"Glad, Judith B. - Anonymous Amanuensis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Glad Judith B)

"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 that 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."
Tom’s 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 that 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 that 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 walk back to the boarding house, but he positively radiated disapproval.
~*~
Eve knocked firmly at 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. The footman escorted her into a library, where a young man in shirtsleeves jumped up and greeted her.
"How do you do? I am Alan Garfield. Mr. Quinton will 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 that 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’s letter from her breast pocket. "I assure you, Mr. Quinton, that I possess 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 that 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’s 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 that 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, Eve 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 Hadley 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." Quinton 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 that I am not easy to please, 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 already 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 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 removed her shirt and 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 translate her answers into both Dutch and Italian.
Quinton reentered the library at 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 that 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.