The door opened to admit her manager, Raymond Petit, a middle aged man with a pleasant countenance, who she would trust with her life. He had come from a French Huguenot family not too far from here, in Spitalfields, and done well for himself. His cousin did many of the designs for Cathcart’s, and Annie was very glad of them both. He dropped some letters in front of her. “These came for you, ma’am. Do you plan to visit the workshop today?”
“Some time today, but I have other appointments first.” She shot a meaningful glance at her son, who had retrieved the spoon and was studying the surface closely. William was a moody child, like his father was.
The reminder of her late husband sent a pang through Annie. She missed him, of course she did, although she had to admit life was more straightforward without him. Having to pander to his whims and moods had made her edgy, and while he was in charge the business had declined. Annie had determined to set that straight. With any luck, these letters would help her.
Reaching for a clean knife, she slit the seal on the first missive. It had been hand delivered from the offices of Mr. Joseph Stephenson, her landlord.
Dear Mrs. Cathcart,
I read your letter of the 16th March with interest. Your proposal suggested is possible, under certain circumstances. I would be interested in meeting you to discuss the matter further. I propose tomorrow at ten, at my offices, if you please.
“He’s not dismissing the idea totally,” she said, reading the lines again. She wanted a longer lease on these premises, and the use of the property next door.
Matilda raised her carefully penciled brows. “You surprise me. I assumed he’d dismiss your proposal out of hand.”
“So did I,” Annie confessed. “That is why I offered him a price below market value. It gives me room to offer him more. I would like you to accompany me, Aunt Matilda, since he does not take kindly to women roaming London alone, as he puts it.”
“You will be asking a man of business, will you not?”
“I can ask Mr. Simpson to accompany us, or one of his representatives. He knows my ways.” Simpson was her financial advisor, and had known her for years. He did not take the same hard line as Stephenson, who firmly believed women had no business running enterprises on their own. Stephenson was an influential man in the City and Annie needed him on her side.
“Your practicality is admirable.” Matilda plucked the last slice of toast from the rack and pulled the butter-dish to her place. “You will leave your sons a great legacy. But what will you do when they are old enough to control the business? Will you retire gracefully?”
Annie spluttered over her tea. “I have no intention of doing any such thing. Why would I? Part of this enterprise is mine, given to me at the time of my marriage.” Her father had taught her how to conduct business so she knew it as well as any man.
All she wanted was the lease on the premises next door and a longer lease to this establishment. She resented the necessity of going to Stephenson cap in hand, but if it would get her what she wanted, she would sing and dance for him, if he required it of her.
The premises next door was doing nothing other than becoming a breeding place for rats and mice. Until ten years ago, it had belonged to a family of printers, but they had gone out of business. One day the whole house would come tumbling down and take half the street with it.
She would have to play the meek widow doing her best to preserve the company for her sons. She would bear their faces in her mind while she was talking to Mr. Stephenson.
She left the letter open and paid attention to the next one. She’d located a nearby property that would suit her needs as well as the one she lived in now, and this must be the response to her initial enquiry.
Unwilling to leave her fate in the hands of one person, she had merely made queries about the house on Bunhill Row. The place was very much secondary to her principal aim of getting the one she lived in now, but she wanted the alternative, if only as a bargaining chip.
Dear Mrs. Cathcart,
The Earl of Carbrooke thanks you for your interest in the property on Bunhill Row. He finds it unusual that a female should consider a lease on a property. At this time, his lordship is engaged in other matters, and cannot attend to the matter personally. I am sure you will understand that he wishes to defer his decision until he has more leisure to study it.
Yours etc.
E. Smith, pp Gerald, Earl of Carbrooke, etc etc.
This note left her open-mouthed. Fury rose to choke her. How dare he dismiss her perfectly civil request so high-handedly?
She should drop the matter, but the effrontery of the reply had put her dander up. She tossed the letter on the table, where it fell with a dull clunk, due to the heavy seal on the back. Matilda poked at it and turned it so she could read it.
She glanced up and shrugged. “The aristocracy.”
“What gives him the right to talk to me like that? How dare he?”