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  The Master of Phoenix Hall

  Jennifer Wilde writing as Edwina Marlow

  I

  IT HAD BEEN GLOOMY ALL MORNING. Although the rain had finally stopped, the streets of London were wet and gray. The fog was so thick that the gaslights were burning even now, at barely past three in the afternoon. It was dark inside the dress shop but the frugal Mrs. Clemmons wouldn’t let us light any of the lamps. We must conserve oil and save her a few pennies. Everyone was in a foul mood, but no one complained. Our Mrs. Clemmons was a tyrant, quick tempered and hasty to discharge any young woman who displeased her. After three years of this tyranny I was very adept at suffering in silence. I needed the job.

  Nan had been going around all day with a long face, her ordinary vivacity smothered by the atmosphere. She was a great one for fortune-tellers and horoscopes. Her simple cockney nature made her easily susceptible to such things. Last week her regular palm reader had predicted a grave disaster in the month to come, and Nan felt sure that today was the day of the dire event. There were dark shadows about her blue eyes and her tarnished gold curls hung in tangled clusters. She sulked in a corner, holding her straw broom idly and staring down at the bits of bright material scattered over the floor.

  “Something’s going to happen,” she repeated for the tenth time.

  “Do be quiet, Nan,” I replied, rather testily.

  “Something’s going to happen. I can feel it in my bones. A black cat was crouching on the windowsill this morning, and I knew then that today was the day Madame Inez told me about. Black skies, rain, fog. Something terrible is going to happen.”

  “And I know what it’ll be if Mrs. Clemmons comes in and finds you standing there in a daze. You’ll find yourself out in the street without a job.”

  “That old bag wouldn’t dare dismiss me,” Nan retorted hatefully. “Where would she find another girl crazy enough to run her errands and sweep her floor and take in her tea when she has a headache? And all for a handful of pennies. I’m a treasure, and she knows it.”

  “You’re a treasure, all right,” I said.

  “I’m not smart enough to do anything else,” Nan said, leaning on the handle of her broom, “but you, Miss Angel, I can’t see why you put up with this—sittin’ here in the dark and puttin’ a hem in a red silk dress for some fine lady to wear to a ball. Don’t you want a red silk dress for yourself?”

  “Where would I wear it?”

  “Some nice gentleman might take you out.”

  “There is no gentleman, nice or otherwise.”

  There was no one. Ever since my parents’ deaths three years ago, there had been time for nothing but work. My father, in his quixotic fashion, had left a great many unpaid bills. I had taken it upon myself to pay them all off. Therefore I felt myself lucky to be working at Mrs. Clemmons’ establishment and found it was not too difficult to put up with her bad temper and poor wages. At least it was a respectable employment, and that was not easy for a single woman to find in London in this year 1888.

  I had a room in a shabby boardinghouse that was nevertheless decent and clean, in a once genteel neighborhood. I had the books my father had left, and I had memories of a spoiled, pampered childhood as the only child of a prosperous middle-class businessman. My father’s business folded after some unwise speculations, and his health waned in the months that followed. After his death, my poor mother seemed to lose all incentive to live. She was a shy, retiring woman, living in the shadow of my father’s more forceful personality. She wasted away. I was eighteen years old when she died, completely alone, penniless, my only relative a somewhat eccentric aunt who lived in Cornwall.

  I managed. I had been managing for three years now. My life was calm and serene. If it lacked excitement, at least there was a certain security in knowing that I had been able to pay all my father’s debts. I had even been able to save a small amount. If I sometimes dreamed about a dashing rake who would sweep me off my feet and away from all of this drabness, I had the good sense to know that such things only happen in novels and that life itself is gray, without the flashing colors found in the books I read.

  Gray did not suit me. But I lacked the strength of character, the imagination to change things. I was neither happy nor unhappy. Without knowing it, I was waiting. Despite my good sense, I was young enough to believe that the miracle would happen, that some kind fate would see to it that I did not waste away in dust and boredom like the old women I saw at the library when I went to exchange books.

  “You should go out more,” Nan persisted. “A girl as pretty as you shouldn’t have any trouble finding a whole troop of gentlemen. With that lustrous brown hair and those lovely brown eyes—”

  “Stop, Nan,” I protested. The butcher’s apprentice and the printers’ devil vied with each other for Nan’s affections, only to see her fly off on the arm of a handsome young private in the army. She could not understand why I did not follow her example.

  “You may be a well-brought-up young woman,” she said, “but that’s no reason why you can’t have fun. It wouldn’t hurt anything for you to let a fellow take you to the Music Hall and buy you a beer.”

  “Hush,” I said.

  “You’re too prim and proper,” she continued. “With that small waist and those nice ankles you should be wearing bright dresses and a piece of lace. No one will ever notice you in those brown and gray things. I know men, Miss Angel.”

  “And I’m content not to,” I retorted. “Can’t you leave me alone? I have to finish this frock this afternoon.”

  I tried not to let Nan get on my nerves. I loved her dearly. She was such a lively sparrow of a girl, gathering bright bits of ribbon to make her humdrum life bearable. Topsy-turvy and temperamental, she was the only friend I had in the world. She had a tiny room in the attic of the boarding house where I lived, and her adventures and misadventures with all her beaux brought what little excitement I had into my life, however vicarious it might be.

  “Finish it,” she said, “and then start another, and then another.” She put her hands on her hips and stared at me with her head cocked to one side. “You exasperate me sometimes, Miss Angel! Really you do!” She began to sweep up the scraps of material and left me in peace.

  The ominous atmosphere outside seemed to creep into the shop. The fog was thick and yellow, swirling in heavy clouds against the windows. There was barely enough light for me to see how to do my stitching. I hoped the fog would let up before Nan and I left. There had been so many attacks in the past few months that it was not safe for women to walk alone in these London streets. Nan grabbed all the newspapers and read the lurid stories of rape and murder with much relish. London was not a pleasant place for a single woman.

  There was a roll of thunder. Nan dropped her broom and began to babble again about the fortuneteller’s predictions. She stared out the window at the fog and said she hoped O’Connor, the patrolman, would escort us home tonight.

  We were both unprepared for the footsteps we heard outside the shop. They were loud, coming down the steps toward the door. The bell made a shrill jangling noise as the door was thrown open, and Nan gasped as the man in swirling black cape stepped inside. It was most unusual for a man to come into Mrs. Clemmons’ establishment, and this one had a hardened face with piercing black eyes that glowered at us beneath diabolical dark brows. For a moment my own heart skipped a beat. I dropped the dress I was working on and got to my feet. Then Mrs. Clemmons came charging in from the back room. She was a fierce old thing with iron-gray
curls and the body of an ox. I didn’t doubt her ability to handle any situation, and for once I was glad to see her.

  The man stood just inside the door. Even if he was not a criminal with murderous intentions as Nan and I had imagined at first, it was evident that he had not come to look at ribbons and bonnets. He stared coldly at Mrs. Clemmons as she adjusted her plum colored skirts and tried to summon some feminine charm before addressing him. Her lace cap was at an awkward angle and her cheeks were flushed red. She wore cascades of jet-black beads and these jangled as she tried to catch her breath.

  “Yes, Sir, may I help you?”

  Nan snickered at me while our employer fluttered her eyelashes. Her voice was sweet and mincing, hardly the tone she used when scolding her employees.

  “Are you Mrs. Catherine Clemmons?” His voice was hoarse, not at all pleasant. It matched his appearance.

  “That is correct, Sir. You wanted to see me?”

  “Do you have a Miss Angela Todd working for you?”

  I drew back, startled. He had come to see me.

  “Why—yes. This is Angela,” she pointed to me. “Did you wish to see me about her?”

  He didn’t feel that an answer was necessary. He turned to me, giving me a close scrutiny with those black eyes. He was a very large man, with powerful shoulders, yet now I noticed the soft silver at his temples and the lines of fatigue about the mouth. I could see that what I had thought a formidable demeanor was merely a brusqueness common to many businessmen and his gloves, his neat but well worn suit, the gold watch chain on his vest proclaimed him to be just that, a businessman. What could he want to see me for? I had paid all Father’s debts.

  “You are Miss Angela Todd?” His voice was softer than before.

  I nodded. He looked at me carefully. “Yes, I can see some family resemblance. The same brow, the same proud carriage of the chin.” His eyes seemed to grow gentle, and he frowned a little.

  “You are related to Mrs. Lucille Dawson of Cornwall?”

  “She is my aunt.”

  “I am Jacob Patterson, Miss Todd. I am a lawyer, and I handled all your aunt’s affairs—”

  “Handled?” I interrupted. “Why do you use the past tense?”

  “I am afraid I have some very bad news for you, Miss Todd.”

  It had all happened so quickly. I could still not adjust to the fact that my Aunt Lucille had died, leaving me a house in Cornwall and a small annual income. I sat in Mr. Patterson’s office now, waiting for him to give me all the details and feeling rather guilty because I was not at the dress shop, putting stitches in a gown for someone else. Nan had insisted that I buy a new outfit for myself, and I was wearing a dress of sky blue linen and a cape of silver-gray rabbit fur, with muff to match. The new clothes felt as strange as the new position.

  “You look marvelous!” Nan had cried as she inspected me earlier this morning. “Turn around. Let me see how the skirt hangs—yes, just right. You look elegant, Miss Angel, just elegant. Now things will really happen. Just you wait and see!”

  I looked at myself in the full length mirror. The clothes were nice, flattering, but they seemed too bright after my drab gray frocks. I felt as though I were in masquerade as I attached a small bunch of violets on my lapel. The severe, not unpretty face that stared back at me seemed like the face of a stranger. The finely arched brows were delicate, and the dark brown eyes looked too sad and too old. The nose was turned up just a little and the firm pink lips were too large. My only really good feature was the lustrous brown hair, rich with silvery highlights.

  “You’ll have a fine house all your own,” Nan continued, dancing around the room like a child, “and many new dresses and dozens of men coming to call. It’ll be a whole new life—for both of us!”

  “Both of us?” I inquired.

  “A fine lady needs a maid, Miss Angel, and surely you don’t think I would let you go all the way to Cornwall all by yourself! Not for a moment!”

  She flung her thin arms about me and I was overcome with relief. The thought of moving to a strange part of the country alone had terrified me, but with Nan along it would be much easier. She was an impetuous, impulsive child, but I loved her.

  “What about your gentlemen friends?” I asked teasingly.

  “Oh,” she said, shrugging her shoulders, “they’ll get along. And I hear they grow them big and tall and mean in Cornwall.”

  “Nan, you’re incorrigible.”

  “But it’s such fun, Miss Angel!”

  I smiled as she began to make plans. First she would go and tell Mrs. Clemmons a few choice facts about herself and her ancestry, and then she would bid each of her young gentlemen friends goodbye. Then she would buy a new dress for herself, something very gay, and go tell Madame Inez how wrong she had been when she had predicted a disaster.

  “She must have looked at the wrong cards,” Nan concluded. “I have never known her to be wrong before.”

  “Do stop babbling, Nan,” I said.

  I thought about Aunt Lucille as I rode to Mr. Patterson’s office. I felt guilty at not being properly sad and downcast, but Aunt Lucille had always been a stranger to me. My mother’s sister, she had not taken to my father, so there had been some strain. She had come down to London for my mother’s funeral, and after it was over she patted my hand, saying a few words of comfort. I remembered an oddly dressed old woman with flaming red hair that was obviously dyed. As I was her only living relative, she had written a few letters to me during the past few years, but the handwriting was so erratic that I could hardly read them. We had exchanged Christmas cards, and once she sent me a box of herbs that she had grown in her garden.

  I knew that her husband, my Uncle Fred, had been a gardener at some large estate in Cornwall, and when the master of the estate died he left the Dower House to his faithful servant. I vaguely remembered my mother talking about a law suit. The young heir of the estate had not felt his father had been justified in leaving the Dower House to a servant, and he had tried to get it back, but the Court stood behind the will. My aunt and uncle moved into the house, and after Uncle Fred’s death, Aunt Lucille continued to live there alone. Now I, in turn, had inherited it.

  The coach moved rapidly over the cobbles, knocking me about, and I clung to the side of the vehicle, peering out at the London streets. I saw run-down old redstone houses with shabby lace curtains at the windows and swarms of dirty children playing on the broad stone steps. A bent old woman hobbled down the block with a basket of rags, and a man was collecting knives and scissors to sharpen on his revolving stone. There were many flowers, even the most humble dwelling having its small patch or a few pots with blooms.

  London was loud and congested and dirty, but now that I would soon be leaving it I felt a curious sadness. I would miss the gardens, and I would miss the skating pond in winter and Hyde Park in spring. There was so much color and excitement and history, and I would be trading it all for the bleak coast of Cornwall.

  Now, as I sat waiting for Mr. Patterson in his office, I promised myself that I would treat Nan to an outing at Covent Garden before leaving. We would hazard the traffic and confusion and go see an operetta. Nan would enjoy it, and Heaven knew I would miss the theater once I was in Cornwall. Buying the cheapest seats and climbing to the top of the balcony had been something I had cherished over the years.

  Mr. Patterson came in, carrying a heavy stack of papers. He wore a frayed but well cut gray suit and there was a blue handkerchief sticking out of his breast pocket. He wore spectacles also, and these gave him a milder look. In the small room his great size was even more evident, and he seemed to lumber about like a caged lion, talking about deeds and other legal documents in very professional terms. I could not begin to follow half of what he was saying, but I sat with what I hoped was an intelligent look on my face and nodded my head when it seemed appropriate to do so.

  “You have no desire to sell?” he asked finally.

  “Why—no. Not just yet, anyway. I am anxious to se
e the house.”

  “The Master of Phoenix Hall would pay handsomely.”

  “He wants Dower House back?”

  “He seems determined to have it.”

  “I seem to remember something about a law suit he brought against my uncle,” I said, hoping Mr. Patterson would tell me something more about it.

  “Yes, that was many years ago, and there was much bad blood. He claimed your uncle used trickery to get Bradford Mellory to leave Dower House to him, and there was quite a squabble in court. But the will was airtight, and Dower House was legally your uncle’s, as now it is yours.”

  “What is the place like?” I asked.

  “It is small, two floors and a basement, strongly constructed—the finest old stone and oak. There is an herb garden and many trees. One drawback—and you may not like this—the old deserted quarries are right behind the house, fifty yards or so. Could be dangerous if a person wasn’t careful.”

  “Where is it in relation to Phoenix Hall?”

  “Half a mile or so, easy walking distance. Not so close you’ll feel ill at ease. Your aunt managed to ignore the people at the Hall completely, seldom even saw them on the grounds. You won’t be alone, will you, Miss Todd?”

  “I shall have a maid. Why do you ask?”

  “Well—it’s a rugged country. All sorts of unrest.”

  “Is there—danger?”

  “Not really. I didn’t mean to alarm you. There’s been a lot of smuggling in the county, some highwaymen have been seen on the roads of late. It’s a poor county. Phoenix Hall is the only rich estate in the area, and it’s gone down since they mined out all the granite.”

  “My aunt lived alone,” I remarked.

  “Your aunt was a salty old woman, Miss Todd. She kept a pistol and she knew how to use it. And she was loved by the people of the county. I have mentioned the herb garden? She made poultices and medicines for the neighborhood people and was something of a midwife. People came to her when they had aches and pains, and usually she cured them. No one would have harmed her. As her relative, you’ll be in good standing before you even arrive.”