Love is an Archer

3. Arrows

Sylvia Chepstow had been in the employ of the Cressley-Archers for a little over a year. The pay was generous, the employers kind, and the position noteworthy. And yet, her ambitions reached farther than the kitchen sink in which she washed dishes thrice a day, or the floors she mopped before any of the family had stirred, or the attic in which she lay her head for a short time at night.

No, Sylvia Chepstow wanted far more from life. The occupation was simply that – something to fill the time and to fill her pockets so that she could continue with her true passions. It was also a wonderful opportunity to ingratiate herself more closely with those of note and standing. The Cressley-Archer siblings, for example, had taken to her with ease.

The eldest – Tristan – was ten years her junior at twenty-four, and so the distance between them was not enough to be such as a surrogate mother. Rather, the siblings approached Sylvia as they would an older sibling to whom they would turn for advice and musings, but who was not permitted to join in their giggling games as they raced about the house on Arrowby Square.

Had they known her past trade, Sylvia had once wondered, would the siblings still include her? Still trust her? The answer, she had quickly found out, was yes.

While there are many tales I could regale you with, dear reader – and many more which I could exclude to allow us to reach the heart of this particular story more easily – this writer has decided to impress upon you the first incident in which Sylvia Chepstow proved her trustworthy nature to the siblings. She is, after all, an important individual in this story, and deserves a little attention from us.

The incident in question occurred when a note arrived at the Cressley-Archer house, delivered by a young wretch shivering in the doorway of the kitchen, with no idea of the contents. Said contents, Sylvia read, were details of young Tristan being kept by a particularly fierce brothel owner, with a demand for money if he was to be returned safely. It was fortunate, then, that Sylvia had been the one to receive the note. She tossed the delivery lad a coin, hastily threw a cloak over her shoulders, and was away into the night without a word.

The name of the location over on Renby Row was well-known to Sylvia for the trade that was plied from behind its doors. The owner was a cruel man named Ronaldo, but a man with secrets in Sylvia's possession. Again, we cannot overstate young Mr Cressley-Archer's fortune both that night and every night he knew Sylvia Chepstow.

Upon arrival, Sylvia made her demands with the burly men who watched the establishment's doors – and who recognised Miss Chepstow – and was promptly escorted straight to the messy back office in which she knew her employer's son would be.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?" snarled a haggard woman, tapping her hand with a weighted sap as she inspected Sylvia and her glared at the intrusion. While the hag had yet to bludgeon young Tristan, there was a profound upset painted deeply on his face – one that elicited sympathy from deep within Sylvia, though she could not put words as to why, save for the excuse of his youth and the shame of such a situation.

"Am I interrupting a service?" Sylvia asked, with equal measures of caution and stinging humour.

"Certainly not," came a man's voice from the doorway behind her. The hag bowed her head and stepped backwards to the side of the room, the bludgeon held in both palms. "This young deviant thinks he can waste a lady's time and not pay for it."

Sylvia slowly turned to face the establishment's owner, relishing Ronaldo's reaction as she pulled down her hood to reveal a face all too familiar to him. The burly man – a staggering six foot three inches – took a measured half-step back in both surprise and apprehension.

"S-Sylvia," he stammered, before correcting himself. "Miss Chepstow."

"Good evening, Ronaldo. I trust you're well – and the girls?" Ronaldo nodded cautiously. "Wonderful. Now, please have my employer's son untied, won't you?"