Cynthia looked annoyed she’d have to wait, but she knew I was immovable. We’d go Friday after breakfast, we agreed, then she left me. She was going out, Cynthia said as she went, sending me a dark look.
I smothered a sigh. She meant she would be donning gentleman’s attire and meeting her lady friends who enjoyed dressing thus. They’d lark about and try to gain admission to seedy clubs where gentlemen slummed. I worried when Cynthia did this, certain one night her uncle would have to retrieve her from some filthy jail, her complete ruin ensured.
I knew Cynthia would not be dissuaded—I had tried to reason with her before. The look she gave me also meant I should see that the scullery door was kept unbolted for her. She had a key to the house’s doors, but we drew a bar across the back and front ones after midnight if no one was out, which meant she’d be unable to get in without rousing the house and revealing her truancy to her aunt and uncle. They were amiable people but uncomfortable with Cynthia’s wild streak.
Cynthia’s mother and father—especially her father—had been wild in their day as well. Still were, from all accounts, though Cynthia’s mother had become a near recluse after Cynthia’s brother had shot himself years ago.
Mr. Bywater, Cynthia’s uncle, seemed to have inherited everything staid in the family. He believed Cynthia should find a husband who would settle her down—his idea was that having a child or two would calm her even more. Mr. Bywater enjoyed inviting eligible young gentlemen to the house, hoping Cynthia would fall madly in love with one of them and accept his inevitable proposal.
Hence the supper party tonight, and Cynthia’s rebellion of the moment.
I promised to aid in her deception, and we parted ways.
* * *
• • •
Cynthia returned safely in the wee hours and crept off to bed. Or so Sara assured me in the morning. I fixed a full breakfast for the household, then put aside enough food for a luncheon for the staff and family. I would be back in time to make supper.
As I prepared the repast I’d leave behind, Mr. Davis, as usual, found time to sit in his shirtsleeves at my table and read bits out of his newspaper to me.
Today it was the French foray into the lands of the Bey of Tunis. Apparently, Tunisian tribesmen there had been crossing into Algeria, a French colony, and pillaging as they saw fit, and the French were retaliating. Mr. Davis read along through the details of the French attack when he paused and looked up.
“Oh, by the bye, I saw that chap who worked here a few months ago—what was his name? Daniel—that was it. Daniel McAdam. In a pawnbrokers on the Strand, of all places.” He shook his head. “Dear, dear, how the mighty have fallen.”
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