by Ruth Axtell
Jessamine stared at her friend, her feet refusing to move, even as her mind raced, trying to come up with reasons not to go down that street. The pedestrians moved past her on the busy street corner until Megan propelled her forward.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to go sneaking around to take a peek at someone’s house,” Jessamine said, pulling back.
“We’re not. We are merely taking an alternate route to Bond Street.”
“Aren’t you tired?” Jessamine asked with little hope of dissuading her friend, who was known to be persistent when she decided upon a course of action. “Perhaps we should hail a hack. We’ve already walked quite a distance this morning.”
Megan made a face at her. “Nonsense. We walk this distance most every day, and at least it’s warm and sunny today. Come along. You know it’s amusing to explore new streets.”
Jessamine still hung back. “What if someone should see us?”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Who is going to recognize us?”
Jessamine reluctantly began to follow her down the flag way.
“And if we happen to run into Mr. Marfleet himself, maybe he won’t be wearing his spectacles and won’t even see us!” Megan said with a giggle.
That reminded Jessamine that she was still wearing hers. She preferred to see clearly when she was sightseeing or looking into shop windows, although it horrified Lady Bess that she should wear them. Lady Bess carried a quizzing glass in her reticule, which she only pulled out when she wanted to peer at something in a shop.
As she walked alongside Megan, Jessamine chewed her lip, debating whether to take off her spectacles or not. Finally she gave herself an impatient shake. She was not so vain. What did she care about running into a gentleman she cared nothing about! Megan was right, too, that the chances of his being about were little to nil. It was just noon, and they had found that the fashionable world scarcely stirred before three.
She continued looking about her at all the interesting buildings and shop windows. This street was quieter than Piccadilly with fewer shops but many imposing buildings, including the large Grillion’s Hotel across the street.
Megan pointed to it. “Look, that’s where we stayed two years ago when we came to London with your mother to visit your uncle, who was on leave at the time. What fine style our visit was then. It was so nice of your uncle to host us all at this hotel.”
The street did look familiar. “Yes,” she said slowly, remembering the excitement of that weeklong trip to London, even though Rees had written his sister that he would not be in town.
It was much later that she had discovered he had been in London all along, busy falling in love with a Frenchwoman who was likely a spy to the British Crown. Bitterness rose in Jessamine’s throat at the memory of that first trip to London.
As if reading her mind, Megan said, “How long ago it seems now. Just to think a couple of months later, Louis XVIII stayed in the same hotel when he came for the victory celebrations.”
Thankfully, Megan mentioned nothing of the other, more personal changes their lives had undergone since that visit. Jessamine pushed back the memories. She must move forward, the way Rees had done with his life.
They continued walking, passing small art galleries, a publishing house, and a few less distinguished hotels. They paused at the end of the street to look at an imposing colonnaded building.
Jessamine read the words carved along the top. “The Royal Institute.” Her father always talked of the lectures given at this bastion of scientific discovery. “That’s where Papa heard Sir Humphrey deliver a talk.”
“I wonder if they still hold laughing gas parties,” Megan speculated aloud.
“Surely not here. This is for serious scientists.”
“We don’t have anyone to escort us to such a place, though I should love to give it a try,” Megan said with a sigh as they resumed their walk.
The road ended at Grafton Street. To Jessamine’s relief, they were the only pedestrians visible, although a carriage stood midway down the street toward Bond Street.
“What a charming street,” Megan said as they stood a moment, looking down both directions of the short street. “It seems quiet, likely only residences.”
“The invitation said number fifteen.” Jessamine looked doubtfully around her at the pretty stucco buildings. “There’s number ten,” she indicated, “but it leads away from Bond Street. Do you suppose it’s in that direction or toward Bond Street?”
As she spoke, she turned to face the latter direction and smothered a gasp.
At the same moment Megan clutched her hand. “It’s Mr. Marfleet!”
3
Jessamine froze. Two gentlemen were exiting a white stucco town house about midway down the block. A curricle stood in the road, a tiger at the horses’ heads.
Could she and Megan back down Albemarle before being observed? Even as the thought raced through her mind, it was too late. Both men stopped speaking, their gazes drawn toward them.
As the only other individuals on the pavement, there could be no mistaking who had drawn their attention.
For a moment Jessamine had the hope that Mr. Marfleet wouldn’t recognize her since he was not wearing his spectacles. But before she could turn back from whence they’d come, Megan broke into a smile and walked boldly toward the gentlemen.
Usually Jessamine appreciated Megan’s more outgoing personality, but at that instant she wanted nothing better than to yank her back. Her worst nightmare had come to pass.
Gritting her teeth as she imagined Mr. Marfleet’s knowing smile, Jessamine followed Megan. As they drew close enough to be recognized, Mr. Marfleet’s eyes widened in visible surprise. He recovered quickly. Saying something to the other gentleman, he stepped forward.
Touching the brim of his tall beaver, he inclined his head to each one. “Good day, Miss Barry, Miss Phillips. What a pleasant surprise to see you here.”
Megan’s smile widened. “We were just returning home from our morning walk and we took this route instead of continuing on Piccadilly to return to Bond Street. It . . . it’s quieter.”
A perfectly reasonable excuse, but to Jessamine’s ears it sounded contrived. Her face heated at the thought that he would think they were hunting out his residence.
“I see. How nice.” He turned to Jessamine, and too late she remembered her spectacles. Her cheeks flamed. All she could do was brazen it out, staring back at him without blinking. Except for an initial blink of his own, he gave no sign that he noticed anything different about her appearance. Instead, he turned to the other gentleman, who had approached them and stood smiling. “May I present my brother, Sir Harold Marfleet?”
They murmured their greetings as Mr. Marfleet explained to his brother that she and Megan were in London for the season. Sir Harold was indeed handsome, as Lady Bess had said. Closely cropped golden hair curled beneath a tall beaver. His cravat was perfectly stiff with a few careful creases below his cleft chin. His dark-blue coat of superfine outlined broad shoulders. Buckskin breeches molded muscular thighs. Shiny black boots with a width of white tops completed his outfit. He appeared a dashing London buck, and made her think Brummell would have approved in his day.
Her observation turned to Mr. Marfleet, who wore a more somber black coat and breeches and crumpled cravat. He looked like a poor parish vicar. Her father would doubtless approve.
“Are you staying far from here?” Sir Harold asked.
“We are staying with Lady Beasinger on Weymouth Road in Marylebone,” Megan replied.
“That’s quite far.” He glanced at his curricle. “I would offer to take you home but it only seats two. I could call for the carriage.”
She and Megan protested at once, telling him they enjoyed walking, being used to it in the country.
He tilted his head, eyeing them through a quizzing glass. “You have no maid accompanying you?”
“No. I mean, she—we left her at home. We are used to going about on our own at home.
” Megan tossed her curls. “She protests after a mile of walking, and it became quite tiresome.”
“London can be a dangerous place with its cutthroats and pickpockets. You must have a care,” Sir Harold said in a serious tone, though the twinkle in his blue eyes belied his brotherly admonition.
“We are quite careful where we go,” Jessamine said, bringing both men’s attention to her. Again, she remembered her spectacles and wished she could hide behind Megan.
“We go out early too, before the streets become too crowded,” added Megan.
“Bond Street can be a bit unsavory for unaccompanied females in the afternoon. I should stay away from there unless you are in a carriage.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” Megan murmured.
Mr. Marfleet cleared his throat. “Did you receive my mother’s invitation?”
“Yes,” they both answered at once, then fell silent as if they’d answered too eagerly. Jessamine determined to let Megan do the talking from then on.
Megan continued in a calmer tone. “Thank you. Lady Bess—that is, Beasinger—our hostess, received it. It was very thoughtful of you.”
Ruddy color suffused his pale cheeks. “I thought perhaps being new in town you might not have many acquaintances.”
“London is a town that depends wholly on introductions,” his brother put in. “Depend upon it. My mother knows everyone worth knowing. If she approves you, the invitations shall pour in.”
Sir Harold’s words would have been insulting if they hadn’t been delivered with humor in his crinkling eyes. “What have you seen in London since you arrived?” he asked.
As Megan described some of their outings, Jessamine wished there were some way of discreetly removing her spectacles. But all she could do was look at her friend, studiously avoiding the eyes of the two men. When she stole a glance at Mr. Marfleet, she found his gaze upon her. Quickly she averted her own.
“You must go to the theater and Astley’s Amphitheatre,” Sir Harold said. “Don’t you agree, Lancelot?”
“Yes, I should think you’d find those amusing.”
Sir Harold chuckled. “If you asked him, he would have you sitting at the Royal Institute or Somerset House listening to stuffy lectures all day.”
Jessamine eyed Mr. Marfleet. Was he interested in scientific pursuits? He sounded more and more like her father.
“My brother exaggerates. I find as much amusement in a night at the theater or circus as anyone.”
Feeling a stir of compassion for his obvious discomfort, Jessamine volunteered, “This is only our second visit to London, but both times I have fallen in love with the parks. I thought London would be nothing but buildings crowded together, but I am amazed at the number of parks and squares. And Kensington Gardens is lovely.”
“Have you been to any of the botanical gardens?” Mr. Marfleet asked her.
She shook her head, embarrassed to have the focus back on herself.
“Lancelot fancies himself an amateur botanist,” his brother said. “Our house is filled with exotic specimens he brought back from India.”
“You were able to bring back plants?” Megan asked. “Jessamine’s father would jump at the chance to see them.”
Once again she was the recipient of Mr. Marfleet’s slate-blue gaze. “Your father is a botanist?”
“My father is a vicar. Botany is only a hobby.”
“As with me. Botany is but an interest. I would be delighted to show your father my specimens if he ever is in London.”
“My father rarely travels.” She despised herself for her short answers, but she would give him no encouragement. The last thing she desired was a suitor who was both a clergyman and a botany enthusiast.
Let him set his sights on Megan. With that resolve, she shifted her attention to her friend.
“Those scraggly plants are worth their weight in gold, considering Lancelot almost died procuring them,” Sir Harold said, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I suppose we should be thankful for that fever, otherwise he’d still be over there preaching to the heathens. If Mama and Papa have their way, he is back to stay, settled in a cozy vicarage for the rest of his days.”
As a pause descended, Sir Harold stepped back. “Well, I must be off. Are you sure I cannot offer you a ride? It will be no trouble to call for the carriage.”
As they continued to insist it was unnecessary, Sir Harold said, “At least let my brother escort you. It won’t do to go unaccompanied on Bond Street—not at this hour.” He glanced at his pocket watch again and shook his head. “The Bond Street beaux will be emerging by now.”
When Jessamine began to protest, he added, “He hates driving with me anyway. I’m off to Tattersall’s to see a horse. Lancelot would be no help at all there. You’ll be doing me a favor by taking him off my hands.”
Before Jessamine could think of a graceful way to refuse, Megan replied, “If you put it like that, Sir Harold, we should be grateful of your brother’s company.” She hastened to assure Mr. Marfleet, “Even if only for a short way. We really don’t want to put you out.”
With a few more assurances, they finally were off. Mr. Marfleet walked between Megan and Jessamine.
When they turned onto Bond Street, Jessamine had to admit she was glad of his escort. The wide thoroughfare had filled with pedestrian and carriage traffic. It was the most fashionable place for shops. Neither she nor Megan had yet tired of looking in all the windows. As they made their way along the crowded pavement, it soon became impossible to walk three abreast. Mr. Marfleet took the cobbled street, allowing the two of them the flagstone pavement.
His action contrasted sharply with the behavior of the young dandies Sir Harold had warned them about, who strutted along the pavements arm in arm, ogling the young ladies through their quizzing glasses, unmindful of pushing older matrons onto the street.
“Tell us more about your time in India,” Megan said. “What made you decide to go as a missionary?”
Mr. Marfleet studied the knob of his walking stick a moment before replying. “I can best attribute it to a sermon I heard the Reverend Charles Simeon give while I was at Cambridge.” He glanced at them, adding lightly, “It quite changed my life.”
“Changed your life? However so?” Megan looked at him, her curiosity no more keen than Jessamine’s unspoken one.
He flushed, his smile abashed. “I didn’t mean to imply I had received a bolt of lightning. Simply that the rector’s exhortation about the need to take the gospel to the ends of the earth convicted me in such a way I’d never felt before, as if I were hearing Jesus’s commission to reach the lost for the first time. I was sent to several outposts—Serampur, Danapur, Cawnpore—all in northeast India.”
“How awe inspiring,” breathed Megan. “When did you decide to go into the church?”
“It was either that or the law, as a second son, you know,” he said with a quirk of his lips. He had a mobile face, every nuance of self-disparagement or irony reflected in an expression of his lips or eyes. Against her will, Jessamine found herself studying it, even as his words drew her attention.
“My brother could have gone into my father’s business,” Megan said. “He was a merchant in Bristol, but the war ruined his business. My brother chose instead to run off to the navy.”
Mr. Marfleet took their arms as they crossed the street. “The war gave many young men the opportunity to advance. That is,” he added with a wry grimace, “if they survived. I’m sorry, I hope your brother is all right.”
Megan smiled. “He is quite all right, thank you for your concern. He left the navy after being wounded and taken prisoner some months in a French jail near Calais. He is with the British Embassy in Paris now, serving under the Duke of Wellington.”
Jessamine listened to her best friend recite the accomplishments of Rees Phillips, pride evident in her voice. Poor Megan, who had to be so careful of Jessamine’s feelings when they were together, now had someone to whom she could openly boast about her
brother.
“That must be an interesting career. I’d never thought of it myself, but perhaps as a lawyer, I could have made my way in the diplomatic field.”
“My brother was in Paris at the liberation with Wellington, and then he was invited to Vienna for the congress under Lord Castlereagh. His wife is French, which is of great benefit, he writes, both in Vienna and Paris.”
Mr. Marfleet quirked an eyebrow. “He met someone while he was in France?”
“Actually, he met her while they both lived here in London a couple of years ago. Mother and I were both stunned when he wrote us a letter after arriving in Paris last summer that he had met up with her again and was planning to marry her. She had returned to France shortly before the war ended. We haven’t seen him since he left England—and have not met her at all.”
“It sounds like a romantic tale.”
“Indeed it does.” Megan’s eyes sparkled. “If you knew my brother, you would say he is the least romantic person in the world!”
Their conversation scraped against Jessamine’s heart like a dull knife, abrading her scars afresh. Why should Rees want a poor country girl, who was only passably pretty when he could have Lady Céline Wexham, by all accounts an exotic, dark beauty? With all the accompanying wiles of a Frenchwoman, Jessamine was sure.
She had lost track of Megan’s conversation with Mr. Marfleet and had to stop abruptly when Megan thrust her arm in front of her, pointing to a shop window. “We have a commission for Lady Bess—our hostess,” she explained to Mr. Marfleet. “If you could wait for me a moment while I run into this linen draper’s?”
She included Jessamine in her apologetic smile. “You wouldn’t mind keeping Mr. Marfleet company so he doesn’t get bored if I’m delayed? You know how Lady Bess says I have an eye for color?”
Megan left her with little choice but to murmur, “Very well,” even as she fixed her eyes on the shop window, remembering how she was wearing her spectacles. Would Mr. Marfleet make an observation on them?