Fearless

by Lynne Connolly

  At her father’s customary demand for her to outline her plans for the day, she said, “I have an appointment at the milliner’s, sir. I will take Louisa, who needs a new hat. Afterward, I will return to receive your visitors for dinner. I plan to wear the dark green brocade.” The color was not becoming to her, but she cared not. Tonight’s dinner promised to be particularly stuffy, her father’s guests consisting of several of his generation who would toady him and with any luck put him in a good mood.

  “Not the green,” her father said. “Wear something else.”

  “Yes, sir.” Having finished her breakfast, she got to her feet, curtsied, and went to stand behind his chair. Although of age, her sister never breakfasted with them. She was too cheerful, and she chatted too much, he said. Of course that was not the true reason. But his comment about the gown gave her tacit permission to fulfill her earlier appointment. Louisa really did need a new hat. Her one and only straw was tattered and worn. Their father cared little for Louisa’s appearance because he refused to let her into society, even though Louisa was of an age to make her debut.

  However, that was not the real reason for their visit.

  Half an hour later, they were on their way. Louisa liked to hold someone’s hand, so Charlotte took off her glove and clasped her sister’s hand warmly as they bumped over the cobbles in the family carriage. The vehicle might be grand, its embellishments lavish and the shield on the door repainted every week, but the suspension had a lot to be desired.

  Louisa and Charlotte were happy enough. Louisa delightedly pointed out the sites of note as they passed, as if she had never seen them before. Charlotte marveled with her and added comments about some of the people they passed. Several bowed to the carriage. Presumably, they thought the duke was within, until they saw the inhabitants riding inside. Some gave Louisa a second look, but most accepted her presence. She was dressed so plainly that she could be a maid.

  The carriage deposited them at the milliner’s, but it didn’t stay to wait for them. “His grace says we’re to return to take him to ’Change,” the footman told her regretfully. “We’ll come back for you as soon as he says we may.”

  Charlotte couldn’t blame them. They had more to lose than most. Her father would not only cast them off, he would blacken their characters so they would have difficulty finding anywhere else. The duke was very careful to uphold his reputation. A stickler, yes, too pompous for many, but not actually cruel, they’d say.

  Sometimes Charlotte wished her brother was duke, which would of course mean their father had died. That was a sin—such a wicked one she forced herself not to think it. But it returned unbidden to her mind, to torture her in her quieter moments.

  The route was very busy today. The milliner’s shop was at the end of King Street, usually a peaceful thoroughfare. Only when the carriage had rattled off did Charlotte realize what was going on. “It’s Monday.”

  “That’s right. Monday.” Her sister smiled.

  Charlotte was forced to smile, too. “Clever girl! You remembered well.”

  “It’s hat day.”

  Yes, it was. It was also execution day. They were on the route to Tyburn. She had forgotten the significance of the location of Mrs. Miller’s shop. It was set on the corner of King Street and Tyburn Street. She glanced up the long road, for the first time noting the thickening of the traffic.

  A man nearly bumped into them, a hawker with a tray full of cheaply produced prints. “’Ere, lady, I ’ave the best reports you are ever goin’ ter see of the ’orrible murderers, pimps, and thieves who will meet their end today. Among ’em you will find the terrifyin’ Gallows Man, the ’ighwayman ’oo robbed ’undreds of honest, ’ard-workin’ people crossin’ ’ampstead ’eath. Watch ’im meet ’is grisly end!”

  Drat, a highwayman. The crowds loved it when one of those met his end at Tyburn Tree. People came in their hundreds, crowding around the gallows to watch the man’s last performance. Highwaymen were considered the glittering stars of the underworld. To many people, they represented adventure and untold riches. Of course most people knew they lived sordid lives and rarely had much money, but the stories were so much more appealing.

  People were making their way toward the corner of Hyde Park, and the scene of today’s drama. Most likely Charlotte would know some people there, as they would hire balconies and drink to the health of the condemned.

  Charlotte’s father had taken them once. Charlotte would never forget it, nor the way Louise had shrunk into her and wept, shaking in terror. Their father had shown his disgust and forced a glass of brandy down Louisa’s throat. At least that had put her to sleep, despite the screaming crowds, the delight ending in a roar when the platform fell away and the prisoners swung free. People had rushed to them, relatives or hired men, to hang on the feet and end their suffering sooner. Men who had ten minutes before laughed and joked with their audience now urinated on them, as the strangulation had its inevitable effect.

  Charlotte had sworn never to go again, but she’d done it quietly, ensuring she always had something else to do, rather than defying her father directly, a battle she was doomed to lose, one way or another.

  How had today’s significance eluded her?

  She had been too busy on her own life. That was it. So taken up with Hervey’s increased attentions and her troubling reaction to Val’s increased interest, she had not noticed the significance of the day. Their lives took on their usual course, but even attending church yesterday morning had not jogged her memory.

  And she had to bring Louisa here. They could get a hackney and go home, but their father would most likely scold them severely for that transgression. Only common people got hackneys. Charlotte wouldn’t dare try sedan chairs, not with her sister in the excitable mood she was.

  “Where are they going, Lottie? Can we go?”

  The crowds heading up the road had a cheerful aspect. Some carried baskets of provisions, as if visiting the countryside for the day. Perhaps watching someone worse off added to their enjoyment. The idea of public executions was to set an example to law-abiding folk, but the event had become a spectacle, as eagerly anticipated as Garrick’s new play, but cheaper.

  “Come,” she said now, slipping her arm through her sister’s and tugging gently. “We’re getting you a pretty new hat today.”

  Her sister was easily distracted and smiled happily as Charlotte led her in the direction of Mrs. Miller’s hat shop. The bell clanged as they entered, and the lady sprang up from her chair to greet them. The familiar smell of damp straw and beeswax greeted them, and Charlotte’s mood eased. She was safe here, as if she’d reached sanctuary.

  Although at one time Mrs. Miller had been a fashionable hatmaker, these days she was seen as démodé, but she had her regular customers and they remained loyal. Mostly the older generation. But she was a friend, and Charlotte trusted Mrs. Miller with much more than she would a fashionable milliner.

  The shop was dark after the bright sunlight outside and far too warm for the day. Mrs. Miller felt the cold, she said, so her customers put up with it. Mrs. Miller greeted them with a brief curtsy and a smile and then addressed her assistant. “Could you get some tea for myself and Lady Charlotte, and a chocolate drink for Lady Louisa?”

  The assistant hurried off. Mrs. Miller lost no time, thrusting her hand in her pocket and coming out with a letter, one that gladdened Charlotte’s heart. While she opened and scanned the sheet anxiously, Mrs. Miller led Louisa to a nearby table with a mirror hung on the wall behind it. “Let’s try on some pretty hats,” she said. “I have been saving some for you, dear.”

  Charlotte spared a moment to check that Louisa was happy, but she need not have worried. Louisa liked Mrs. Miller. She felt safe with her, and safety was something Louisa had in short supply, especially when their father was in an ill temper. The chocolate was a treat, something Louisa had all too rarely. The rich scent filled the air as Charlotte turned to her letter.

  Two years ago, her si
ster Sarah had eloped with the man she’d fallen in love with. Sarah was never mentioned at home. According to their father, she had ceased to exist.

  Sarah was well, and Charlotte’s niece thriving, she read. The pain Charlotte felt when she read about the way her niece was developing was nothing compared to the knowledge that without Mrs. Miller, she would know nothing at all. As it was, she could not risk taking the letters home. Her father or one of the servants would be bound to find them, however well Charlotte hid them.

  At the back of the shop stood a small writing desk. Charlotte would make use of it to draft a quick reply. Then she’d spend five minutes choosing a new hat, give Mrs. Miller the postage money and a vail, and they would take the carriage back to the joyless house.

  She read the rest of the letter and exclaimed in delight.

  Sarah had fallen in love with a man of respectable birth but no fortune. He earned his living as a writer, composing novels, poems, articles for journals, anything he could receive payment for. Recently he’d found a lucrative line in sermons, writing them for clerics too busy to compose their own. They had found a small house in Oxfordshire, and Charlotte had wondered if at last she could accept her sister’s hospitality and leave their father for good.

  However this news was even better. Sarah’s husband had unexpectedly inherited a small estate in the north. His great-uncle had passed away childless. The change for Sarah would be immense, and at last—at last!—Charlotte and Louisa could find sanctuary, if they wanted it. If she could persuade their father to let Louisa go.

  Charlotte longed to leave. Sarah had asked her many times, but Charlotte could not leave her youngest sister behind, and she had no means of getting her away.

  But now she had Hervey to look to. He had sworn he would provide a home for Louisa, and he would care for her as if she were his own sister.

  When Louise laughed, Charlotte looked over to her and smiled, just as the bell chimed once more as someone else entered the shop. Hastily Charlotte thrust the letter in her pocket.

  Of all the people who frequented the ladies’ hatmaker, she had not expected her erstwhile betrothed to arrive there. He bowed to her and then drew closer. “I called on you, and they told me where you were. When they gave the address, I was alarmed. Had you forgotten the day?”

  “I had until we arrived and the carriage left. It will come back for us.” Someone banged on the window and startled her enough to make her snatch a breath. Outside, the crowd had thickened.

  Mrs. Miller looked up from where she and Louisa were trying feather trims and tutted. “I shall have to close the shutters soon if it gets worse. People are not as considerate as they were in my youth.” Glancing at Charlotte, she made her curtsy to Val. “Sir.”

  “Lord Valentinian Shaw,” he said, as if that explained everything. In a way, it did. In the eyes of the world he was still her betrothed. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am. Pray do not let me disturb you.”

  But Louisa had been distracted. Scrambling down from the chair, she scurried to where they stood and dropped an untidy curtsy. “Is this the man, Lottie?”

  “Yes, Lou, this is my…betrothed.” Truthfully she didn’t know what to call him, but Louisa liked consistency. She would have a hard time understanding.

  She would be happier without Val. Every time he was by, she lost her reasoning and her hard-won calm exterior threatened to crack. “Lord Shaw, this is my sister Louisa.”

  He glanced at her and then down at Louisa. He had to look farther down, because Louisa was diminutive. She had not yet achieved five feet and seemed likely never to do so. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Louisa.”

  But when he reached for her hand, Louisa snatched it back and put her arms behind her back.

  “Louisa does not like being touched,” Charlotte explained.

  Val accepted the stricture without a blink, as if it were normal. “Then I will merely bow, my lady.”

  When he followed action to words, Louisa giggled. As he rose to his full height, Val was grinning.

  The assistant chose that moment to enter with a tray of refreshments. The chocolate, brown and frothy, was set before Louisa, while she set the tea tray on a side table. “I’ll get another cup,” she said, before hurrying away.

  Val regarded Charlotte carefully. “Lottie?”

  “Ah, yes.” Heat rose to her cheeks. “Lou has difficulty with long names. She called me Lottie when she was a child, and she is happier with that.”

  “I think I would be. It suits you better than Charlotte. Charlotte is for someone far more stately.”

  “Oh!” Charlotte had always considered herself as reasonably stately.

  “When I have you to myself, you are far more than that. Lottie makes you sound like a woman who laughs. I shall make it my duty to make you laugh more, when we are married.”

  “But we will not be married—” Charlotte snapped her mouth shut.

  “Just so.” He shot a meaningful glance at the couple in the corner. “Meantime, won’t you sit and pour me some tea?”

  The assistant returned with an extra cup, which she placed on the tray. At a glance from Val, she retreated to the back of the store.

  “I will escort you home,” Val said. “I have my carriage outside, with two stout footmen as well as the coachman and groom. You cannot stay here much longer. I came to have private words with you.”

  “Oh.” He had made progress with the cancellation of the betrothal contract? It could not be anything else. Unaccountably, Charlotte’s heart sank. But after all, she had requested this outcome, and her choice was a sensible one. “Yes, of course.”

  By the time they’d finished their tea, the crowds outside had diminished. Presumably they were congregating at the gallows, which meant the first executions would happen soon. The carts containing the principals of the show would be driving up, and they’d make their last speeches, if they wanted to.

  Val got to his feet, in a graceful movement he probably wasn’t even aware of. “We should probably set out now. Is your sister ready?”

  Louisa wore an extravagantly decorated bergère that their father would probably condemn, but which gave her a great deal of pleasure.

  “I believe so,” Charlotte said, smiling at her sister’s pleasure.

  “Where is your chaperone this morning?”

  “With my father. I assured her we would be fine.”

  If she hadn’t been watching him closely, she would have missed the swift glance he threw at her pocket, where the letter from her sister remained. Yes that was the reason. Aunt Adelaide could be trusted only so far, since she was under her father’s thrall and had been for a long time. Hastily she drew it out and smoothed the crumpled paper, leaving it on the table. Mrs. Miller would put it away for her. She put a crown on top of it, all she could afford today.

  Val did not comment. Indeed, how could he, since he was about to relinquish any claim he had on her? This could be the last time they could meet privately with any semblance of propriety. She would miss his quick mind and his ready understanding that meant she did not have to explain things to him. And his friendship. She would miss that most of all.

  At least she thought she would. But what of that single kiss, the way he’d woken her senses?

  She had shared a kiss with Hervey, but she had not been tempted to repeat it. The kiss had not repeated itself in her dreams. When she woke up with phantom hands holding her, they were never Hervey’s. But he had other attractions. He wanted her, and he would devote himself to her. She could learn to love him.

  “It’s time to go,” she told her sister.

  Fortunately, Louisa had been put in a sunny mood by Mrs. Miller’s overindulging her in an extravagantly decorated hat.

  “Louisa loves pretty things,” Charlotte murmured to Val as she joined him.

  “I can see that. She’s a very pretty girl,” he answered, loudly enough for her to hear. “How old are you, Louisa?”

  Her sister shu
ddered and turned away.

  “Call her Lou,” Charlotte said. “Only our father calls her Louisa.”

  “Ah.” He sounded as if he understood. Perhaps he did. “Lou, how old are you?”

  The change in her mood was instant and startling to someone who didn’t know her. She turned a beaming smile to Val. “Seventeen, although my eighteenth birthday is in two months.”

  Val turned to Charlotte, absolute bewilderment clouding his eyes. “Why have I never met her before? Why is she not in society?”

  Charlotte glanced at Louisa, reassuring herself that her sister was not upset by Val’s change in tone. “She prefers it.” That was not the complete truth, but it would do for now.

  After thanking Mrs. Miller, they left the shop. As if by magic, Val’s splendid equipage drew up outside the door, so they were not discommoded at the least. A great roar of many voices swept into the ordinary sounds of horses, carriages, and street-hawkers.

  The first executions were underway.

  Swallowing, Charlotte allowed him to hand her into the carriage, and then her sister. The heraldic shield on the door proclaimed it to be the property of the Marquess of Strenshall, but it was both smaller and less carefully touched up than the one on her father’s carriage.

  Inside was a completely different prospect. The worn brown leather of her father’s carriage stood in sharp comparison to Val’s dark blue plush. When the coachman set the vehicle in motion she discovered the suspension was far superior, also.

  Louisa smoothed her hand over the fine fabric, making a sound of appreciation. “I like this.”

  “It’s good to touch,” Charlotte said.

  Louisa smiled broadly. She would be easier to handle when they got home. Perhaps her father would bear that in mind when she needed to visit Mrs. Miller again, although Charlotte doubted it.

  “Do you like traveling, Lady Lou?”

  She nodded vigorously, a powdered curl escaping her coiffure. “Very much.”

  The relatively short journey was achieved with stilted conversation. Charlotte’s stomach tightened as they approached her front door. Her father might take umbrage that Val had brought them back and not waited for his carriage, but Val explained that easily as they drew up outside. “I came here first, but they told me you were at the milliner’s. When they gave me the address, I agreed to bring you back before the crowds grew too raucous.”