by Linda Banche
Gritting his teeth, Laurence poured some of the ewer’s contents over his legs, but dampened the cloth and used the fabric to treat his most sensitive parts. Everywhere the salt water touched smarted.
He swore the whole time, much to Hodges’s amusement. But, at last he was done. “There.” He unclenched his jaw as he handed pitcher and washcloth to the valet. Damn everything to hell, what other tortures awaited him this day?
Hodges produced a fluffy towel and Laurence patted himself dry. Although he wouldn’t admit it to the self-satisfied valet, the treatment had lessened the pain.
Hodges raised his eyebrows. “Better, sir?”
“Yes, curse you.”
“I have something else that will help.”
Something else? Was there no end to this wretchedness?
The valet produced a bottle and uncapped it.
Laurence snapped his head back. “Ugh! That smells like sweaty fencing padding at the end of a long bout on a hot summer’s day.”
“The odor is less than could be desired, but, I assure you, the ointment will further soothe your skin.” He poured a little onto his palm. “Shall I?”
“No.” Laurence grabbed the bottle and poured some of the salve onto his own palm, and then applied it gingerly to the side of his leg. The balm stung a trifle, less than the salt water had, but then coolness spread over his skin. He applied more with the same result. “I daresay you are correct, Hodges.”
“I usually am, sir.” The smugness in the valet’s voice was unmistakable. He applied the ointment in his hand to Laurence’s backside while Laurence worked on the front. Everything stung, but soon the welcome coolness replaced the discomfort.
When they were done, Hodges resealed the bottle and then wiped his hands off on a cloth. “Let the salve dry for a few minutes before you sit or put on a robe.”
Relatively pain-free for the first time since morning, Laurence strolled to the window and retrieved his brandy glass. He drained the rest of the pungent liquid as the crowds passed by in St. James Square below.
Despite his current misery, today had been a good day. One of the best of his life, in spite of all the manual labor he had performed.
He leaned against the window frame and counted pedestrians on the pavements. By Jove, he had never worked so hard in his life. When next he went home, he would strike up a friendship with the work horses on his father’s estate. Like them, he was a beast of burden.
Stop complaining. Indeed, a few aches and pains—even the scratchiest drawers in existence—were a small price to pay for an opportunity he couldn’t have dreamed of two days ago. Imagine that pursuing a lady had led him to people who shared his interests.
Mr. Palmer liked his ideas! His chest swelled. Under his tutelage, he could learn a great deal.
He glanced down at his ravaged skin. If he didn’t die first.
Being encouraged rather than disparaged in his preferences was a novel experience. Quite heady, in fact. Could he possibly have both work he liked as well as a lady with whom to share the work?
Despite the soreness and the dirt involved, everything else had dropped from his mind as he worked. His fatigue, his protesting muscles, his uncomfortable clothes, his life among the ton—Ellen.
He tightened his jaw. He must make more of an effort in that direction. Curse him for falling asleep tonight.
A pedestrian wearing a grey dress caught his eye. She marched down the pavements with a firm step as if she had a thousand important things to do. Just like Ellen. His lips quirked up. Well, he would see her tomorrow at dinner, when he was in much better form. Rested, after a good night’s sleep, and he wouldn’t hurt so much.
He tested his skin. The ointment had dried and he shrugged into his banyan a moment before the servants arrived to remove the hip bath and buckets.
Hodges puttered around the room gathering up the scattered towels and clothes. “I will have these garments cleaned.” He wrinkled his nose as he shook out the oil-stained trousers. “Another set awaits you in the clothes press for tomorrow.” His tone was long-suffering. “Are you certain you will not wear your fine apparel, sir?”
Laurence tipped his chin at the trousers. “Look at those. Would you prefer I abuse my good clothes that way?”
Hodges shuddered. “I take your point.” He balled up the raiment. “Will there be anything further, sir?”
“Yes.” Laurence pulled the drawers out of the pile. “Toss these out.”
Chapter 11
“No, I don’t want to talk to you!” Tom’s shout carried into the workshop.
Laurence looked up from where he hunched over a set of plans on the scarred table.
“Nice little place you have here. Much better than the basement of your house.” A different masculine voice spoke, one unfamiliar to Laurence. And one that scraped over his nerves like glass paper.
“I don’t care what you think.” Tom all but spat the words. “And I am sure my father and sister won’t care either.”
“And how is your lovely sister? I miss her a great deal.” The man’s oily words slithered down Laurence’s spine like something dirty. He straightened. Perhaps Tom needed some help.
“If you had, you wouldn’t have treated her the way you did.”
Laurence bolted for the door. What had the blackguard done to Ellen?
“Get out of here!” Mr. Palmer’s voice roared out. “You are not welcome to me or any of my family.”
“But Mr. Palmer—“
“No buts! Leave or I will throw you out!”
Laurence reached the doorway to catch sight of a tall man marching down the street at a quick pace. Fairly well-dressed in tailcoat and trousers, his tall hat set at a jaunty angle on his dark hair.
Mr. Palmer, hands on hips, glared at the retreating figure, as did Tom.
Laurence coughed. “Need any help?”
Both Tom and his father jumped. Mr. Palmer scrubbed at his face. “No, lad, just sending off some worthless rubbish.” He took a step after the retreating figure. “And I mean to make sure he’s gone.” He strode off as the man paused at the roadway waiting for a break in the traffic.
Lips pressed together, Tom pushed through the entry and set a large wicker basket on the table. He removed several wrapped items that emitted an appetizing meaty aroma and an earthenware jug. “Mother sent over beef pies and ale for our meal. And some apples.” He kept his head down as he set the fruit beside the pies and then extracted cups, cutlery and napkins from the basket.
Laurence folded the plans on the table and set them on a nearby shelf. He itched to ask what the visitor had done, but Tom didn’t look like he wanted to make explanations.
Mr. Palmer stalked back in, shaking his head. “Damned Coles. But he’s gone now.” He grabbed up a rag and wiped the ever-present grease off his hands. “Laurence, sorry you had to witness that. But we do not allow that man anywhere near our home, and especially not near Ellen.”
“Yes, sir.” Good to know he protects his daughter. But from what? Should he ask? Perhaps the matter was private. After all, he wasn’t part of the family.
“I have our meal, Father.”
“Good.” He gestured Laurence toward the food. “Eat up. We all worked hard this morning.” Wood scraped on the dirt floor as they pulled up boxes and crates around the table. The savory aroma of cooked meat only temporarily overwhelmed the ever-present odors of grease, oil, and the lingering scent of horse. Mr. Palmer launched into a discussion about the steam engine—probably deliberately—that dispelled the tense atmosphere
The Palmers didn’t elaborate on what this Coles had done, but Laurence’s skin prickled as if the scratchy drawers covered his entire body. If that man, whatever his misdeed, came near Ellen again, he would answer to him.
After they finished eating, Laurence stood and stretched. He strolled over the ever-whirring steam engine and pulled open the door to the coal chamber. Needed more coal. He scooped a shovelful out of the bin by the wall and loaded the cha
mber.
Tom repacked the basket. “Father, do you think he will come back?” He kept his voice low, but Laurence could hear every word.
“No telling, son. We have to be on our guard. I will tell your mother, but don’t say anything to Ellen. She was angry enough when she found out what he did.”
By George, what had happened? If Coles suddenly reappeared, Laurence would floor him, no explanation asked.
For a few moments the only sounds were of Tom settling the plates and cutlery into the basket. Laurence shut the coal chamber door with a metallic clank. Then Mr. Palmer strode over and clapped him on the back. “I have an errand for you.”
Subject closed. “Any time, sir.” He was more than willing to do whatever Mr. Palmer asked, but he was still tired from yesterday’s heavy lifting. A less strenuous task would be welcome. Something that wouldn’t leave him ready to slide down the wall into a heap never to rise again.
Mr. Palmer pulled a piece of oil-stained paper out of his pocket. “We need modifications to the boiler. I’d like you to take this to the metalworker we use and answer any questions he might have. He’s in Cheapside. Not too far away.”
Only on the other side of London. Well, he would take a hackney. Like most people who lived in and near town, including the Palmers, he didn’t keep a horse and either walked or traveled by paid carriage.
Mr. Palmer checked his pocket watch. “Half after one. Plenty of time for you to get there and back. Of course, you can stay to dinner tonight. Always welcome.”
“Thank you.” Laurence grabbed his ready-made coat and then shrugged into the garment as he strode out to Edgeware Road, on the lookout for a ride. Let him complete this task quickly so he could return and see Ellen again. Her image floated into his mind and he almost didn’t see the hackney barreling down the cobblestones toward him.
He raised his hand and waved at the driver, but the conveyance didn’t stop.
Laurence gaped as the vehicle passed him to pick up a man farther down the road.
A hackney had never ignored him before. Indeed, the jarveys vied with each other for his custom.
He rubbed his palm on his lapel and his skin came away smeared with oil. Winkled clothes, covered in grease. The work was messy, but he looked especially disreputable today, probably like someone who couldn’t pay the fare. No wonder the driver hadn’t stopped. He wouldn’t have, either.
Overused muscles groaning, he trudged down the road. Hackneys didn’t come too frequently to this almost rural area, so he was doomed to walk.
Well, at the first livery stable he encountered, he would hire a horse.
Chapter 12
Ellen tapped the end of her pencil on the parlor table. She reread her equations again, but the symbols swam before her eyes. Laurence’s image danced in her mind to the exclusion of all else. His warm eyes, his jaunty smile…his undraped torso.
She pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her face. Gracious, only nine in the morning, and already the day sweltered.
A cloud passed before the sun, casting a momentary gloom over the summer scene outside, and also over her heart. Was Laurence really interested in her? For all that he had inconvenienced himself to seek her out, did he like the steam engine more than her?
She ceased her pencil tapping. Or had her skill with mathematics worked against her? It certainly had with other men. There was John, who told her she was too clever for him. Or Benjamin, who stormed off in a huff as he shouted over his shoulder that pretty girls couldn’t be intelligent. Probably because she was more intelligent than he was. Well, at least he thought she was pretty, although the compliment was certainly backhanded. Their comments had hurt at the time, but she had been a giddy eighteen then. At one and twenty, she could see those curs for the jealous scoundrels they were.
And then there was George, whom she had known since childhood. She stilled. He was the worst of all. Occasionally, she wondered what had become of him, but each time she put him firmly from her mind. She was better off without that villain.
Why were men so against women mathematicians? Lord Byron’s wife was a mathematician, and people always emulated the famous. But the Byron marriage had failed, and many were only too willing to blame the woman as well as her pursuits.
She glanced out the window, hoping to see Laurence approaching. Would she see him today? Yesterday was Sunday, and none of them had worked. She had hoped he would visit, especially since he hadn’t come to dinner on Saturday. Papa had sent him to their metal worker and he hadn’t returned in time for the meal.
She bit her lip. Would he come to dinner tonight?
The cloud released the sun, and the melancholy melted from the scene as well as from her heart. Enough to-ing and fro-ing. Today she would find out where she stood with him. She usually gave her father her calculations in the evening. But as soon as she finished this set, she would deliver them to the workshop and then corner Laurence. If he wasn’t there, she would wait.
For the next hour, she worked. Finally satisfied, she pushed back her chair and caught up her papers.
The sun’s warmth and the sweet scents of flowers followed her and the housemaid as they made their way from Hans Place and through Hyde Park to the workshop. Clanging of metal on metal, male voices and the odors of grease and horse wafted from the converted stable. She pulled open the door to the steam engine’s hiss and abundant steam. Dark, vaguely human-shaped shadows moved in the mist. The basement used to be just like this. Some things never changed.
She waved her hand before her to clear away some of the obscuring haze. “Father, I have the latest calculations for you.”
Tom, sleeves rolled up and a hank of sweaty hair falling in his eyes, emerged from the fog. “Father isn’t here. And, oh, we don’t need your calculations. Laurence did them for us.”
Laurence approached. “You were not at home Saturday morning, and your father needed the computations right away…”
Her chest filled like an engine with too much steam inside, poised to blow up. This man had been here for a few days, and already he had taken over her job! She had been right. He liked the steam engine better than her! “I see. Apparently, now that you have a new associate—” If she could, she would wither Laurence with her glare.
He winced.
“—you no longer need me.” She dropped the sheets onto the stained table. “Well, then, sir, you can do all the calculations. I will take myself off.”
Laurence swiped an unruly lock of hair out of his face. “Ellen, I never meant to usurp your place.”
Her brother waved a dismissive hand. “Aw, Ellen, don’t be like that. We just needed something right away, and—” He snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. I know the perfect solution. You can be Laurence’s assistant.” He beamed, as pleased with himself as a cat with cream on its whiskers. “How’s that for an idea?”
If she hadn’t exploded before, she certainly would now. “No, I will not be anyone’s assistant.”
Tom’s smile faded and he crooked an eyebrow as if to say, what did I do wrong?
Laurence—Mr. Coffey—winced again.
Her hand trembled as she pulled on the latch and tossed the door open. If she didn’t leave now, she would fling the nearest pieces of heavy metal at both their heads. “If I am not good enough for you anymore, you are on your own.”
***
“Ellen, please—” Laurence ran after her.
Tom caught his arm. “Let her go. She’s just in a huff. Women are like that. She’ll get over it.”
Laurence shook Tom off. “Leave me alone!” He bolted for the exit, only to pull up when Mr. Palmer entered.
Mr. Palmer, frowning as he looked back over his shoulder, paused in the doorway. “Ellen is in quite a tizzy. What did you two do?” His gaze speared her brother. “Or rather, I should ask, what did you do, lad? Another brangle?”
Tom shrugged. “She flew up into the boughs because Laurence did the calculations we needed. I told her we couldn’t
wait.”
“What calculations?”
“The ones for the new, larger boiler you ordered.”
His father sighed. “You didn’t ask me. We could have waited.”
“Well, I thought if we went a little faster—”
“Well, you thought wrong. Sometimes going too fast is a mistake.” He shook his head. “Laurence, while I appreciate your help, there is no need for you to do whatever Tom asks.”
“Thank you, sir, but, please—” Get out of my way!
Tom scraped his boot on the floor. “I tried to make it up to her. But she took a pet when I said she could be Laurence’s assistant. I don’t know why.”
“After what Coles did, you suggested that?” Her father threw up his hands. “How could I have raised such an idiot of a son?”
“Idiot?” Tom bristled like a young bantam cock with ruffled feathers.
“Yes, idiot. Laurence here is obviously interested in Ellen and Ellen in him. And you keep getting in the way.”
“But girls get all fluttery—”
“Girls get all fluttery?” Her father lifted his gaze to the ceiling and shook his head. “The way your mother ‘gets all fluttery’? Your mother has the finest mathematical mind I had ever encountered, and Ellen’s is even better. And, more to the point, Ellen is your sister. Time you learned a little respect for women.”
“I respect women, Father. But I really enjoy having Laurence here.” The boy’s mouth curved down in an adolescent sulk. “Just us men. We can spit and swear and pick our noses and say whatever we like without having to worry about offending the ladies.”
His father stiffened. “Is that what you do behind my back?” He caught his son by the ear and shook him. “You young scapegrace, if you want to spit and swear and pick your nose, you can do it elsewhere than in my house or workshop. We may not be gentlemen born, but we do have good manners.”
Desperate as he was to leave, Laurence’s lips quirked up. Actually, gentlemen did a lot worse when they were alone. Indeed, the manners and graciousness of the Palmer family would put most members of the ton to shame. Laurence could almost laugh, if he weren’t so distracted. Would Mr. Palmer never get out of his way?