* * *
They arrived in the city very late and slept poorly for a number of hours that were less than desirable. The next day, over breakfast, the two of them divided their tasks. Morris would go to Bow Street, where he would speak with and bribe an inspector he knew. Lawrence would go to Holloway’s and inquire after this Barnes woman.
The Setons were highly motivated. If Julian succeeded in his enterprise, then a whole wing of their shipping operation from Australia would be in jeopardy.
Lawrence went into the day, driven to succeed, and took a coach to Holloway’s. The storefront was a tactful mixture of elegance and practicality. It was a crowd favorite among the London elite and had provided quality garments for over a century. Although the business was no longer in the original Holloway family, the old name generated a decent amount of foot traffic.
The old wooden door jingled open with its bell, and the smell of lavender washed over Lawrence as he removed his hat. He scraped his boots on the iron stopper, and a store attendant came to take his coat.
“Thank you,” he muttered, watching his overcoat and hat be carried to a rack behind a desk.
“Is that Mr. Seton I see?” a woman’s voice rang out from behind the racks of hanging gowns.
“It is, how do you do Mrs. Claremont?”
“Oh, I have nothing to complain about,” the woman said, walking out from behind a counter. She wore the finest of sewing garments Lawrence had ever seen, and held her lips tersely at all times, even when speaking in a friendly manner. “What brings you to me today? Gift for the misses? Congratulations, by the way, I heard it was a splendid ceremony.”
“It was all well enough,” Lawrence admitted, glancing at a rack of brightly-colored garments being wheeled between them. The shop operated a quick pace, and it was part of the appeal of one’s shopping experience. While the ladies of London found this amusing, no doubt, Lawrence found it annoying.
“So, what will it be? She would look proper in a deep green,” Mrs. Claremont began to launch into a panel of options for his wife’s dress.
“I am not here to make a purchase, I confess,” Lawrence said, fiddling with his timepiece. “But a line of inquiry.”
“Inquiry?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
“Do you remember a woman who worked here, she would have left a few weeks ago now.”
“You mean Mary-Anne? Why, have you heard something?”
“Yes,” Lawrence lit up. This will be easier than I had suspected, Lawrence thought. “Do you know what became of her? I have an acquaintance who mentioned they might have some history and was interested in her well-being.”
“Then I am sorry to deliver this news,” she held her hands together solemnly. “I know not what’s become of her,” Mrs. Claremont shook her head. “She was working on a project for a gentleman for some time, some delicate sashes or the like. There was some confusion about the retrieval, so she offered to take it by for delivery. She never returned. I checked with the client, and he says she never arrived. I put in a report down with the parish constables, but never got word back. Another poor girl, just eaten up by this city.”
“How terrible,” Lawrence falsely lamented. “And there is no news at all?”
“None,” she shook her head again, nervously biting at her lip. “It worries me so.”
“I am sure it is not malicious in nature,” Lawrence consoled her. “She likely wanted to try her hand somewhere else and had not the heart to tell you.”
“One can only hope.”
“How long did she work for you, Mrs. Claremont?”
“Oh,” the woman leaned her head back and forth contemplatively. “Five years perhaps. Not as long as some of our apprentices, but long enough to leave an impression. Came to us from that orphanage down on Grady Street.
“Grady Street,” Lawrence muttered to himself. “Well I am sorry to hear the news, and I know my fellow will be ailed by it as well. I bid you a fair day, Mrs. Claremont.”
“And you, Mr. Seton, keep your ears and eyes out, will you?”
“I certainly shall!” he called back, walking back into the street. “I certainly shall.”
Chapter 17
“Oh, when is Arthur coming back from parliament?” Phyllis groaned. “I cannot take my grandson’s foolishness any longer. He is almost twenty! He should be married!”
“Many gentlemen wait a good deal longer to marry, Your Grace,” Ruth said gently, trying to abide by Phyllis’ delusions. She found it worked most of the time, for after a spell Phyllis would regain her sense of presence and forget all about her flashbacks. Other times, she only continued to descend into a sorrowful track of memories that served to just confuse her a great deal more. As of this morning, it had yet to be seen which direction it would lean.
The guests had left after dinner and after the Duke’s sudden disintegration of any possible courtship between himself and Evelyn. Phyllis was torn that morning, between confusion about why her son did not want to marry a beautiful, rich lady, and over how good it was to have company in the house again.
“Gentlemen are allowed to wait a deal longer, dear girl, when they are not shipping off to war. What should happen if he gets his head blown off by a cannonball?”
“I’m sure he will be a good deal away from the fighting, Your Grace,” Ruth said. She and Mary-Anne were helping move Phyllis from the bed to her morning chair, where she lingered to some time each day before making her slow way down the stairs. Neil had often offered to move her to a room on the ground floor, to make her every day a little easier, but Phyllis would have none of it.
“That’s all anybody ever says about it. I can’t believe Arthur bought him that commission. It will be ruin of the family! Just go and ask any dowager different, hear their sad stories!”
Ruth looked pleadingly to Mary-Anne. Phyllis seemed to be spiralling downward, and in these moments Mary-Anne would methodically brush her stringy hair until she calmed herself down.
“Why don’t we get you ready for breakfast, Your Grace?” Ruth said, and Mary-Anne began to arrange Phyllis’ hair for brushing.
“Breakfast,” Phyllis said, letting the word drift into emptiness, then she suddenly came around, forgetting all of her puzzlement over when she was. “Kaitlin has lessons with Mr. Eddington today.”
Ruth smiled over at Mary-Anne who seemed to always have the magic touch with the old lady.
“That’s right, Your Grace,” Ruth said. “Betsey is getting her dressed now.”
“Good, good,” Phyllis said. “Now what about that breakfast?”
The pair helped Phyllis down the stairs ever so slowly and set her in her breakfast seat.
“Fetch her egg, would you, Emily?” Ruth asked, and Mary-Anne nodded curtly, turning off into the kitchen, and abruptly came face to face with the Duke.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, jumping back. “Excuse me, Emily, so sorry,” he stumbled over his words.
If Mary-Anne could speak, she would have done the same. She felt her stomach flutter up around her heart, and she knew in a matter of seconds she would be blushing. She lashed out at herself — why must I always become so red?
The Duke was just as flustered, unsure about what to do. The two of them were standing very close together in the door frame, but instead of backing up, they each moved to the side. Of course, they moved to the same side, then back again, and then they were both blushing as they repeatedly blocked each other. Finally, Mary-Anne took a step back, and the Duke crossed through the doorway, tripping himself up on one of his toes, recovering, and then rushing away embarrassed.
Mary-Anne rushed through the door as soon as he was gone, rubbing her palms down the front of her dress to dry away the sweat. She had never stood so close to him before, and there in his aura, she had felt an overwhelming excitement.
“Watch where you walk, Emily!” Thomas scolded, breaking her out of the trance she had begun immersing herself in. “You should never be in His Grace’s way! Ever! Do you unde
rstand?”
Mary-Anne nodded vigorously with a serious stare, and this seemed to suit Thomas’ need for an apology.
“Very well,” he said. “See that it doesn’t happen again,” and he went through the kitchen door with the Duke’s breakfast on a platter.
Mary-Anne composed herself again, making sure her hair and dress were straight and then began to prepare the small tray of an egg, a piece of toasted bread, and a cup of tea.
“What was that?” Ruth asked, walking in behind Mary-Anne. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the Duke so flustered.”
Mary-Anne tried to curb her smile, resulting in the accentuation of her dimples, and again, she blushed. I cannot hide anything, she thought.
“Oh, I see,” Ruth said slyly, leaning against the counter. “What’s going on there? You don’t know anything about that business with the young lady yesterday, do you?”
Mary-Anne cocked her head and put one hand on her hip, hoisting the tray up in her other. She squinted her eyes a bit in a challenging way, despite them peering out over her ruby red cheeks.
“Oh alright, be that way,” Ruth said, waving her hand dismissively. “But if you ever start talking, we will have so much to talk about,” Ruth said, and winked, before turning to hold the door open for Mary-Anne. “Breakfast, Your Grace,” she called to Phyllis.
Mary-Anne hurried out to set down the food, but she couldn’t think past the Duke’s startled, charming face, and his embarrassed scurry through the dining room. Perhaps, she thought, he may have some sort of feelings for me after all?
Chapter 18
Julian Bastable was exhausted. He had been clear across the Southern English countryside and back again in the past several weeks. He had spent most of his pocketbook on lodging houses and continuous carriage rides, and he was feeling the strain of so much fast-paced travel.
It was October now, he thought, and everything was almost in place for the spring shearing. Of course, he would have to wait all winter to see the fruits of his labors, but he didn’t mind. It was a necessary wait. It was no different than waiting to hear of a ship sent to the West Indies, or America, for that matter. Still, something clawed at him. The Setons. He knew they would not rest until he was broke and humiliated — two places he never planned to be again.
Still, their perseverance disturbed him. It had become more than personal. What had started as a dispute between two young merchants about a foolish storefront had grown into some absurdist, classist vendetta against the ambitious, at least that was how Julian saw it. He would not allow them to get the better of him.
Another thing that troubled him was his fiancé. He had not seen her in weeks, and she was nowhere to be found. Of course, they were not truly engaged, but Julian had made up his mind that he would marry that woman, no matter what the cost. It was not his fault that she did not understand his intentions; he only wanted to give her the life she deserved and was capable of.
“Getting dark, sir,” Randolph said, interrupting Julian’s train of thought.
“What?” Julian looked at Randolph as if he were in a fog.
“I said it’s getting dark, sir,” Randolph said, raising his voice.
“Yet again you prove yourself to have a pair of eyes,” Julian sneered. “What of it?”
“Are we going to stop for the night?”
“Yes,” Julian said, realizing how distracted he had been. “Where are we?”
“Someplace between Surrey and Rutland.”
“That’s a wide range.”
“You were asleep for some time, sir,” Randolph said sheepishly. “I don’t know the country all too well.”
“No?” Julian mocked. “Pity.”
After a brief consultation with the coachman, they agreed to stop at a boarding house that was known to the driver, about a mile to their north. Julian paid him his daily wages regretfully and took up at a large table to journal some more. Before his pencil could strike the page, he was again interrupted by Randolph’s curious voice.
“The owner says were near to Rutland,” Randolph said. “Is that like the Duke of Rutland? The man from your office?”
“How very astute of you, Master Randolph,” Julian gripped. “Yes, they are one and the same.”
“Perhaps we should pay him a visit,” Randolph said. “Since we’re in the area.”
“Maybe we oughtn’t do anything,” Julian said. “This is my business, not yours. Why would I want to pay that grouch a visit? He is a sad, lonely man.”
Randolph resisted the urge to compare the two in that respect and shook his head apologetically.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he said. “Not my place.”
“Truly,” Julian said, looking back down to his journal. Again, he was interrupted just before he started by the common house’s owner coming to take their orders for rest and a meal.
While Julian paid the man, he looked down into his pocketbook despairingly. He had plenty more money, but it was all back in London and would take up a full day to retrieve it. The Duke of Rutland, however, was just a jaunt over in the morning, and Julian reckoned he could provide a short-term loan. With that extra money, he could complete his loop without losing a day and thus defeat the Seton’s in this little race. Little did he know, the Seton’s had already diverted back to London, driven ahead by their new scheme. So, Julian gave Randolph a letter addressed to the Duke, rented a fast horse, and sent him off to bring back a reply.
Dear Your Grace the Duke of Rutland,
Your Grace, I write to you humbly from a public house nearby to your estate. I have been busy expanding our wool endeavor across the countryside and find myself in need of temporary assistance from someone such as yourself. If you would permit me to pay your estate a visit tomorrow, I could explain more.
Sincerely,
Julian Bastable
He returned in three hours’ time, long past the setting of the sun, with a letter from the Duke.
Mr. Bastable,
We will make ready for your arrival tomorrow. I have been waiting to hear from you concerning my payment.
The letter was stamped with the Duke’s seal, and Julian sat puzzling over what he meant by payment. Julian had quit London so quickly, he had never received the Duke’s correspondence about the fire and was hence unaware that a large amount of wool he expected in the spring would not, in fact, be delivered.
The next morning, Julian gave the driver orders to ride on to the Rutland estate, which he did with great grumblings expertly hidden from his employer. The rolling wheel house rambled along the country roads, winding up at Neil’s elegant manor home.
When they arrived in the driveway, they were met by Mr. Marton, and Thomas led them into the parlour.
“His Grace is in his study,” Thomas said, leading them down a hallway. He kept a watchful eye on the young Randolph who ogled the fine wallpaper and framed paintings with clear curiosity. It was likely the nicest house he had set foot in, and in the recent weeks, he had seen a fair share of extravagant homes.
Thomas knocked twice on the study doors and said, “Your Grace, Mr. Bastable to see you.”
“Send him in, Thomas,” the Duke called back. Thomas opened the door and ushered Julian inside. Randolph went to follow, and Thomas cleared his throat a bit, halting him in his tracks. Thomas shut the door behind Julian and steered Randolph off to the kitchen where he could keep an eye on him.
“Mr. Bastable,” the Duke said from behind his great, wooden desk. He stood with the same intimidating demeanour as when he scolded the children for starting the fire, but unknown to Julian, it was unintentional. Sometimes the Duke forgot how tall he was in relation to others; one of the effects of a nearly entire withdrawal from society that had only recently begun to reverse. “I am glad to see you. I was beginning to wonder if you had received my letter.”
“Well of course, for here I am, Your Grace,” Julian said, furrowing his brow. What was he talking about?
“I sent you a letter about a week ago,
” the Duke said. “Did you not receive it?”
“I am sorry to say that no, Your Grace, I have been away from London these past two weeks.”
“But you only just said that you are here about my letter.”
“Well, erm, yes, Your Grace, I mean the letter that came by the evening previous.”
“Ah, yes, well then,” the Duke said. “I am sorry to give you bad news. We had some trouble, you see.”
“Trouble?” Julian inquired.
“You see, a fire burned down much of my tenant property. It was a true episode. Many cottages were destroyed, a very terrible event.”
The Unusual Story of the Silent Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 11