Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances

by Beverley Oakley

  The fact that he said she looked like her mother sent shards of joy shooting through her. She’d heard it before but never expected to hear it again in such circumstances.

  “And what a pleasure it is to finally make your acquaintance as an adult. My only child,” he added, regarding her with his head on one side as a waiter handed him a menu. “Strange, but I never imagined us meeting like this. It was a shock to learn of your existence when I unexpectedly bumped into your mother all those years ago. It was on a staircase. You’d not remember it, of course, being only a little girl at the time, but…” A shadow crossed his face. “I was newly married at the time. Nevertheless, I was terribly affected by our reunion. And the knowledge I had a child.”

  It was not the speech she’d been expecting, though in truth Charity didn’t know what she’d expected.

  She didn’t know what to say.

  He cleared his throat. “I told your mother I’d never forgotten her. That I’d look after her. Look after you both.”

  Charity hadn’t remembered that. But then, she’d not heard the conversation that had caused her mother to cry.

  “Then…why didn’t you?” she asked, resentment swelling inside.

  “Your mother was too proud to become my mistress, I suppose.” Her father shrugged. “Though she wavered. She nearly came with me that day. I was sorry she didn’t. Of course, you’d remember nothing of this.”

  Charity remembered everything. Why had her mother made such a fateful decision. It hadn’t brought her any joy. Charity had happily become Hugo’s mistress and they’d enjoyed a deep and abiding love for nearly two years.

  She felt the tears sting the back of her eyelids. Even if she had her time again she’d never wish for respectability and virtue over what she’d had with Hugo.

  Her father had resumed talking. “Then, a few days ago, your friend, Mr Adams, contacted me out of the blue, told me that my daughter was in a spot of difficulty and, just as a reminder as to your identity, brandished a very competent pen and ink drawing which, he said, captured your image brilliantly. As I must say, it does.”

  Charity nodded in acknowledgement as she plucked at her skirts beneath the table, barely able to concentrate when the waitress came to take their order. What could she say to that? She’d expected him to deny paternity. She’d been expecting resistance. It’s why she’d never had the courage to contact him before.

  “I think my mother was always in love with you.” Charity looked him in the eye. “Why did you leave her the first time? She said you’d promised to marry her.”

  Mr Riverdale — for he’d given her no direction as to what she should call him — stroked his moustache as he gave the matter thought. “I was not the marrying kind — at the time. Quite frankly, I lied to her. I’m not proud of it.” Then he smiled and Charity could see the devastating effect he must have had on her mother all those years ago. For his smile transformed him into a strikingly handsome man who seemed to have eyes only for the one upon whom he bestowed his smile. Yes, he was charming.

  Dangerously so, and here was all the reason Charity had not to trust him as her mother had. Despite her high hopes, he’d bring her nothing but disappointment.

  “You broke my mother’s heart,” Charity whispered, unable to look him in the eye and very glad that their soup had arrived.

  “I’m led to believe I broke the hearts of quite a few hopeful young ladies.” He picked up his soup spoon and began to eat. “However, you are, to my knowledge, my only child. My wife died last year and I’ve not yet been inclined to remarry though that will no doubt happen at some stage. In the meantime, it is rather a novelty to know I have a daughter. Especially such a beautiful one. Indeed, one who has garnered a good deal of novelty over the past couple of months.”

  Charity’s tried to turn an unladylike snort into a delicate cough. “How can that be? I’ve barely left the house.” She gathered her courage and asked, “Do you know where I live?”

  “Mr Adams wouldn’t tell me and, quite frankly, I don’t want to know. I’m not interested in your sorry tale of penny-pinching and poverty but I am interested in what can be of benefit to both of us.” He dabbed at his moustache with his napkin. “Excellent soup this. Do you like leek and cauliflower? Good. But yes, apparently your painting has garnered a reputation as a point of discussion for the young men who pass a certain hoarding on a busy street corner in Soho. Not just the men, either, I’m told.”

  Charity frowned, not understanding him but not interrupting as he went on, “Usually the posters are removed or plastered over but this one — and the poster of the lovely young lady touting the benefits of her electric corset — have proved especially popular and have remained.”

  “What on earth can you mean? A poster on a hoarding? An electric corset?” Charity felt her face burning.

  Her father leaned back in his chair and grinned, a gold eyetooth in evidence. He looked prosperous and at ease. Yet what suffering he’d caused her mother. She reigned in her resentment because she had no other choice. Only her father could save her now, it seemed.

  “Yes, Mr Adams took me there and while I was admiring your excellent likeness, I was informed of these facts I’ve just told you by a number of the gentlemen — and some ladies, too — many of whom evinced wonder and admiration when I told them I was acquainted with the young lady. A young lady, I informed them, who was gaining quite a reputation for her piquant looks and shapely dimensions.”

  “Mr Riverdale, how can you tell me such things? Patently they’re not true! And it’s scandalous!”

  Her companion put out his hand to calm Charity though his smile had a more instant effect. “Mr Riverdale.” He repeated her words, his expression quizzical. “How formal that sounds when I know, now, what you are to me. And yet, I would not have you call me father.” Taking a final sip of his soup, he looked regretful. “Not in public, at least. No, I’m afraid there is no advantage to either of us in acknowledging who and what we are to one another.”

  Charity felt her stomach clench at his callous words. Like most men, he was interested only in how he could use her. “How could my mother have fallen in love with you?” She didn’t care that this might sound the death knell to their brief relationship. The man had no moral fibre.

  “Did she speak of me often?” He seemed entirely unperturbed by Charity’s bitterness.

  For a split-second, Charity considered rising and walking out of the dining room before she realised the consequences of such prideful behaviour.

  She inhaled carefully. Hugo needed to be reassured that she was safe and she could only truly do that if she could garner some funds to tide her over the next few weeks. Regardless of what she thought of Mr Riverdale — her father — she had to be civil. She had to court his good nature and if he saw some means to profit by her it surely could not be as bad as the way Madame sought to profit by her.

  “My mother spoke of you all the time. Well, on the few occasions I saw her, for of course she could not keep a child and stay in work. My grandmother housed me while I looked after a mentally deficient relative. I did that until I came to London to find work.”

  “Good, I was going to get to all of that. And, will return, I assure you. First, though, I truly am sorry for what your mother went through. If it’s any consolation, I was deeply in love with her, too.” He had the grace to at least try to look regretful. “It’s true, I had mentioned marriage but this was before I came of age when my head was filled with romantic nonsense. Maybe I would have followed through but I can’t be sure.”

  “You abandoned my mother and left to bring up a child, alone and without support!”

  Mr Riverdale sent her a cautionary look. “My dear, do not berate me for what you cannot know. I had no idea your mother was pregnant when I boarded a boat for my tour of the Continent.”

  “She wrote!”

  “I doubt my mother forwarded her letters. Listen, Charity — and goodness, that name hardly has the ring of gentility about
it — marriage with your mother was not something I’d have entered into due to the inequity of our respective stations, though maybe I bandied the word around loosely in conversation with her. But I do have some scruples and I certainly wouldn’t have simply abandoned her had I known about you. But I was young and foolish. Anyway, now that I have the chance to atone, I will do so.”

  Pique and relief swept through Charity at the same time, followed by a wave of concern. What might she have to do in return for his assistance? He had not just offered to support her, outright, after all.

  She must have been transparent for he laughed. “Your artist friend has managed to convey that pretty face of yours quite exquisitely in all your moods. Those sketches and paintings are a treasure trove. His poems and drawings of foreign lands are quite extraordinary, too, I must say.”

  Charity couldn’t believe what he was saying. “I’ve seen no poems or drawings of foreign lands,” she gasped. “Mr Cyril Adams has kept them from me, hasn’t he? How dare he do so! He cheated Hugo, you know. You cannot believe a word he says.” She paused, adding dubiously, “Though he claims to be trying to reform himself. And he did seek you out so I suppose he’s been some help.”

  “That is a very grudging acceptance of his role in our reunification and not to be downplayed, my dear, for he has useful connections. Indeed, we both have in our respective provinces. However, to return to the part you will play, might I point out that pouting does not become you. When you finally meet and greet all of those who are mad to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Adams Girl, muse of the acclaimed artist who has been banished by his cruel father to far-flung empires where he’s in danger of dying of a broken heart, you can’t be adopting any such childish affectations. Now come along, flash me a smile of allure, or outrage or simple gratitude. Oh, never mind!” He picked up his knife and fork to begin on the sole that had just been put in front of him. “We have plenty of time to work on it. I’ll have you coached to perfection before you are ready to face your public.”

  Chapter 12

  Hugo removed his panama hat and slicked back his sweat-soaked hair before taking to the steps of the modest bungalow he’d called home during the one hundred miles of railway track construction he was overseeing.

  Despite the heat and humidity, the last three weeks had been bearable. His uncle had been on a visit to Madras where he’d been consulting with investors of the private railway construction he and his brother had established a decade earlier.

  Trade was in their blood. Maximising profits and exploiting their workers was in their blood.

  But when Hugo looked at a ledger, his eyes couldn’t focus.

  Of course, he’d done as he’d been directed to do. He’d had little choice, after all; and none when his uncle had been in residence. Eight months in the sun, on horseback and on foot, overseeing the painstaking laying of hundreds of miles of railway track had browned his skin and given him strength and bulk.

  His footsteps provided the signal for the household servants to begin the evening ritual that brought some relief after his daily rigours and as he stepped onto the verandah the punkawallah was in place with his fan while his gin and tonic was brought in on a tray.

  For the past few weeks, the servants hadn’t been so assiduously punctual but their master was expected any minute. Their real master. The one who paid their wages, beat them when they did not please him and turned them out onto the streets on a whim.

  Hugo had as much fear and contempt of Septimus Adams as any of his Indian staff.

  But fortunately, his uncle was not yet returned and he could enjoy a quiet drink in contemplation of the beautiful sunset and reflection of what he’d left behind in England.

  A small boy trailing after his mother on the front lawn as she picked twigs from the ground captured his attention. When Hugo noticed the monkey observing them from above, he knew he had to sketch the scene.

  It wasn’t often that his fingers weren’t itching to record some amusing vignette, or to paint the magical colours of this overwhelming country.

  He rose and went to the large desk where he kept his writing and painting implements. Of course, he had to conduct another search for any correspondence that might have been delivered while he’d been out. But there was nothing, only a pile of business letters addressed to his uncle, including one in his father’s hand.

  Hugo stared at it. A ship had delivered the latest post from England but, again, there was nothing from Charity.

  It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t have forgotten him so quickly when every minute of every day an image of her sweet face sustained him throughout whatever unpalatable task he must perform in his father and uncle’s mercantile interests.

  For a moment he just stood staring at the neatly stacked piles of correspondence awaiting his uncle’s attention. There would be profit and loss statements, invitations to social events, requests for business consideration. All the day to day matters that meant nothing to Hugo while in his hand he clutched the simple parchment and charcoal that gave his existence meaning.

  Actually, these were just the outward manifestations of any meaning. When it came to the true and deep nourishment of his soul, he needed the warm, human connection of the only good person who’d ever touched his life.

  He needed Charity.

  The vision of her that swam before his eyes was so real and intense, he thought he was being possessed by the devil when it dissolved the moment he reached out a hand to grasp it.

  That’s how it was with dreams.

  With a cry of frustration, he flung his arms wide before covering his face with his hands. The sketching materials flew into the air and hit the wall, falling to the floor as Hugo sank to his knees.

  What was wrong with him? It had been nine months since he’d seen his beloved and every day only increased his torment. In the darkness of his thoughts, she continually returned to him, her expression at first shy, then gaining in confidence before she held out her arms to draw him to her breast.

  But she wasn’t here. And Hugo had no idea how she was faring. All he could do was send her his wages, which he channelled through a trusted servant to bypass his uncle. Until he heard back from Charity that his support was no longer needed, he’d keep sending her money for what else was going to keep her from the streets?

  What else but his assistance would save her from that which terrified her more than anything else: becoming like Madame Chambon’s other girls.

  The soft tread of a servant brought him to his senses. Wearily he rose, casting about for his scattered tools of trade. He’d sketch to keep the demons at bay.

  The boy and his mother were gone but Charity’s vision could be conjured up with ease. He’d take his paper and his charcoal, relax in a cane chair on the verandah where the afternoon breeze cooled him after a day of physical exertion, and he’d do what he loved. He’d find peace and try to keep at bay the knowledge that he still had to endure another year here before he was his own man.

  Placing his parchment on the table surface, he glanced towards the desk and saw his piece of charcoal wedged between it and the wall. He went back, crouching down so he could run his hand along the gap until it encountered resistance.

  But as his fingers grasped the object, it was not a drawing implement he withdrew but a letter.

  Unopened, he saw as he held it up.

  And addressed to him in Charity’s hand.

  The pounding of his heart was loud in his ears as he returned to his private nook on the verandah, ripping the envelope with no finesse in his haste to learn the most up-to-date information to be had about the girl he loved.

  But upon scanning the date, he realised this had not come in the last post only to have inadvertently slipped off the desk and out of sight.

  It had been written five months before, just as Charity was preparing to embrace the spring.

  With terror and foreboding, he soon discovered, as he scanned the lines of tiny writing.

  By God, Cy
ril had been pestering her, persuading her of the comforts he could provide Charity if Hugo failed to live up to his promises to send her what meagre financial assistance he could.

  He couldn’t stay seated, such was his anger and agitation.

  Cyril was a snake in the grass and Hugo had been a fool to have taken at face value the lie that his motivation in cheating and ruining his cousin was simply so he’d not be the one to accompany his father to India.

  No, Cyril had always had his eye on the main chance. And with Hugo out of the way, he thought he could make a play for Charity. Not just because Charity was the girl Hugo loved but because Charity was pure and untainted by the grubbiness of life and there was some perverse streak in Cyril that made him want to sully whatever goodness came his way.

  “Hot in the sun, eh?”

  He’d not heard his uncle enter the room and he looked up with undisguised loathing as the older man removed his panama hat as he made for a cane chair.

  Hugo stepped forward, brandishing the letter under his uncle’s nose as if it were a weapon.

  “How many more of these have you kept from me?” he asked softly. It was not often his temper rose to the fore with such fire and fury. But he had to contain himself. His uncle had a mind that worked like his father’s. He enjoyed outbursts because he was in a position to quell them swiftly and effectively. He was physically stronger and he controlled the finances.

  Hugo took stock, realising how much his own physique had changed compared to a year ago. Since the Christmas they’d left, age had diminished his uncle. His hair was thinning, and more white than gray as it had been when they’d arrived in this country. He seemed to have shrunk, physically.

  Meanwhile, though Hugo was not exactly strapping, he was, without doubt, stronger, more powerful than his uncle. And he could feel the urge to use this newfound strength; to do violence, tingling in his fingertips.

  But violence would achieve nothing. It was not going to give him the answers he demanded right now. His uncle was obdurate and wily. He liked to taunt and he’d taunt Hugo by withholding the information Hugo was so desperate for, unless Hugo played him just right.