The Lady in Disguise

Chapter One (part 1)

Emilia Finch wasn't one to complain when things didn't go her way. If she was, considering she lived a life in service where her wishes mattered very little, she wouldn't have time for anything else.

She'd sometimes considered disappointment to be an old friend — the kind who, while an irritant, was familiar and could be depended upon to act as expected.

So when she let herself into her father's small set of rooms above the tavern in Pickering and saw the bins and boxes piled high, she ignored the stinging sensation behind her eyes and the hard, angry lump in her throat because of course... Of course he'd undone all her efforts. She'd spent her last free Saturday clearing and cleaning to the point where a body could walk through the kitchen, at least, but of course he'd found a way to fill it again.

"Papa?" She placed her basket on top of one overflowing bin that looked like nothing more than old scraps of cloth.

"Aye, Em, is that you?"

"Who else could it be?" she muttered to herself. It wasn't as if he had other visitors. Besides her, only Old Thomas was likely to come to call and the two of them usually took their visit downstairs, sitting at the bar and drinking ale and exchanging stories about how much better things would be if the world would just be like it was in the good old days.

She was never certain what time they were talking about. She couldn't remember a yesterday that was any better, easier, or kinder to their sort than today. Though she supposed she did miss the days when her family had a small cottage outside the village with climbing ivy and a little garden. It was a step above this place with its sad little rooms — one cramped bedroom with a kitchen that could barely be called such a thing with its small sink that barely drained and no water pump. But she shouldn't complain.She didn't even live here.  Perhaps she'd become spoiled at Crewe House.

"Are ye feelin' better?" she called out.

"Aye, this dratted cold has left me at last."

It was one of many he'd had since the winter and she was starting to be concerned. But she supposed she shouldn't complain. She hadn't heard any coughing.

"I'm off to the well," she called out. "I've brought some lamb chops for dinner."

"Won't that be nice," she heard him call out beyond the clutter. "I suppose you're wonderin' about the cloth, but I'll tell ye all about it. It's a very big idea."

"Won't that be nice," she said, a bite in her voice as she took his pail from under the sink and took herself downstairs and out to the village square. She supposed she should be grateful he was feeling well enough to have another big idea. Still, she didn't want to know what it was. It would end up like all the others. He would throw himself into it, planning and plotting. He might even find a way to make it work. He might find some gullible sorts to help him, then he would leave all the work to them and sit back and wait for his life of leisure, which was precisely the problem...

"Lord knows I love your father," Margaret Finch had once said while stirring a pot of linens in lye and water. A lot of her musings started that way. "But I don't agree with him. He thinks I work too hard. Says I should hire some girls under me, pay them a pittance, and let them do all this."

Emilia, even at nine, had to agree that her mother worked too hard, but she didn't want a lot of stranger girls helping her mother when she could do it. "Why not just let me? I can do everythin' and you won't have to give me even a pittance." She didn't know what a pittance was at the time, though it sounded a bit like pence to her, so it must not be much.

Her mother had laughed. "You're a good girl and ye help me enough." She sighed. "No, it's just your father doesn't see things my way. I wouldn't feel right about it, taking payment for something I hadn't done. Work, when done well, can be very satisfying."