She wanted to post a letter to her mama when she went out, and she had started it but not finished it last night.
Her brother had seen to it that her room was furnished with everything a young lady might need, including a pretty little desk, painted and carved to look like bamboo. She crossed the room and sat down in its matching chair, taking the precaution of putting on her robe de chambre over the clothes she had on. Spots of black ink on a white dress would never do and would never come out in the wash.
She found the half-finished letter in a drawer of the desk and reread what she had written.
My dearest Mama,
I do hope this letter finds you and Papa quite well and happy. I think of you every day and wish you could see how pretty our little house in Guilford Street is. But there is no garden, alas, only a railing about the front. I bought three pots of pansies from the flower seller just to brighten things up and to remind me that spring is on the way, if the rain will ever let up. I am glad that I did, for they remind me of your garden at home. The pansies are being very brave about living in London but I think they would like Richmond far better.
She uncapped the ink bottle and picked up her pen to continue.
I was delighted to have your last letter and to learn that my cousin Penelope will be coming to stay with you and Papa at The Elms. Of course, you have the servants, but that is not the same as the care and attention of a devoted female relation—and I, your only daughter, am far away in London!
It is extraordinarily kind of her, considering that her family is so rich—but then Penelope never seemed to care much for wealth or privilege and she was always very fond of you, Mama. If you wish to visit Bath in her company and take the waters for your health, I know that she will see to your every need. You mentioned that she is interested in studying the Roman ruins there more than anything else—she was always a scholarly sort of girl. So perhaps she will not be led astray by a handsome young lieutenant on the lookout for an heiress.
Mrs. Shy, who was very kind herself but a stickler for propriety, would be likely to worry about that, Josephine knew. From another drawer, she took out a miniature of her dear mama, painted with exquisite skill upon porcelain. The likeness was very good. It seemed almost as if Mama was about to smile and perhaps chide Jo in her gentle way for looking so disheveled.
Jo mused for a moment upon the very great powers of mothers. Even from a distance, they exerted mysterious influence upon their offspring and could seemingly cast their voices for miles. Brush your hair. Clean your teeth. Count your blessings. Remember that I love you, dearest child.
“Yes, Mama,” she said aloud. Her mother’s favorite saying suddenly came to mind. And always do the right thing, Jo. Your heart will tell you what that is.
Josephine sighed. She was not at all sure that she should be doing what she was about to do, but she knew it would help Terence. That alone would please her mother, who could not be in London to look after her son.
She penned a few more lines and blotted the letter, fashioning an envelope for it from a larger piece of paper, which she folded with care. Jo tucked the letter inside but did not seal the envelope.
Perhaps Terence would wish to add a brief note. She did not know whether he had written to their parents recently, but he ought to if he had not. She knew how much her mother enjoyed hearing from them and suddenly felt a flash of homesickness. She brushed a kiss upon the envelope.
By eleven she had walked all the way to James Street, just north of Covent Garden. Raised in the country as she had been, she enjoyed walking, but the cobblestones made her feet hurt by the time she reached her destination.
She glanced into the shop windows, noting the amazing variety of goods for sale in London. One might find a silversmith next door to a tobacconist’s and a haberdasher in the same building as a purveyor of gingerbread.
Several gentlemen smiled at her, though not in an unpleasantly forward way, for which she was grateful. Jo gave in to vanity and assessed her reflection. She had dressed with great care for this all-important errand and she did look pretty. Her bonnet was white, like her gown, with pink ribbons. A shell-pink shawl was draped over her shoulders. Most becoming of all, a triumphant sparkle flashed in her eyes.
She had already persuaded the engraver to design and print several thousand tickets without the expenditure of a single cent. It was fortunate that the man was a devotee of the divine Miss Loudermilk. Jo had whispered a promise of an introduction backstage—but after opening night, of course. She was sure that Lizzie would not mind. After all, if there were no tickets, there would be no performance.
She continued on, looking for a certain shop that sold paint, pigments, canvas, varnishes, battens, light lumber, and everything else that McNeel needed. He had written down the name of the shop and its proprietor, Mr. Samuel Picard. She recognized both. She had written to him twice.
Ah, here it was. Jo opened the door and breathed in the now-familiar smell of turpentine as the shop bell jingled above.
The shop was crowded but the other customers were all men. Simply judging by their clothes, she pegged some as artists and others as craftsmen in the building trades. They were preoccupied with the jumble of goods for sale and, for the most part, did not notice her.
Several fellows rummaged through the lumber, looking for straight pieces and rejecting any that looked in the least warped. This seemed to be a matter of sighting down the piece in question to ensure that it was quite straight. She was not sure, dressed as she was, that she could handle such a task on her own and decided to leave it ’til later.
The broad-shouldered shop assistant was busy with a line of customers. Jo was happy enough to stroll through the narrow aisles and investigate the cluttered shelves to her heart’s content.
She took McNeel’s long list from her reticule and checked off various items with a small pencil, totting up the cost as she moved along. The growing total was alarming. She came to shelves that held long, very heavy rolls of canvas. Frowning, she fingered a scrap hanging from one. Was it sturdy enough? McNeel had not said precisely which sort of canvas was needed.
The shop assistant appeared at the end of the aisle, startling her. “May I help ye find something, miss? That canvas there is our best quality, but not suitable for ladies’ dresses. If ye’re looking for fine fabrics, there is a mercer three doors down.”
“Thank you,” Jo said, “but no. The canvas will be used for stage scenery, and I hoped to find something not too expensive.”
He pulled out a different roll from underneath, sending the others rolling about on the shelves.
“This is what ye want, then. And if ye give me the list, I can find the other things right quick. Is this for an amateur theatrical, miss?”
Jo shook her head but said nothing. The man must think that she was putting on a drawing room show for friends and family, and she was not quite prepared to explain the situation.
Of course when she got to the counter, Jo would have to say that she was from the Covent Garden Theater and explain that she was Terence Shy’s sister. She planned to arrange for delivery today, and payment upon an unspecified tomorrow, if Samuel Picard was agreeable to that. McNeel had said that Picard was a friendly old fellow and likely to oblige.
She sauntered about the shop, letting the assistant see to gathering up the necessary items and looking out the window to where a lacquered black carriage stood at the curb. She could not see its occupant—not that she cared—but she paused to admire the dappled grays harnessed to it, wondering who owned such a handsome equipage and what he was doing in the not exactly respectable streets near Covent Garden. The owner had to be a man—the sober color of the carriage and its polished brass trim seemed altogether masculine.
A barrow trundled by, pushed by a farm lad who cried his wares, followed by an old woman selling violets from a basket.
Violets. So spring was truly here. Somehow Jo had missed its arrival. Had she been home in the country, she would have b
een out gathering violets under the trees and making posies for her mother and herself. She felt a pang and turned away from the window just before the man inside the carriage got out.
The assistant waved her over to the counter where Samuel Picard stood, looking over the huge pile of goods. Like his assistant, he was a big man but much older, with bushy white eyebrows and a shrewd expression.
He studied Jo for a few seconds until the shop bell jingled and someone came in. Samuel Picard’s rheumy gaze turned in the direction of the new customer and then fixed on Jo again.
“Ye cannot carry all this, my girl. Where is it going to?”
“No,” she said, “quite right, I cannot.” She bestowed her most gracious smile upon the shopkeeper and hesitated just a moment before adding, “Please deliver it all to Covent Garden. Specifically, to Mr. McNeel, at the stage properties workshop just behind the theater. The door is clearly marked—”
“Aye, miss, that it is. I have been there meself, demandin’ payment. So McNeel sent ye, did he? Tell him that he owes me and must give me the money before the end of the week. And what did ye say yer name was? I’ve not seen ye before.”
Josephine scarcely knew how to reply. She could not very well pretend to be someone else, although at the moment she wanted to, desperately. It was one thing to write letters to creditors she had never met and quite another to face them in person. Still, she had not signed them and it was not as if she had incurred the debts. She drew in a deep breath and replied, “Miss Shy. Josephine Shy.”
Samuel Picard raised his bushy eyebrows and deep lines appeared on his forehead. He scowled. “Any relation to Mr. Terence Shy?”
“He is my brother.”
“Ah, lovely letters he has been sending. But no money.”
He crossed his arms over his aproned chest and glared at her sternly. Jo blushed with shame. Nothing in her sheltered life had prepared her for a situation like this. The shop assistant gave her a sympathetic look and turned to his employer.
“Mr. Picard, if I might make a suggestion—”
“Beguiled by those big eyes and soft words, Mick? I am not.”
“But sir—” The assistant tried again to placate him, but Picard shut him up with a wave of his meaty hand.
“We will keep the stuff for ye, Miss Shy. But if yer brother orders goods he can’t pay for, then he is no better than a common thief. D’ye understand?”
Chapter Seven
Jo stiffened her spine and looked Picard right in the eye. Being made to feel poor and, worse, being treated shabbily for it, was not a pleasant experience. But she did not have to let the shopkeeper or anyone else see how she felt. “Yes, Mr. Picard,” she said in a businesslike way. “I will see that payment is made. After all, the show must go on.”
“Indeed it must,” said a familiar—and very male—voice behind her. “Here is your money, Picard. That ought to cover today’s charges and whatever was owing.”
The shopkeeper put his big hand over the money Lord Daniel York had placed upon the counter and drew it toward himself. He added it up quickly and nodded.
“Ye’re now several shillings ahead. Will there be anything else, miss?”
“You have changed your tune,” Lord York said to Picard. There was a slight edge in his voice and an unmistakable steeliness in his gaze as he looked with contempt at the man.
Josephine did not answer the shopkeeper, having turned to face Lord York, unable to do anything save gape at him.
“I saw you enter, Miss Shy. And I overheard this discussion. As I am now a partner in the theater, I consider myself responsible for these expenses.”
“But you are not—and you cannot—”
“I can.” He smiled down at her. “And I have. Picard, deliver the goods as she asked and be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir,” the shopkeeper said.
His assistant grinned with relief and winked at Lord York.
Josephine looked down at the counter, not even wanting to wonder what the assistant thought about her relationship to Lord York. So the black carriage was his. She berated herself silently for not recognizing his family crest upon the door.
She understood, of course, that he must have some reason to drive on James Street, as it was so close to the theater, but it seemed an odd coincidence that they had both come to Picard’s shop at almost the same time.
As if he could read her mind, he said, speaking quietly, “I shall explain once we are outside.” He nodded to Picard and Mick, then guided Jo to the shop door, opening it for her. “Will you walk with me? The theater is not far away and the day is fine.”
“Yes,” she said, curious to find out why he was here, and grateful that he had saved her from further embarrassment.
He instructed his coachman to take the carriage to an inn and see to the horses. They clip-clopped away, looking very smart, as Jo and Daniel continued on. She looked up at him expectantly and he realized she was waiting for his promised explanation.
“I called at Guilford Street, hoping to see your brother,” he began. Of course, I hoped to see you as well, Miss Shy.
Josephine nodded politely.
“But your manservant—-do you know, he remembered me from Richmond—told me that Terence had left, and that you were on your way to the theater.” I gave him a guinea for providing that information and he seemed well pleased to have it. It occurred to Daniel that perhaps Terence had not paid his servants, either.
“And then?” she asked.
“I drove here at once and happened to see you in Picard’s window when the coachman stopped at the curb.” And my heart skipped a beat, several beats. He smiled at her.
Jo smiled back as demurely as she could, feeling altogether unsettled.
He had had just such a smile as a boy … open and warm. She remembered it well. It might prove her undoing. If anything, Lord York was even more handsome in the daylight. She had seen him only from a distance on the day when she had followed him about the theater.
His dark good looks were most appealing, and his smile was enhanced by deep dimples. Despite his affable countenance, she felt suddenly safe—there was no other word for it—with him by her side. Lord York was tall and strongly built. A few of the doxies who prowled the streets they were crossing cast longing looks at him and jealous glares at Jo. She ignored them.
“Ye-es,” she said nervously, “I visit him there now and then.”
“Really, Miss Shy? It seems that you are taking care of business for him as well. Terence gave me the idea that you liked to stay home.”
“Oh, I do,” she said, “but not always. As you said, the day is very fine.”
“But that is not the reason you were in Picard’s shop.”
“Ah, no,” she replied. “Mr. McNeel needed a few small items.”
He shook his head. “Hardly a few. The pile on the counter was higher than your shoulders. And very pretty shoulders they are, if you do not mind my saying so.”
Lord York looked down, and Jo realized that her shawl was slipping down. She adjusted it at once and drew it tightly around her, hurrying her steps.
“I added things to the list he gave me.”
“A brave lie.” He shook his head. “Clearly, the plan was to coax what you could from the shopkeeper because the bills were not paid. Most unseemly. Terence should not have sent you to do that.”
“But he did not. It was my decision. He has no idea that I am here.”
Lord York sighed. “Somehow that is even worse. He ought to look after you with more care. And you ought not to take on such disagreeable tasks, Miss Shy. Surely the younger members of the family should not be more responsible than the older.” As the words left his mouth, Daniel realized that he had described his own relationship with his wastrel brother.
Though he would not use the word wastrel to describe Terence. No, his dear friend was simply imprudent. Daniel decided not to scold him later, keeping in mind that Terence had cared enough about preserving his sister’s
reputation to conceal her involvement with the business of running the Covent Garden Theater. In fact, he had gone out of his way to paint a pretty little picture of a busy bee, happy at home.
“I suppose you think it improper that I spend my days at the theater.”
He looked with astonishment at Miss Shy, who was walking so briskly that he had to stride to keep up with her.
“Do you? It is … not necessarily improper. Not at all. Although there are many who would think it so, because you are young and a gentlewoman,” he answered. “Yet I suppose you have learned much that is, ah, worth learning,” he finished up somewhat lamely.
But what had she learned?
The theater was not exactly a finishing academy for genteel young ladies … nor was London. Yet, as out of place as she might seem upon its streets, he could not deny that Jo positively glowed, obviously enjoying the hubbub and crowds of the great city. It might not be possible to keep someone so lively at home.
“I am no longer a child, my lord.”
I can see that, he thought, thanking the gods of fashion for the popularity of clinging muslin. If anything, the dress she was wearing today did more for her charms than the one he had seen her in while shopping in Richmond with her mother.
“But your brother must still look out for your best interests. It is he who must watch over you, escort you, protect you—”
“Terence does his best,” she said.
“Even so.” He wondered if he sounded too stern and decided that if he did, it was an excellent way to cover up the emotions that she had stirred in him. Seeing her again so unexpectedly, out and about upon her humble errands, was oddly thrilling. Simply walking with her in this free and easy way made him feel extraordinarily happy. Almost giddy.
He had gone to Guilford Street, if truth be known, hoping to venture onto the unfamiliar terrain of formal courtship, without being exactly sure of how to go about it. It was a very serious business, of course.
That was the plan he had hatched the night he sat staring into the fire, brooding over his loneliness, ensnared by sweet memories and troubled by his amorous thoughts of Miss Shy. He had decided then and there to take the initiative. Be bold and daring. Even go so far as to wangle an invitation to tea with her and her brother.
Lisa Noeli Page 6