The Strange Case of Finley Jayne

The woman stopped her browsing and turned. Her strange gaze swept over Finley from the toes of her boots to the tip of the pencil she’d used to hold her hair in place on the back of her head.

“Miss Finley Jayne, I presume?” Her voice was low and crisp.

“Yes, ma’am,” Finley replied with a curtsy. “My stepfather says you wished to speak to me?”

“I do. Is there some place where we might speak privately?”

Well, it didn’t seem the lady was there to cause trouble for Finley with her parents, so that was a relief. “We could use my stepfather’s office if you like.”

Lady Morton actually looked relieved, as well. “That would be fine, thank you.”

Since she was already close to the back of the shop, it wasn’t much of a distance to Silas’s office. Finley stood near the threshold and gestured for her ladyship to enter first, as was polite.

Silas’s office was normally a chaotic terrain of papers, books and coffee cups, but the woman who came once a week to help her mother with some of the cleaning had been there just that morning, so the office was bright, neat and smelled of lemon furniture polish. There was even a chair for Lady Morton to sit upon without Finley having to remove a pile of books first.

Finley perched on the edge of her stepfather’s desk as she couldn’t bring herself to actually sit behind it in his chair. Plus, this position gave her a height advantage, and helped her feel less intimidated by her guest, whose foggy eye seemed to peer right through a person.

“Would you like something to drink?” she inquired. Her mother always offered guests refreshment, even if she didn’t like them.

Lady Morton smiled. It seemed a genuine expression, not a rude one. “No, thank you. I will get right to the point of my calling upon you, Miss Jayne, because I suspect you are naturally quite curious as to why I am here. I wish to offer you a position within my household.”

Finley blinked. “I’m sorry. Did you say you wished to offer me a job?”

The lady nodded. She looked as though she did this sort of thing all the time, sitting there with her matching bag clasped in her lap between her gloved hands. Normally, it was the housekeeper or the butler who took care of the hiring of staff within a large household, so this strange circumstance made Finley leery.

“I wish to hire you as companion to my youngest daughter, Phoebe.”

A frown squished Finley’s brows together. “Why?” She wasn’t the most intelligent of girls, but even she knew enough of how the world worked to know she was completely unacceptable as a companion. For one thing, she hadn’t been born into the right social class. Companions were often poor aristocrats, or at least of good to noble birth. She could claim middle class if she was bragging. She knew nothing of society and how to behave in it, but she’d seen enough of the girls who lived there to know that she’d rather cut her own throat than spend time with one.

Lady Morton’s eyebrows rose. “Why? My dear girl, from what I hear you are hardly in the position to question such an opportunity.”

“I know that, my lady,” Finley replied. “That’s why I have to ask. Why would a lady such as yourself want to hire someone as lowbrow as me to spend time with your daughter? Surely Lady Gattersleigh told you why I was sacked.”

“She did.” Her tone was strangely chipper and dismissive at the same time. “I have no interest in discussing your previous post, Miss Jayne. Suffice to say that I find the kind of girl who would defend a child at the risk of her own welfare to be exactly the sort of person I wish to have in my employ.”

How was it possible that this woman seemed insulted that Finley didn’t think she was good enough to work for her? Shouldn’t she be flattered? And should she really argue with the woman? She needed a job. She wouldn’t get too many people who would be as tolerant as Lady Morton after hearing what she did.

“May I inquire as to what my wage will be?”

Lady Morton’s shoulders relaxed slightly, as though a large weight had been lifted off them. “You will have food, lodgings and clothing provided for you. In addition to that I am prepared to offer you the sum of twenty-five pounds per annum.”

Twenty-five pounds a year? Finley’s jaw sagged at the amount. That was more than most ladies’ maids earned in a year!

“Fine,” the lady said in a clipped tone. “Thirty, but that is my final offer.”

How many times had her mother cautioned her that when things seemed too good to be true they often were? “When would you like me to start?” She fought to keep the excitement out of her voice.

Lady Morton smiled. “Is tomorrow morning too soon?”

“No, not at all.” She hadn’t even fully unpacked.

“Excellent.” The older woman rose gracefully to her feet. “My carriage will come by for you at nine o’clock. By the time you are settled Phoebe should be awake. We’re off to a charity event hosted by Lady Marsden and her nephew the Duke of Greythorne tonight.”

A duke, Finley thought. That was only a step down from prince. She imagined he was a plump, pasty-faced creature with bad teeth. Rarely, from what she’d seen and heard of English nobility, were aristocrats handsome or fit—too much inbreeding. Still, it sounded romantic.

“I shall be ready, ma’am.” And all she could think was how wonderful it would be if, as the daughter’s companion, she could sleep in past nine some mornings, as well. Perhaps even catch a glimpse of a duke.

“I trust you will be,” Lady Morton retorted as they left the office. Finley walked her to the front door of the shop, where the woman paused for a moment. She looked at Finley with a gaze that was both kind and somewhat…shrewd. “Thank you, Miss Jayne.” Then, without waiting for a reply, she exited the shop into the overcast morning.

Finley watched after her, still battling her astonishment.

She had never heard an aristocrat say “thank you” before.

“I’m not sure I like this,” Finley’s mother said for what had to be the one hundredth time at quarter of nine the following morning. “This whole situation smells unsavory.”

Finley rolled her eyes, taking her gaze off the street in front of their home for a few seconds. She was anxious, nervous and excited. And grateful. She was so unbelievably grateful. “Mama, it will be fine.”

Her mother, however, was so not easily convinced. “What do we know of this Lady Morton other than what little mention she’s had in the papers? There’s an air of desperation about the entire affair.”

Finley turned back to the window, feelings stung. “Meaning she’d have to be desperate to hire me?”

“No, dear,” her mother replied with forced calm. “I am simply worried for your welfare. She didn’t even ask you for references.”

“She’s friends with Lady Gattersleigh.”

“Exactly!” A pale finger was pointed in Finley’s direction. “Why would she hire you after that woman no doubt disparaged your character?”

“She couldn’t have made me sound too bad, Mama. Lady Morton’s hired me to spend time with her daughter.”

“Makes me wonder how many other companions this girl has gone through if her mother thinks a girl who punched a governess would be a good match.”

“Mother!” Finley stared at the older woman in affront. How did she know she’d actually struck Miss Clarke? Was the woman a bloody mind reader?

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” her mother asked without anger. “One of the maids brought a few of your belongings that got left behind. She told me.”

Finley bowed her head. “I didn’t want you to know.”

“Know what? That you defended a helpless child? I might not approve of the violence, but I approve of the sentiment, my dear. Though, in the future you may want to exercise better control over your emotions.” She sighed. “You’re a smart girl, Finley. Surely you wonder why Lady Morton is so adamant to have you.”

“Of course I have,” Finley replied with more indignation than she ought. “I also know I can’t afford to be too picky. Lady Morton has offered me a generous wage and all I have to do is play shadow to her daughter. If the girl is too difficult I can always quit, but I cannot afford to refuse this opportunity, Mama.”

A sigh was her only answer. Words were unnecessary, however. The rush of her mother’s breath spoke volumes. The woman made guilt-inducing irritation an art form.

“It will be fine,” she insisted once more. Perhaps this time it would stick. Perhaps if she repeated it enough times she would believe it herself. Her mother was right; there was something strange about this situation. More than likely, however, Lady Morton’s daughter was simply a spoiled brat, as many aristocratic girls were. Nothing she couldn’t handle.

The clock was still chiming the hour when a black lacquered carriage pulled up on the street below. White puffs of steam rose from the gleaming brass pipe atop the roof, and the buttons on the driver’s uniform sparkled in the sun. It was horseless, operated entirely by engine—she could hear the gentle chug of it.

“Now that’s just excessive,” Finley’s mother remarked, as she glanced outside.