by Rose Lerner
She was grateful that he understood that. She was grateful that he was silent after that, and that she wouldn’t have to make the effort to repulse any overfamiliar comforting caresses. She had burst into tears while Charles Baverstock was visiting last week, and he’d taken the opportunity to put his arms around her and kiss her hands. And when she pushed him away, he was hurt and she had been obliged to soothe his ruffled feathers. She had felt horribly alone.
It took a long time for her tears to subside, but when she could finally wipe her eyes and open them, Mr. Cahill was still a few feet away, calmly studying the portrait as if her behavior had not put him out in the slightest.
She swallowed a few times and came to stand beside him, moving her head to politely face the portrait but unfocusing her eyes so that she didn’t see it. “Thank you. If you tell me where you’re staying, I can have your kerchief laundered and returned to you.”
“I’m at the Drunk St. Leonard,” he said. “I’m sorry I asked to see the painting. I should have known a Gainsborough would be too recent to be someone you didn’t know.”
“I can show it. It’s in our library, I see it all the time. But with my father so recently gone…” Her voice trembled a little, and she shut her mouth tightly.
“Have you a portrait of him?”
She shook her head, fresh tears welling. “He was always too busy to sit for one. I’m afraid of forgetting his features.” How much did she really remember of her mother, and how much was this portrait? Had that really been the shape of Lady Wheatcroft’s face? Was she remembering a painter’s error instead of her mother? People said Lydia looked like her, but Lydia didn’t see herself when she looked at the painting, not at all.
She didn’t see herself in that laughing, happy child, either. Sometimes she thought Mr. Gainsborough must have made it up.
“You might forget,” he said. “You can’t hold on to a person when they’re gone. You can’t even hold on to people who are alive sometimes. I don’t remember my mother’s face. Not really. But I tell myself—I’m still here. So much of who I am and what I do comes from her, I’m remembering her just by living. Every time I tilt my head or pick up a teacup the way she used to, that’s a little bit of her still in the world.” He laughed a little, looking at the portrait with a wistfulness that made her eyes sting again. “I tell myself that, anyhow.”
“Jamie doesn’t want to maintain our interest in the borough,” she said, knowing she shouldn’t but desperate to tell someone. “That’s what our father gave us. That’s what he brought us up to do, and it’s all that’s left of him. My own money is tied up in trust, and Jamie—” Drat. She was being indiscreet, and she was going to cry again. “I’m sorry, I—look at the painting as long as you like, and if you have questions about how Mr. Gainsborough worked, or—write to me and I’ll tell you everything I remember, and everything I’ve been told, but—I’m afraid I’m in no state to entertain visitors.”
“I…” He looked down. “I don’t want to presume, Miss Reeve. I know we haven’t been properly introduced, and I know that your crying doesn’t make us friends or anything like that. Please don’t think I’m presuming. But if you’d be willing, I’d love to buy you dinner in town instead of writing. I’d say it was a thank-you for your hospitality, but we both know it’s yourself who’d be doing me a favor. Of course your aunt is included in the invitation, if she’d like to come.”
How could she say no to that? She felt so low that even the brief sense of magnanimity it gave her to accept was gratifying.
He smiled wide when she agreed. He liked her, even though she’d been a dreary watering pot. That was gratifying too.
Chapter Three
Ash tramped back to town through the mud and rain, feeling—well, not any one thing. He was full of feeling, rather: liking and a kind of sympathetic grief for Lydia Reeve, hope that things would all come right for Rafe, exhilaration at having brought off a delicate situation with aplomb, a harsh chill from the weather, anticipation of a warm supper, pleasure at the paintings he’d seen, and a host of others. He loved this churning in his mind at the start of a swindle, every succeeding impression sharp and clear as a bit of broken glass, the bad and the good each with a relish to them.
He had his plan now, all of it. He couldn’t believe how lucky he’d been, to find this. He looked about him at the muddy parkland, fresh and smelling of rain, gleaming trees clasping the silver sky in a friendly embrace. He thought of Miss Reeve, beautiful and lonely and in need of funds from her dowry. There was something about her—that French thing that meant I don’t know what it is but I like it.
That flood of tears had been a shock—he’d been watching her close, and he hadn’t seen they were there until they were there. She’d seemed so warm-sun-on-calm-seas. But then, how often could you really tell what a stranger was thinking?
He’d known that the Gainsborough was likely to be of her mother. He’d thought sharing it with him might lead to some slight sense of intimacy, but the tears were an unlooked-for blessing. People were apt to like anyone who showed them tact and real understanding when they were grieving.
Rafe would have felt guilty provoking a woman to tears. But unlike his brother, Ash had been old enough to remember when his mother died. He hadn’t only lost a parent—he’d lost everything he’d had that looked at all like security. Her procuress had taken her things and her money. She’d let Ash keep that one pathetic handkerchief out of a rare charitable impulse, and then she’d threatened to confiscate it every time he misbehaved. He’d been told to stop his sniveling and been pushed out into the street to steal, and on days he didn’t steal enough, he didn’t eat. And then she’d apprenticed him to the bodysnatchers.
Miss Reeve had grieved for her mother in peace and luxury. It was sad, and he felt for her, but a few tears wouldn’t hurt her. Ash hadn’t stolen anything the flat couldn’t afford to lose since he and Rafe had left London and struck out on their own, thirteen years ago.
He had felt sorry for her, though. If she’d been a girl of his own class, he’d have put an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. Of course the Honorable Miss Reeve would have found that thoroughly unpleasant.
He wondered what her hair smelled like. It was splendid hair, peeping out from under her lace cap, thick and coppery and so shining it looked like a crisp Tudor painting. She resembled a Tudor portrait all round, with her apple cheeks and sharp chin, and her wide eyes that made brown a rich, bright color.
Well, the smell of her hair would be for Rafe to find out, one of these days. Because after all, Ash wasn’t even trying to swindle her. He was trying to give her his brother. She’d be the envy of every woman in six counties.
You couldn’t be obvious about matchmaking, though. People were contrary. He’d tell them both it was a marriage of convenience, that Rafe would marry her and sign over her money in exchange for a slice of it, and never again darken her door. A few weeks would be plenty of time for them to find they suited marvelously. Ash would give them a nudge if they needed it, but he doubted they would. The merits of each of them were too self-evident.
Lively St. Lemeston came into view, quaint and homey in the rain. Rafe would be set for life here, snug and warm and loved and rich. He’d forget he’d ever thought about Canada or the army.
Rafe couldn’t possibly resist all this. It was perfect, the perfect honest life left lying about on a silver platter waiting to be stolen. It gave a man itchy fingers just looking at it.
Ash stood up when Miss Reeve walked in the door. She looked deliciously expensive. No hasty redying for her—he’d swear she’d ordered a whole new wardrobe in black. Figured velvet edged the bombazine bodice, and a brooch woven with silver hair (“filthy goyishe custom”, his fence had always said when Ash brought in a piece like that) held the kerchief closed at her breast. There was just that faintest hint of color to her lips and cheeks that indicated a highly
trained and well-paid professional had the keeping of her rouge pot. She was the kind of art that was so valuable it wasn’t even for sale, and she smiled when she saw Ash. His pulse jumped.
She hadn’t brought her aunt, only the tall blonde maid with wry eyebrows. Miss Reeve wasn’t too bothered about keeping him at arm’s length. That was a good sign.
He bowed over her black, butter-soft glove that still smelled new. Too bad actually kissing a woman’s hand had gone out in the last century—that leather would be nice against his lips. She would be nice against his lips.
This attraction to her was inconvenient, but it wasn’t a real problem. He’d already let go of her hand and was pulling out her chair in a casual but respectful fashion. Feelings were easy to hide if you could smother the part of you that wanted to be found out.
“How are you today, Miss Reeve?” He kept his voice sincerely interested without being too sympathetic. He didn’t want to make her self-conscious.
She flushed slightly under the rouge anyway. “Very well, thank you, sir. And yourself?”
“I had a splendid morning. I woke late, breakfasted on fresh bread, and was given a tour of your historic church by the sexton.”
She smiled proudly. “You haven’t seen it at its best until you’ve been to Sunday services. The acoustics are very good.”
“I look forward to it.” Ash was fond of attending church. It was a barefaced swindle, after all, and he enjoyed getting away with it. “What else ought I to see while I’m here?” Nothing made a person warm to you like taking her advice.
She twisted her mouth in thought. “The Assembly Rooms are impressive. They were built when I was ten, and I’m afraid they suffer from some of the excesses of style of that time—Lady Tassell, the Whig patroness, advised on the choosing of the architect—but the workmanship is beautiful…”
She talked about the town all through the soup, the fish and the venison with removes. The river was lovely, the bridges were picturesque, the market on Wednesdays was not to be missed, there were some very old houses on Mill Street, and he should really see St. Leonard’s Forest if he could manage it. She was even willing to admit that the Dymond family home several miles west of town might merit a visit. Ash listened with great interest and jotted her suggestions down in his memorandum book.
But it was when the apple tarts were served that Miss Reeve at last brought out her most treasured jewel. He could see at once in her face that she would have liked to bring it up earlier, but had had to steel herself against his anticipated lack of interest. “And…you might like to visit the workhouse, if such things interest you. At least, it’s considered to be very modern and efficient. Several other towns in the district have modeled theirs on it. And the children are so sweet.” Her face clouded. “I always buy them new coats this time of year. Children grow fast, you know. But this year I don’t know if I can afford it.” She pushed her half-eaten apple tart around her plate.
Ash felt his jaw tightening and relaxed it. After all these years, seeing food wasted still set up a frustrated, resentful feeling in his breast almost like pain. The workhouse children could probably have eaten for a whole day on what he was going to pay for that apple tart, and she didn’t even have the decency to enjoy it.
“It isn’t that I should hesitate to deny myself.” She fixed her large eyes on his. She couldn’t stand for anyone to think her hardhearted, could she? If he were going to swindle her in the ordinary way, it would be the letter-racket. Show up at her door with a tale of woe and a note from a lord somewhere saying he was a respectable person, ask for five pounds for the journey home, and she’d be eating out of his hand. “But everywhere I might trim my expenses—people rely on custom from Wheatcroft, especially at Christmastime. If I spent less, what would the grocer’s wife do, or the milliner? I know! I shall cancel the dinner dress I ordered from Mrs. Miskin and offer her the custom for the coats. Only she may have ordered the black crape from London express for me, and God willing, she won’t have anyone else to sell it to for some time…”
“How much will it cost to buy the children coats?”
“Oh, not above ten or fifteen pounds, I imagine. There aren’t so very many of them, after all.”
“I would be happy to make the donation myself, in that case.” He repressed the urge to ask whether she meant to eat the rest of her tart, and if not, could he have it?
Her face glowed. “Oh, that is too good of you. Here, you must come to the workhouse with me so that the mistress can thank you. She’ll be so pleased.”
The invitation was a Godsend, except that Ash didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to see those children.
“Have you visited similar establishments in other parts of England? I’m sure she would be glad to hear your thoughts.”
“I’m afraid I’ve avoided them.” He’d toured jails and voluntary hospitals and asylums in the company of flats—it was a popular enough pastime—but he’d never outgrown his childhood terror of workhouses. “I find the notion rather distressing, to be honest with you.”
In Ash’s experience, when a man confessed a small weakness to a woman of about his own age, it was generally well received. Women liked to feel superior and generous as much as men, and they had fewer opportunities.
This was one of the exceptions. Miss Reeve’s mouth set and her brows drew together. A moment later her expression softened, but Ash suspected it was with conscious effort. “You’re right, of course,” she said with melting empathy. “Institutions can be dreary. It’s difficult to see children suffer. But if we wish to turn away, doesn’t that make it all the more our duty to look them in the face and do what we can to help?”
Ash seldom got angry during a swindle. He didn’t understand why he felt so angry now. Miss Reeve was darling. She really wanted to help, and what’s more, she had little patience for squeamishness in fulfilling a responsibility. As a ruthless man himself, Ash admired that. But he looked at her expensive mourning clothes and her perfectly made-up face and her lovely, well-fed, healthy body, and he couldn’t breathe past the knot of fury in his throat.
Do what you can? he wanted to say. I can see your sacrifices were enormous. I can see you’ve done absolutely everything you can. How dare you feel superior? How dare you lecture? How dare you sleep soundly in the knowledge of your own righteousness?
He’d have found her easier to like if she’d simply said to herself, It’s unfair that I’m rich, but it’s the way of the world, so why worry? After all, he and Rafe had been living high too—not as high as her, but high for two kids from the East End. He’d never judge someone for taking what she could get when he did the same thing every day.
You like everybody, he reminded himself. Why was she getting under his skin? Why couldn’t he keep her at a comfortable distance, unaffected by what she did or thought?
He was upset about Rafe, that was all. He was letting it tangle with everything else. He put the last bite of his own tart in his mouth, buying himself time. People liked to imagine their feelings were obvious, that their emotions were written all over their face. But generally, no one looked carefully enough to notice anything, or knew you well enough to understand what they noticed. If he didn’t tell her he was angry, she’d never know.
His silence was making her nervous now. She darted little glances at him in between tiny bites of food. The world made women into swindlers, always watching and calculating, always seeking to please. It was easy enough to find the seed of tenderness that provoked and coax it to grow and unfurl.
He smiled at her, and her shoulders relaxed. Yes, here he was again, in charity with her. Poor girl. So many advantages and she didn’t know how to enjoy any of them. Rafe would like her, anyway. They would get on earnestly and kindly together.
To his surprise, the idea brought Ash’s anger roaring back. How smug they would be, agreeing on how selfish and careless and reprehensible he was!
No. Ash refused to be angry with his brother. Rafe didn’t owe him anything. He drew up a memory of tiny Rafe, waving his chubby fists and smiling. Anger ebbed, leaving a strange, overwhelming sadness. Nonplussed by his emotions’ revolt, Ash floundered.
This silence couldn’t drag out much longer. To hell with it. Sorrow was close enough to penitence to fool Miss Reeve. Ash met her eyes, letting her see his grief. “You shame me. I would be honored to accompany you to the workhouse.”
Her face lit up. “I didn’t mean to nag.” Her eyes pleaded with him not to think her a shrew.
Ash didn’t know what he felt. But there was a bright scarlet thread of liking for her in it. He pulled that thread free and smiled at her, ignoring the rest of the tangle.
It took them an age to reach the workhouse. She had her footman leave calling cards at a dozen houses, and stopped at half the shops and workshops in town to chat with the folks working there. Ash didn’t mind—she introduced him to all of them, and an association with Miss Reeve could only be useful when the time came to make purchases on credit.
They passed a shopfront that wafted brandy and ginger into the street, even through a closed oak door. The Honey Moon, the sign read. He wondered if Lively St. Lemeston was too small and quiet for a boy to safely crack a pane of the window with his penknife and make off with a jar of boiled sweets. It had been twenty years at least since he’d done any such thing, but his fingers itched anyway. That pane in the corner was low and out of sight of the till, and there were four or five jars in easy reach of it.
Miss Reeve’s pattens clinked on the sidewalk ahead of him, and he ran to catch up with her and her servants. “I take it that’s an Orange-and-Purple shop?”
She nodded. “It’s new. We never had a confectioner in Lively St. Lemeston before. At first the novelty kept people away, but since he got a stall at the market I believe his business has improved.”