A Love Made to Measure

by Eliza Emmett

  She stopped suddenly, causing him to do the same. “Well, I stand corrected. I thought these concerns were only a source of worry for the working masses, for the likes of me. I apologize for my wrong assumption.”

  “Concerning your work and my invitation…” His manner and tone of voice changed. “…if you could perhaps consider a revised schedule, I would very much like to take you to a few private events of the Season. We have the advantage of being city people, Miss Larsen. We are already here. Why not entertain ourselves a little? Perhaps even waltz? Would that in any way be against your principles?”

  Cora considered his logic for a moment and felt an irresistible pull to agree with him in this and any other matters he might put in front of her. She shook that notion from her head, knowing what too much goodwill had done to her in the past, and chose her usual caution instead. “It might be prudent to wait until the Season starts. By then, once you know what your prospects are, you can decide if you want to reiterate the invitation after all.”

  Without Cora noticing, they had arrived at the shop. The wind was so strong now it almost took her hat. Cora could see through the front window that Sally was engaged in selecting ribbons. Grant stopped, turned toward Cora, and looked her in the eyes. He took her hand in his. “Miss Larsen. Let me tell you so you will in no way forget—I never go back on my word, and I never, under any circumstances, retract an invitation.”

  Her knees felt weak under the weight of his piercing stare. His velvety voice turned his words into a song.

  But she was resourceful too. She was a woman, after all. And a plan was forming in her mind. “Then might I interest you in an outing of a different kind before then? It will be something you are not expecting. But it might also do wonders to address some of that guilt you mentioned. No better time than the present, don’t you think?”

  “I will accompany you to a place of your choosing. Certainly.”

  “Very well then. If you could be so kind as to meet me at the shop on Thursday at half past five. Depending on how this goes, I’ll consider your invitation. Quid pro quo.”

  “Quid pro quo, Miss Larsen. Till Thursday then.”

  ****

  From across the street in an elegant carriage, Lady Galavyin observed her son courting the woman she knew to be Cora Larsen. They were in front of her shop. He was holding her hand in unmistakable gallantry, and as it turned out, she was lucky to be right there on Regent Street. Asking the horseman to stop at the florist had been a wonderful idea after all. Serendipity at its best. It was good to see her resourcefulness and the hand of fate working together.

  She did not fail to notice the way Grant looked at the dressmaker. It was a look many men had given Lady Galavyin in her day. She had been a striking woman, full of beauty, self-control, and intelligence in equal parts. It had been the recipe to winning Sir John Galavyin’s heart, although she often pretended to be less capable than she was, for his benefit. Men had delicate egos. Any careless move and they tore like silken fabrics.

  She had been a student of men’s frailties for a long time, cataloguing the nuances of their behaviors, making sure to note the ones she could influence the most. Men displayed their rudimentary skills often enough. Once, at a party, she had managed to stay seated and have gentlemen bring her cake or champagne simply by issuing a smile. It was a fragile balance between boosting their self-worth while doing what one truly wanted. Her husband had often agreed to her plans once she had praised him for his valor, his wit, or his intellect. It all had to be done in a very indirect, subtle way, of course. At all times, men needed to think they were in command. If one created that illusion, everything else could be arranged. There was no better evidence of her talents being put to good use than the fact that she married a peer and found her way into society.

  But the situation was clearly different now. Her son had the city at his feet, in part because she strategized his every move to perfection. His prospects were marvelous. He was kind, well read, rich, and handsome. Many women wanted to marry Grant Galavyin, and he could choose the most advantageous match, the most elegant heiress, and the most sumptuous estate.

  But it was bound to happen that a woman like Cora Larsen, refined beyond her class, would try to climb above her station by appealing to his gentlemanly ways and by engaging in smart conversation. It was exactly what a man who had lived among tenacious women would value and seek.

  Lady Galavyin always knew that if Grant were to fall in love it would be with a woman who could hold her own. She was resigned to the fact that he would one day marry a strong woman. But she expected that to be a woman she had personally endorsed. A master of her craft, she deserved her title, to be sure, and she had taken every advantage of her position. It was time to do it again. As strong women went, she doubted Cora Larsen was a match for this baron’s wife. To prove it, she had already started to concoct a plan. Little Miss Larsen had no idea who she was meddling with.

  Chapter Four

  Cora waited for Lord Galavyin on Thursday afternoon. She had started her day early, worked many hours and took a very short break for tea so as to be ready when the time came. Everyone else had gone home a half hour early. All her staff had left happily, chatting and making plans for the evening, while eating slices of the cake Nan had made for them.

  Near the window, sitting in one of her armchairs, she tried her best not to fidget, even if the chair felt prickly and every position uncomfortable. It was barely ten past the hour. He would arrive soon.

  She wore a deep burgundy dress that even unadorned, gave away the talent with which it had been sewn. A gray shawl covered her shoulders. Her hair was pulled back and cascaded in shiny braids and dark curls. Her tea was growing cold, forgotten on the little side table, while she proceeded to wring the tip of the gray garment. The possibility of an evening with her new friend filled her heart with both joy and fear.

  Grant arrived at half past five, not a minute late, wearing an elegant navy-blue coat and black pants. Wine-colored silk neckwear completed his attire. He bowed and joined her at her sitting area. He looked even more handsome than she remembered.

  “Good evening to you, Miss Larsen. I hurried here as soon as I could.” He ran his hand through his hair, as was clearly his habit, to adjust the locks that had misbehaved while he bowed. “Shall I take it that you are ready?”

  “Yes, my lord. If you please, we can go. Everyone else has left.” She extended an arm, showing him how empty the place looked.

  “Should I hire a coach?”

  “It might be a good idea. The weather is turning, and we are going quite far.”

  “Just wait inside then, Miss Larsen. It will take but a minute.”

  Good to his promise, he returned very soon after leaving. He took Cora by the hand, ignoring any stiff notions of propriety, and led her to the waiting hackney. Her heart was beating in her throat, and his palm felt warm in hers. She gave quick directions to the coachman. Once they were settled and seated side by side, she spoke again.

  “The place we are visiting is not glamorous. It will be very different from those ballrooms that hold the events of the Season you are accustomed to attending. It’s not fancy, and the walls are saturated with humidity. But within those cold walls, you will find so much kindness and caring that you will forget the surroundings. That the night should be so cold only makes our trip the more important. If you don’t feel invigorated after this, I shall be very surprised. And yet, depending on your expectations, you might be sorely disappointed.”

  Cora burned under his gaze. When he spoke again, it was with a half grin that made time stop. “Your recommendation is good enough for me. I am at your service. I trust you implicitly.”

  The horse trotted away, and Cora focused on the pleasant sound of the hooves on the cobblestones. This might not be the kind of evening Grant Galavyin expected, but if he were to spend time with her, he might as well get used to the kinds of things she was accustomed to doing. It would be good to know right away
if he was meant for this. Of course she was guessing his intentions toward her, and that was dangerous, but there was no helping it. He was a most unusual, special man.

  They turned onto Oxford Street, traveling east. Cora stuck her head out of the window. The weather was becoming colder and even more humid with each passing minute, and the sounds of the cab, as it made its way through the city, echoed on the buildings, giving the mission a flavor of extra urgency. Big fat flakes of snow were now visible outside, bestowing on the city a dream-like appearance. Cora inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with frosty, invigorating air. The smells and sites of London, a complicated city, which nonetheless she adored, surrounded them.

  The faint gas lamplights threw shadows everywhere. Street vendors and costermongers were now making their way home. Flower girls carried in their baskets the withering flowers they hadn’t sold, and at street corners men in working clothes built fires in barrels to try and keep warm. When the cab stopped to let other horses pass, Cora smelled the aroma of supper that the houses exuded as well as the remaining offerings of the barrows and donkey carts: pea soup, fried fish, potatoes. Cora pulled her shawl closer to her chest and sat back. She would love this weather if it weren’t for the fear that others might not have good enough roofs over their heads. She wished she could sew a coat for each person that required one.

  “Are you taking us to Whitechapel, Miss Larsen?”

  “Not that far, Lord Galavyin. I promise. Though there would be much to do over there. So much need in that area of the city.”

  “You’re right. And I’m not worried. Just curious.”

  Cora and her companion made easy conversation through the journey. Thankfully, they were above having to talk about the weather anymore. From time to time, one of them would fall into a comfortable silence, allowing the other to peek out of the curtains and appreciate the changing sights. Houses, taller buildings, and parks passed them by. Cora felt anxious and elated, poorly disguising her excitement with the kind of aloofness that was expected from polite women. In front of this man, she felt like pretending nothing, so calculated reserve took much effort. She had the impression he would rather she be herself.

  After a half hour, the cab halted in front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Lord Galavyin asked the coachman to wait and advised him to keep warm, perhaps look for a pub. Cora guided him to a small building next to the hospital. It was a brick structure, worn and shadowy on the outside, but the interior boasted a bright yellow light that reflected through the windows and onto the dark, wet pavement.

  “That’s where we’re going.” She smiled at him, and he returned the favor with a grin that extended all the way to his eyes.

  The vicar came to unlock the door, and he opened his arms to greet Cora like a dear friend he hadn’t seen in a while.

  “I’m so glad you are here. And with an additional worker to boot. I’m so grateful to you, Cora.”

  “This is Lord Galavyin. He is eager to help us tonight.”

  The vicar bowed at Grant. “Good evening, my lord. You are most welcome. We don’t turn anyone away here. We treat everyone the same, and we accept all workers, including those with a title.”

  “I’m very happy to hear that,” Lord Galavyin said. “I still don’t know exactly what I am to do, but I certainly will accept any offer you make me.”

  “Splendid.” The vicar clapped his hands together. “Potatoes, perhaps?” He pointed at a table covered in vegetables.

  “Why not?” Lord Galavyin followed the vicar to where a large basin full of potatoes awaited him.

  “Do you know how to peel them?”

  “I don’t, but I’m at your service and ready to learn.”

  The vicar took a seat by Grant and started to demonstrate the proper art of potato peeling, while Cora watched from a distance, though she was supposed to be chopping onions. The delay was worth it. It was a pretty sight.

  Soon Grant had fallen into the rhythm of things. When her work took her around the room, and she made sure it did, Cora could see him chatting with other volunteers, giving financial advice to the vicar, and smiling at her from time to time. A boy she knew to be called Toby—he was always there—talked to Lord Galavyin with much admiration. He did his best to imitate the baron’s good manners and ended up overusing his arms in a most endearing way. Lord Galavyin looked quite at home, even if he had to set his elegant coat aside and roll up the sleeves of his once-pristine shirt to work. He had strong arms, a surprise given the world he had grown up in, a world where physical strength was looked down upon and where work was never even discussed.

  Grant peeled potatoes for the better part of an hour. By the end of it, his skill was much improved. Then everything went into large pots that simmered over a wood fire. Vegetables and starches turned into soups, and a number of small metal bowls were assembled by the cooking area.

  At exactly seven thirty, the doors opened. A small crowd soon filled the main area of the small building. Cora directed everyone to form a line—some of the newcomers stopped to give her a hug—and Lord Galavyin started to serve the soup with the vicar, nodding politely every time he handed out a new bowl.

  Other volunteers busied themselves collecting used ware and making sure everyone had bread to go with the hot soup. The room that was at first filled with timid whispers soon held a cacophony of excited voices and even a few bouts of laughter. Full bellies meant happiness in a most basic way.

  Once everyone had received their bowls, Cora fetched one for herself and invited her friend to do the same and sit at the edge of a very large wood table to eat. The room was lit with candles everywhere, and someone had brought a violin, whose sound now filled the air with a happy polka. A few couples started to dance.

  “Not a typical evening for you, Lord Galavyin, is it?” She put her elbows on the table and held her chin in her hands.

  “I can’t say it is, Miss Larsen. But for some reason I was not expecting typical from you.” He took a spoonful of soup and then another.

  “Ah, that was wise of you. How’s your soup?”

  “It’s actually delicious. I’m embarrassed to confess I had never cooked before, but now that I know how to peel potatoes, I plan on doing it again. I’ll even practice at home. So who are the folks who come here?”

  “Everyone and anyone. We don’t ask. We get enough donations to offer this hot meal once a week, and, so far, we have not had to turn anyone away with an empty stomach. But as word of mouth spreads, I don’t know how long that will be the case. It would break my heart if someone was to leave hungry.”

  “Who donates?”

  “People and restaurants. Some volunteers bring what they can from their own homes, sometimes churchgoers give us money for supplies, and a few volunteers go about asking for leftovers at restaurants. Soup is the easiest to make because pretty much anything can go into it.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?” She was enjoying her soup too. It was so nice to just sit and talk to him, to break bread and forget the world outside, get lost in the lively music that was still playing.

  “How did you get involved?”

  “I knew the vicar’s wife all my life. She was a friend of my mother’s all those many years ago, and she and her husband remained our friends after. I helped a few times when she invited me, and once she was gone too, I made a point of continuing, to cheer him up a bit. He’s a superior man.”

  “That was good of you.”

  “What are we without our friends?”

  “Very true.”

  He ate some more soup. “If my mother could see me…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I don’t think she ever imagined me peeling potatoes, and when she thinks of candle-lit, musical dinners, I’m pretty sure this is not what she has in mind. It is quite entertaining, really, imagining what she would say.”

  “You mean she would disapprove?”

  “That would be an understatement, Miss Larsen.” He chu
ckled. “I think my mother would look at me as if she were seeing an unknown creature and hearing an unknown language. She would behave as if she couldn’t quite place what she was witnessing. She would be very shocked and perhaps blessedly speechless.”

  “So most certainly she will be cross with me if she finds out.”

  “I see no reason for her to find out, do you?” That he said as a confession or a whispered plea, and Cora felt warm all over. It could be the soup, but she didn’t think so.

  At the end of the evening, when all cleaning had been accomplished, Cora saw Grant talking to the vicar. She assumed he was thanking the cleric for the welcome and for allowing him to spend an evening learning a new skill, the fine art of potato peeling and slicing, so often rare among men of the upper class. She smiled at herself for her accomplishment, and already looking forward to the time she would take him there again, she prepared to leave.

  ****

  When his cooking excursion was finished, Grant Galavyin felt so invigorated he could sing. Who was this woman who dared invite a man to peel potatoes after a very short acquaintance? He couldn’t get enough of her. He looked forward to chopping onions, boiling vegetables, washing pots and pans. Anything if it meant spending an evening with her. He wasn’t kidding when he said he would practice at home, though that would probably drive Cook crazy.

  On top of being on this adventure, he had a chance to help others, to step outside a world where it seemed so many were consumed by preoccupations about themselves. He couldn’t stand gossip and other trivialities of polite society. He thought of his sister Addy and how much she would have liked to be there too. Maybe she would go with them sometime. He certainly wanted to come back and help again.

  Thinking of what Cora had told him about donations, he decided to approach the vicar. The man was drying some of the bowls that had recently been washed.