The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele #1)(5)

I had been a watchmaker and repairer, actually, but I didn't correct her. No one ever believed me when I claimed my father taught me everything he knew. Not even my friend, Catherine Mason, whose father and three brothers owned Mason And Sons. She'd told me that no honorable father would allow his daughter to get her hands dirty in the workshop. I liked Catherine so I didn't argue the point with her.

"I must try something different," I told Mrs. Bray. "I need employment."

"There's always the workhouse for destitute women."

I shuddered. The workhouse was for those with no roof over their head, no education, and no other possible means of supporting themselves. Employment there meant a bed to sleep on and food twice a day, albeit a lice-ridden bed and unpalatable gruel. It also meant long hours on the factory floor, risking life and limb with the dangerous machinery, and contending with depraved men who thought the poor women were no better than whores. A perfectly healthy woman I'd been acquainted with had wound up in one after her husband died. When I'd seen her again, a year later, she'd been at death's door, ravaged by syphilis and coughing up blood. The workhouse was a wretched place. It made Mrs. Bray's cold attic room, with the low roof and persistent odor of cat urine, seem like a palace.

If I couldn't find employment elsewhere, the workhouse was my only choice.

I collected my gloves and reticule from the bed, but she didn't let me pass. Her sizeable hips filled the doorway. "I have to go out for now," I told her, "but I'll be stopping by the Governesses' Benevolent Institution on my way back to see if there's any work for an educated woman like myself."

She rolled her tongue over her top teeth then made a sucking sound. "I told you, you won't find anything. You're not the right sort to be a governess."

"I must try."

"You're persistent, I'll give you that." She sucked the air between her teeth again. "But you have to pack your things and take them with you."

I gasped. "Are you evicting me?"

"I've had inquiries from a gentleman wishing to lease this room." She backed out of the doorway and headed to the stairs in her awkward, rolling gait. "You have fifteen minutes."

"But I have nowhere else to go!"

"You've got friends. Ask that pretty girl who called on you last week to help."

I stood at the top of the stairs and stared at her retreating back. The Masons couldn't afford to support me, not with so many of their own mouths to feed. I would have to sleep on Catherine's floor. They would try to help me if they knew my plight, but I couldn't bring myself to beg. Pride was all I had left.

"Please, Mrs. Bray. I'll have the money by the end of today."

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and shook her head. "How?" she called up. "You've got no job and nothing more to sell. Even if you find employment today, you won't be paid for weeks. I need that money now, Miss Steele. I've got to eat too." She walked off. "You've got fifteen minutes or I fetch the constable and have you arrested for trespass."

Arrested! From the look on her face, she was serious.

I headed back into my room and numbly packed my bag. Having sold as many personal items as I could to pay for food and rent for the last two weeks, my few remaining belongings amounted to very little. I possessed two changes of unmentionables, a nightgown, one other dress, a coat, and a hairbrush, hand mirror and combs that had belonged to my mother. My bag was so light that I had no trouble getting it down the stairs.

Mrs. Bray saw me out and shut the door the moment I crossed the threshold, almost hitting me in the back. I walked as erectly as possible down the steps to the pavement, my battered leather valise in hand. It had been a gloomy, damp house anyway. I would find somewhere better to live, just as soon as I secured myself employment. In the meantime, Catherine Mason's floor would have to do.

I wouldn't rely on the Masons' charity for long, however. I wouldn't need to. I was eminently employable, if only someone would give me the opportunity to prove it without references. After meeting with Mr. Glass, I would apply at the Governesses' Benevolent Institution. I could even ask him if anyone in his circle was in need of the services of an educated woman. Indeed, this meeting with Mr. Glass could prove quite fruitful. I had a good feeling about it.

I walked from the lodging house near King's Cross Road to Mayfair. It took almost an hour, but the air was reasonably clear, allowing some spring sunshine to leak through the gray pall. I knew the way well enough, having delivered timepieces to wealthy customers who lived there. I'd even delivered an exquisite watch to a foreign prince when he'd stayed at Brown's Hotel. Nevertheless, the colonnaded fa?ades of the grand buildings never ceased to amaze me and make me feel small.

My valise no longer felt light by the time I reached Albermarle Street, and my shoulders and arms ached. The liveried porter of Brown's Hotel opened the front door for me. I ignored the questioning arch of his brows and his pointed glance at my simple dress and valise, and strolled inside with what I hoped was an air of confidence. I wanted to at least look like I knew where I was going, even if my stomach had tied itself into knots. The porter stowed my valise away in a back room and directed me to the tearoom.

I received more curious stares as I scanned the faces for Mr. Glass. Plain shop girls didn't usually mingle in the tearoom at Brown's with ladies and gentlemen of good breeding. I felt like a drab piece of sackcloth amid colorful silks and delicate laces.