“Well, I wouldn’t say…it’s not troubling for me, or well, for either of us…and not for Isabella but…” Lord Ogbent faltered, “It is that Isabella had been looking forward to this day for a long, long while and a delay makes it a bit hard on all of us.”
Why is there a constant stress on the word long?
“Let me ease your fears,” Norman said, “I will go two weeks, a total of fourteen days, Ogbent, I am sure that Miss Fawcett and her mother can weather fourteen days.”
“I’m sure they can….” the man hedged, “but how about a week? Surely a week is better?”
“Do you play cards, Ogbent?” Norman asked, knowing that his words were off tangent.
A confused frown was on his face, “I have in the past but stopped when I kept losing, why do you ask?”
“Because your negotiating skills are non-existent. I have already compromised on my decision, two weeks it will be. Asking me to change it, however politely, will not make me go further.” Norman said, “You can tell Miss Fawcett and Lady Ogbent about it. Is there anything else?”
“No, no,” the older man replied hastily, “Thank you and good evening to you.”
The man scurried out of his sight like a mouse rushing away from a stalking cat. Verily pathetic. With him gone, Norman sighed. In the months to come I am going to ask myself why I did not just cut this charade in the quick, but to cut this off, I need the proof that Mother had asked me to find.
Ever since he had met Lord Ogbent, Norman had sensed that there was something…off with the man, and in the days that had followed he had been proven right.
The man was weak, no matter what he stood for or what he tried to do, he was always overruled by his wife. He bent backwards for his daughter and was foolish enough to have a mistress in the same house with his family. However, Ogbent’s personal demerits were not what told the Duke something was wrong with the man.
Instead, Norman felt it was with his estate. Ogbent had not asked about their financial obligation lately, but they both knew it was an issue standing between them. Norman was getting frustrated by the hour when the requested report on Ogbent’s assets was not handed over.
That was his deal breaker. It was not so much the sophisticated blandness of Miss Fawcett, though that was a close second or the repulsion he felt for her mother which was his third. If he could prove that they had lied on the declaration of their assets, this business deal was off and most likely the marriage.
Mother, I will disappoint you but I have no regrets in doing so.
Chapter 23
It was rare when Rosaline did not have something to do. Ever since the days of her childhood when she had been made to sit quietly or stand while watching Mrs. Caddell sew, or the nights when she would mend her clothes, she had never had idle hands.
The wedding dress was done, the bodice was remade, and all the particulars associated with it were completed. Two days after the near faint of Miss Fawcett, the Duchess had visited her as she was putting the finished dress back on the mannequin.
“Lovely work,” the Duchess praised, “So lovely, I am sure this dress will be the talk of the town for years. You have outdone yourself, Miss Hall.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Rosaline added. A small bereft feeling tugged at the chest. This was the end of her tenure—the wedding would be done soon and if that was the case, she assumed that she would be off in the next few days.
“And of course, you will be staying in case Miss Fawcett needs anything adjusted in the nick of time,” the matron spoke, “which, sadly, is in another month.”
Her ears rang—had she heard that correctly? Another month? The wedding was to be put off for another month? What for?
She cleared her throat, “If you will pardon me, Your Grace, another month for the wedding?”
“Oh, that was what was said at first but then Norman changed it to two weeks,” she rolled her eyes, “but knowing the mind of him, he can change it back to the full month, so I cannot be sure yet.”
The question ‘why’ was on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it down. It wouldn’t do for her to be nosing into the business of her betters.
“You can depend on me when the time comes, Your Grace,” Rosaline mentally sighed a sigh of relief. She was not out yet, there was still time to find more about Mary.
“I know you will,” Her Grace said, “Oh, before I forget, in the next three days, Norman will be in London and Miss Fawcett, Lady Ogbent and I are going to sample the healing waters of Bath. You will be here alone. Will you be all right by yourself?”
“I have never been afraid of being alone, Your Grace.” In fact, it was true for most of my childhood. “I can easily fill those days by visiting Jane and Mrs. Caddell, mayhap.”
“I thought you would say something like that,” the Duchess smiled, “Have a good evening, and again, my compliments on your work.”
“Good evening, Your Grace, and thank you.”
While grabbing the broom and making her way through the room, she swept out almost inviable dust, and it was while she was in the middle of the room when the revelation hit her like a ton of bricks
The Duke was off to London and the Ogbent ladies were off to Bath…that left her and Lord Ogbent, all alone in this house. And with how he had been looking at her lately…her broom clattered to the floor.
Norman entered London noticing the same dichotomy Rosaline had seen before—the destitute poor barely surviving in the fringes of the city and the rich who walked around with no cares in the world. He saw the raggedy structures, the children dressed in rags, and the peddlers selling from pins to sweet buns in makeshift carts. He saw the streets littered with waste and sidewalks manned by middle-class shopkeepers.
Bow-Street Runners, identified by their iconic black top hats and the rare red-breasted horse patrol officer were rather noticeable, too, as the carriage trundled its way through Whitehall Street towards the Strand.
His destination was the Beefsteak Society, an elite club of rich intellectuals, scholars, and parliamentarians just off the Strand. The building was removed to the Old Lyceum after its Covent Garden building had burnt down. A new member, an Earl, was to be indoctrinated and the old members had to be there to receive him and then run him ragged.
As the youngest member, coined the boot, his duty was to arrive first, decant the wine, fetch it from the cellar and then serve his brothers and guests all day long. Out of all the twenty-four members, he had the lowest appearance rate, arriving every third or fourth Saturday when most of the men were there every week. No one dared disbar him though as his contribution of meat and wine to the cooks far outweighed the others.
The carriage stopped at the steps of the theatre that, with its main portico-pillared entrance, was lifted three stories high.
“We’re here, Your Grace,” Mr. Taylor announced.
“Yes, we are,” Norman replied alighting the carriage. There on the stone walk, he tugged down his uniform, a blue coat and buff waistcoat with brass buttons bearing the club’s gridiron motif and the words, “Beef and liberty”.
“Same time, as always, Mr. Taylor,” Norman called over his shoulder while approaching the iron gates. Entering the foyer, he entered the abode that was originally a home for those of the liberal arts, actors, writers and musicians. Eventually, those of the higher tier gravitated to it and made it the exclusive gentleman’s club said to be composed of the chief wits and great men of the nation.
What a farce. This place is just Whites with a prettier façade and uniforms, the same pretentious people, too, but with bigger purses, estates the size of St. Giles and stomachs with no ends.
Case in point, the Society's badge in the dining room was a gridiron, which was rings, the glass, and the forks and spoons were engraved upon.
“Ah, Horenwall,” a portly man, the Marquess of Cotterill, stuck out his beefy hand, “Haven’t seen you in a month. My felicitations on your pending nuptials. Marriage is such a wonderful sacrament.”
The irony of the statement was not lost on Norman as the Marquess was a noted womanizer, despite his odious state. No one spoke about it, but it was an open secret that the Marquess had one wife who was sent off to the hills of France, a mistress who was somewhere in Scotland with a child and a third who was now his ‘maid’.
“We’ll see about that when the wedding bells ring,” Norman said, “How did you hear about it anyway?”
“Edgehill, Horenwall,” the Marquess shrugged, “He told it the second he got here.”
Blast! Evan was there! Why though? Could it be that he had come to physically intimidate Norman by dangling his secret over his head? Was he going to tell all the lords in the room about his indiscretion? Had Evan really sunk that low?
“Well, if you lot know, that saves me from shouting it from the rooftops then,” Norman said as casually as he could, “Anyway, isn’t it about time for the ceremony to start?”
“The president is late,” Lord Edgehill’s cool voice came from behind him, and Norman stifled his reaction to spin around and face him. Evan stepped to his side and a mélange of emotions struck Norman like bullets, one after the other, but the predominant one was regret.
The fiery pain of knowing his friend had thrown away years of friendship for his one act of rashness, had slowly deadened from fire to cold regret. Norman, however, was not about to apologize for his action any more than he was willing to give up breathing.
“Edgehill,” Norman said a touch icier that Evan had. “Fancy seeing you here. Hadn’t your wife restricted you to a diet of cordial waters and milk for your faint stomach?”
Evan’s jaw tightened, “On the contrary, Horenwall, my stomach only turns when I see something repugnant.”
“Funny you would say that,” Norman replied stiffly, “but I doubt you know the real meaning of repugnance.”
Marquess Cotterill glanced between them with alarm and hastily made his excuses, “Sorry gents, but I think I’m needed elsewhere.”
“And what would that definition be?” Evan countered icily.
“Why are you here?” Norman demanded, “the last time we were here you announced your exasperation and swore you’d never come back.”
“Actually,” Lord Edgehill replied, “You were the one who swore to abandon this house. ‘They were a lot of gluttons,’ you said.”
Norman stopped himself from cursing, “Do you know what the hell you’ve done?” he hissed, “Telling everyone that I’m engaged will only make it worse for me.”
“You are the one making it worse for you,” Evan snarled, “unless, of course, sanity has reawoken in your mind and you’ve put the woman out of your house.”
“No, I have not.”
“I thought so, and I was right,” Lord Edgehill stuck his hand in his pocket and gave a superior look to the Duke.
Norman’s fist clenched tightly at his side and he vividly pictured the bruised red of Evan’s cheek after the facer he would plant on him. Instead of punching him, he stepped forward and said lowly, with every word brimming with authority.
“Because unlike you, I look beyond a person’s station in life. I see the soul and the heart and the mind. If you want to besmirch my name for falling in love with a servant, go ahead, Edgehill, but I promise you, it will not end well for you. Remember, I know all the skeletons in your closets.”
“Horenwall,” the president of the society joviality called, “Welcome, welcome. We have missed you.”
Norman tipped his hat to the president, the Duke of Summersby. “Thank you. It is unfortunate that I suddenly have to leave though, Summersby. I find myself craving fresh air, but it was wonderful seeing you.”
Leveling his eyes to Evan, Norman walked out of the room and collected his coat. The evening, drawing down to five o’clock was cool, and he meandered to the back of the building where the carriages and the drivers’ room were.
The society had long established that if the members could have a room, it was only fair for the coachmen to have one too. The room had chairs, a few pallets for makeshift beds, a hearth and a bar. Loud shouts came from the inside and entering the room Norman spotted two men wrestling.
“Get ‘im, Oscar!” someone belted out.
“Watch yer side, Barry!”
It certainly did not look formal, and Norman realized that the brawl had most likely come out of a disagreement. It was ironic as he had nearly devolved into a fight himself. Like master, like servants.
Catching Mr. Taylor’s eye, who was watching the fight over a flagon, Norman gestured to him and he put the cup and dropped a coin beside it. Edging his way around the men, the driver fixed his cap.
“Leaving already, Your Grace?”
“If you can head back to Horenwall this night, that is?” Norman asked. “You do have your pistol?”
“Aye,” the man said, “And it’s not more than three hours’ drive, we can be there be by about nine I reckon.”
Thinking it over, and the possible dangers they might face on the way, Norman sighed, “Not tonight then, take me to Whites and then go make sure our rooms are ready at the Black Lion Inn.”
“Righto, Your Grace,” Mr. Taylor nodded. “If you don’t mind me askin’, what’s the difference between the Beefsteak Club and Whites? I don’t see much difference.”
“There really isn’t,” Norman replied as he stepped into the carriage, “just a lot of stuffed-shirts with their nose in the air or lodged in their own buttocks.”
From Russell Street, they traveled along Drury Lane and emerged back on the Strand. They were heading to Fleet Street when Norman caught a strange looking woman, Asian in nature entering a store that had exotic fans in the window.
Tapping the roof, Norman waited until Mr. Taylor pulled over to the side and he alighted, “One moment, Mr. Taylor.”
Crossing quickly, Norman entered the shop and immediately had to press his sleeve to his nose. The perfume or incense was so strong, he immediately felt light-headed.
Grey coils of the substance were dancing in the air of the shadowed room, and Norman had to wonder if he had happened upon a black-magic store or a boutique like he had expected.
“Welcome,” a heavily-accented voice said, “may I help you?”
The Asian woman from before materialized out of the gloom like a phantasm. His throat felt clogged up and heavy, but he forced himself to speak. “Your fans, I have never seen such like before.”
“Ah,” she smiled while taking one up and showing it to him. the silk was dyed dark purple and had golden flowers intricately stitched into the material, “They are from southern China, made from the best bamboo, silk, and calligraphy.”
Would Rosaline like this?
Perhaps not. Knowing her pragmatic nature, she’d probably think it frippery. Miss Fawcett, on the other hand, would have grabbed at these without question. He needed something, not ordinary but not still commonplace enough to be overlooked. But what?
“What is her name?”
“Beg your pardon?” he asked.
The lady’s smile was enigmatic and her heavily accented voice was pronounced when she clarified, “The lady that you are thinking of, what is her name?”
“Rosaline,” he said, and when he finally tasted the word that he said only in his mind, a deep ache settled in his chest, “Miss Rosaline Hall.”
Without a word, the proprietress went to the long table at the back of the room and pulled out a box. With small flicks of the locks the box was opened and then it was presented to him. Laying in the bed was a half-circle comb, the pins were iron, but the handle was made from the best pale jade. Norman was taken aback, how could this gem be in a dinky shop near the cutthroat Fleet Street?
“In China, a gift of a comb means, ‘until death do us part’. It is a love gift.”
Norman knew exactly that this was what he could give Rosaline. “The price, Madam?”
With her long walk done, Rosaline sighed in relief at the sight of the Horenwall mansion and warmly
greeted the footman stationed at the door. Her visit to Jane and her mother had been wonderful. The two ladies had received her with joy and Rosaline had again uttered her promise of tutoring the young woman when she was able to.
Now though, the lingering joy she had been holding onto was sucked away with the dreariness of the empty home. The cavernous entry hall of the house felt even emptier with the Ogbents, the Duke and the Duchess gone. Tugging off her coat and bonnet, Rosaline folded the coat over her arm and held the bonnet in the same hand.
At least though, the maids could have a rest from Miss Fawcett’s tyranny. She still did not understand how the duke had not picked up on the young woman’s vile attitude to those not of her class. She was glad they were gone and prayed that they would find a reason to stay in Bath some more days, five at least.
The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 23