“I was jest comin’ ter see if ye needed more gin, Penny.” He lifted a beefy hand clutching a bottle of gin, although he kept a cautious eye on Kendra. “Din’t know ye had company.”
Penelope sniffed. “Aye, and fifteen minutes ago, ye were knocking ter see if we needed coal for the fire. And twenty minutes before that, ye wanted ter see if we needed a bite ter eat.” Stepping forward, she drilled a finger into his flabby belly. “Ye’re a lustful shit-sack, Caleb Sands!”
“Oye!” Caleb yelped, retreating. “I’m jest tryin’ ter help.”
Keeping her eyes on the man, Kendra returned the pistol to her reticule. Now she understood Penelope’s hostile greeting.
“Bugger off! And if ye keep knockin’ on our door, I’ll box yer ears and then take me knife out and carve ye up and feed ye to the dogs.”
Kendra raised her brows. And Bear thoughtshewas a blood-thirsty wench.
Caleb threw up his free hand as if to ward off a demon, wheeling backward. “Fine. Don’t be beggin’ me for anything, Penny-girl.”
“I won’t. And don’t call me Penny, ye bloody oaf.” Penelope followed him out into the hall and kept her eyes on him as he fled. “The bastard’s always trying ter get under our skirts,” she explained to Kendra, gesturing for her to follow in the other direction.
“Have you complained to Mr. Myott about his harassment?” Kendra asked.
“Are ye touched in the head? Mr. Mylott would tan our hides good if we started complaining. Don’t matter anyways. Me knife does the trick.”
Kendra had to smile. “I’ll bet it does.”
“Guess your little pistol does the same. Would ye have shot the bugger?”
“I guess we’ll never know.”
Kendra was aware of Penelope studying her out of the corner of her eyes as they walked down the shadowy corridor. “Ye’re not like most ladies,” the actress finally remarked. “Must be because ye’re a Yank. English ladies treat us like we’re dirt on their dainty slippers.”
Penelope stopped to knock at a door. She didn’t wait for an answer, twisting the knob and pushing open the panel. “Old Beatrice,” she said, “I gotta lady ter see you.”
Old Beatrice was an appropriate appellation, Kendra decided. She had to be in her nineties. Gray hair stuck out like barbed wire from beneath the beige mobcap she wore. She had lashless brown eyes behind round spectacles. Her skin was creped, sagged, and spotted. But her hands were quick and steady as she stitched the hem of a crimson satin gown that shimmered across her lap while she rocked in a chair.
The room was small, almost claustrophobic, thanks to the fabric shoved into every nook and cranny: bolts against the wall, swatches scattered across a cabinet, stacked in shelves. A table held dressmaker tools—scissors, tape measures, spools of thread, pincushions stuck with pins, and muslin pattern pieces—while another cupboard held baskets brimming with buttons, trimmings, and other odds and ends. Four wicker dressmaker dummies stood like headless sentries in a corner.
“Lady Sutcliffe, this is Old Beatrice,” Penelope introduced.
Old Beatrice didn’t stop her sewing as she looked at Kendra. “Come ter ask me about Edwina, then?”
A little surprised by the old woman’s bluntness, Kendra nodded. “Mostly. Do you mind?”
“Nothing’s stopping you from asking.”
“I’ll leave ye to talk, then.” Penelope’s silk robe fluttered as she made her exit.
“There’s a chair under those gowns and breeches,” Beatrice said.
Kendra took that to mean she could remove them, so she scooped up the mounds of clothes, then stood there, not really sure what to do with the armload.
“Just drop them,” Beatrice instructed.
Kendra obeyed, then sat down across from the seamstress. The old woman had the composure of someone who’d lived long enough to have heard and seen it all.
“Do actresses talk to you when they’re being fitted?” Kendra asked.
If Beatrice was surprised that Kendra didn’t bring up Edwina, she didn’t show it. “Some are chattier than others.”
“What about Clarice and Isabella? Were they chatty?”
“Sometimes.”
