by Zoë Archer
After Olivia had sent him packing from the salon, or whatever she called that room filled with dustcatchers, he knew he couldn’t go back up to his room and sit like a horse out to pasture. He’d never had a place all to himself that was so big before, with its huge brass bed and a whole water closet all to himself—no outhouse for a lady’s home—but even with its high ceilings and tall windows, his room felt too closed in, too small. Aside from the two weeks at sea, he’d never spent much time indoors, and all this going from roof to roof had made him itchy, so he went to the one place he could loosen up.
“You must miss being on horseback,” Olivia said, her husky voice breaking the silence.
“Cowboys don’t take kindly to walkin’,” he answered. “That’s for dudes and townfolk.”
“And riding in carriages?”
“Only the cook in the chuck wagon did that.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Did you sell your horse before coming to England?”
“Never had one of my own. The outfit supplied ’em for the trails or the ranch.”
“But you brought your own saddle.”
He ran his hand along the smooth curve of the horse’s neck. “A saddle’s somethin’ special, a man’s private property. The one thing that shows his pride, his success, where’s he’s been and where he’s goin’.” He finally looked back up at her, to see her gazing at him thoughtfully. “When a man gives up punchin’ cattle, he sells his saddle.”
“It’s a beautiful saddle,” she said. “I hope you don’t sell it quite yet.”
Feeling oddly disagreeable, he continued to groom the trim, gleaming horse, trying to lose himself in the familiar action. But he kept seeing Graham Lawford’s undisguised suspicion and Charlotte Gough’s fretting, reminding him that he was very far from anything familiar. But that was what he was in England to do—find that sense of family, somehow. It was only Olivia’s presence that made the whole lot bearable.
“Charlotte wanted to apologize for her poor manners earlier,” Olivia said, coming closer. She didn’t seem to mind the dirt of the stable, crossing over the hay and clumps of feed to stand just on the other side of the horse.
“Nothin’ to apologize for,” he replied instinctively.
“She was uneasy and forgot herself.” She ran her fingers through the horse’s black mane, and he found himself fascinated by the sight of her slim, pale fingers weaving in and out of the darkness.
“Words don’t much bother me,” he said.
“You may not dine at the Reform Club, but you deserve courtesy and respect.” She sighed. “Which is more than rumor will allow. Sometimes I think we parvenus are more protective of the social pecking order than the nobility. I suppose it’s born out of fear.”
She had the most surprising mind, and fingers as pretty as music. “Fear of what?”
“Insufficiency, I suppose.” She frowned as she worked out a knot in the horse’s mane. “That somehow we aren’t as good as those whose manners we ape. So we beat down anyone in our path, anyone who is different or who doesn’t precisely adhere to codes of behavior.”
“Like cowboys.”
“Or women who run breweries.” Olivia braced her arms on the horse’s back and looked at Will. The filtered light through the open stable doors turned her skin pearly and her eyes smoky amethyst. “Charlotte invited you and me over to her house for a small dinner party tonight,” she said. “It’s short notice, but she thinks that the longer you stay mysterious, the more speculation will arise.”
“Trottin’ me out to meet the mishpokheh?”
She smiled. “Something like that. And, having you in public will send a message to George Pryce, show that we won’t be cowed by him.” Then her smile faded and she asked, concerned, “I told her yes, but if it makes you too uncomfortable, I can easily send our regrets.”
Will wasn’t that wild about spending the evening with a bunch of folks like Graham Lawford, all of them watching him like a prized steer in a pen and waiting to see what the rube might do wrong. But he wanted to hash up Pryce’s schemes. And Will could see that, despite what she said, going to this dinner meant a lot to Olivia. He didn’t want to disappoint her.
“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll put on my best bib and tucker and we can stick it in everyone’s eye.”
Olivia reached over and took Will’s hand, and it amazed him how such a soft hand as hers could burn him like a brand. “Thank you, Will. I think you might actually enjoy yourself. Stranger things have happened. But,” she added, a line appearing between her eyebrows, “what exactly constitutes your ‘best bib and tucker?’”
“You’ve already seen it, though I’ve got a clean bandana I ain’t worn yet.”
“I think,” Olivia said with a little grimace, “it’s time we headed to Saville Row.”
Olivia’s only experience with men’s clothing arose from her trips to outfit David, and so she and Will headed to Roddam & Sons of Saville Row, Gentlemen’s Fine Furnishings and Haberdashery, and former clothier of Sir David Xavier. It was a lasting tribute to the shop’s fine craftsmanship that David had been attired in a formal black wool suit from Roddam & Sons when he had been buried.
Olivia hadn’t been inside the shop in over five years, but one of its attractions was its sense of tradition and continuity, so nothing at all had changed during her absence. Not the tall, glass-fronted cases displaying top-quality kidskin gloves and folded silk cravats. Not the walls covered in deep green jacquard and hung with gilt-framed hunting scenes. And not the instant solicitation of the clerks, who immediately stepped forward the moment Will and Olivia stepped inside the chiming door, offering their most enthusiastic welcomes.
“Lady Xavier, it’s been so long—”
“So good to see you again, Lady Xavier—”
“How may we assist you today?”
Will looked around with alarm at the swarming salesclerks, their hair gleaming with hundreds of coats of macassar oil, shinier than their tapered shoes, their suits models of sartorial perfection, all of them so refined, such ideals of polished gentility. Yet none of them paid him any mind. His clothing, rough, ready-made and well-worn, clearly indicated that Will Coffin was not the sort of customer with whom Roddam & Sons did business. So the clerks focused all their consideration on her, a regular, respected and well-paying customer.
“I need a suit of evening clothes for my friend, Mr. Coffin,” she said, directing their attention towards him. “And it needs to be ready by this evening.”
The salesclerks didn’t know what to make of this. They stepped back, blinking at one another. Some of the other customers in the shop, a few whom she recognized, began to look over at the commotion, or rather, the lack of commotion.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” she asked in her best finishing school voice.
“None at all, Lady Xavier,” a voice said, and the little swarm of clerks parted to admit Gilbert Roddam, the grandson of the founder of the shop and its present owner. “My assistants are merely assessing the sartorial needs and dimensions of Mr. Coffin.” Peering at Will through his pince-nez, Roddam said with an ingratiating smile, “You are most unusually tall, sir. It will be a challenge and a pleasure to outfit you.”
“Can you have the suit ready by this evening?” she asked.
“The cost will, unfortunately, be greater,” Roddam said with a sad shake of his head, “but certainly it can be accomplished.”
“Just send the bill to me,” she said, which was how she always conducted business.
“I’m payin’,” Will insisted.
Both Olivia and Roddam looked at him in surprise. “It will be quite expensive,” she said. “Roddam’s is one of the most exclusive men’s shops in London.”
Gilbert Roddam beamed.
Yet Will was adamant. “I ain’t going to have you buyin’ me clothes.”
“But—”
His look was steely, determined. “Last time someone bought my clothes for me, I was still learnin’ my
letters,” he said, so low that only she heard.
She stared up into his eyes, icy blue and resolute, and could see what this meant to him. “Of course,” she said after a moment. He gave her a little nod, of approval, thanks, and then turned to Roddam.
“All right,” he drawled, “what do I have to do to get a suit around here?”
“Right this way, sir.” Roddam gestured towards the fitting room in the back. She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth as she watched the ridiculous spectacle of rangy Will, wearing his Stetson and duster, surrounded by smaller, dapper men being led away. Will sensed how ludicrous it must have looked, too, because he sent her a wink before disappearing behind the swinging wooden doors.
A clerk offered her some refreshment, which she declined. Passing the time, she wandered up and down the shop, gazing at the displays of waistcoats, watch chains, collars, and hats of every shape and color. Naturally, undergarments were not displayed, lest anyone of delicate sensibility come into the shop, but she wondered what kind of underwear Will wore. Were they the same kind of linen drawers that David favored? Or perhaps red flannel? Or maybe he wore no underclothing at all.
Olivia pretended interest in a case of hunting gaiters in order to hide her flaming face.
Surrounded as she was by the relics of her husband, she felt David’s disapproval all around her, embodied in the fine gloves, bolts of suiting fabric and wool felt hats. Here she was, standing in the shop he used to frequent and thinking of another man. Another younger man, so far beneath her socially even her servants found his presence alarming.
Absorbed as she was in this disheartening thought, she did not hear the bell on the door ring as it opened to admit a new customer. And she was not aware of anyone approaching her until they stood directly behind her.
“What are you doing here?” a voice hissed.
Whirling around, Olivia found herself looking up at the outraged face of George Pryce. In his gleaming silk top hat and fur-collared Chesterfield coat, he was the outward model of aristocratic sophistication. She had not seen him in person since their meeting two months earlier, and the sight of the man who had been causing her so much grief made her blood seethe. If only she could wallop him in the face as she longed to do.
“My business is my own,” she snapped back. “All of my businesses are my own.”
Pryce sneered. “Well spoken, for a bourgeois Bayswater adventurer.”
“Poorly said, for a vainglorious, grasping Mayfair princeling.” She wondered if she could swing one of the mannequins at him.
He took a threatening move closer but seemed to recollect where he was, and stopped himself. She noticed that a few clerks and customers were glancing in their direction. Forcing himself to smile, Pryce said through his teeth, “You may as well cease your fight, Mrs. Xavier. It is impossible to say no to me. And eventually, I will win. Either you can sell me the brewery now, or face your ruin.”
“I don’t much care for those choices,” she replied coldly.
“You’re lucky you even have a choice,” Pryce muttered. “But you won’t for much longer.”
“These threats bore me.” She turned away and feigned interest in a foulard cravat.
Pryce seized her shoulder to spin her around. His face had turned an alarming shade of red and his eyes bulged slightly. “Nobody turns their back on George Pryce,” he snarled.
And then he was lying on his back, clutching his nose and howling. Will stood over him, his hand curled into a fist, wearing a half-assembled suit. Real menace, frightening in its intensity, poured out of him as he loomed over Pryce.
“Don’t touch her,” Will growled.
Clerks, patrons, and even tailors clustered around them as the once-quiet shop filled with excited and nervous chatter. Someone helped Pryce to his feet and handed him a handkerchief, which he held to his bloodied nose.
“What is going on here?” demanded Gilbert Roddam, coming forward. Seeing the spots of blood on Pryce’s handkerchief, Roddam paled. “Fisticuffs? At Roddam & Sons?”
“I want this man arrested!” Pryce insisted.
“I’m going to make you so ugly, even your momma won’t love you anymore,” Will threatened, taking a step forward.
Pryce immediately scuttled back, and Olivia placed a restraining hand on Will’s raised fist. There was no doubt that, if she let him, Will would kill Pryce with only his fists, and gladly. “Will, don’t,” she said, low and quick. “That isn’t the answer.”
“Summon the police at once!” Pryce commanded.
“Yes, do,” she answered. “I am sure they would be interested to hear about you laying hands on me.”
“I did no such thing,” Pryce shot back.
“Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Pryce?”
Gasps of shock ricocheted through the assembled crowd. Nothing could be worse than publicly insulting a lady, and Pryce knew that she’d called his bluff. He would rather endure a fist to the face than suffer damage to his reputation. Muttering, he looked away.
“Can you finish Mr. Coffin’s evening clothes with what you have?” she asked Roddam.
“We have noted all his measurements,” he said, confused, “but, Lady Xavier—”
“Have it sent over to my address as soon as it is finished. Thank you.” In a flash, Will changed out of the half-completed suit and into his former clothes. And then he and Olivia were in her carriage, speeding back towards Princes Square.
“Why didn’t you let me whip that blowhard?” Will asked hotly.
“That’s just what he wants,” she answered. “A direct, personal attack. There’s no way we could defend ourselves if we assaulted him. He’s too powerful.”
Grumbling, Will said, “But it would’ve been so much fun.”
“There is nothing I would love to do more than thrash George Pryce.” She smiled ruefully. “But we’re going to have to find a better way to defeat him. Less satisfying, perhaps, but better. And Will,” she added quietly. He looked up at her. “Thank you.”
He became very interested in studying the cuff of his coat. “That suit was darnedest set of clothes I’ve ever seen. Covered in chalk and pins. Who wears that stuff?”
Thoughtful, melancholy, Olivia said, “It wasn’t finished yet.” And neither are we.
Chapter Eight
Prospect sounds interesting stop cowboy a first stop want half payment up front stop leaving Liverpool on ten o’clock stop Maddox
Olivia looked up and down the row of faces lining the dinner table. She had known them for many years: Charlotte, whom she had met abroad in school, her husband Frederick; as well as eight others, Frederick’s business associates, their wives, one bishop, a Times journalist well-known for his coverage of theater, his niece, and a female advocate for women’s higher education. A lively group, adept in conversation, one step below the aristocracy and conscious of that step. Familiar to her, all of them.
But none of their faces interested Olivia so much as Will’s, at the far end of the table, sitting between Mrs. Paula Creed and Miss Juliette Southchurch. Both ladies’ eyes were fastened on him as though he was one of the Elgin marbles come to life. And who could blame them? He was an impressive sight. In his spotless evening clothes, his hair well combed and his face freshly shaved, he looked like an advertisement for health tonic—the kind of tonic that promised its drinker the ideal of virile masculinity. He was elegantly attired, but even with his starched white shirt, white tie and black coat, there was an undercurrent of wildness in him, something undomesticated and feral, that drew everyone’s gazes to him.
But women especially. Glancing quickly around the table, Olivia saw Charlotte and every other female guest staring with undisguised fascination at him. Olivia had wondered if they were waiting for him to make an error in etiquette.
“That isn’t the correct fork, Mr. Coffin,” one guest had reprimanded him gently earlier.
But Will had only grinned, supremely unconcerned. “It doesn’t make a difference. It’s all goin�
� down my gullet, one way or the other.” Later, he poked at some food on his plate. “What are these?”
“Croquettes,” someone answered.
“They look like prairie oysters,” Will said, spearing one with his fork.
“What are those?”
Will gave the table a wink. “That ain’t a topic for mixed company.” Some tittering followed, but these small lapses only added to his intrigue.
It wasn’t his manners that drew everyone in. From the beginning of the dinner, somehow Will managed to dwarf every man in the room with his presence without even saying a word. Yet he wasn’t silent for long. No one could resist peppering the cowboy with questions.
“Is it true,” Paula Creed was asking, “that you’ve seen red savages? And that they go about,” she giggled, “naked?”
“I’ve known plenty of Indians, ma’am,” Will answered. “And some of ’em are what you might call savage, but a good number just want to be left in peace. As for bein’ naked,” he continued with a smile, gesturing towards her low décolletage with his fork, “I believe you’re wearin’ less than most squaws.”
This sent Paula into another round of giggles, with Juliette and the other women joining in. Olivia, however, wasn’t laughing. She gazed down at her plate where her canard à la rouennaise lay largely untouched. By keeping Will as far from her as possible, Charlotte was ensuring that there could be no speculation on Olivia and Will’s relationship. Yet Olivia had the strangest sensation that, relegated as she was to the other end of the table, she was in exile somehow from his bright warmth. In fact, her bare arms and deep neckline felt chilled despite the overheated room.
“Your Mr. Coffin is quite, ah, colorful,” Edward Baffin, the journalist, said beside her. “I had no idea Americans could be so charming.”
She turned her attention to her dining companion and made herself smile brightly. “Indeed, he is,” she agreed. She told herself that her unease was on Will’s behalf, feeling anxiety for him. But she knew that wasn’t the truth. She had been to hundreds of dinner parties just like this one. They were part of a world she knew exceptionally well.