After settling Edith with her cronies, all of whom Phoebe knew well, she started quartering the room, moving easily from one group to the next, all but unremarked.
All her aunts were godsent, but Edith most of all; she was widely regarded as one of those unusual people who always knew the latest news, not by actively searching for it but because the latest news somehow made its way to them. Edith was thus invited everywhere; Phoebe had long realized that becoming her shadow—literally viewed as just another facet of her aunt and therefore unremarkable—was the perfect entree into the circles she needed to assess.
The established households of the wealthy and well-to-do, those presided over by sensible ladies with appropriate sensibility who kept firm hands on the reins and who were looking for female staff were her principal targets.
From Mrs. Gilmore and Mrs. Hardcastle she heard that old Lady Pelham was considering moving to the country.
“Well,” Mrs. Gilmore confided, “now her son’s brought his new wife home, there’s no reason she needs to remain in London, looking after that drafty old house. And being in the capital never suited her health.”
Phoebe made the right noises, then left the ladies discussing how it must feel to hand over the reins of a house one had come to as a bride to one’s son’s bride.
She didn’t go straight to Lady Pelham’s side. She circled, waiting until the two ladies the old lady was chatting with stood to leave; as they moved away, she moved in.
With a smile, she sat beside her ladyship, who knew her and greeted her warmly.
“I hear you and Edith have been gadding down in Surrey with Maria.”
Phoebe chuckled and told Lady Pelham what she wanted to know—who else had been there, and whether any matches might have been made during the house party.
At the end of her report, she fixed Lady Pelham with a quizzical look. “But I hear you’re thinking of leaving us?”
Lady Pelham sighed. “Not just thinking of it, my dear—I’m fixed on it. The dower house at Craxley’s waiting for me, and there’s no longer anything to keep me here—at least not permanently. Craxley’s not so far I can’t venture up to town whenever I pine for company, but my health isn’t what it was—I’ll do much better in the country.”
Phoebe soothingly agreed. “Will you be leaving soon?”
Lady Pelham snorted. “I would be there now, but I’m missing a maid. Just last week, my old Carson—she’s been with me for years—had to leave me. Her brother’s taken ill, so she’s gone home to Devon to nurse him. It was a blow to both of us. We’d imagined growing old together. But now…well, really, my dear, where am I going to find a maid willing to spend the next years in the peace of the countryside? While there are plenty of young things with training enough who desperately want to be a lady’s maid, unfortunately by that they mean a lady swanning about town, going to balls and parties, one who needs their skills and talents, and where they’ll earn trinkets and tips for turning her out in style.”
Lady Pelham grimaced. “I’m nearing sixty, my dear, and my swanning days are over. And the purpose of moving to Craxley is to get away from London.”
“Hmm.” Phoebe frowned; inside, she was jubilant. This was even better than she’d dared hope. “I have heard,” she said musingly, “of an agency—an employment agency for maids and such like—that prides itself on closely matching ladies’ requirements with that of the girls on their books, the intention being to promote a happier situation from the first.” She opened her eyes wide. “Perhaps they could help you.”
Lady Pelham was looking at her in dawning hope. “Do you know where this agency is?”
Phoebe frowned harder. “I know it’s in town—Henrietta Willesden used their services not long ago, and I know she was pleased. Now where…” Her face cleared. “Oh, that’s right—the Athena Agency in Kensington Church Street.” She met Lady Pelham’s eyes. “Why don’t you try there? They might have just the girl you need.”
Lady Pelham had brightened. She tapped her cane on the floor. “I’ll call there tomorrow. If they have someone suitable, I’ll take her on, and then I’ll be off to the country.”
Phoe
be beamed, as delighted as her ladyship at the prospect. Rising, she helped Lady Pelham to her feet. “The Athena Agency. Kensington Church Street.”
On returning to Edith’s house in Park Street, Phoebe retired to her bedchamber to bathe and dress for the evening—and to advise Skinner of her success.
“I know we have other lady’s maids who would be suitable, but I think we should seize the chance to get Jessica out of town. Both the Moffats are currently here. I knew Lady Moffat would return after the house party, but I met her this morning and she told me that when Lord Moffat heard about her maid going missing, he came tearing up to London, irascible, insisting she was to blame, and generally being an overbearing ass.” Climbing out of her petticoats, Phoebe met Skinner’s eyes. “Her ladyship has no idea why.”
Skinner made a rude noise.
“Precisely—but that’s what we have to deal with. The blindness, willful or otherwise, of the Lady Moffats of this world, and the propensities of the Lord Moffats, who, after all, are the real villains.”
Stripping off her chemise, Phoebe dropped it on a stool and climbed into the steaming bath Skinner had prepared. “I know it’s unlikely that if hired by some tonnish matron, Jessica would inadvertently come under Lord Moffat’s eye, but it’s not impossible. Letting her take a position in any tonnish London-based household is too risky—for her and for us.”
“Aye, well, you’ll get no argument from me on that score.” Skinner handed Phoebe her sponge, then moved to the wardrobe.
Phoebe leaned back against the tub’s edge and closed her eyes. “I’ll need you to take a message to Emmeline. While Deverell’s keeping watch on the house, I daren’t slip away. Tell Em that Lady Pelham’s perfect for our purpose—she’s one of the old school, quite strict but kind. She won’t put up with anything untoward in her household, on that we can rely. Jessica should suit her perfectly—she’s well trained, of sensible disposition and good temperament, and she has excellent references. Or at least she will have by the time we’re finished with them.”
Phoebe paused, imagining. “Lady Pelham said she’d call in Church Street tomorrow morning. Tell Em not to fall on her ladyship’s neck, but to adhere to the usual procedures—Lady Pelham’s old, but not dim-witted.”
“Should hope not,” Skinner replied. “No dim-witted ladies allowed on our books.”