Page 72 of The Siren of Sussex

Mrs. McCordle was seated at the bottom of the stairs, sorting through a bin of old clothes. She peered up at him. “Who’s there?”

Ahmad saw no need to identify himself. “Is Miss Rawlins in?”

“Aye, she’s up there. But I’ll have no messing about. This ain’t that kind of establishment.”

“I’ll wait here if you’ll fetch her,” Ahmad said.

Mrs. McCordle scowled. “You expect me to go up them stairs? And me with my rheumatism playing up?” She resumed sorting through her rags. “Fetch her down yourself. And be double-quick about it, or I’ll know what you’re up to.”

Ahmad climbed the rickety steps. They creaked and groaned under his weight. An ominous sound. The short hallway above was no less unstable, with sagging floorboards and a ceiling with a dark water stain seeping out to its edges. It smelled fetid and damp. Rotten to the core.

He rapped on one of the two doors.

“Give me a minute!” a high-pitched voice called out. Several seconds passed before the door was cracked open to the length of its chain latch, revealing Becky’s careworn face.

She was young. Younger than Mira, though one wouldn’t know it to look at her. Fine lines etched the corners of her eyes, and her back was bent from too many hours of needlework. She was free and independent now, which was no small thing, but her life hadn’t been easy since leaving Mrs. Pritchard’s.

“Ahmad Malik! Is that you?” She unlatched the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to take you for a walk,” he said. “Fetch your shawl.”

Becky’s brows raised, but she asked no questions. She disappeared back inside for an instant. When she emerged again, she had a knitted wool shawl draped around her shoulders and an old stuff bonnet in her hand. She tugged it on over her dull blond hair and tied it under her chin. “I could do with a breath of fresh air.”

“Not fresh enough for my taste,” Ahmad said as the two of them descended the stairs.

“Oh, it’s not a patch on the air you have in Mayfair. But I’ll take it any hour over what I have to breathe in that room of mine. Some days, seems I never leave it.” Becky shouted to Mrs. McCordle as they passed her: “Going out, Mrs. McCordle!”

“You behave yourself, my girl,” Mrs. McCordle called back. “I don’t rent lodgings to them who gets themselves in trouble.”

Ahmad pushed the door open for Becky. The bell jangled again, announcing their exit. “How are you getting on?”

“With the piecework?” She stepped out into the yard. “Keeps me busy enough. Good thing, too. Every time work picks up, Mrs. McCordle raises the rent.”

Ahmad followed after her, letting the door slam shut behind him. The two of them walked side by side down the lane. “She hasn’t any right to. Not for that rathole.”

Becky’s room was little more than an attic garret. And its location had even less to recommend it. While some impoverished streets in the neighborhood still retained a certain dignity beneath their shabbiness, Lost Hope Yard was as bleak and desperate as its name suggested.

Standing in the shadow of chimney stacks, the street ahead was empty save for a ragged girl shepherding a herd of equally ragged children. Dirty faces peered up at Ahmad as they passed—curiosity warring with suspicion.

“What ho, Becky,” the older girl said.

“What ho, Lizzy.” Becky flashed the girl a smile before returning her attention to Ahmad. “A rathole you call it?”

“On its best day.”

“It’s good enough for some,” she replied, indignant. “We can’t all become lady’s maids and manservants to the gentry.”

“The Finchleys are hardly gentry. And I’m not their manservant any longer.”

She shot him a concerned glance. “Out of a job, are you?”

“No. I’m finally doing what I’ve always wanted to do.”

“Don’t say you’re making ladies’ gowns?”

“I am.”

Her face spread into a grin, revealing a missing tooth. “Lord, look at you! A proper dressmaker.”