Excerpt: Sweet Disorder
Chapter 1
Phoebe sat at the foot of her bed, her elbows propped on the deal table she’d placed under the window. She was supposed to be writing her next Improving Tale for Young People. But the shingled wall and gabled roof of Mrs. Humphrey’s boarding house across the way were so much more absorbing than the tragic tale of poor Ann, who had been got with child by a faithless young laird and was now starving in a ditch.
If Phoebe strained, she could even see a sliver of street two stories below.
The problem was that she couldn’t quite decide what would happen to Ann next. Tradition dictated that either the girl die there, or that her patient suffering inspire the young laird to reform and carry her off to a church, but…that was so boring. Every Improving Tale-teller in England had already written it. It had been old when Richardson did it seventy years ago.
But she couldn’t afford to waste this precious time in daydreams. It was washing day, and Sukey, the maid she and her landlady shared with Mrs. Humphrey, would soon be back from her shopping to help. Then tomorrow Phoebe had to piece her quilt for the Society for Bettering the Condition of the Poor’s auction in December, and what with one thing and another, she wouldn’t have any more time to write until Tuesday. She had promised this story to the editor of the Girl’s Companion in time for typesetting three weeks from now.
There were footsteps on the stairs and a knock at her door. I do not feel relieved, she thought firmly. Standing and crossing into her sitting room, she opened the door to discover—
“Mr. Gilchrist.” She felt much less relieved.
The dapper Tory election agent stood at the top of the narrow spiral of stairs leading to her attic. A few drops of rain glistened in his sleek brown hair, on his broadcloth shoulders, and on the petals of the pink-and-white carnation—the colors of the local Tory party—in his buttonhole.
Drat. If it was raining, washing would have to be put off until she had Sukey again next Friday. And she’d have to keep a careful eye on the bucket under the leak in her roof to make sure it didn’t overflow.
“Ah, you know of me,” he said with an oily smile. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Sparks.”
Oh, his smile is not oily. Prejudice combined with the urge to narrate is a terrible thing. She smiled back. “And I’m pleased to make yours. But I should warn you, I’m Orange-and-Purple, and so are my voting friends.” There was a general election on in England to choose a new Parliament. While many districts could go decades with the same old MPs, the Lively St. Lemeston seats always seemed to be hotly contested.
He tilted his head. “Your father and your husband were Whigs. But from what I hear, you’re an independent woman. Decide for yourself.” His expression turned rueful. He couldn’t be more than twenty. “Besides, it’s starting to rain and I’d rather not go outside again just yet.”
She sighed. He was good at this. “May I offer you some tea?”
“I’d love some.”
Maybe his smile was oily after all. Phoebe went to take the kettle from the fire, but she didn’t bring out the cheese rolls from the cupboard. They cost a penny each, and she wanted them for herself.
Mr. Gilchrist waited patiently while she topped off the teapot with hot water. She didn’t add any tea. A second steeping was good enough for him.
“I know you’re a busy and practical woman, so I’ll come straight to the point,” he said as she poured. “Thank you, I take it black.” A politic choice, visiting a poor widow. “Under the Lively St. Lemeston charter, every freeman of the town has the right to vote for up to two candidates in an election.”
“I know that, Mr. Gilchrist.” Men always wanted to explain things, didn’t they?
“Also under the Lively St. Lemeston charter,” he continued, clearly having no intention of modifying his planned oration, “the eldest daughter of a freeman who died without sons can make her husband a freeman.”
Phoebe tapped her foot on the floor. “My husband is dead,” she pointed out, since apparently they were telling each other things they both already knew.
The young man took a sip of tea. He had an eye for a dramatic pause, anyway; she had to give him credit for that. “You could marry again.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Mr. Dromgoole, our candidate, would be happy to assist in finding any prospective spouse a lucrative place in his chosen profession.” His smile didn’t falter. Definitely oily.
“You think I’m going to get married just to get you extra votes? The polls are in a month!” She set her still-empty teacup back on the table with a rattle.
“Allow me.” He put a small lump of sugar into the cup, poured it half full of tea, and then filled it almost to the brim with milk.
“You found out how I like my tea?” she asked incredulously.
There was a hint of boyish smugness in his smile now. “I know how you like your men too. If you’ll just meet my nominee—”
She stood. “How dare you? Get out of my house.”
It wasn’t her house, though. It was her two cramped attic rooms. His eyes drifted for a moment, letting that sink in, reminding her of how much more she could have if she married.
He might know how she liked her tea, but he didn’t know a thing about her if he thought she’d be happier in a fine house that belonged to her husband. These two rooms were hers.
He rose. “I’ll give you a few days to think it over. A message at the Drunk St. Leonard will always reach me.”
She went to the door and jerked it open. “Even love wouldn’t convince me to marry again. An election certainly won’t.” She’d always had a tendency to bend the truth in favor of a neat bit of dialogue. But love wouldn’t convince me to marry again unless I were sure it wouldn’t become a bickering, resentful mess like the first time just didn’t sound the same.
Mr. Gilchrist shook his head mournfully and bounded down the stairs. He passed out of sight—and there was a squawk and the sound of bouncing fruit. “I’m dreadfully sorry,” he said, not sounding very sorry.
Phoebe started down to help Sukey collect the groceries, turning the corner just in time to see the girl pocket something. “Pardon me, did you just bribe my maid?”
“It’s not a bribe.” Mr. Gilchrist tossed a couple of apples back in the basket with unerring aim. “It’s damages for the fruit.”
She considered throwing an apple at him as he disappeared around the next bend, but even in October the fruit wasn’t cheap enough to justify it. “The Orange-and-Purples would never stoop this low,” she shouted after him instead.
“Don’t count on it,” Mr. Gilchrist called back.
“I hope he’s right,” Sukey said cheerily. “I could use another shilling.”
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