by Sandra Byrd
“Not for lack of trying,” I insisted.
He knocked on Mr. Pilchuck’s door, went in, and spoke with him. Both men appeared in the front office, and I expected to be escorted back. Instead, Mr. Pilchuck came forward into the greeting area.
“Miss Young,” he said. “What a surprise.”
“I was worried that perhaps my letters had gone astray,” I said, rather accusingly.
“Not at all, my dear,” he said, his voice thick with condescension. I shouldn’t have been surprised if he’d leaned over and patted my head. “Probate takes time, and I have many other clients—well-placed clients with important investments.”
I understood. The fees I’d pay him would be negligible. “I am concerned about my house, my accounts,” I said.
He drew near me. “Your house in London, and your house in trust, are both securely held. You have not much more than that, you understand. Your father was a police officer.”
I sighed a relief. Cheyne Gardens was mine. “And then I have additional questions,” I began, but he held up his hand.
“Patience, Miss Young, although I know that is often in short supply in the fairer sex. Lord Tennerton is about to arrive. Please post your questions to me, and I shall send for you when I have your affairs settled.” He turned to his assistant, who moved to show us out without a farewell.
Once on the street, Mrs. W sniffed her indignation.
“Well, at least both houses are secure,” I said.
There was an unusually long pause.
“Indeed,” finally came her response.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The next day Lord Lockwood sent a note round asking if he could call the following Wednesday. I was unaccountably eager to see him, but I did have a few items I needed to deliver to Drury Lane that day. I hoped he would call early.
He did. As Bidwell was occupied with a water leak in the scullery, Mrs. W opened the door and was clearly not pleased to see Lockwood. She stood in his way, rather, so that it would be difficult to proceed to the parlor.
“Lord Lockwood, please, come into the parlor,” I said. “I’ve had some tea freshly prepared.” After a sip of his tea, he did not drink it again.
“Is it not prepared to your tastes?” I asked.
“Tea rarely is. I’ve grown fond of the brisk strength of Turkish coffee. Your tea is prepared perfectly well, Miss Young. Do not concern yourself.”
It was for him to bring up the topic of his visit and I waited. I looked at him directly and he did not turn away from me. His eyes, a shade close to the rusted brown of his hair and close-shaved beard, were warm and I couldn’t help but notice a few tiny freckles on the skin near the corner of his left eye, which gave a boyish feel to his otherwise firmly masculine face.
He cleared his throat, and I focused. He smiled. He knew I’d been examining him and I felt a blush rise. “I stopped by to ask if you’d like me to have my groundskeeper repair your fences. The park’s deer are breaking through and are, I’m sorry to say, somewhat of a nuisance. After he treats my fields this spring, I could have him tend to them.”
I nodded my agreement. “I have no plans to do anything in terms of the land at Winton Park. I understand the grounds and the house both need considerable attention. The carriage house and kitchens are in grave disrepair, I know. They will need my first attentions.”
If I can afford to provide what they need, I thought.
“Thank you, Lord Lockwood. Please have the invoice remitted to Davidson and I shall see it attended to.”
He smiled. “I will let you know myself.”
“It was kind of you to come all the way to London to let me know.” I thought I should make it clear that he owed me nothing, he being so duty bound. “But a note would suffice in future, as I do not want to put you to trouble.”
“Oh, it is no trouble. I am in London for a few days with my brother and his wife, to see a medical specialist, and on a theater errand.”
“I hope your brother is well,” I said.
“I hope he will be after this visit,” Lockwood replied, and I could see love for his brother in his eyes. “He fought while I merely wished to, but as first son, I could not. My family duties precluded me, but I shall see to it that his carrying out his duty denies him nothing beyond what he’s already lost.”
We made small talk for a moment, and though I did not want our interlude to end and it did not seem that he did, either, I knew I had to make my deliveries. “Thank you for your attentiveness to Winton and to me. But I’m afraid I must depart for Drury Lane; I have some items to deliver ahead of this evening’s performance.”
He stood, then, and spoke, his voice infused with a restrained enthusiasm. “I’m on my way to the Lyceum Theatre for an hour or two of sword training of the actors in Henry V.”
“Oh, I adore Shakespeare, and in particular Henry V!”
“May I offer you a lift to Drury Lane so you won’t need a hired carriage?” His voice was hopeful. “And then you could perhaps see something for yourself of what is going on at the Lyceum? Your competitor?” He grinned.
I remained silent, and he spoke up again, softly. “You’d asked after what I had . . . passion for. You could view it yourself.” His voice grew personal. “You’re the only one who’s ever asked.”
Mrs. W shook her head disapprovingly in a manner I’d long come to read as Do be sensible, dear.
“Why, yes, that is a fine idea.” I would not turn down the opportunity to offer a kindness in light of all he’d done for me. Mrs. W’s face soured and she sighed with resignation.
Why did she not like the man? Had it to do with his father, somehow, or just her long-standing dislike of titled men?
I gathered the soft leather bag in which I kept smallish costume pieces that needed transport—they would be fogged and sooted if not wrapped well—and told Mrs. W not to wait on supper for my return.
I followed Lord Lockwood to his very fine coach and he held a hand out to help lift me in. I placed my hand in his, and he wrapped his gloved fingers around mine, protectively. I was glad for my gloves, then, the soft leather hiding my rough skin. I slipped a little on the step and reached out for his shoulder to steady myself.
When I rested my hand there, a thrill ran up through my arm and into my chest. I knew he felt something, too, because he unexpectedly looked in my eyes.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Quite so,” I responded, and he grinned. We were off, and about thirty minutes later we arrived at Drury Lane.
He waited while I ran the bags in to one of Wilhelm’s dressers and then I returned with all speed. Lockwood kept a beautifully wrought carriage clock in his coach, so I knew he was a man who valued punctuality.
Within a few moments, we were at the Lyceum. “I’d always loved theater.” He held his hand out for me to alight from the coach as he spoke. “But mostly as an observer. It grew increasingly difficult for me to enjoy the fencing scenes prominent in so many performances.” He let go of my hand and held up his walking stick. “The actors were clearly not trained; they would shake their swords this way and that, lunging inelegantly, or waving it around like a conductor leading an orchestra.”
“Quelle horreur!” I said, and laughed.
He laughed with me. “I have found a calling of sorts. A way by which I might return the favor to actors for the many hours of enjoyment they’ve provided to me. To properly train them with the sword, as surely many in their audience would know the difference between rightly and wrongly wielded weapons.”
“How rewarding! I, too, know the joy of seeing my handiwork on the stage.”
“If I train with them, over and over, it allows the movements to become almost second nature. That way, when they are concentrating on something else, for example, their lines, or if a mishap should come along, the arm will move in the right direction without the actor even having to think about it. I repeat a stroke so many times that when I am fencing I can focus on tactic and strategy knowing my arm wi
ll do what it has been trained to do by repetition.”
“Sewing is like that, too,” I said.
He nodded and settled me into a soft chair in a box halfway up stage left. “Do you have a good view?”
“I can see well enough from here. Thank you.”
He left me in the box and within a few minutes I watched him begin to train two actors for a duel. He guided them gently but firmly, and even to my untrained eye I could see how authentic they became with less than an hour of his instruction. Like me, he used his skills to ensure that the actors became the characters, and the characters then quickened to life for the audience. He returned to me within an hour, reddened, without his jacket or waistcoat, radiating masculinity.
For a relished moment I was quite undone.
“Well done, Lord Lockwood.” I clapped lightly. “It’s not often I have the view from a box. But the greater pleasure was seeing you at work with the men.”
He grinned and sat next to me. “My barrister and good friend Henry Colmore Dunn quotes the master when he says, ‘To be a good fencer, the great point is to know how to defend and ward off the blows that the enemy gives. Always beware the unexpected stroke.’ I find that all to be true in life as well as with the sword in my hand.”
“Do you have enemies, Lord Lockwood?”
“I do, Miss Young.” He sat next to me. “So do you. We all do.”
He did not elaborate, but my mind went, for a moment, to Roberts’s warning.
I turned back to Lord Lockwood. “Between this training and your presentation of Lumpy Loggerhead, perhaps you should join the actors someday.”
“Perhaps!” He laughed but was clearly pleased. “I learn lines when I train with them, and I was quite a little thespian at school.”
“I learn lines in dress rehearsals, too.” I had never felt so comfortable with a man. I did not inhabit his titled world, but clearly, in theater, he inhabited mine.
He drew near to me. His breathing had slowed and his voice took on a low, intimate timbre. “Are you familiar with the lines from Henry V?” The theater was empty but for the two of us. Mrs. W would not approve. I should have stood up and made for the door. I did not.
“Yes, I do. Very well indeed. I have seen many performances with my mother, and have assisted with costumes as well.”
He held my gaze. He was close enough now that I could see the individual lashes that curved upward like the curl of hair on his collar. He did not move away, and I would not be first to do so, either. Then, he spoke lines, as Henry V.
“Fair Katherine, and most fair, will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms such as will enter at a lady’s ear, and plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?”
My heart thrust against my chest; ’twas the most famous passage in the play. Dare I respond as Katherine, the woman who would one day be Henry’s queen, had? Before I could temper myself, I replied, “Your Majesty shall mock at me. I cannot speak your England.”
He no longer displayed a boyish grin but instead the steady look of a man on a mission. “Lovely Katherine, if you will love me well with your French heart, I’m happy to hear you confess it in broken English.” He lowered his voice before continuing: “Do you like me, Kate?”
Was he asking me, Gillian Young? Or was he speaking to Kate as Henry V? Yes, yes, Kate liked Henry very well indeed. Did Gillian like this man? I kept my face impassive, I hoped, but I knew the truth. Gillian did like the man—perhaps, ultimately, to her disadvantage.
I knew the next lines well; I also knew where this passage inevitably led, and I did not know if I wanted to go there. Well, that was untrue. I knew I did.
I proceeded.
“Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell what is ‘like me.’ ” What exactly did he mean? Like him as a neighbor? As a friend? As a woman?
He leaned even closer to me; I inhaled the heady-woody-musky deep of the sandalwood and felt his breath as he spoke. It melted me within and without. “An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.”
He could not speak to me thus as Lord Lockwood: not use my first name, not come so close. He could not express sentiments like that to a woman to whom he was not promised or to whom he had not declared himself.
He could, though, as Henry.
Was he caught up in the passion of his fencing and the play, merely acting? Was I? I thought back on Mrs. W, who did not trust him. But she did not trust any titled man. What did he want with Winton Park? Did he care for me, for myself? Or did he think because I was not of his class I was easy prey and readily available? Did he hope to show me how expensive Winton would be so I’d realize I must sell?
“The tongues of men are full of deceit,” I said. As Katherine. As Gillian.
He said nothing; I had perhaps broken the moment. If I had, it was for the best. The line was spoken, true.
He did not step out of character. “Upon that, I kiss your hand . . .”
He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. As he did, an indescribable pleasure sizzled through me. I held my breath for a moment and allowed my eyes to close but for a second and then withdrew my hand. I should not have spoken the next line; I would not have spoken the next line as Gillian, Miss Young. But as an actress, perhaps a liberty might be taken.
“I can’t allow you to lower yourself by kissing my hand . . .”
“Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.”
He made no move, awaiting my response as a gentleman would, but I could tell he wished to by the forward tilt of his body.
I considered, then stood and spoke softly. “It is not the custom for French maidens to kiss before they are married.”
He took it no further and put a foot or two of distance between us, purposefully breaking the crackling connection. “You have beautiful eyes, Miss Young,” he said. “Sapphire blue, with a brightness to them.”
“They are my mother’s eyes.”
“No, Miss Young,” he disagreed. “They are entirely your own. I will see you home.”
The moment had passed, perhaps for good. I was not yet certain if I regretted that, but I did not regret that it had happened.
• • •
The next day, I found Ruby at the table where the fabric was laid out for cutting.
Instantly, I knew something was wrong. I held a sleeve in my hand. I picked up the other.
“Ohhh.” A low moan escaped my lips.
“What’s the trouble, miss?” Ruby asked. “Are they not right?”
No, no, they were not right at all. Not only were they two different sizes but one clearly would be too small even for Lady Tolfee’s thin frame.
“Ruby, have you cut on the skirts?”
“Yes, miss!” She ran to the cupboard and brought out several rounded disks of cut fabric. I had given her the dimensions, and she could read numbers. Still, by looking at them, I knew they were wrong. Not only wrong, but so wrong that I would have to buy more of the watered silk—if I could find it in time. Our financial margin in the project would completely disappear.
I did not want her to see my agony. My forehead broke out in a plague of sweat, which I could not let drip on the fabric. Charlotte kept her head down; a natural seamstress, she more than likely knew what was wrong. I also did not want Ruby to see me recut the pieces.
“You’ve been working very hard,” I said. “Would you and Charlotte like to run down to the Mission this afternoon? I’ve looked at the calendar, and it’s the day the speakers come to encourage the young ladies. Perhaps you’ll even know someone there, as many will attend, and it’s sure to be a rousing talk.”
“Yes, thank you, miss!” The two of them raced to their room to change into the clean, nondescript outfits I’d bought them when they’d started working for me, and Ruby made sure her wig was affixed underneath her bonnet.
While they were gone, I unrolled the remainder of the green silk.
“Can I help you cut?” Mother Martha asked.
“No, thank you.” I trusted no one but myself. I c
ould not afford another error, not today with this dress, nor, truth be told, in the future.
Ruby had not taken to sewing, not even to the broad cutting. I could not afford to keep her endlessly. I could not afford to continue to replace fabric. I would have her try her hand at dipping the many dramatic layers of ombré fabric, which I suspected she could do. But I had little need for that year in and year out. This one Season, thankfully, I did, for one dress. And then?
I hoped she would not ruin it, good intentions or no.
Several hours later, as the late-spring sun began to set, I heard a giggling hubbub out of the window. I peeked outside. Ruby and Charlotte were returning, Ruby with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. They held hands as a young man, who had clearly been accompanying them, tipped his hat and then ran off.
They tumbled up the stairs. “Guess what, miss?” Ruby’s eyes shone. “I met the most wonderful young man. He stopped me as we and the other girls were coming out of the Mission—picked me out specially of them all, he did, didn’t he, Charlotte?”
Charlotte dutifully nodded.
“He gave me a posy—my first ever, miss! He said there were situations waiting for young ladies such as myself, in lovely houses where we would be an ornament—an ornament, imagine that! And all we’d have to do is keep the place dusted and such.”
I gaped in horror. My mind quickly flew back to the whispered warning at my door, and the threat of the King Street brothel for the girls and the promise that I’d be shown someone meant business and I should quit sleuthing. Was this lad attached to that whisperer and his threat somehow? Had I been recognized dressed as Nell Gwyn? I needed to learn more if I could, and I knew how to do it. A visit to see Roberts. “What did you say?”
“I said nothing, miss. Not yet.”
I drew her near me. She sparkled with life.
“Those boys mean no good,” I said. “And I have made a grave error in letting you come home, escorted by a young man and no chaperone.”
“But you came home escorted by a man with no chaperone not long ago,” she said.
“How do you know that?” I demanded.