Lady in Rags

Chapter One: From Dusk to Dawn

The walls of Thomas Baker's cottage were thin, and Verity, cleaning the breakfast service in the kitchen, could hear every word of her father's conversation with the strange, distinguished guest, whose elegant carriage looked so out of place sitting out the front of their run-down home.

"My friend," her father wheedled, in the way that always made Verity grit her teeth, "you understand that my circumstances are not what they used to be."

"You are not my friend, Sir. And I do not care for your circumstances. I come only to tell you that I expect the debt to be paid by the end of the month."

Verity curled her upper lip in an expression of disgust that transformed her cold, beautiful face into something suddenly hot, and animated, and ugly. More debt. She flung her wash cloth savagely into the sink and dried her hands on her stained brown dress. She was nineteen, and she had been wearing this dress since she was a child of twelve. It hung awkwardly several inches above her ankles, and had been let out around her bust and arms, pleated with pale blue cotton that was all too obviously a repair. It was not that Verity was vain, but she did feel the shame of being constantly underdressed. In the ordinary way of things, a girl of her birth did not wear hand-me-downs from the vicarage poor pile. In the ordinary way of things, a girl of her birth did not end up with a drunkard gambler for a father.

She moulded her bitter expression into a mask of cold superiority as her father called her from the next room.

"Verity, get us the brandy."

"I'm coming." She glanced at the visitor as she went to the sideboard, a cold, challenging glance, like a caged tiger might give a hunter. He was tall, and obviously wealthy, with his pale grey waistcoat and impeccably black cravat. The casual way he leaned against the fireplace suggested he owned it, and the shabby room it was in, and the people in it too. He met her glance out of amused grey eyes, and nodded slightly.

"Your kitchen maid is uncommonly beautiful, Mr Baker," the visitor observed quietly and improperly, as Verity poured them thimbles of watered down brandy.

"I suppose so," said Thomas Baker idly, giving Verity a glance that as usual didn't seem to see her. He was far more interested in the glass of brandy. No sooner than Verity had placed it in front of him, he gulped it down. Then, he realized his visitor's actual words. "Though it is my daughter you mean."

The gentleman gave Verity another, longer, look, a strange, unpleasant smile rising on his face.

"Then why do you dress her in rags?"

Verity felt the heat of shame rise to her cheeks, and turned away to plug the decanter.

"As I said, Sir, my circumstances are not what they used to be."

"You have come down in the world? I've only recently arrived in Houglen. I'm not yet aware of the stories of all its inhabitants."

"Mine is a sad story to tell," Mr Baker said, with a forced sigh, obviously seeing the chance to plea out of his debt to the visitor. Verity rolled her eyes at his back and went back to the kitchen to prepare a rabbit and mushroom pie for lunch. The rabbits had been poached from the Hough Woods, and the mushrooms found there too. It was one of those months where her father could not seem to keep enough money about even to buy himself soap and bread.

Through the open door, she heard her father tell the story she knew so well, suitably embellished for the illustrious guest's ears.

Thomas Baker had been a ne're-do-well from birth. A Londoner born and bred, he had made money in his early years through odd jobs and trickery. By twenty, he earned his bread through trickery alone. His main game was cards, and the way he talked about it you would think he was a benevolent trickster, not a common cardsharp.