The Misbegotten by Katherine Webb Read Free Book Online Page A

servant? Starling isn’t a servant. She’s my family, now. I always wanted a little sister,’ said Alice, tucking Starling’s red curls behind her shoulders, and smoothing them down.
    ‘Your sister? Now, Alice . . .’ Bridget began, but she saw the look on Alice’s face, and seemed to lose heart for the argument. ‘She must learn to be useful. It is essential. You may not always be able to keep her.’
    ‘She will be useful! Of course she will. I will teach her to read and write, and be a lady . . .’
    ‘And I will teach her to cook and clean, and have a livelihood.’ Bridget’s voice was laced with dry humour, and Alice smiled.
    ‘Very well, then.’
    ‘If she is mute, things will be harder,’ said Bridget.
    ‘No, she is not mute,’ Alice said. She cupped Starling’s chin, and gazed at her. ‘Fear has chased her voice away, that’s all. It will return, when she’s ready.’
    ‘There is another problem, of course. Perhaps the biggest of all, which you haven’t yet considered.’ Starling’s heart sank. She wanted to stay. She longed to stay. Alice glanced anxiously at Bridget, as if fearing what she would say next. ‘Your benefactor. He comes this Saturday. And who knows how happy he’ll be to find he has another mouth to feed? And an urchin mouth at that.’ Alice took a deep breath, and Starling felt a tremor pass through her. ‘You must prepare yourself to do as he says,’ said Bridget, more gently than usual. Alice suddenly looked so sad that Starling felt a pang of desperation. She opened her mouth, but a whistle of empty air was all that came forth. She swallowed, and coughed a little, and tried again.
    ‘I’ll be good,’ she said, and Alice cried out in delight.

1821
    It was easy enough to leave the house on Lansdown Crescent after hours. Starling’s room was little more than a cubbyhole adjoining the cook’s room, along a shadowy corridor from the kitchen. She had a narrow wooden bed and a rickety nightstand for the pot; no windows, but a rag rug on the floor to keep the chill off her feet. If Sol Bradbury was already in bed then she slept like a dead woman, snoring softly with her chin nestled into the pillowy flesh of her neck. If she was awake, then as long as Starling was reasonably discreet, the woman said nothing. They had an understanding – Sol Bradbury didn’t see Starling going out when she should have stayed in, nor did she comment when odd small items of food and leftovers went missing from the pantry; and Starling didn’t see Sol Bradbury drinking brandy in the mornings, or tipping the grocer’s boy coppers that weren’t hers for gossip about her friends and neighbours. The housekeeper, Mrs Hatton, kept herself above stairs once Mrs Alleyn had retired for the night; she and Dorcas had their rooms on the top floor.
    Starling made her way to the Moor’s Head, to see her friend Sadie and to keep a tryst with Dick Weekes. She would need more of his doctored wine before long, but she was eager to see him anyway, however jealously she guarded all evidence of her favour. It would not do for Dick to know that she liked him overly well. He was devilishly easy on the eye, and never short of followers; dopey-eyed girls without a thought to share between them, who giggled and pouted at him wherever he went, all too keen to part their lips for whatever he cared to put into their mouths. But Dick Weekes was the type that needed something sharp to temper the sweet; that needed something off-kilter to keep his attention. And I am just the right amount of sharp and off-kilter , Starling thought, with a smile. The inn was crowded with drinkers and players, travellers and doxies. The heat and stink and press of bodies always cheered Starling after a humdrum day of work, and she smiled a crooked smile at Sadie as she reached the barrels and taps.
    ‘All the usuals to keep you busy,’ she said to her friend, as Sadie poured her a cup of frothy beer.
    ‘And some unusuals too – see