk like a girl. It will never do."

  "Then how should I walk, Tom? Will you show me? And how to bow properly?"

  "I can see that I will have to. But where?" He looked around the busy inn yard.

  "In my room, of course."

  "Confound it, Eve. I cannot come to your room," Tom protested.

  "Of course you can. What is wrong with your coming to the room of one of your male friends?"

  Knowing he was compounding his error, Tom followed her up to her room, where he proceeded to drill her in a masculine stride and showed her how to bow with grace and style. After two hours' practice, he finally admitted that she would probably do well enough.

  With Tom's grudging approval of her appearance and her movements, Eve took off her coat and flung it on the bed, seating herself beside it. "Whew! You did not tell me bowing was so much work. It is very unlike curtsying. Nor was I aware that walking in a mannish gait was so much more strenuous than a ladylike stride. My shirt is quite damp." She stretched her arms above her head.

  Tom was staring at her with his mouth open. "What is it, Tom? Is something amiss?"

  Tom closed his mouth with a click of teeth. "Put your coat on, Eve, and keep it on. Your shirt is too thin." He was blushing.

  Eve caught up her coat and quickly slipped into it. "I never thought of that. Oh well, I daresay I can wear some sort of undergarment that will conceal my bosom."

  His face, if possible, grew even redder. Eve pretended not to notice and bowed again, this time as he had shown her. "Otherwise, how do I look?"

  He still stared at her feet.

  "Tom! Look at me! Do I truly move like a man? Do I swing my arms enough?"

  Tom slowly looked up and watched her move, walking about the room with long strides and swinging her arms freely. His blush had scarcely subsided. "Oh, yes, you'll pass well enough," he finally admitted. "But damn it, Eve, I still cannot entirely like this."

  "To be truthful, Tom, neither can I. It sits ill with me to engage in such calculated deception as I plan. But the alternative would be far worse, I promise you. My uncle...never mind." If her plan came to fruition and Alfred discovered it, Elmwood would cease to be her only remaining refuge.

  "Oh! Did I tell you I have had a response from Mr. Quinton, bidding me to call Monday afternoon for an interview? Will you engage this room for that day, so I may come here before and after the interview to change, please?"

  Tom agreed. He then went to wait outside while she changed back into her feminine clothing. He had little to say on the short trip back to the boarding house, but he positively radiated disapproval.

  * * * *

  Eve knocked firmly on the door of the magnificent house in Portman Square at the appointed time on Monday. Although she was inwardly quaking, she put on a brave expression and announced to the footman that Mr. James Quinton expected her. He escorted her into a library where a young man in shirtsleeves greeted her. He introduced himself as Alan Garfield and informed her that Mr. Quinton would be delayed for a few moments.

  Eve sat quietly as the secretary returned to his work at one of the two desks in the room. Her eyes roved about the room, noting its beautifully paneled walls and ceiling-high bookcases. A portrait of a young man hung over the mantelpiece and she, thinking it must be Mr. Quinton, examined it closely. Her supposition was proved correct, for she was soon introduced to an unsmiling gentleman who bore an older version of the face in the portrait.

  "You are very young, Mr. Dixon, to have a command of the languages that I require," Quinton told her after he had acknowledged the introduction and sent his secretary from the room.

  Eve pulled Chas' letter from her breast pocket. "I assure you, Mr. Quinton, that I posses the experience and skills you require. I am fluent in both Dutch and Italian. I speak some Prussian and French as well, but the latter only haltingly. I was raised on the Continent, you see, and only my parents spoke English to me." Aware she was babbling, she stopped abruptly and bit her lower lip.

  "And how old are you, Mr. Dixon?" Quinton asked.

  "I am eight and ten," Eve
lied, subtracting two years from her actual age to account for her beardless cheeks. "If you would care to read this letter of recommendation..." She held out Chas' letter.

  Quinton took it, frowning as he did so. He must have read it several times over, for it was a full minute before he raised his head and looked at her again. "So you worked for Chas Hadley's father, did you? And pleased him, from all accounts, or he would not have employed you for long. I understand the old man was not an easy person to please."

  Oh no! He knows my uncle! Could Chas have spoken to him of me? Throat tight, she merely nodded.

  "How did you come to be employed at such a tender age?"

  "I was an orphan, and my parents were...were acquaintances of the Hadley family." I should have never lied about my age. Well, there's no help for it. "Chas convinced his father to offer me a chance to prove myself."

  "Why did you not stay on after the old man's death?"

  "Oh, I wanted to seek my fortune in London," she responded airily, "and Sir Alfred thought me overly young for such responsibility."

  "As do I."

  Eve's heart sank.

  "However," he continued, still frowning, "I have been seeking a replacement for Garfield for several months now and must have one soon. He departs next week."

  "I am available immediately, sir," Eve said, nearly breathless with hope.

  "I see." He took a turn about the room, his brows lowered. "All right, young man, I'll give you a chance, despite your youth. You may come to me for a three-month probationary period. At the end of that time, we will again discuss this. But I will tell you I am not easy to please either, and I am a demanding employer."

  "Oh, thank you sir!" Eve cried. "I shall endeavor to please you, I promise."

  It was soon decided that Eve would remove to the Portman Square house the next day, since she would be expected to be available at all times, save Sundays and half Wednesdays. Her salary, a sum that seemed generous to her, would be paid quarterly, but Quinton offered to advance her five pounds if she was short of pocket. She accepted gratefully, for she had not taken the cost of the room at the Blue Bear into her calculations and she had been forced to dip into what she called her "escape money."

  * * * *

  The apartment allocated to Eve in Quinton's house was large and airy, with a small sitting room in addition to the bedchamber. The footman who carried her trunk and portmanteau upstairs promised to return in an hour to take them to the box room, so she set about unpacking quickly. Her books and other personal possessions she placed around the room, but she locked all of her feminine attire in the trunk. She had not had such a comfortable home since the death of her father, and never one so large and so beautifully appointed.

  As she was placing her comb and brush on the dressing table, Eve caught sight of herself in its large mirror. Without her coat, the fullness of her breasts showed through the fine linen shirt. This will never do. Mr. Garfield was in his shirtsleeves.

  Pulling an extra cravat from a drawer, she bound her breasts tightly. With her shirt back on, she examined her reflection, moving about and stretching as she did so. Yes, that will suffice for now, but I must contrive something more comfortable.

  Eve unlocked her trunk long enough to pull out a petticoat and her sewing kit. Stuffing them into the back of a drawer, she donned her drab blue coat and smoothed her hair. She was ready to go to work.

  Mr. Garfield's manner was somewhat abrupt, but he was both helpful and informative. They went over Mr. Quinton's schedule and list of correspondents that morning. In the afternoon, Eve was set to composing answers to some commonplace letters, then to translating her answers into both Dutch and Italian.

  Quinton reentered the library by mid-afternoon and asked to see her work. Eve gave him the letters she had written and watched him out of the corner of her eye as he read one after another, his face expressionless. As he laid the last on his desk, she looked at him expectantly.

  "Satisfactory, Mr. Dixon. You have a way with words. Succinct, but not abrupt." His brief smile took her breath away with its sweetness. But almost instantly his face slipped back into its usual stern lines. "Has Mr. Garfield explained your daily duties to you?"

  "He has, sir, and I took careful notes. I think I will be able to handle the work you require of me."

  "Good. Then continue to assist Garfield until Saturday. I will, of course, review your work daily. Tomorrow, Garfield," he said, turning to that young man, "you may give him the household accounts to deal with. Oh, and the invitations as well. I want to see how he does with them." Quinton picked up a portfolio of papers and left the room.

  By evening, Eve's shoulders were knotted with tension and her head ached. She briefly regretted her masquerade, for a man could not retire merely because of a headache. She and Garfield dined together in the breakfast room, a custom, she was informed, that was followed whenever Quinton was not at home for dinner or was entertaining. Eve asked Garfield about his post in India and spent most of the meal listening as that young man told her of his hopes of making his fortune in that faraway place.

  When the covers were removed and the port produced, Eve hesitated over accepting a glass. She told herself sternly that she must follow masculine pursuits if she was to pass successfully as a man. She sipped at the dark, heady wine, rather liking its taste. She did refuse the cigar Garfield offered her, however, feeling that there was a limit to her aping of the opposite sex.

  "Mr. Garfield, tell me more of our employer. Is he always so...so stern?"

  "No need to be formal at dinner, Evelyn. Call me Alan, as long as we're not at work. Quinton? Yes, I would say that his behavior is most of the time somewhat restrained, rather than stern, although he can be amusingly cynical."

  "Cynical? Why?"

  "He is quite bitter at the treatment he has received from the ton. Justifiably, I believe."

  "How have they treated him?" Since coming to London, Eve had begun reading the Gazette and was fascinated by the antics of the ton, the crème de la crème of English society. "And why does it matter?"

  "He is heir to the Earldom of Seabrooke. It is not a rich estate, the present earl having had to sell off many of his outlying properties to survive after the disastrous investments his father made. There is left only the principal property, Seabrooke, in Suffolk and a smaller one, at Fallowfeld in Essex. On his coming of age, Mr. Quinton received Fallowfeld and a small allowance. He invested his allowance and took an active interest in managing the income from it. Eventually he set himself up as a spice merchant with his profits."

  Garfield replenished his glass. Eve, reminded that hers was still nearly full, cradled it in her hands. She sipped cautiously, never having experienced such a pleasant warmth in her midriff before.

  "Over the years his initial investment has grown tremendously," Garfield continued, "due mostly to his business acumen and his wise investments. But much of the ton disapproved of his engaging in trade and shunned him for a long time. An understanding had existed between him and the only daughter of a neighboring estate in Suffolk. When they discovered that Quinton was engaging in mercantile pursuits, the family drew back, forbidding the marriage. Only in the past year or two has he been received in society again." Garfield snorted. "And that has been due to the discovery that Quinton has made himself a very wealthy man. The ton would still be shunning him otherwise."

  "How unfair, and how petty! I cannot blame him for being bitter. But surely that does not entirely account for his lack of warmth," Eve said with a question in her voice.

  "No, I'd wager his mother is at fault. She is not a likeable woman and would not have been an affectionate parent. But I do not wish to gossip, so I will say no more on that score. Do you play chess, Dixon?"

  "I do indeed, and would love a game. But I am sadly out of practice, so you must be patient while I remember my strategy."

  The evening was spent in a hard fought game, Eve finally going down to defeat, an event that made Mr. Garfield look upon her w
ith charity.

  The next few days were repeats of the first, with Eve exhausting herself in her attempts to prove her worth to Quinton. He admitted to her that he was well pleased when he reviewed her work on Saturday afternoon, telling her that Garfield had also praised her ability to understand and learn so quickly.

  That night Quinton held a small farewell celebration for the departing secretary, inviting several of Garfield's friends, including Tom Patterson. Eve discovered her employer to be charming in a social setting, but she still found herself intimidated by him.

  Eve was surprised when Quinton joined her at breakfast on Monday morning. She and Garfield had heretofore taken their morning meal without his company. Quinton explained that he was planning to spend the entire week working with Eve to ensure she would be well trained and able to proceed when he was absent.

  "Are you well acquainted with my...with Major Charles Hadley, Mr. Quinton?" Eve said as they were drinking a last cup of coffee together. She mentally chastised herself, for she had almost said "my uncle Chas."

  "Yes, Chas and I have been friends since we were at Eton together," he answered. "In fact, I consider him my best friend, for he is one of the few who did not desert me when I turned to trade instead of the idle frivolities of Society."

  "Chas has been a good friend to me, as well. When I came to...to England after my father's death, he was the only person who was kind to me, who welcomed me. I miss him greatly, and fear for his safety in the Peninsula."

  "I am sure there is no need to worry about Chas, Mr. Dixon. He has a fortunate habit of landing on his feet. Now, do you feel capable of dealing with the invitations that arrived in Saturday's post? I have about an hour's work before I will be free."

  "Of course, sir. I think I understand. You refuse all invitations to afternoon fetes and to card parties. You accept those to balls and musicales. Any others I am to refer to you for disposition. Unless they come from persons on the list, and those are to be refused under any circumstances."