Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  True to Mr. Cavell’s prediction, their load was assessed. Jimmy even assisted him to replace it with an efficiency that had them jostling for position on the west side of the bridge in less than an hour.

  The crowds milling around were appalling. Dorothy had never seen so many carts, wagons, and pedestrians in her entire life. Every single person appeared to be shouting to be heard above the swelling noise.

  Pulling her shawl more closely around her, she wasn’t surprised when Grace leaned closer and took her hand.

  Dorothy gave her sister’s fingers a squeeze and smiled at her. “Look ahead—I believe that is the tower of St. Magnus at the end of the bridge. It has a clock, as well. Do you see it?”

  Her sister nodded, though she didn’t appear particularly excited by the edifice or its clock. “Do you really think Aunt Mary will be pleased to see us?”

  “Of course! And we shall soon be best friends with our cousins. You’ll see.”

  “I do not care for Cecilia—she’s a spiteful little cat, as you very well know. And Jane and Katherine are hardly better.”

  Dorothy gave her sister’s hand another squeeze, trying to think of a reassuring response. The fact that Cecilia had spent a good deal of her time two years ago teasing Martha by hiding her glasses and then taunting her as she fumbled around blindly, made it difficult for Dorothy to completely dismiss Grace’s assessment. Neither of them had been pleased with their spiteful, vapid cousins on their previous visits. The only bright spot was that Martha had managed to escape without having to explain her actions to anyone, including Aunt Mary.

  She’d left that wonderful task to Dorothy.

  “It will not be so bad. You will see,” Dorothy replied at last. An uncomfortable twinge in her stomach informed her that even she failed to believe her words. She pressed one hand against her stomach and forged on. “Cecilia is older now and will most certainly behave with more kindness and maturity. Honestly, I am sure it will not be so awful.” Most likely, it would be far worse now that their situation with their aunt and cousins was permanent and not a short visit. However, she could hardly say that.

  Grace snorted inelegantly.

  “At least we shall be in London,” Dorothy said.

  “There is that,” Grace agreed grudgingly.

  They both glanced around at the crowded streets and clung to the sides of the rattling wagon. Perhaps they simply weren’t used to the bustle, but the further into London they traveled, the more overwhelming it seemed.

  Despite the mild June weather, a pall of acrid smoke hung high above over the distant rooftops. Curling wisps drifted between the buildings crowding around them, the gray curls merging with the lengthening shadows.

  As the wagon shuddered through the gloom stretching across the road from a tall brick townhouse, Dorothy pulled her shawl even more tightly around her shoulders. Grace did the same. The younger girl’s blue eyes were wide as she looked around, jerking toward Dorothy when a harsh male voice reverberated through the narrow alley on their right.

  The noise of wagons, merchants hawking their wares, carriages, horses, and thousands of voices rolled and crashed around them.

  Even Farmer Cavell had to raise his voice when he called over his shoulder, “Nearly at my brother’s shop, Miss Stainton. We’ll stop there for a bit to unload—no need for Rose and Daisy to pull a loaded wagon through London. Ain’t as young as they used to be.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Though that can be said for all of us, eh?”

  “Indeed.” Dorothy smiled at her sister. “That sounds like an excellent plan to us, does it not, Grace?”

  Grace nodded and shifted against the side of the wagon, where she was awkwardly wedged between a barrel of apple cider and another barrel containing last year’s only slightly wrinkled apples.

  The horses dragged them around a corner. The rear wheel of the wagon bumped over the curb and forced both women to hold on tighter. To their relief, they went less than three more jostling blocks before Mr. Cavell turned the team into the black mouth of a narrow alley.

  “Just a moment, Miss Stainton, and you ladies will be enjoying a cup of Mrs. Cavell’s finest tea—Mrs. Frank Cavell, that is.” The farmer secured the reins around his armrest and clambered down stiffly. He paused, hands braced against his lower back, to stretch before glancing up at Dorothy. “Won’t be a moment.”

  “We shall be quite all right. No need to worry about us,” Dorothy assured him.

  Next to her, Grace nodded, though she wrapped her arms around her middle and peered around the gloomy area. The alley held the dank odor of constant moisture and, every once in a while, a more acrid odor—something decaying, perhaps—wafted by on a chilly gust of air. The lower bricks of the shop had the greenish tinge of moss, growing luxuriantly in the damp shade.

  He nodded and slipped around to a narrow wooden door, tapped several times as he called loudly, “Frank! Come out, you rascal! It’s your loving brother Toby come with the cider and apples, blast you!”

  With a shriek like a dying cat, the door opened far enough for Farmer Cavell to disappear behind it.

  “We will be all right here, will we not? Alone?” Grace whispered, her glance fixed on the bright gap at the mouth of the alley.

  “Certainly! Farmer Cavell would not have left us here if we were not quite safe.” Nonetheless, Dorothy looked around uneasily and moved a little closer to her sister.

  She’d hardly wedged herself next to the barrel of apples when she heard an odd whisper. Catching Grace’s startled gaze, she pressed a finger to her lips and looked around.

  A grubby little hand, attached to a thin wrist—hardly wider than a willow branch—reached over the side of the wagon. The fingers twitched and felt around, finally finding one of the withered apples. Before the hand could disappear with its treasure, Dorothy grabbed the fragile wrist.

  A gasp caught in her throat when a dirty face under the rattiest cap Dorothy had ever seen peered over the side of the wagon. The urchin’s gaze caught Dorothy’s.

  One crystal blue eye and one tawny gold stared at her. The blue eye winked, the thin wrist twisted out of her grasp, and the child disappeared in a jumble of twisting, flying rags into the shadows of the alleyway.

  “Wait!” Dorothy called. She stood up, her gaze searching the darkness.

  Nothing stirred.

  Grace tugged at Dorothy’s skirt. “What happened? Who was it?”

  “I don’t know—a child, I think.”

  “A boy?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Surely that moth-eaten cap indicated the child had been a boy. She sighed. “The sad truth is that I don’t know—I couldn’t tell,” Dorothy admitted with a shrug.

  The alley was empty once more.

  She exhaled and sat down next to her sister again, feeling slightly guilty. It had only been one apple, and the child must have been terribly hungry to steal it, but Dorothy still felt as if she’d let Farmer Cavell down. He’d left them in charge of the wagon, and they’d been robbed.

  With a start, she stumbled to her feet and looked around, searching for any signs of other urchins. Didn’t they often roam London in packs, searching for anything they could steal?

  Dorothy certainly didn’t want Farmer Cavell to return to the wagon to find all his goods gone. However, despite the flood of noisy traffic flowing past the mouth of the alley, they appeared to be alone. Of course, they had seemed to be alone just a few minutes ago, as well, so that didn’t count for much.

  Another cat’s screech had Dorothy pressing her hand against her heart, pounding in her chest.

  “Ah, there you are,” Farmer Cavell announced, coming back through the noisy door. He waved to a man behind him, who appeared to be a wider and much stouter version of himself. “This here’s my brother, Mr. Frank Cavell. Frank, these young ladies are the Misses Stainton—Miss Stainton and Miss Grace to grant them their proper due.”

  The plump man stared at his shuffling feet and mumbled a greeting before nudging his broth
er with a meaty fist to the shoulder. “Night’s coming—we’d best get the wagon unloaded before thieves do it for us.”

  “Thieves?” Dorothy echoed. She cleared her throat. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Cavell—someone took an apple. I couldn’t stop him—or her—I’m not precisely sure which.”

  To her surprise, Farmer Cavell chuckled and shook his head. “Can’t figure as how that child knows when I’m due, but she does.”

  “She?” Dorothy asked.

  “Or he. A guess, of course, and either seems just as likely. Awful delicate features for a lad, though, and that rag around his waist sure looks like it might once have been a skirt.” He chuckled again and smiled as he began shifting barrels. “Only made off with the one apple, then, did he?”

  “I tried to stop him—”

  “No bother. He needs the odd apple or two more than Frank, here, no matter how good his wife’s pies may be.” He managed one shrug before grunting as he heaved the first barrel into his brother’s brawny arms. “I’d have given her a few, myself, had I been here. No need to worry, Miss Stainton.”

  Between the two men, they emptied the wagon with amazingly swift competence, rolling the barrels on their rims to a ramp, leading down to a cellar opening just beyond the kitchen door.

  They were nearly done when Farmer Cavell stopped and slapped an open palm on his forehead. He stared up in consternation at Dorothy and Grace. “Forgive my manners, ladies, I meant for you to join Mrs. Cavell for tea! There was no need for you to wait out here in the dark—where are my manners?”

  Sitting on the edge of one of the wagon’s sides, Grace looked at the farmer. “Oh, no, Mr. Cavell,” Grace said as she smoothed her skirts over her knees. “We would much rather stay here with you. And it is neither that dark, nor that cold.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Cavell. We were perfectly content where we were,” Dorothy agreed, her gaze fixed on the deepening shadows.

  The farmer nodded and lifted one more barrel to his shoulder when the kitchen door burst open. Mrs. Frank Cavell trundled out, her face wreathed in a wide smile and her hands full with two mugs of small beer.

  Introductions were hastily made by Farmer Cavell as he shifted the heavy barrel on his shoulder, though he need hardly have bothered. His brother’s merry wife only laughed at his efforts and told him to go on with his burden, winking at the girls just as if they’d known each other their entire lives.

  “My Mr. Cavell said as you’d want tea, but to my mind, a mug of small beer is just the thing to wash away the dust of the road, is it not, my dears?” Mrs. Cavell handed them the mugs and stood back, her hands on hips to watch as they drank the cool beverages thirstily.

  When they were done, Dorothy had to admit that the cool beverage did ease her dry throat, and she felt much better. Smiling, she collected the mugs and handed them back to Mrs. Cavell, who bobbed a quick curtsey, wished them a happy end to their long journey, and hurried back to her kitchen.

  Although Dorothy would never have admitted it, she had been growing more and more nervous about their arrival at their aunt’s home. Even the distraction of Mrs. Frank Cavell and her wonderfully cool and crisp small beer hadn’t completely erased Dorothy’s unease.

  She surreptitiously rubbed her hip. A bruise was forming, she was sure of it. Bumping along in the back of a wagon all day had left her both weary and nervous, distracted by the thought that Aunt Mary might be planning on putting them in a dreary attic room again with only piles of torn gowns to keep them company.

  Now was not the time to pay a social call on Mrs. Cavell.

  “It is not too late for you ladies to have a cup of tea. My brother and sister-in-law live above the shop—you simply need to climb the stairs to be in her kitchen.” Farmer Cavell paused, the last barrel clutched to his chest. His brows rose to the wide brim of his hat in a silent request for their decision.

  “While we sincerely appreciate Mrs. Cavell’s hospitality, it is getting late.” Dorothy looked at the mouth of the alley. The small piece of sky visible between the brick buildings was already a deep blue. The plumes of dark smoke from cooking fires deep within the townhouses were growing more numerous. “Our aunt may be worried.”

  “Of course, of course!” Farmer Cavell exclaimed, practically throwing the last barrel into his brother’s arms. “Best be on our way, then. I’ll have that ale when I return, Frank. Tell Mrs. Cavell to keep a plate of her mutton stew warm for me—I won’t be long.” He gave his brother a wink and hard shove on the shoulder before climbing back into the wagon.

  To Dorothy’s surprise, there was a small area behind the shop where the wagon could be turned if one were patient enough. The broken edges of the bricks gave mute testimony to the number of times such maneuvering was less than successful, but Mr. Cavell managed it without chipping more than one or two in the process.

  Soon, the wagon rattled out of the gloomy alley. They were on their way once more, headed in the direction of the setting sun.

  Chapter Two

  They arrived on Orchard Street, just off Portman Square, a great deal sooner than Dorothy wished. Her heart thudded in her chest at the site of the tall brick building. Only sheer self-control kept her from gasping in shallow breaths. Even her light corset seemed too tight. She pressed a cold hand against her stomach as she glanced at her sister.

  Grace looked pale in the flickering light cast by the street lamp at the corner. While there were far too many lamps and lights in London to keep the encroaching night truly dark, the air felt heavy with gloomy shadows and tainted with unaccustomed and undeniably unpleasant odors. After living in the country for so long, the Staintons were used to the usual earthy scents of farm animals and dung, mixed with the more pleasing fragrance of wood fires. But in London, there seemed to be more acrid smells layered over the odors of horse manure from the streets.

  Coal fires, perhaps. And the musty odor of damp bricks, laced with the infrequent but sickening smell of something very like rotting fish. She held her handkerchief over her nose and mouth and tried not to breathe too deeply until she could accustom herself to the unique fragrance of London.

  She would get used to it—she would! Gritting her teeth, she lowered her handkerchief and smiled at Grace. At least the two of them were together and could encourage each other, no matter what happened.

  Shoulders slumped and glancing around with a forlorn look on her face, Grace finally shook her head and grimaced.

  “Here we are then, ladies,” Mr. Cavell announced as the wagon rattled to a stop in front of the imposing brick townhouse.

  Dorothy glanced up at the towering building. Four stories, complete with a sweltering attic, as she knew only too well. Most of the windows on the upper floors were dark, making the top of the building blend into the deep blue of the evening sky in a way that struck her as ominous.

  She sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Cavell. It was so good of you to bring us here.”

  “No trouble—no trouble at all,” he said over his shoulder as he hooked the reins around the lever that acted as the wagon’s brake. “Coming here anyway. I’d have been a fool to pass up such lovely company.” He clambered down and moved to the side of the wagon to help the sisters climb down. “I will wait, shall I? Until your uncle and aunt greet you?” he asked as he unloaded their paltry belongings. “Wouldn’t do to leave you stranded in the middle of London, now, would it?”

  The two sisters glanced at each other. They might be better off if they were stranded. Dorothy’s lips twisted, and she bit the corner of her mouth to keep from laughing, fearing that her nervous amusement might easily turn into full-blown hysteria. She was tired and anxious—no, terrified—and wanted desperately to cry for some reason.

  Or climb back into Farmer Cavell’s wagon to jolt her way back to Kendle. Martha would take them in, wouldn’t she? She was their sister, after all, and had to.

  Glancing up at the tall, forbidding townhouse again, Dorothy tried to repress the thought that she truly didn’t want to be here. T
he notion made her swallow quickly to keep from being sick right on her aunt’s stoop.

  “No, that wouldn’t do at all,” Grace murmured before smiling tremulously at the old farmer. “Though I can see from the lamplight in that window on the first floor that there is someone home.” She looked at Dorothy. “They are expecting us, I suppose.”

  “Of course!” Dorothy replied brightly and forced a smile as she looped her arm through the crook of her sister’s elbow. “I’m sure they will be pleased to see us at last.” She looked at Mr. Cavell. “Thank you again—it was very kind of you.”

  “My pleasure, Miss Stainton.”

  Taking another deep breath, Dorothy went up the shallow stairs to the glossy black front door. Shoulders straight, she used the bronze knocker to rap sharply.

  A few seconds later, the door creaked open. A shadowy face, topped by a white cap, peered around the edge of the door. “Who is it?”

  “Miss Stainton,” Dorothy replied firmly, dragging her sister up a step to stand beside her. “And Miss Grace Stainton.” When the girl didn’t reply, Dorothy added, “We are expected.”

  “Who is it, Elsa?” a sharp voice called from the dim interior of the townhouse.

  “Ladies. One of ‘em says she’s Miss Stainton,” Elsa said over her shoulder.

  “Don’t be a fool, Elsa, let them in!” More muttering followed the order, but the words were thankfully unclear.

  Grace caught Dorothy’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

  Chin up, Dorothy pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The maid skittered backward, her mouth hanging open. Her gaze flickered from the sisters to the lady standing in the hallway behind her. Her reddened hands picked up the edges of her damp-looking apron and twisted it into a thick corkscrew as she focused on the other woman.

  “Good evening, Miss Stainton.” The other lady nodded and clasped her hands at her waist. She was dressed entirely in black except for a white cap and brass keyring suspended from a chain at her waist. Her dark hair was severely scraped back, braided, and pinned into a coronet that encircled her round head and was just visible beneath the ruffled edge of her cap. “I am Mrs. Jolly—the housekeeper. Welcome. I hope your trip was not too exhausting?”