Love Regency Style

by Samantha Holt

  She was unhappy to note that the carriage windows were tightly shut preventing her from observing the streets in broad daylight. If the shutters were opened she was informed, it was only a matter of time before they were covered in black mud splashed by the wheels of wagons, drays and other carriages passing by. Although the shutters concealed the view from her eager eyes, they could do nothing about the sounds assaulting their ears.

  Clattering wheels on cobblestones, peeling church bells, shouting children, off-key musicians strumming away on badly tuned instruments, yodelling flower girls and milk maids, sailors, pirates and thieves yelling creative curses, and hawkers screeching their wares, made a racket out on the streets that nicely provided fodder for Penelope’s imagination. She sat back listening to it all in delight.

  Anne had stuffed her ears with wool, and the duke had closed his eyes feigning sleep. The carriage meandered on its way, turning sharply every time someone dashed across the road. It dipped and rose over the potholes on well-sprung wheels.

  Penelope soon grew impatient. The congestion on the roads was terrible making their progress slow, and the din outside sounded so exciting. She could not wait to get out and explore.

  She wondered if she could pluck the wool out of Anne’s ears, then thought better of it. Instead, she asked the duke how long it would be before they arrived. A muscle twitched next to his mouth, the only indication that she had been heard and ignored. She eyed him irritably. How could a beautiful woman like Lady Lydia want to marry a man like him? She continued staring at him hoping that he would feel her eyes on him and answer her question.

  For a while she meditated over this last thought. How did people know when they were being watched? It was a little strange and more than a little creepy. Eyes did not have rays like the sun that poked a person in the neck to alert them as to another’s regard. She squinted. If there were heated rays shooting out of her eyes, then perhaps squinting would strengthen their effect and burn a hole through the duke’s splendid white shirt. Oddly, she did not want to look directly at his face. Sleeping duke or not, she did not have the nerve. Instead, the white shirt was subjected to all of her attention, silent admonishments and mental lectures. She was in the process of sticking her tongue out at the infernal piece of clothing when the carriage halted to a stop. They had finally reached their destination. Mayfair.

  The duke leaped out and was followed by Anne, who kept muttering about wanting to go to Cheapside and Fleet Street instead.

  Penelope scrambled after Anne and poked her head out of the carriage. She quickly jumped back in. She had spotted four soot stained faces leering at the carriage from across the street. Anne coaxed her out, and the footman helped her descend right into a pothole.

  The road, she was surprised to note, was paved, pitted and broad. Two or more carriages could easily go along side by side. Across the road stood rows and rows of gleaming shops jutting out onto the street. The glass windows sparkled in the sunlight and the area surrounding the shops was kept clean. Penelope, Anne and the duke leaped over the puddles, skirted the racing children and avoided the passing carriages, horses and wagons to arrive on the pretty side of the street.

  Penelope paused outside almost every shop window. A large silver shoe gleamed outside the cobblers. Golden filigree scissors hung outside the tailors. Piles of Spanish grapes, lush peaches, and mounds of oranges and apples, beckoned from the grocers. The prettiest was the confectioner’s shop decorated in soft pastels and filled with beautifully crafted cakes and biscuits. She stood outside the door taking deep whiffs of fresh pastry, coffee and cinnamon.

  Anne caught her hand and dragged her to a shop at the far end of the street. It was a discreet establishment; grey and dull on the outside with a solid olive green door. Only the sign above gave an indication of what it truly was.

  Beany & Sons, 23 Winmore Street, Mayfair

  Shawl and linen warehouse offering the finest from England and foreign markets

  Inside the shop was bustling with female customers and busy male workers. It was a huge room with sofas and cushioned seats strategically placed in front of large wooden tables. The salesmen pulled out giant rolls of cloth in different colours, materials and textures and laid it out on the table for the women to inspect. Hundreds of such rolls were fitted into the shelves on every wall from top to bottom. Champagne, wine, tea and coffee were liberally served free of cost.

  Anne settled into a chair, ordered a cup of coffee and got to work. The duke, after ascertaining that his sister would not move from her place for at least an hour, departed to see to some business.

  Penelope was already bored. She had no idea that brocade was now out of fashion and that gold muslin was the next new thing. Besides, she had only fifty pounds to her name, which she could not afford to spend on frivolities. However, she had convinced herself to bring along two pounds in case something truly marvellous caught her eye. The cakes at the confectioners had done just that and her growling stomach wanted to go sniff outside that shop some more. After listening to an oily salesman trying to sell her yards of hideous brown silk, she gave up.

  “Lady Anne, I am hungry.”

  “Hmm, what do you think of this silver pashmina? I have never felt anything so soft in my life.”

  “It looks expensive. Can I go down to the confectioners? I will be back within five minutes.”

  “Hmm, do you know how to test a good quality shawl, Miss Fairweather? Take any ring off your finger, and then gathering up the shawl pull it through the hole in the ring. If the entire shawl comes out through the tiny hole, then it is worth buying,” she said demonstrating.

  “How fascinating. Now, can I please go? I won’t be long.”

  “Yes, yes … Can you show me the black in this?” Anne said, half listening to Penelope, her eyes on the bolts of cloth.

  Penelope shot off the chair and rushed out of the door. She breathed in the stench of London and sighed in pleasure. Away from the stuffy, fancy shop at last. She quickly made her way to the confectioners and paused outside. Her eyes were glued to the giant cream cake decorated with candied rose petals and white jasmine flowers. Her mouth watered, but she dithered knowing the prices would be exorbitant. Should she save her pennies for something that would last, for a ribbon or two perhaps?

  A swift yank at her petticoat had her look up. A young boy stood grinning a few feet away from her holding what looked like her drawstring reticule.

  She stared at him in confusion. Surely that wasn’t hers. She had carefully sewn her bag in the hidden pocket inside her skirt. How had the lad managed to extract it in a moment, and then had the audacity to show her his handy work. A quick check confirmed the skill of the lad and in a trice she was after him.

  She sprinted across the street, her skirts flying and ankles on display. To hell with propriety, she thought. Two whole pounds lay in that bag. Besides, the bag was from Madame and therefore expensive.

  She raced after the soot faced imp, leaping over pot holes, avoiding the gin sellers, and ducking under the arms of tinkers and thieves. She had clearly crossed the elegant Mayfair and reached murkier parts of the city. The boy disappeared into a tiny lane on the right and Penelope hesitated. Should she or should she not, she wondered.

  The boy poked his head around the corner and stuck his tongue out at her. Gripping her skirts, she wasted no more time on thought and followed the boy into the darkened London alley.

  Chapter 17

  ‘24 Gin road’, as it was appropriately named, was warm, dank, sunless and smelly. A few cats sat cleaning their paws on the back steps of various grey buildings jammed together on either side of the lane. A dozen mean looking, dirt smeared boys aged around nine to fifteen were sprawled on the filthy street. Some sat playing marbles. Another sat with his back against the wall chewing what looked like a piece of wood. A few were smoking, and the thief who had stolen her purse sat on top of a mountain of sacks filled with rubbish. Unlike the clamour and crowd of Mayfair, here it was all
quiet with only a few shady characters lazing about. She was suddenly feeling not at all brave but did her very best to look it.

  “He stole my reticule,” she announced to the group in her haughtiest voice.

  No one even glanced at her except the little thief who sat watching her like a curious little monkey. A bark of laughter from one of the children had her jump in fright. At this point another of the youngest devils noticed her.

  “Lady got pretty gloves and shooos,” he said, advancing towards her.

  Penelope brandished her parasol like a weapon. One whack and the lad would go squealing to his mamma, she thought.

  “Joe, see pretty lady.”

  Joe appeared from behind the sacks of rubbish. He was not a child but a full grown man with a short beard and muscular arms. Her parasol was no match for this man. She inched backwards suddenly terrified. She knew she had lost her way in her mad dash to catch the thief, but surely if she could go back to the crowded street someone would help her.

  The man’s eyes gleamed and he licked his thick lips. His eyes were not on her gloves or shoes but on her. She turned to flee and found herself surrounded by the boys. They had silently formed a ring around her trapping her. She could have handled one child, possibly two, but not fifteen. She held the parasol out aiming the pointed end. She slowly turned in a circle trying to find the smallest child to dodge. The group tightened leaving her no room to exit.

  A brief prayer escaped her lips. She heard her father’s voice scolding her for all her rash decisions and her stepmother’s sneering voice warning her that her thoughtless actions would one day lead to an ugly end. Was this it she wondered? The ugly end?

  The man was close to her now, gin strong on his breath. She watched as if from somewhere far away as he lifted his hand. It was all so slow, she thought confused, as if time had slowed. Her vision became clear and precise. She could see a young boy scratch his nose from the corner of her eye, another one shuffled his feet somewhere, and the man’s large tobacco stained hand was about to touch her. She closed her eyes.

  “Unhand her,” said a voice behind her. A voice she had never before thought she would be glad to hear. A voice that was commanding, strong and deep.

  Her eyes popped open and she whirled around to find the duke standing right behind her. The man made a grab for her but the duke had already caught her waist and deposited her behind him.

  “Let us go and I will not inform the authorities,” the duke suggested.

  The man sneered, “Lady is mine.”

  “Dear fellow, I would love to hand you over this young lady with all of my sympathies, believe me. But my sister and my mother would have my head. She, you see, belongs to them,” the duke countered.

  The man paused, his eyes assessing the duke. In a split second the decision was made.

  “Lads, we can’t let a drop of good stuff like this go,” the man bellowed, lifting his hand to strike the duke.

  The duke had meant to react. In fact, he had lifted his hand up to counter the blow but Penelope, now fearless with the duke beside her and emboldened by the man’s war cry, lifted her parasol first.

  She whacked the man on the head and then for good measure between his legs. The man collapsed and the children scattered. And as quick as that the war was won and she burst into tears.

  “Do you think he is dead?” she blubbered.

  The duke took a deep breath. “The young chaps may bring more of his friends. We need to get back to Mayfair and quickly. Now run!”

  Penelope ignored him and moved to touch the man lying on the ground. The duke grabbed her arm, whirled her around and dragged her out of the lane.

  “When I say run,” he said through gritted teeth, “you run.”

  Penelope ran.

  They finally reached the duke’s carriage, and he quickly opened the door and pushed her inside. The driver came around and the duke gave him instructions to drive if any odd characters came sniffing near the carriage. He then sent a message to his sister to stay put at the shop.

  Penelope sat with her head between her knees trying to catch her breath and listening to the duke issue instructions. He seemed so calm, she thought enviously, and not at all out of breath.

  “Thank you,” she gasped, her head still stuck between her knees.

  He ignored her and started searching for something under the seats.

  When she straightened, she saw him pocket a small pistol.

  “I said thank you.”

  He did not reply.

  “Well, I am thankful. You saved me from that rotten man. But you could have nudged him with a toe to at least ascertain that I did not kill him. I could have murdered the man and not know it. For the rest of my life I will be crossing the street every time I spot a priest or a runner—”

  “Quiet! For a moment stay silent. How could you be so ridiculously stupid? Do you have any idea what the man was about to do? Do you? You foolish girl, by the end of it you would have wished you were dead—”

  A sob from Penelope stopped him. She knew she had made a dreadful, dreadful mistake. Those few moments in the laneway would give her nightmares for the rest of her life. That man’s leering face was imprinted on her mind and she felt dirty and disgusted.

  The duke saw the change in her expression and the genuine regret on her face. He came and sat by her. His arms slipped around her shoulders.

  “I am sorry. I have always felt so safe in Finnshire. I never understood how dangerous London was. I chased after that boy for two pounds, but two pounds is not worth my life,” she cried, her hands clenching his shirt and her face buried in his chest.

  “The man was not dead. I saw him breathe. It’s alright. Nothing happened. You are safe now … shhh,” he comforted, rocking her.

  “I am sorry. I am always making you angry, and I am not good enough for the ton, and my stepmother hates me. I can’t go back to father’s house, I miss Lady Bathsheba and Anne is waiting all alone in the shop,” she wailed.

  “Anne will be fine. She will be happy to have a few more minutes to shop. You will see Lady Bathsheba as soon as we get home. As for your stepmother, I can’t do anything about that but you will have a good motherin-law. She will love you, I am sure.”

  Penelope blinked the tears away and lifted her head to look at the duke.

  “Truly my motherin-law will love me?”

  “Truly,” he replied, smiling softly.

  “Promise?”

  “She will truly love you, like your own mother would have.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do.”

  Penelope searched his eyes. The bare glimmer of light filtering through the shuttered windows hid most of the duke’s expression. London, it seemed, had gone silent.

  For the second time that day time seemed to stop. All she could hear was her thundering heart, and all she could feel was his hand tightening in her hair. He bent his head and briefly touched her lips.

  A knock at the carriage door had them flying apart.

  He cursed. The driver’s voice said something, but Penelope could hear not a word. Her hammering heartbeat drowned out every other sound. The duke had kissed her, briefly, but lips touching lips equalled a kiss. Her hands flew to her face and her eyes clenched shut.

  “Here, eat some of this,” the duke ordered. His voice sounded calm and controlled as if the kiss had never happened.

  She opened her eyes and found a thick slice of the cake she had been eyeing at the confectioners. He held a cup of lemonade in his other hand.

  “How did you know?” If he could pretend that the moment never happened, then so could she.

  “I saw you ogling the cake when we passed by earlier. I could hardly fail to notice it,” he replied, sounding a little embarrassed.

  “No, I meant how did you know where I was?”

  “An acquaintance had delayed me across the street. I saw the boy cut your purse and then I saw you sprinting after him. I followed you, but lost sight of y
ou just before you turned into the laneway. I thought you must have gone straight on, but when after a minute I found no trace of you, I back tracked and took a chance by turning into the lane.”

  Penelope nodded. The cake no longer looked appetising, but she did drink the lemonade.

  The duke took the cup from her, and after making sure that she was not going to go into shock just yet, he said, “I am just going out to have a word with the driver. I am just outside. No one will enter. See, I am leaving the pistol here just so you feel safe. Alright?”

  It was not alright, but Penelope smiled bravely.

  He watched her for a moment and then bent his head to brush his lips against her once more. And then he was gone.

  She sat in a daze, the duke’s brief kisses extinguishing all other thoughts. She did not know what to make of them. Was it kindness on his part or pity? Or was it simply the situation that had compelled him? After all, she too had lost her head for a moment.

  She did not know how long she sat in the darkened carriage. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours before the door opened and Anne and the duke entered.

  Seeing Anne’s concerned expression, things fell into place. The duke had kissed her to give her something to think about other than that man in the laneway. He had told her he was just going outside to talk to the driver when in fact he had gone to fetch his sister from the shop. He had lied to her to keep her feeling safe and knowing that she was in no condition to face the street so soon. He had asked the driver to buy her that slice of cake, and he had left the only pistol with her.

  She hugged Anne tightly, her eyes on the duke. She did not want to think of him as kind, considerate or caring. She wished he would do something, anything, to make her hate him again.