“I won’t have something for you right away,” she said. “It might take a few days. I’ll send you a letter if we do find an engagement.”
Yvienne wanted to clasp her hand gratefully, but she settled for heartfelt thanks. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Now, as for your housemaid situation, unfortunately–”
The woman on the bench stood and Yvienne turned around. “Miss Mastrini,” she said in a firm, clear voice. “Perhaps I would be a good fit for this household.”
“Miss Angelus, we haven’t even taken your vitae,” Miss Mastrini objected. “And believe me, a different posting would be better for you.”
What an extraordinary name. Yvienne watched as Miss Angelus untied her old-fashioned bonnet and took it off, allowing them to get a good look at her. She was a tall, broad-shouldered girl, built for work, as Cook might say from the old days. She was not a young girl, but she was not old, being perhaps in her eight-and-twentieth year, or thereabouts. She was not beautiful but striking, with full lips, dark hair, and dark eyes under dramatic brows. In other words, Uncle Samwell would soon be lewd and unbecoming yet again. She felt a pang of disappointment.
“Let me introduce myself,” Miss Angelus said. “My name is Mathilde Angelus. I am twenty-seven years old, and I’ve been working in a kitchen and a domestic situation my whole life. I can cook dinner parties for two dozen and breakfast for the family. I’m clean, neat, and particular, and I can housemaid and nanny. I’m new here in Port Saint Frey because my family has moved from Ravenne and it is up to me to help my mother and father as they make a new life away from the mines. I’m not married, I don’t hope to be, and if your uncle tries anything on with me he’ll be very sorry. I don’t run from a lewd man, but I don’t suffer them neithereither.”
Silence rang in the tiny office, broken only by the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantel behind Miss Mastrini.
“Lovely,” Yvienne said, when she could break the spell of wonder and admiration. “When can you start?”
Chapter Five
Yvienne was still floating from her memory of meeting the wonderful Miss Angelus and daydreaming about the young woman’s first encounter with Uncle as she pattered down the stairs, but her nerve faltered a little when she came to her next address. Treacher’s Almanac was on a bent little alley that curved away from the harbor between leaning buildings. The hustle and bustle of the main thoroughfare was distant here, and the two-story houses with their patching stucco and whitewash crowded out the sky. The little track stank of the sewage that dampened the gutters.
“Honestly,” Yvienne muttered. Surely Port Saint Frey could do a better job of keeping its streets clean of night soil. With the back of one hand up against her nose and mouth, she held up her skirts and minced across the path to the red door with a sign of a printing press swinging over it. The name Treacher’s Almanac and Notices had once been picked out in gilt but was faded and barely legible now. Yvienne rapped firmly on the door.
After a minute, she got tired of polite knocks. She pushed down on the door handle – it gave, and she opened the door.
At once she was assailed by the smell of ink and paper dust, and a powerful chemical aroma of wood alcohol. Yvienne sneezed.
“Pirates not welcome!” she heard someone yell and the sound of much clattering and banging. “Nothing to steal anyway!”
Stifling a laugh and another sneeze, Yvienne called out, “I’m not a pirate. I’m a visitor.” After a long moment a rotund gentleman came out from the back of the shop. He was untidy, inkstained, bearded, and becrumbed. He was in a shirt and trousers and stocking feet, and his suspenders hung off his shoulders as if he found them uncomfortable.
He squinted at Yvienne and his eyes brightened with recognition.
“The elder daughter of House Mederos,” he said. “Interesting. Interesting.”
She curtseyed. “Yes, Yvienne Mederos. Are you Mr Treacher, sir?”
“I am. The one, and thankfully, the only. Come in.”
Stifling her misgivings, she followed him into the backroom and gasped at the scene. The front room was all dimness and squalor. Here there were books and back issues of the almanac in wonderful, polished and dusted barrister cabinets. Along one wall were other newspapers from other cities and she was drawn to them at first, taking a few steps, then remembering, regretfully, what she had come for.
“Mr Treacher, I’m not really a customer.”
“Really,” he said drily. “Well, such is my luck.”
“You see, I believe I have something you want.”
“You have?” He cocked his head sideways. “I do?”
“Yes. In a word, sir. Access. I can be your eyes behind the doors of the wealthiest merchants in Port Saint Frey.”
Those round, protuberant eyes locked on hers. His expression grew calculating. Yvienne felt hope rise.
“You see – what Treacher’s Almanac could use is a… a names column, you know – when you talk about all the top people. The Gazette has one.”
“I know what a names column is, and I know that the Gazette has one,” he said.
“Well, everyone loves to be talked about. The parties and the dinners, the masquerades, and the send-offs. It would be a smash. I could get all that for you and then your almanac will be a must-read.”
She held her breath, waiting. His brow furrowed; he no longer looked calculating but doubtful. “I don’t understand, Miss Mederos. You are no longer welcome in their homes. So how will you get access for a names column?”
“Leave that to me.” If Mastrini’s found her a position, she could do quite well as a governess. The children’s companion was a silent observer of all that went on in a merchant house, both in the schoolroom and outside of it. She had reason to know from the years
