Starling

Book 1: South Landers

by Virginia Taylor

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

An aspiring dressmaker, orphaned Starling Smith is accustomed to fighting for her own survival. But when she’s offered a year’s wages to temporarily pose as a wealthy man’s bride, she suspects ulterior motives. She can’t lose the chance to open her own shop, but she won’t be any man’s lover, not even handsome, infuriating Alisdair Seymour’s… To prevent his visiting sister from parading potential brides in front of him, Alisdair has decided to present a fake wife. He lost his heart once, and had it broken—he doesn’t intend to do it again. But stubborn, spirited Starling is more alluring than he bargained for, and Alisdair will risk everything he has to prove his love is true… Set against the sweeping backdrop of 1866 South Australia, Starling is a novel of cherished dreams and powerful desires, and the young woman bold enough to claim them both… 74,855 Words

Release date: April 14, 2015

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 206

Sample

Adelaide, South Australia, 1866

 

“Straighten your collar, girl,” said the sharp-faced clerk guarding the office door. His olive jacket faded into the green-papered walls of the anteroom. “Mr. Seymour don’t like to see his employees looking scruffy.”

Starling Smith fingered the starched white cotton around her throat. She didn’t look scruffy in the Seymour’s Emporium uniform she had worn with pride for the past two weeks. She looked neat and anonymous in the plain gray. Any female lucky enough to be employed selling fabrics should be nothing less than tidy—and diligent, too.

Yesterday, when the owner, Mr. Alasdair Seymour, had toured the emporium he stopped to inspect the materials she had ranked using the rainbow color scale, a new idea of her own. He had taken her name from the department manager, and now he possibly meant to commend her.

His office door opened. “Miss Smith?”

Remembering her place, she leapt to her feet.

He glanced at his clerk. “I’m not to be disturbed. Come into my office, Miss Smith.” Broad shouldered and tall, he looked younger than he had the day before, under thirty and handsome enough to deserve those sighs from the shopgirls.

Starling’s knees wobbled as she hastened past him through the doorway.

“Take a seat,” he said, taking his own. He wore his dark hair fashionably collar-length.

She perched on a carved chair upholstered in dark green brocade. The hovering red of sunset shone through the tall windows dressed with swags of yellow-striped silk. Sparkling motes floated to his desk where he sat, picked up a pen, and tapped the end on his blotter. His forehead was smooth, his nose precisely chiseled, and his jaw firm.

“Do you enjoy your job?” He looked straight at her. His eyes, an assessing luminous gray, sent a shimmer of panic through her.

She quickly lowered her gaze, trying to regain her breath. “I do.” Her voice sounded embarrassingly husky. “I like working with fabrics.”

“You worked in a hotel before you came here.” He scrutinized a page lying on his desk. “They gave you no reference.”

She had thrown away the crumpled piece of paper that described her as “a good worker,” hoping she could gloss over the six weeks she had been employed at the Star Inn, mentioned in the South Australian police records as a site of gambling and prostitution. “I didn’t think a temporary job would matter when I was waiting on the Seymour’s list for more than a year.”

He glanced up, his gaze again causing a strange jumble inside her. “You’ve had a small amount of education? That is, you can read and write?”

“Yes, sir. Or I wouldn’t have applied here.”

“Unfortunately, you’ve been annoying my customers.” He set down his pen.

She drew a surprised breath. “I sell them what they want, sir.”

“You sell them what you think they should have.”

Shaking her head, she stared at her fingers knotted in her lap. “I sell them what they need. It wouldn’t be right to sell fabrics not strong enough for their purpose or too heavy or the wrong color.”

“And it seems you have decided on the colors they should have.”

“I advise them on what might...suit.”

“I don’t pay you to advise my customers to buy cheaper fabrics than those they choose or less material. I pay you to make money for me.”

“I do, sir.” She leaned forward. “Just the other day, a young lady came back to buy more fabric. She said I’d given her just the right material for her ball gown, and she wanted me to help her again.”

“Mr. Porter thinks the fabric department can cope without female staff.”

“Female staff?” she queried, shaken. “But he told me I’m a quick learner.”

He shrugged. “I’m sorry but I am not going to keep you at the emporium.”

“You’re going to get rid of me? Oh, no, you don’t mean that. I get twice as many sales as Mr. Porter.”

He shook his head, placing his pen in the holder. “I can, however, offer you a different position.” He aligned his blotter with the edge of the desk. “In my home.”

A quick shake of her head dealt with his offer of a maid’s job. “I won’t advise your customers about colors. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.” Her voice rose with hope. “I would accept a position in any other of your departments.”

“I don’t have a position in any other department. I do have a list a mile long of women wanting to work in the emporium, as you know.” He evaded her gaze.

Focusing on her weary black shoes, she exhaled her last hope. She’d loved measuring the soft fabrics, feeling the quality, and sliding the sharp scissors across the width. She’d loved working out the profits. She stood, not caring that her shoulders drooped.

He pushed out his chair and stood, facing her. “You could earn quite a bit of money if you accept my alternative. I’m much in need of a woman like you.”

She straightened. A woman like her? “If you don’t want me, I will get a job at Harris’s.”

“Unlikely, given that they don’t employ females with or without references. I won’t beat around the bush.” Pausing, he eased his black cravat with a forefinger. “You look respectable. I need a woman to pose as my wife for a couple of weeks.”

Aghast, she took a step back. He didn’t want a maid. He wanted to tup her. “I don’t know what gave you the impression that I might do that, but—”

“Money.” His lips tilted cynically. “Now, what would you say to five pounds for the two weeks?”

“No.” Her jaw tense, she backed to the door. “I worked as a laundress at the inn. Not a prostitute.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You only have to pretend to be my wife.”

“I’m not good at pretending. I never have been.” She opened the door and walked out.

Cheeks hot with humiliation, she strode past the clerk and down to the fabric department where, with shaking hands, she grabbed the cloth bag holding an apple, a clean pair of cuffs, a handkerchief, and a few pennies. Tying her shawl across her shoulders, she took the staff exit leading to a narrow alley off Rundle Street. She didn’t have time to weep.

First, she would need to retrieve her belongings from the emporium’s boardinghouse and next find accommodation for the night. The Star Inn might let her use the laundry room. If not, her friend Meg would find her a safe place.

Starling’s chest hurt and her eyes prickled. As she pulled the heavy door, she noticed the purple haze hovering over the sunset. She stood staring, her dreams shattered and her life in pieces. Gathering her bag under her arm, she hurried down the cobbled alley, chased by the aroma of fresh horse manure and settling smoke. A hot wind whipped her hair across her face, forcing her to pause. Blinking hard, she tucked the strands behind her ears.

Dashing the back of her wrist over her eyes, she cornered into Rundle Street. Mr. Seymour stepped in front of her. His high-crowned hat cast a shadow across his features.

“This way.” He seized her elbow.

She wrenched her arm out of his grip. “Let me be. I don’t want your money or you.”

“I have to have you tonight.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ll give you six pounds.”

She backed away, disgusted. “I know at least three women who would accept your proposition. Go to the Star Inn and see which you would prefer.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I hadn’t already tried that. None could pass as a lady.”

“So, now you want a lady? I thought you said a wife.”

“My wife would, of course, be a lady. I spent the last two weeks interviewing whores and actresses. Then I looked at my staff yesterday, and there you were with your careful speech, your background at the Star Inn, and your neat and plain appearance.”

“Neat and plain.” She firmed her lips.

“Good Lord, girl.” His voice softened. “I’m offering you real money, far more than the fourteen shillings a week you earned here, to live a life of luxury for two weeks. You don’t need to look at me as if I’m Satan. I’m giving you the greatest opportunity of your life.”

“I had the greatest opportunity of my life—a job as a shopgirl.” She blinked hard. “And for reasons of your own, you’ve taken my best chance from me.”

His brow creased. “I’m offering you a better one.”

“I have plans that don’t include being anyone’s wife, real or not.”

“Two weeks, that’s all I ask,” he said in a long-suffering tone. With a sweep of his hand, he indicated she could move in the direction he wanted her to go.

She folded her arms.

He gave her a sideways glint. “I’ll pay you twenty pounds.”

“No.” She wet her mouth.

“Perhaps you won’t suit,” he said, shrugging. “Mr. Porter said you were intelligent, but you are acting like a simpleton. I have offered you more than half a year’s wages, and all you can do is persist in your belief that I want to bed you.”

“Mr. Porter said I was intelligent?” Her voice rose with hope.

He raised his eyebrows.

“So, why can’t you put me back in the fabric department?” She brushed down her sleeves, stalling while she thought. “I’m good at selling materials because I like selling materials.”

He didn’t want her as a maid, and he didn’t want to tup her? She didn’t understand what he wanted.

He heaved a monumental sigh. “And I’m sure you’ll like pretending to be my wife because if you make a convincing job of it, I’ll give you forty pounds.”

Her mouth dried. Forty pounds! That was double twenty. For twenty pounds she could hire a little shop of her own. For forty pounds, she could not only buy stock, but also employ at least two other Birds from the orphanage. Robin and Nightingale would be her first choice.

Her breath fluttered. “You don’t want to bed me?”

He looked her up and down. “Do you think you’re my type?”

She put her hand to her hair and, blushing, quickly brought her arm down again. A gentleman who owned a number of emporiums, proving a head for business, wouldn’t invest more than a few shillings in an untried, drab bed partner. He could take his pick of women.

“Well, what would the job entail exactly?”

“Just doing whatever wives do. Having breakfast with me in the morning, arranging flowers, eating cakes, drinking tea, sitting in the drawing room doing whatever you please until I tell you otherwise.”

“What might ‘otherwise’ be?” She eyed him narrowly.

“Standing by my side and agreeing with every word I say while smiling pleasantly at my guests. You can smile, I suppose?”

“I’m not sure.”

He gave her a suspicious glance.

“The job can’t be as easy as you say.” For forty pounds, there had to be a catch.

“It’s as easy as you want to make it. I have a household that runs perfectly already.”

“Then why do you want a wife? Other than to idle away the day.”

Pushing aside his unbuttoned jacket, he slid his hands into the pockets of his biscuit-colored trousers. How he maintained a fit, broad-shouldered physique while sitting behind a desk all day was a mystery to Starling. Although she’d met no other rich men, she had assumed they were those with barrel bellies. “Last week my sister notified me she is bringing a lady with her, a lady she is sure I would like to see. She arrives from Victoria tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t like my sister’s plan. She has tried this matchmaking before.” His mouth tightened. “I told her I wouldn’t marry any of her hopefuls.”

“You don’t need to marry the lady simply because your sister knows her.”

“Nor do I need to have prospective brides presented to me so often that I give in out of sheer self-defense.”

“Life is hard for rich men,” she said sweetly.

“Exactly.” He nodded for emphasis. “If I present you as a fait accompli, I will stop my sister in her tracks. So, are we agreed?”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

“My deadline is today. I need to present a wife to my household by tonight. And, since I doubt you own suitable clothing,” he said, averting his gaze, “we’ll pick out a couple of gowns and, er, the trimmings before the emporium closes.”

She deliberated. “I only have to smile, idle the day away, and agree with you?”

He nodded. “I want you to be as meek, quiet, and respectful as a good wife should be.”

“And I will be a wife in name only?”

“That is our agreement.”

Growing hope straightened her shoulders. Perhaps her dream was not lost.

He began to herd her along North Terrace. “I expect it will be worth forty pounds to prove my point,” he muttered.

“That you won’t ever marry? Are you a lady-man?”

His eyes widened momentarily. “A lady-man? Do you mean...? You do. Don’t use gutter terms around my guests, or you’ll be out of the house without a penny before you can sneeze. Of course I’m not bent. I simply want only one woman.”

She could but wish. If she’d thought he only liked men, she could relax. “But isn’t that a reason to marry?”

“I’m not sure intelligent and smart are the same thing. Enough. You have agreed to our bargain. The lady I want is already married, and it’s time you became the sort of wife I require.”

Starling nodded. He had specified a wife with a neat, plain appearance. She was neat and plain. Ordinary. Her body was slender, her skin was sallow, and she had brown hair and eyes. No male had ever glanced at her twice. At the inn, her plainness had been her best protection. Meg had told her she could be pretty if she tried, but she had no need to be pretty. She didn’t want or need a man. In fact, her plan depended on her remaining single. No husband would let her follow through with her business idea. Married, she would blight more lives than her own.

She had nothing to lose by doing as he asked and had gained instead an opportunity to earn a great deal of money. She would obey Mr. Seymour’s every edict. Opportunity had knocked, and Starling Smith only had to widen the door to reach her goal.

Half a pace behind Mr. Seymour, she passed the lawyer’s offices, the pastry shop, the tailor, and a saddlery. The main commercial thoroughfare of Adelaide was familiar to her: the old wooden sheds, the new Georgian buildings, the constant grind of carriage wheels, the thump-thump of hooves, the bustle of people, and the push of their presence. Not only had she worked in the city, she’d lived nearby her whole nineteen years, watching the adornment of the newest constructions with ornate pillars and pretty plastered curlicues. She couldn’t imagine living elsewhere.

Mr. Seymour pushed open the front door of his emporium. Dimly lit, the shop was preparing to close. He led the way to the ready-mades area upstairs and stood waiting for attention. The floor manager bowed from the waist.

“Miss Smith needs assistance,” Mr. Seymour said.

The manager clicked his fingers for a shopgirl, who hastened forward. Starling knew Jinny, the red-haired assistant, from the boardinghouse.

“Three new gowns. Nothing gaudy. Help Miss Smith choose. I’ll be back in half an hour.” With that, Mr. Seymour strode away.

Jinny widened her eyes at Starling, who smiled and shrugged. Jinny moistened her lips and bustled about finding ready-made gowns while Starling stood by her left shoulder, pointing out those she wanted. Brown, being the cheapest dye, had been the color for the foundlings. She had worn brown her whole life until two weeks ago, when she’d exchanged that color for the gray of the Seymour uniform. Knowing neither flattered her, she decided that because this handsome man had chosen a plain woman for his bride, she should not try to change her appearance.

She kept on the last gown she tried. Patterned in a jaundiced green and brown, the high-buttoned fit was as unflattering as the other two she’d chosen. Continuing her disapproving silence, Jinny parceled them and Starling’s uniform. When Mr. Seymour returned, he took the purchases, cramming them with a few other parcels into a new holdall. Next, he let Starling choose a plain brown hat. She wore that, too, certain she looked even more thin faced wearing a flat-brimmed poke with a long ribbon tie.

Finally, he took her to the jeweler’s shop and bought her a plain gold ring. Keeping her face expressionless, she slid on the circlet. How she would pass as the wife of a gentleman, she didn’t know. Nor did she know why he thought she might. She could only hope that the colors she had chosen to wear would merge her into the background, as she didn’t plan to lose the forty pounds before she’d seen a single penny.

When he marched her outside the shop again, she totaled his purchases: one pound for the ring and more good money for a hat and gowns. He had shelled out a tidy sum to deceive a sister who merely wanted to see him happily married. Starling hoped she could play her unworthy role.

She kept pace with him, her bonnet ribbons fluttering as she moved closer to her goal. Eagles might soar. Starlings took chances when they saw them.

 

Mr. Seymour’s carriage smelled of new leather. Starling stepped in, taking as little space as possible on the dark blue seat. “What should I call you?”

He sat beside her, placing his hat on the space between them. “Mr. Seymour. Perhaps Alasdair. Yes, that would be more convincing.”

Starling mulled using his first name as the carriage trundled through the dark whispery parklands and turned onto a street off the park road, not five minutes out of the city. The wall in front was red brick with one arched entrance to the front of the house and another larger one to the coach house, where the conveyance headed as soon as Mr. Seymour assisted Starling out of the carriage and into the warm night air.

Through the heavy gate, a façade fronted by two white pillars glowed in the lamplight. Heart racing, about to take a role for which she had no experience, she breathed in the night-time scents from his garden and followed him up a flight of four marble stairs to the front door, which was opened by a lace-capped, upright lady in black.

“The bride.” She smiled. “Welcome to your new home, Mrs. Seymour.” Her expression didn’t slip even when she saw Starling in the light of the marble-tiled hall.

“She’ll want a bath, Mrs. Brighton,” Mr. Seymour said, handing her his hat. “She’s been traveling for days.”

“I’ll organize one immediately.” Mrs. Brighton didn’t need to snap her fingers for a pretty maid to appear. “This is Ellen.”

Starling glanced at the girl. Ellen, a young, round-faced female of medium height, bobbed a curtsy, took the holdall from Mr. Seymour, and whisked Starling up the main stairs. Reaching the last room around the landing, Ellen opened the door to reveal a huge bedroom, dominated by a tester bed covered in gold and blue brocade. Windows were positioned at the side and back of the room. A polished table and two blue velvet chairs sat in front of closed gold curtains.

Starling entered the room practically holding her breath. An arrangement of ferns sat in the marble fireplace, the mantelpiece set either end with a gilded horn held by a barely draped lady.

“You must be so tired.” Ellen placed Starling’s gowns into the bottom drawer of the tallboy. “It’s a long journey from Ballarat. Mrs. Brighton thought I oughta bring you a meal and tuck you into bed after your bath. She said she’d show you the house and introduce you to the rest of the servants tomorrow.” She pulled the brown paper wrapping off Mr. Seymour’s parcels and put them in a drawer above Starling’s gowns. Then she began to set up a bath behind a screen painted with bright, exotically swirled flowers.

Starling would have given the world to have worn a uniform as becoming as Ellen’s—dark blue, beautifully cut, and embellished with a white linen cap and apron. “Who is Mrs. Brighton?”

“The housekeeper.” Ellen giggled. “Me and the other servants’re glad that the master finally has what he needs.”

Starling stared at the maid.

“A wife.” Ellen put a palm on her blushing cheek. The first two fingers of that hand were missing. “He should’a got you from Ballarat in his coach, though, rather than leaving you to travel all alone on the rattler.” She shook her head as if in rebuke. “I better get the water.”

Within ten minutes, Starling was sitting up to her neck in the first hot bath she’d had in a week. She let her head drift under the water, enjoying the gurgling block to everyday sounds that allowed her to hum and assume she was tuneful. Finally, she washed, and then she soaked, dreaming about being someone’s daughter, loved and cherished. But like the Starling she’d been named for, she had no uncommon attributes. Perhaps her sense of the ridiculous was too highly developed, but she kept that well under control. She saw herself as practical and diligent, perhaps a little obstinate with her opinions. That would be why, when the whores had listened to her advice on colors, her head had swelled and she had thought herself an expert. She now knew the folly of overconfidence.

The bath water cooled. She wrapped herself in a thick white towel and ate her apple, never one to waste good food. Ellen had whisked away her discarded underclothing and put her gown in the long drawer. Not prepared to be tucked into bed naked, she inspected the drawer in which Ellen had placed Mr. Seymour’s trimmings.

Her eyes widened. On top sat three new sets of underwear. Nightwear, too. Not silk or satin, just plain linen, though much finer than her usual calico. The realization that Mr. Seymour had handled her underwear sent a rush of embarrassment through her body. Closing her eyes against her fantastical thoughts, she slipped on a nightgown that covered her from her neck to her toes, and she wished she also could cover her hands. The damage done by the lye soap at the inn would likely never heal. Clean and cozy, she tugged the bellpull beside the fireplace as Ellen had asked her to do.

Almost instantly, the maid arrived and began emptying the water. “Mrs. Brighton wants to know if you’d prefer wine or tea with your supper?”

“Tea, please.”

She stared at the maid’s retreating back while she combed her hair with her fingers. Mr. Do-As-I-Tell-You Seymour hadn’t let her get her belongings, among which was a new comb. She glanced around the room and spotted a silver-backed brush in front of the tallboy mirror. The rich provid. . .