The standing girl comes to his aid. “I believe he said he’s here for the position of the keeper of the house, Baroness. Aren’t you, sire? He came from the Golden Flute across the river. Madame Maud sent him.”
“So why is he up here with you? Why didn’t he speak to me first if Maud sent him?”
“He wandered in and got lost, he didn’t see you.”
“Oh, enough! There’s clean-up needed in Room Four. Golden Flute indeed. I am so tired of your nonsense, Mallory, so very tired.”
Mallory rushes past the hyperventilating baroness. Margrave covers Julian with a quilt. He finds it fascinating that she remains uncovered as if it’s only his modesty she is concerned with.
“Margrave, don’t sit there like a wanton hussy, get dressed. It’s morning. What is your name, sir?”
“Julian Cruz.”
“Well, Master Cruz, this is not the way I usually make the acquaintance of the keepers of my house. Did you need to sample the product before you could hawk it? I admire that. We have only the best here, sire. These are not the usual wagtails and bunters you’re used to at the Golden Flute, I can assure you.”
Julian doesn’t need to be assured. He knows.
“Our old keeper died last month without any warning. A little warning would’ve been so helpful. It would’ve given me and the girls time to prepare. This is a house run nearly entirely by women and there are things we do well, wouldn’t you agree, Master Cruz?”
Julian would agree.
“But there are other things we cannot do. Fix doors, patch holes, replace broken lanterns, fix the roof. We have lanterns that have not been filled with oil because Ilbert refuses to buy some, and the candles are running low, as is the soap. After the recent health problems, soap is an absolute necessity. We’re quite busy here. I hope you can manage. Marg, go tell Mallory to prepare the gentleman’s room, and you, sir, meet me downstairs as soon as you’re attired.” (Attired in what exactly, Julian wants to know.) “I’ll go over the rest of the details, and we’ll raise a glass. Margrave—spit spot.” With that, Baroness Tilly claps her hands twice, and exits.
As soon as she’s gone, Margrave jumps out of bed.
“We could’ve got into so much trouble,” she bleats, tying the sashes of her robe. “The Baroness hates it when Mallory disobeys. Not that she does anything about it, the girl is a terror.” She smiles. “But who could resist you? Even heartless Mallory couldn’t. Wait here, I’ll be right back with a robe. You should ask the Baroness for an advance, go buy yourself some clothes befitting a brothel keeper.”
“What do they wear, tuxedoes?”
“If you like, sire. Forever naked would be my preference.” Beaming, she straightens out, and Julian catches her eye. It’s dawn, he can see her smiling round face. She is pretty and young and sexy. Low light, a tired mind, lust, pounding desire are all great equalizers.
But Margrave is not his girl.
THE ALE IS A COVER. ALE FOR BREAKFAST, ALE FOR DINNER, ale for supper. It’s a euphemism for the other things that go on at the Silver Cross. Yet downstairs, the wood-paneled restaurant-bar appears as just that: a well-to-do tavern, patronized by connected and wealthy men (much as in the present). The ale is top-notch, Baroness Tilly tells him, the food superb.
Naked underneath a black velvet robe, Julian sits across from the Baroness, feeling ridiculous. Tilly’s pink robe has been replaced by hooped petticoats and gaudy layers of sweeping silk ornamental fabrics with puffy sleeves and lace velvet collars. She wears a huge blonde wig, her eyes hastily drawn in black and her oversized mouth made ever larger by smeared red cake-paint.
The pub is narrow and tall, with flagstone floors and tables of heavy oak. It’s upholstered in leather, draped with blue velvet curtains, and set with crystal and fine china. The breakfast tables are lined with white napkins.
“It’s a beautiful place, wouldn’t you agree,” the Baroness says. After colorfully describing what’s expected of him (the daily inspections of the girls before they begin work is one of Julian’s more intriguing duties), she offers him a salary and only as an afterthought inquires about his experience, which he recounts to her just as colorfully—parroting her own words from minutes ago (taking extra time to detail how he imagines the inspections of the girls might go). He would like to begin immediately. Where are these girls? When can he inspect them, so he can find his girl?
He and the Baroness have a sumptuous breakfast of porridge and milk, smoked herring, spiced eel pie (“caught fresh from the Thames just yesterday!”) and bread and marmalade. And ale. The Baroness lingers over breakfast as if starved for some normal company, entertaining an increasingly impatient Julian with stories about the Silver Cross. A hundred years earlier, a man named Parson from Old Fish Street was paraded in shame down Parliament Street for selling the sexual services of his apparently accomplished wife. After spending years in prison, he opened the Silver Cross in revenge, and his wife became the cornerstone of his business.
Julian tells the Baroness he’s read somewhere that a prostitute was murdered in the Silver Cross, and it’s been haunted ever since.
“I don’t know nothing about that,” the Baroness says, frowning. “Where did you read that, the Gazette?” Grudgingly she admits that the Silver Cross has only recently reopened, having been shuttered for the better part of last year, “because of the horror that befell all London. But we’ve had no recent murders here, sire, I can assure you. Murder is very bad for business.”
“What horror?” Julian asks and instantly regrets it when she stares at him suspiciously. He clears his throat. “I meant why stay shuttered for so long?” His eyes dart around, trying to catch the date from the newspaper lying on the next table.
“Where are you from, good sir, that you don’t know about the terrible pestilence that destroyed our town?”
The unknown forest, Julian tells her. Wales. Largely spared from the plague. One of these days, Julian will meet an actual Welshman and be promptly pilloried on Cheapside.
“I thought you’ve just come from across the river?” She lowers her voice. “You know, that’s where the Black Death took wind. From south of the river.”
Julian nods. It’s common knowledge—everything is worse south of the river.
“It got so bad,” the Baroness says, “death galloped in such triumph through our streets that King Charlie himself had had enough. He packed up his court and fled the city! That’s how we knew we was all doomed. When our own king abandoned us. His Majesty’s Government didn’t meet for a year.”
Julian commiserates. In 1665, the plague had reduced London to a wasteland. He hopes it’s a few years later, the worst behind them. He tries to make out that elusive date on the newspaper. LONDON GAZETTE, it reads. PUBLISHED BY AUTHORITY. What year does it say?
“Yes, our once lively city has become a graveyard,” the Baroness goes on. “Nothing but a field of dismal misery. There was nothing open because there was no one alive.” She dabs her eye. “I’ll confess to you, sire, the plague has been absolutely terrible for business!”
“One hundred and thirty parishes in London,” Julian says. “Surely there are still men left. The bells still ring.”
“Oh, even more than before, because now they ring for the dead. But the dogs don’t bark. Because they’re also dead. Dead with all the honorable deep-pocketed gentlemen!” She sniffles.
Good