The manor is a fine one—finer than he has ever stepped foot in before, made of stone and tastefully decorated in silver and gold. He catches sight of himself in the shined mirror overlooking the mantle in the receiving room, and self-consciously fixes his cravat. His clothes are the best he owns, with only a few minor frays, and the holes in his gloves are barely noticeable.
He looks the part—a man of business, a secretary looking for work. But it only takes his name and a brief introduction for most employers to turn him away. He is Irish, a Catholic, and that alone is enough to disqualify him for most.
He has been out of work for near four months now, and there are bills that need to be paid. He needs this interview to go well.
The creak of the door startles him, and he whirls around to see a young woman sweep into the room. Her blonde hair is bound in a knot at the back of her neck, and her dress is lavender in half-mourning. "Mr. Moriarty," the woman says, and Jim belatedly realizes that this must be Mrs. Frederica Smith herself—the widow whom he is meeting for an offer of employment.
"Mrs. Smith," he says, aiming for the crisp, clear consonants of proper British speech. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I understand that you are seeking a man of business, to assist you in managing your late husband's businesses."
"That is correct," she says, gesturing for him to have a seat. The maids have already laid out a tray of tea and biscuits, one that Jim has hesitated to partake in without his hostess present. "You may take your ease—anyone can see from your name that you're an Irishman and attempting to change your accent only makes you appear ashamed of your background. Speak naturally, Mr. Moriarty."
Jim nods, taken aback by her sharp manner. He would have expected someone softer, saddened by her recent loss and her new circumstances, but this woman seems utterly uncaring. She offers him a cup of tea, and with no small amount of uncertainty, he accepts. "I—thank you, Mrs. Smith."
"Please. Call me Free." The woman's lips tilt into a small, amused smile. "Free will do just fine for me."
"Free, then." An odd nickname. There is a moment of silence, but when it seems that the woman isn't about to ask him any questions, he begins. "I have extensive experience in shipping, particularly with British North America, but I am well-versed in all areas of business—"
"I know." The woman raises her own teacup to her lips. "Your name is James Moriarty. Until four months ago, you worked as a clerk for Coutts & Company, a trading company specializing in trade with the Americas. You were let go when the company went under, through no fault of your own, but your superiors were quick to comment that you had sound judgement and a certain… disregard for the law."
Jim takes a deep, calming breath, feeling the job offer slipping away from his fingers. "Those days are behind me," he says, sweating. What his previous employers never say in his recommendations is that he was often given assignments that skirted the law, and that there was little room for him to say no. He is Irish, and it is difficult for an Irishman to find respectable work.
Free smiles, a little more broadly. "I certainly hope not," she says, setting down her teacup. "For I need a man of business with exactly those qualities. I need a man that will go where I, as a woman, cannot go without comment. I need a man who will see my business run, and who will, when necessary, break the law or counsel such. And for that service and your discretion, I am willing to pay two hundred and fifty pounds yearly."
Jim swallows, the enormity of the sum hitting him. Two hundred and fifty pounds is more than respectable—two hundred and fifty pounds is comparable to what upper-level civil servants earn. With two hundred and fifty a year, he can move from his boarding house close to the docks, taking a gentleman's flats closer to the centre of town; with two hundred and fifty a year, he can marry, and he can pay for schooling for his children. Two hundred and fifty pounds per year is the first step into the upper classes, into a better future.
For two hundred and fifty per year, there is little he would refuse to do. Especially when he has depleted his savings, and he is a week away from being thrown out of his boarding house.
"Two hundred and fifty a year," he replies, with a nod. "What do you need me to do?"
ANs: A few notes, though I'm not sure they're really necessary. First, Moriarty is an Irish name-it's the anglicized version of "Ó Muircheartaigh". At this time, Irish discrimination was still alive and well. I was also taken with the idea of a woman as a consulting criminal, who needed a man to act on her behalf, and a young Moriarty learning the ropes of his later trade from her. Finally, I looked up the wages for clerks at this time-mostly clerks were earning around 25-80 pounds per year in the mid to late 1860s, so Free really is offering Moriarty an incredible amount of money. I hope you enjoyed!