She went back to her room, where Mallow had laid out her walking clothes with the same care and attention as if they were an elegant ball ensemble. Always, Frances had put on these clothes by herself. Now, for the first time, she had Mallow to help—but that made it worse.
“I am not sure why you need to dress in . . . these, my lady.”
“I have to be secret. Mrs. Blake can’t know I’m leaving. No servant can know I left, and I can’t risk her seeing me. She’ll be checking the exchange to see if I made a call. She needs to think she’s safe. It’s a trap, Mallow.”
“Very good, my lady. I’ll do my part. I just wish it didn’t involve these clothes.” She started to help Frances get dressed and approached the men’s clothes with her usual attention to sartorial perfection.
“Mallow, I don’t think it has to be perfect. I’m supposed to be a working man.”
“My lady. When you promoted me to be your personal maid, Miss Garritty—maid to your sister by marriage, Lady Seaforth—made me promise that I would never let you leave your bedroom without being perfectly dressed. I will keep that promise. Even if you are dressed in men’s clothes. Now I believe the shirt is tucked in like this . . .”
“Should the braces be tightened like that?”
“The braces are designed for a man’s figure, my lady.” Mallow had a point. It was one thing to dress like a man, quite another for someone with her rounded figure to pass as one.
“If I may say, my lady, we could use the services of a valet.”
“It’s too bad Randall isn’t here to help,” said Frances, referring to her brother’s valet. Both women thought that over, then started to giggle. Although an excellent valet, Randall was a formal, humorless man, and the thought of him dressing his master’s sister in men’s clothes was really too much.
“Beg your pardon, my lady, but I think that’s one place we won’t get any advice.”
“I agree with you there. Let’s loosen the shirt a little and add this jacket, which will cover a multitude of sins. And help me tuck my hair under this hat . . .”
Frances admired the final results in the mirror. Not too bad. This just might work.
“How do I look, Mallow?”
Mallow sighed. “Again, begging your pardon, but I don’t know how to answer that question, my lady.”
Frances chuckled, then looked out her window: the workmen in the garden were breaking for the day. It was time to leave. “Now make sure the hall is clear and I’ll be off.”
Mallow gave her a nod and Frances slipped out. She had memorized the way to the back stairs, where she planned to leave through the servants’ entrance at the back. She was almost out when she heard a voice from the stairs above her.
“You! What are you doing inside?” It was Pennington, the butler. Frances kept her head low to hide her face under the hat brim, and hoped a harsh whisper would pass for a man’s voice. Fortunately, the stairwell light was dim.
“Beg pardon, sir. Won’t happen again.”
“You were all told the house was off limits. But wait a minute.” His voice grew softer. “You’re young Abel, aren’t you? I heard you had started work. Good for you, my lad. No doubt here to visit your sister?” He chuckled. Frances concluded she had been mistaken for the young brother of one of the maids.
“Yes, sir. Just thought I’d say hello.”
“Very well. But from now on, you call on your sister in the servants’ hall and on your own time. Now be a good lad and go off with the rest of the men.”
Frances almost went limp with relief. She didn’t think she could keep up the charade much longer. She nodded and pushed her way out the door. The real Abel and his sister would be thrown into a lot of confusion later.
She was just in time to meet the crew of about a dozen men as they headed toward the road that led to the village. One man was clearly the foreman: he was older than the rest and they all deferred to him. The men looked up curiously as Frances approached, wondering if one of their number had gone astray. She walked up to the foreman, and only then was her deception apparent.
“I have to slip out of the house for reasons that are my own.” She produced a purse. “Keep my secret and you’ll all drink on me this afternoon.”
The foreman laughed. “I’d like to know that story, but very well.”
They all marched along together and Frances listened to their rough talk. Then she felt a heavy arm around her shoulders, as one of the men sidled up to her.
“So, sneaking out to meet your sweetheart? Where did you get so much money anyway—steal it from the mistress?”
“Get your arm off me,” said Frances. The man just laughed, and she wasn’t strong enough to remove it. She wished she had Mallow’s rolling pin, but no matter, she had heavy boots on. Between Mr. Mehmet’s servant, Silas Watkins, and now this man, she had had her fill of being assaulted by men. And so, she slammed her heavy boot heel down on his instep. The man quickly snatched away his arm and came out with a string of obscenities.
“Touch me again and you’ll find there are worse places for me to kick you,” she said, to much laughter.
When they got to the village, the foreman winked at her and grinned as he and his men went into the village public house, and she continued on. It was startling to be dressed as she was, not just like a man, but a working man. Her position as a woman—as a lady of quality—garnered respect and acknowledgement.
Now, she was invisible. And yet, she could easily have joined the rest of them in the tavern, something the daughter of a marquess couldn’t do. Something to consider, she realized, as she came to the village police station.
Dill looked up from some paperwork and cast a frown. Again, noted Frances, daughters of the nobility were treated much better than working men.
She didn’t need any interruptions, so she shut and bolted the door and pulled down the shade.
“See here, my man” said Dill. “That’s police property. Do you want to spend the night in jail?”
“No, I’ve done enough jail time,” said Frances, doffing her hat. “But I have a counteroffer. How would you like to solve a murder and earn your sergeant’s stripes?”
“My—my lady . . .” he stammered.
“Exactly. Now I don’t have much time. So listen carefully. You’ll need to come by later this evening and you’ll need another constable, someone obedient who doesn’t ask too many questions.” And the constable got out his notebook.
“I am under orders to have nothing more to do with you, my lady,” he said.
“I’m sure you are. But you’re too smart to pay attention to silly orders. Now, listen carefully.”
He noted his instructions, and Frances was rather pleased he gave no arguments, just accepted his orders. So someone in this county had some common sense.
When they were done, Frances put her hat back on and strode out of the door. She felt a little wistful passing by the tavern: It was dim inside and she might be able to pass as a man for a while. She wondered what that might be like. But now she had the clothes, and rural England was well-populated with inns and taverns, so there would be a chance to try that again some other time. No need to tell Mallow.