by Jane Ashford
“And insulting respectable women with your disgusting suggestions,” said Teresa in a voice meant to carry down the street.
“Stealing from honest folk who’ve worked hard to get what they have,” cried the greengrocer’s wife from the front of her shop.
The pub owner stepped from a shadow, hefting a cudgel. He looked more than capable of using it. Dilch’s eyes rolled to take in the extent of his adversaries. He let the apple core fall as if hoping no one would notice it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he blustered. “This is outrageous. Unhand me, lout.”
“Lout, is it?” The builder shook him a little.
Dilch’s wife and mother-in-law surged forward. They were small, stoutly built women, neatly but not lavishly dressed. Their bonnets and gloves spoke of determined respectability. Here was the crux of the matter, Teresa thought. She hoped that their scene would have the desired effect. Of course it could go wrong in several ways.
“If you come into this street again, you’ll suffer the same treatment you’ve handed out,” the builder told Dilch. “Only more so!” With a final shake he released him.
“What are you doing, Mr. Dilch?” said the man’s wife. She glared at Teresa.
Teresa cast her eyes down, took a step back, looked as pious as a nun, and said nothing. This was a precarious point.
“You said as how you had a job coming up,” the woman added.
“He’s too lazy to find work,” said Mrs. Dilch’s mother.
“I was just on my way to inquire about it,” Dilch claimed.
“You hit a child,” said Mrs. Dilch. Her emphasis on the last word suggested a long, sad tale.
Dilch didn’t seem to notice. “A grubby street urchin,” he said with a dismissive gesture.
Next to him, the builder growled. Dilch shifted quickly away from him.
“What about her?” asked Mrs. Dilch, indicating Teresa with a flick of her fingers.
He rolled his eyes at Teresa, ogling as if this was an irresistible reflex. “I can’t help it if the women come after me,” he replied.
Clearly this was a man who engineered his own doom. Teresa blinked with astonished respectability. “Come after?” called the greengrocer’s wife, her voice full of outrage. “Run when they see you coming, more like. With your pinches and your filthy talk.”
“Shut your mouth, slattern,” replied Dilch reflexively. Then, at last seeming to take in the panorama of glares surrounding him, he hunched.
“He’s doing it again, Catherine,” cried his mother-in-law. “He’s going to shame us. I’ve had my fill and more of picking up and moving, just when we’re settled, because of this gormless idiot’s tricks. I told you not to marry him.” She grasped one of Dilch’s sleeves, looking as if she wished it was his ear.
Dilch sputtered defiance. “Now then, dearie,” he said to his wife. “You know that last move weren’t my fault.”
“The butcher chased you home with a cleaver because you insulted his wife!” The man’s mother-in-law jerked at his coat.
Mrs. Dilch hesitated.
“Put a hand up her skirt when she turned to fetch the round of beef you weren’t actually buying,” the older woman added.
Her daughter scowled. She grabbed Dilch’s free arm, and the two women began to drag him away. The older one’s scolding voice could be heard all the way to the corner of the street.
Teresa watched them go. If Dilch showed defiance or a hint of retribution, she would have to plan further action. But the bully didn’t look back. He cringed and whined and grew increasingly cowed. She was as sure as she could be that he wouldn’t be back to this street, though other London thoroughfares might not be so fortunate.
The pub owner caught her eye, nodded, and tapped the palm of his empty hand with his cudgel. Teresa nodded acknowledgment. Dilch was vanquished here. They’d done it.
Eliza popped up at her side. “That was prime, that was,” the young maid said. Her eyes shone with admiration.
Teresa wondered what had happened to make the girl savor vengeance this much. It was not the first time she’d noticed Eliza’s love of rough justice.
People came up to exchange congratulations. The old woman with the canes was crying as she balanced on one of them to squeeze Teresa’s hand. “Thankee, my lady,” she said. “You’ve made some fast friends today and no mistake. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, just say. Not that I’m up to much these days.” She indicated her canes.
Looking around, Teresa saw the same sentiment in the faces of most of her neighbors. These were not the sort of people she had encountered in her youth, except perhaps among her parents’ servants. And exchanges with them had not been the same. She would not have dreamed of joining with them to rout a petty oppressor. She hadn’t known or understood them as she did these neighbors, from living among them.
Through the hard years since her girlhood, she’d rarely had the opportunity to make real friends. And the few she’d found had been swept away by circumstance. But here in her new home she’d become part of a little community. Teresa blinked back tears as she realized how glad and grateful she was to be included.
It was some time before she tore herself away and went to change her dress before going on to the theater workshop. She looked forward to telling Tom about their triumph over the odious Dilch. He’d often wanted to stand up to the bully—or, as he put it, the churlish, swag-bellied moldwarp. She smiled. Tom’s expanding vocabulary entertained all the craftspeople in the shop.
Lord Macklin appreciated it, too, Teresa thought. He always smiled at Tom’s sallies. She’d noticed it more than once in their three conversations in the little courtyard.
Her steps slowed. She shouldn’t remember how often they’d spoken, or recall the earl’s words or expressions. She did not look forward to his appearance in the busy space. She mustn’t. She didn’t!
Teresa stopped walking. A muddled flood of memories overtook her, bringing a queasy feeling in her stomach. What was the lesson she’d learned over and over again? Was it really necessary to repeat it? Men could not be trusted. Particularly, most disastrously, aristocratic men whose position gave them the power to do as they liked. They could not resist using it.
She was not a stupid woman. She’d proved that. She was proud of all that she’d learned and accomplished, and she would do nothing to risk her position.
But others seemed to find love that could be trusted, a forlorn inner voice declared. That couldn’t be all illusion, could it?
A jeering laugh rang in her brain, so strong it almost seemed audible, the product of several male voices whose cold mockery she’d overheard. Love! A pathetic word, an idiot’s weakness. Did little Teresa think to snare an English earl?
Teresa’s hands closed into fists at her sides. “Who spoke of snaring?” she whispered. “Nadie!” She had no such idea, and she rejected, utterly repudiated, anything that threatened her hard-won triumphs.
“Are you all right, miss?”
She turned to find a draper eyeing her with concern from the doorway of his shop.
“Yes. Perfectly all right. Thank you.”
Teresa moved on. No one had spoken of snaring, not even her plaintive interior murmurs, and no one ever would. Perhaps she had enjoyed some parts of her conversations with Lord Macklin. Very well. She would admit this, to herself. It was always best to face the truth. But she didn’t want anything from this handsome earl. She needed nothing from him. And so he had no power over her. He never would. As long as she saw to that, she supposed she could talk with the gentleman now and then.
Reaching the workshop, Teresa shook off her mood, and the past, as she removed her bonnet and gloves. The earl’s visits here were rare and would no doubt end now that London society had begun its annual promenade. Who knew when she would ever see him again? It might be weeks, which was not a disappoi
ntment of any kind. She donned her serenity with her painting apron and picked up a brush.
But some time later, when she was sitting on a bench near the carpenters telling Tom the saga of Dilch, Teresa sensed a presence behind her even before Tom’s gaze strayed. She turned. Lord Macklin was there in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her.
Tom waved to him. “Come and hear how Señora Alvarez sent Dilch packing, the currish, beef-witted clotpole.”
The earl came toward them, and Teresa marveled at his easy manner. By dress, bearing, and social position, the man clearly didn’t belong in a workshop, and yet he had made himself welcome. Artisans greeted him like an old friend. They showed him progress on bits of theatrical paraphernalia he’d admired during past visits. And he replied with what seemed to be genuine interest. She couldn’t detect a trace of condescension or impatience. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t there, she reminded herself. The earl might be better at dissimulation than she was at detecting it. She’d encountered such people before.
“You remember Dilch,” Tom added as he joined them.
Macklin smiled at Teresa, and a shiver ran over her skin as if a length of silk had been trailed over her body. “The attempted vegetable thief,” he said.
“And all-’round sheepbiter,” replied Tom with the air of one agreeing. “But Señora Alvarez taught him a lesson.” Tom gestured to encourage her to go on.
“I and my neighbors,” she said. Though she was more self-conscious with Macklin present, she made a good story of it. Indeed, she relished her description of Dilch being hauled away by his womenfolk.
Her audience seemed to appreciate the picture. Their laughter rang through the workshop. “Bravo,” said the earl.
“Right,” said Tom. “Except for one thing.”
“What?” Teresa wondered what she’d overlooked.
“You all did it without me,” Tom complained.
“Ah.” She’d expected this. “Dilch nearly always came by when you were out,” she answered, indicating the busy space around them.
“Still. It don’t seem fair that I missed all the action.” He looked aggrieved. “I’ve been dying to pay off Dilch.” Tom shook his fist.
And with that, Teresa realized that she’d purposely excluded Tom from the move on the bully. The lad was even more alone in the world than she was, and she hadn’t wanted to risk getting him into trouble. Yes, he had friends who would help him, but why put him in that position? She saw that the earl was looking at her. There seemed to be understanding in his face, and a warmth that unsettled her. She turned away from it. “How are your rehearsals for the play going?” she asked Tom.
“Pretty well,” he replied. “I’ve learnt all my speeches. Not that there’s many. Which I’m just as glad of, to tell you the truth. I don’t see how the main actors commit all them…those words to memory.”
“But you are enjoying being onstage?” asked Macklin.
“I am.”
When Tom grinned in that wholehearted way, you couldn’t help smiling back, Teresa thought. Good humor simply shone out of him.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you,” said Macklin.
“Thank you, my lord.” His grin widened. “If you was moved to give me a cheer at the end, I wouldn’t say no.”
The earl laughed. “Certainly.”
“I should get back to work,” said Teresa, rising.
“You’ll be coming to see me as well, won’t you, señora?” asked Tom.
She hadn’t considered the matter, but she realized that she’d like to.
“I reckon his lordship will be hiring a box at the theater,” the lad added.
Lord Macklin gave him a sidelong glance—surprised or amused, Teresa couldn’t tell. “I’ve engaged one for the first night of the play, in fact,” the earl replied.
“There you are then.” Tom looked pleased. “You should join him, señora. You wouldn’t want to go alone. And you can’t mill about with the rabble in the pit.” He said this as if the idea was a rare joke. “It’s all elbows and spitting down there.”
And indignities for any woman who dared the space, Teresa thought, but she couldn’t insert herself into the earl’s party. “I can stand backstage and watch,” she said. She was known at the theater. Surely this would be allowed.
“You’d see my back, mostly, from there,” Tom objected. “You won’t get the full effect.”
“I’d be pleased if you’d join us,” said the earl.
“That’s the ticket,” said Tom.
They looked at her. Teresa began to feel that she was the target of some sort of conspiracy, even though it was clear that the two hadn’t discussed this idea in advance. Who was the us Lord Macklin had referred to?
“I’ve arranged an unexceptionable party,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
Teresa gazed at him. He must know, from the place where he found her, that she was not unexceptionable. Who was this group that could include her? How did he intend to explain her presence?
“The young ladies we met in the autumn will be there,” the earl told Tom.
“Oh, good.” The lad turned back to Teresa. “You’ll like them,” he added. “And they’ll take to you, I wager.” Tom turned back. “Miss Julia Grandison too? Chaperoning, like?”
The earl nodded.
“Ah. Well.”
Teresa couldn’t interpret Tom’s expression. Was this Miss Julia a hazard? Was she important to the earl?
They exchanged a smile that explained nothing to Teresa and then went on to discuss details as if all was settled. They spoke as if her preferences mattered, as if she was the one to be considered when making arrangements. It was a novel, and admittedly pleasant, experience.
And so, although she’d intended to refuse the invitation, somehow, by the end, she’d promised to attend the theater as part of the Earl of Macklin’s party. She told herself she could send regrets later, when he wasn’t right here before her, compelling and persuasive, with Tom egging him on, but she knew she wasn’t going to do that. Her mind had already turned to the gown she might wear and the ornaments that best set it off.
Four
It had felt as complicated as marshaling a small army, Arthur thought, but he had managed the thing. Señora Alvarez was at the play in his company. Though that was mostly due to Tom, he acknowledged. The lad had pushed the scheme before Arthur could open his mouth. An unexpected but welcome boost.
His party filled the large box he’d engaged for the performance nearly to overflowing. He’d placed the four young ladies across the front with the young Duke of Compton. Newcomers to town, they were all eager to see their first play. Their chaperone, Miss Julia Grandison, was behind them at the far end. And he and Señora Alvarez occupied the dimmest corner at the back of the box, close together, publicly private.
She wore a soberly elegant gown of dark blue, as if to fade into the shadows. A lace mantilla held in place by an ornate comb hid her face when she bent her head. She could hardly have done more to obscure her beauty. Arthur knew it was there, however, and he rather liked the idea that it was a secret they shared. At last he had a bit of time to become better acquainted with her. Some people said he possessed charm. He hoped Señora Alvarez might agree by the end of this night.
The young ladies did occasionally shoot inquiring looks in their direction, obviously curious about the foreign lady in their midst. Arthur felt a flash of uneasiness, as if he was awaiting an examination in a subject he barely understood.
Which was ridiculous. He pushed the idea aside. He knew how to make light conversation and pay a graceful compliment. Hostesses thought him an asset at any party. He was a mature man, not an awkward stripling in his first season.
And yet what he found to say to the señora was “I was in Spain once, when I was a boy.” His voice even sounded younger than usual.
“Were
you?” she replied. Her face was difficult to see in the depths of the box, partly shaded by the mantilla.
“Our ship stopped in Málaga after we came through Gibraltar. I remember seeing oranges hanging from trees and being astonished.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “There is the scent, too.”
“The sweetness of the air, yes.”
“Almost like tasting the fruit.”
“But not quite,” he said. “They let me pick it. I ate as many oranges as I could hold.”
Her smile was reminiscent, as if she knew very well what he meant. Arthur enjoyed the beauty of it, and the fact that he’d evoked it. “My mother came from the south of Spain,” she said. “Near Cartagena. We would go there to visit her family in the winter.”
He nodded to encourage more confidences.
“The sea was so different,” she went on. “Soft and blue and friendly. Not like the rough waves of Santander.”
Her chagrin at mentioning this city was obvious. Clearly, she wished to reveal as little as possible about herself. It was frustrating. “Cartagena must be rather like Málaga,” Arthur said to keep her story flowing.
She raised dark brows.
“Both on the Mediterranean Sea and…southern.” This managed to sound both inane and naive. He gritted his teeth.
“How old were you when you made your journey?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“Ten. My father wanted us to see Greece, the whole family, that is. So he packed us up and set off.”
“How original.”
“He was full of ideas and enthusiasms. There were times when I chafed against his schemes, but I think now that I couldn’t have had a better father.”
Señora Alvarez blinked, then bent her head. The edge of her lace mantilla fell across her cheek so that he couldn’t see her expression, but he knew the smile had died. He remembered that she’d lost her family in the war. He should have chosen some other topic of conversation.