The Scandalous Life of a True Lady by Bárbara Metzger

half-blind relic like the major. Her last coins would go to apothecaries. For now she was well fed, feeling almost pretty, and the coach bespoke comfort if not luxury. That was a good sign, she told herself. And her trunk rested on the opposite seat, so she could not return to Mrs. Olmstead’s, not without a better story than any novelist every conceived, and the next month’s rent.
    The boy handed over her carpet bag, which held Auguste’s letters. So Major Harrison had not forgotten. She wanted to ask the lad about their destination, about his employer, even about the unfriendly driver, but he merely grinned, shut the door, and climbed up beside the coachman. The man knew his way, and knew his horses, for he drove quickly and competently. Simone stopped reaching for the hanging strap to balance herself as the coach feathered corners, or passed wagons on the narrow roads. The major did not hire incompetents, it seemed, which gave her another scrap of confidence. He must think she had potential.
    When they reached a neat town house on Morningside Drive, the boy—Judd, he told her, Jeremy Judd—opened the door and put down the steps, then took the satchel from her. “Harold,” Jeremy grinned and jerked his head toward the driver, who hadn’t turned, “will bring your trunk in later. I’ll introduce you to my mum. She’s the cook and housekeeper. Mr. Harris, he’s out and about on the governor’s business right now.”
    Mrs. Judd was almost as close-mouthed as Harold. Simone wondered if they were related, but ceased speculating as she admired her surroundings. The house was a perfect gem, small but furnished with comfortable-looking furniture that was gleaming with care. The colors were bright and inviting, and warm fires burned in every room Mrs. Judd showed her. Other doors remained as tightly closed as Mrs. Judd’s lips.
    Simone’s own bedroom was done in soft shades of blue, with flowers embroidered on the bedstead and painted on the walls.
    “The major must have had other women staying,” Simone guessed out loud, from the sweet femininity of the furnishings.
    Mrs. Judd sniffed. “The master’s business is the master’s business, I am sure, miss.” She left, making Simone feel like a poor student who forgot his lesson. Privacy, she told herself. She had to remember to tell the truth and respect his privacy. And avoid the disapproving housekeeper whenever possible.
    Unpacking her cloth bag took Simone no time at all, placing Auguste’s letters on the dressing table and stuffing the pouch with the sponge under her stockings in the drawer. She did not know if she was expected to return below stairs or stay here until the secretary sent for her, or the major did. She stared out the window that overlooked a narrow walled garden to the back of the house. With its shade tree and bench, the garden looked to be a lovely place to read a book, if the house had a library. She had not seen one on her abbreviated tour, nor the master’s rooms, nor the kitchens or servants’ quarters. She was tempted to go exploring, but her trunk arrived before she could decide.
    The heavy-set coachman carried it on his shoulder like a sack of grain, and he was not even out of breath from carrying it up the steep stairs. He still wore his hat, still pulled low over his forehead, and he still did not speak. He grunted. Simone thanked him anyway, as prettily as she could since she had too few coins to give him one. He grunted again and left. So someone else disapproved of her presence in the house and thought she was a soiled dove. Now she had someone else to avoid.
    Then a young maidservant flew into the room and took Simone’s few gowns out of her hands to hang in the wardrobe. Her name was Sally, Sally Judd, and she was here to wait on Miss Ryland, if it pleased. Mr. Harris said miss would need someone to look after her fancy clothes and help her dress, and Sally had ambitions of being a lady’s maid, and wasn’t miss the