“Sure, Nat,” the man said. “Is that awright with you, madam?”
“It is. Mr. Clarke deserves a lie-in. He works so hard.”
The man tipped his cap and returned to his work. Nat glanced at Isobel.
“I s’pose I’d best be seeing you to the inn for the night.”
“I suppose you must,” she agreed. “Let me fetch my cloak.”
She went swiftly up the stairs, and returned with the garment in place. Together they left the building.
Outside, they walked arm-in-arm, drawing close to one another without caution for who might spot them together. After all, who was around that would care?
Isobel walked with her head up, looking peaceful and content. All around her was the evidence of London’s extreme poverty, and by all rights a woman of her circumstances should have been horrified by what she saw. But she seemed not to notice the whores hanging around on the street corners. Nor did she seem to notice the gin-addled men negotiating a price for their services.
Normally those women would be all over Nat at this time of night, inviting him to seek their company for a shilling or two or, if they were desperate enough, for a cup of gin. Tonight, though, he was with Isobel. He was a waste of their time with such a beautiful woman on his arm.
When they reached the Crow Stone, Isobel turned to Nat. He was expecting a kiss.
He did not expect what she said.
“Nat, I don’t want you to go home.”
He stared at her. Was she really saying what he thought she was saying?
“Yes,” she said, reading the thoughts that were all over his face. “I am asking you to come up to my room with me.”
“Oh, Isobel… there’s nothing in this world I want more—and believe me, I ain’t just saying that. But, are you sure? I mean, you’re a lady. Wouldn’t there be a scandal if someone were to find out?”
“Who would find out?”
Nat glanced around. None of the dirty, unwashed people that walked past them seemed to care a fig about them one way or the other.
“Fair point. But what about your honor?”
“Nat.” She gave him a look of patient exasperation. “I’m a grown woman. I’ve been married and widowed. I am not a fresh-faced debutante in her first season. I know my mind, and I know what I want. The only question is, do you want the same?”
“God, yes,” he said without hesitation—although he wished for the sake of his own dignity that he’d hesitated just a little.
Gently, and without pretext, Isobel took him by the hand. She led him into the inn, up the stairs, and to her bedroom. The innkeeper no more than raised an eyebrow at the passing couple, and offered them an obligatory, “G’night then, Nat. Missus.”
The instant Nat closed the door to Isobel’s room she was in his arms, kissing him with a passion and ardour that, before, had to be restrained because it could lead nowhere. Now, here, there was no inhibition. No worrying about who might turn a corner or who might see them.
Nat fumbled with her cloak, her blouse, her skirts. He was not a virgin, but it had been a while. There had been a girl, Mabel, whom he had cared enough about and who had cared enough about him at the time. He didn’t remember being so nervous though. He’d never cared as much about Mabel as he did about Isobel. She had never made Nat’s heart ache just to look at her the way Isobel did.
Nor had Mabel worn quite so much clothing as Isobel did. Somehow he managed clumsily to remove her bustle, petticoat, and hoop, and in that time she had easily removed his trousers. Before he could think about what he should do next, Isobel was pulling him onto the bed. If she was as nervous as he was, then she was doing a good job of hiding it.
“Isobel,” he moaned into her lips as he dared to run his hand up her thigh and to the waistband of her soft linen knickers. She raised her hips to help him then she removed her chemise.
“Steady on, I was getting to that,” he joked.
“Not fast enough,” she returned, laughing.
The moment of playfulness was short lived. Nat forced himself to slow down, to look into her eyes and make sure that she wanted this as much as he did.
“Isobel, are you certain? I don’t want you to feel as though I expect anything from you. I—I don’t want to lose what we have.”
She smiled then, a small but deeply felt smile. “I don’t, either.”
There was no more talking after that. The world fell away, and Nat was sublimely happy to believe that he and Isobel were the only two people that existed.
In her arms he felt needed, treasured, and safe. She, such a small thing, made him feel protected, and he was happy to lose himself to her. Mind, body, and soul.
Afterwards, Nat fell asleep with Isobel in his arms. In the back of his mind, he was aware that he’d never been so happy, so obliviously content in all his life. He knew that even though she said she didn’t want to lose what they had, they still might.
Neither of them knew what tomorrow would bring.
But for now, at least he had her to himself. Completely.
Chapter Fifteen
The sounds of life stirring outside the window roused Isobel from a deep and wonderful sleep. She opened her eyes slowly to the gray morning light. It was snowing outside, and looked as though it had been for some time. Large flakes drifted lazily in front of the panes and accumulated in heaps on the windowsill. A cheery little fire was going in the grate.
She remembered then, in the veil of half sleep, that Nat had gotten up during the night and renewed the fire to ward off the chill in the room. She recalled him stirring beside her, and that she’d fallen asleep again almost as soon as he’d climbed back into bed.
He was still there now, warm and solid against her back. Isobel turned her head to look at him, causing Nat to stir again. He, too, must be enjoying a slow awakening as she was.
Inhaling deeply, he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into the crook of her neck. Isobel readily submitted. He was solid and sure against her. Made her feel as though nothing beyond the four walls of this room mattered. She could stay there all morning if they hadn’t had to get up and go to work shortly. Unfortunately, the first barrels of Duckett’s Own Christmas Ale were being shipped out today. She had to be on hand to ensure that all went smoothly.
And she needed Nat by her side to ensure she remained calm.
She’d thought about it often in the last several months, where she and Nat were headed. In truth, they were different from one another in many ways. They had a different set of standards by which society expected them to live—she a lady of the merchant class and he a poor, East End laborer.
But then again, Isobel and Andrew had been different from one another—although the difference hadn’t been as wide as the one between herself and Nat.
Nevertheless, Isobel couldn’t help but feel that something was right between them. That they understood one another. That whatever their differences, socially or economically, they were one and the same where it mattered.
What would that mean, though, for the days, weeks, and months going forward? Would she tell her mother and father about Nat? Would she keep him a secret? That she didn’t know, and was content to put off thinking about. For now, at least.
“I hate to suggest it, but I think we should get up soon,” she murmured.
Nat grumbled, and snuggled tighter into her.
“The men will wonder where we are if we aren’t both there at the start of the work day. They might begin to make inferences.”
He let out a throaty chuckle that warmed her insides. “And would they be wrong?”
“No, but that’s not the point.”
She took Nat’s hand in hers, twining her fingers through his. Nat opened his hands to let her then closed his fingers over hers. It was such a simple gesture, yet one profoundly intimate.
“Maybe you’re right,” he said after a while. “Maybe we should get up. The men will wonder. My father most of all.”
Isobel breathed.
“I’ve changed my mind. Stuff ’em. I’m not going anywhere.”
She turned into Nat, cuddling close. She sought his lips, and Nat responded. His mouth opened to hers, and his arms circled her, pulling her tightly to him. With no inhibitions left between them, Isobel moulded herself to his body, teasing and arousing him by throwing her leg over his hip.
An angry gurgle from her stomach put a stop to their intimacy. They opened their eyes to one another, lips still pressed together, and broke into laughter.
“All right. I suppose we should go down,” she relented.
Reluctantly, they rose from the bed and dressed quickly, passing shy but intimate glances to one another as they did. Then hand in hand, they left the room and made their way down the hall to the parlour. The moment Isobel stepped onto the landing and looked down into the common room, however, she darted backwards, pulling Nat out of view.
“Good Lord, save me,” she hissed, pressing her back to the wall.
“What?” Nat hissed back. “What is it?”
“Who is it, more like. It’s my mother.”
“Your mother?” Nat made to peer around the corner, but Isobel pulled him back again.
“No, don’t. She hasn’t seen us. Oh, what is she doing here?”
“What should we do?”
Isobel thought fast. “I will go down. I will deal with her. You wait here until all is clear and then you can leave.”
“I don’t like it,” Nat stated emphatically.
“It’s something I have to do by myself.” She patted his arm. “This is about me and her, not you.”
“Will you be all right?”
She gave Nat a sardonic glance. “She’s my mother, Nat. Not the Spanish Inquisition. Which means I’ll likely be hung, drawn, and quartered by evenfall, so it has been fun knowing you.”
Sneaking a quick kiss for luck, Isobel went down to face the formidable Ruth Dyer. Her stomach was a ball of nerves, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to turn and run the other way.
Mrs. Dyer’s eyes were ice cold when they landed on her daughter, and her face held a measure of disgust—both for Isobel and for the surroundings in which she found herself.
“Mother, how did you know I was here?” Isobel asked when she reached the bottom stair.
“Willcox told me. I visited your home this morning, only to find out you had not slept in your bed last night. That you were instead staying at an inn in Spitalfields.” The last word came out as though it were an expletive.
“That’s hardly the crime of the century, Mother.”
“Don’t be coy with me,” Mrs. Dyer warned, her voice dangerously low.
“Mother, please. I am a businesswoman. I was at my place of business until late last night, and I didn’t want to make Bolton wait.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Dyer’s eyes narrowed. “And what of the young man you’ve been seen with? What of the young man who brought you to this place and helped you to take this room?”
Isobel’s heart sank. “Bolton told you that?”
“He did. He was quite worried. Honestly, Isobel, I’m ashamed of you. Willcox tells me he is the same man who showed up that night at your house and abused you and Charles on your own doorstep. To hear now that you’ve been consorting with him? A disgusting specimen from the lowest part of London? I cannot even stomach it, young lady.”
“Don’t speak of Nat that way,” Isobel implored, her voice pitifully meek.
“His name is no concern of mine. Now I understand from Mr. Entwhistle that you’ve refused his recommendations for a manager. He went to much trouble to find you those men, and you throw all that work back in his face?”
“I don’t want a manager, Mother.” For all that was holy, why wouldn’t the woman listen to her?
“I’ve heard enough. You are coming home with me now. We shall speak to your father, and we shall determine the best way to minimize the damage you’ve caused to your reputation by cavorting with this scum from Spitalfields. Then we shall decide what to do with the brewery. I suppose it might be an idea to sell it. You could live off the proceeds long enough to find yourself a new husband.”
When Isobel didn’t move, Mrs. Dyer concluded, “I’ll wait in the carriage. Go collect your bonnet and cloak if you please.” The woman turned and headed for the door.
Panic began to rise in Isobel’s chest as it quickly became clear that she had a choice to make, and could not put it off. On the one hand, she could follow her mother, cowed as always, and go home. It would mean she would lose everything she had come to love. Her independence, her work, her business, and Nat. Or, she could stand up to her mother here and now. However hard it might be. However much she might be trembling inside at the prospect.
She knew which decision she would make as surely as her knees felt like they would buckle underneath her.
“No,” she said.
Mrs. Dyer stopped in her tracks, and turned around hastily.
“Isobel, this is not a discussion. Get your coat.”
She began to head for the door again. Isobel hated this about her mother. No matter how strong her resolve, Mrs. Dyer’s resolve was always stronger.
Not this time, though. Not when everything she held dear was at stake.
“You are leaving here alone, Mother. That is not a discussion. If you wait outside in the carriage, you shall have to wait a long time, for I shall be going to my place of business, and I intend to put in a full day of work. It will get mighty cold in that carriage, so I hope you’ve brought a warm cloak.”
Mrs. Dyer glared at her daughter. “You are prepared to give up the financial support of your father?”
“Is that what we’re discussing? My allowance is being cut off?”
“It is. You’ll be left with a failing business and a failed wretch from Spitalfields. After Andrew died, I thought you had learned your lesson. But if that’s what you want, Isobel, then that’s your choice.”
It was Isobel’s turn to raise her chin. Was that really all her mother had to threaten her with? She looked at Ruth Dyer, studied the woman’s plump face and cold eyes and realized she was not afraid. In fact, she’d never had anything to be afraid of. Not really. Why had she taken so long to figure it out?
She nearly laughed with the sudden lightness this new clarity brought.
“I’ll have you know, Mother, that Duckett and Company is no longer failing.” When her mother scoffed, she said, “It’s true, no matter how much you wish not to believe it. Our orders are up, our quality is up, and we’re set to release a new line of ale for the Christmas holiday. We are on the brink of success, and I have worked long and hard to make sure we stay successful. So you and Father go ahead and cut me off. I don’t need your money.
“As for Nat,” she continued. “He’s a brilliant businessman. He has more brains, more ambition, and a greater work ethic than Charles ever did. He may not have been born into the circumstances you would have liked, but I am proud of where he’s come from and what he’s been able to do given the opportunity. And that’s why I love him. I may even just marry him, and if I did, it would be as much because I love him with all my heart as it would be to spite you. So do what you will. You have no control over my life anymore.”
She stood tall and firm, despite her small size. But her own will was no match for her mother’s. Not this time. Never again.
Mrs. Dyer for once looked shaken. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes widened then narrowed. Without another word, she left the inn, and closed the door. Shortly after, the sound of carriage wheels rattled away.
Astounded by her own determination, Isobel sank into a nearby armchair. Footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her as Nat slowly descended. He pulled up a stool and sat in front of her, taking both her hands in his. Cautiously, he searched her face for a sign of what she was feeling.
“How did I do?” she said, smiling weakly.
“Well I’m impressed as anything, but that don’t matter. How do you feel?”
“I feel…” she paused, searching for the right words. “Light. Sad, but unburdened. I’m sure I haven’t heard the last of it, but it’s a start. And I don’t dread my next meeting with her.”
Nat bit his lip. “Isobel, you said—”
“I said I love you,” she answered. “And it’s true. I’m sorry if you do not feel the same, but—”
She didn’t have a chance to finish for Nat pulled her to him and planted a passionate, heartfelt kiss on her mouth. Isobel kissed him back, holding onto him as tightly as she could.
“I love you, Isobel Duckett,” he breathed when the kiss ended. He rested his forehead against hers. “It started the moment I came home and found you sitting at my father’s table, and I’ve fallen more in love with you every day.”
Isobel smiled, self-conscious. “Well… let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet. We’ve got work to do. You might feel differently if all we’ve done is for naught, and the business does fail after all.”
“Never,” Nat insisted. “We’ll be poor as church mice together. I’ve had loads of practice at it, I’ll show you how it’s done good and proper.”
“I’m not sure I could go back to an existence where I don’t work,” she teased.
“Come with me to the docks. I’m sure I could convince Mr. Slattery to give you a bit of sweeping to do.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Is it ready? Is it ready?” Mary jumped up and down behind Nat as he pulled the goose from the range in their small flat in Spitalfields.
“Back up, would you, Mary? You’re likely to get yourself burned.”
“But is it ready?” piped in Ollie from beside Mary. He shoved against his sister to better see.
“I don’t know. I’ve never cooked a goose before, now have I?”
“It smells wonderful,” commented Isobel, who sat with Joseph Cotter at the family’s table. “Even my own cook, Mrs. Hargrove, could not have done a better job.”
The Christmas Blend Page 11