Carrying the Gentleman's Secret

by Helen Dickson

  But that had been before she had met Alex Golding, a man who had broken through her resistance—a man she hadn’t wanted to resist. Only for a moment had she paused to consider what she was about to do. Before then she would have been appalled that she could ever contemplate such behaviour, but when the memory of Henry had flashed into her mind and how he had brought her near to ruin, she had thrust all such thoughts from her mind. Life just had to go on. She must go on and if she could find oblivion for just one night in the arms of Alex Golding then she had welcomed it.

  Never having been affected by lust before, never having desired a man as she desperately desired Alex Golding, all she could hope was that given time it would burn itself out. She accused herself of being a shameless wanton, soiled and used and unfit for any gullible male who might one day come along and want to marry her. She had broken all the rules that had been made to protect young ladies from experienced men like Alex, rules that governed the moral code of a decently reared young lady.

  After a while, having put off thinking about Henry, she now did so. Over dinner Alex had asked her if she’d loved Henry. She grimaced inwardly. She had told him that she didn’t even know if that kind of love existed. She had been fond of him and had always eagerly awaited his visits, when he would take her to Greenwich to walk on the Heath and sometimes they would take a boat on the river. She had enjoyed his company and his easy devil-may-care attitude toward life. So she had accepted his proposal of marriage, thinking that perhaps the kind of love others spoke of might develop in time.

  Lydia had often wondered what life would have been like had her mother married Alistair—but she couldn’t, of course, since she was still married to Lydia’s father. Not that her mother would have gone back to him. That part of her life had ended when he’d walked out on them. They were living in Coventry when he’d deserted them on a wet morning, heading for London and never coming back. But Lydia’s mother would never describe it that way. Blessed was the word she used, and good riddance. They were both better off without him. Lydia had come to believe that, too.

  There was a rumour that he had been arrested for some felony and sent to Botany Bay to serve his sentence. They never did find out the truth of it—until six weeks ago when Lydia received a letter. It had been forwarded from the man who had taken over her deceased grandfather’s parish in Yorkshire, but it had originated in Australia. This confirmed the rumour. Her father had indeed been a convict, had served out his sentence and was coming home.

  To Lydia this man was a distant, fearful figure and the thought of meeting him, of knowing him, filled her with dread. Whenever thoughts of her father came to mind they were unwelcome and the only way to deal with them was to make them go away. Contempt was what she experienced; contempt and a cold anger were the only safe emotions she could harbour towards him, for the man who had abandoned her and her mother. These thoughts and emotions had taught Lydia to run as far and as quickly as her mind and will would take her.

  As the coach travelled south, tormented by weariness and the cramped conditions she had to endure, she welcomed her discomfort, for it prevented her dwelling on thoughts of Alex, whom despite the angry words she had flung at him, had made a lasting impression on her naive and trusting heart, and his loss was as fresh to her as the void inside her. She had no outlet for her emotions and the emptiness inside her was so total that it eclipsed everything. With that thought she finally slammed a door on his image, for she knew otherwise it would never let her rest again.

  * * *

  Before Lydia had left for Scotland, Alistair had moved his business from the less salubrious area of Bethnal Green to a three-storeyed spacious building in Covent Garden. The working conditions of the seamstresses he employed were better than could be found in some of the other establishments. He was shrewd in business and had a viable enterprise catering for a better class of customer. He sold a wide variety of ready-made goods—clothing for tradespeople and the middle class, but some were more specialised when material would have to be cut and made into the appropriate style which the customer required.

  On arriving at the premises Lydia left the bustle of the street and let herself into the shop. The building was large with rooms at the top to accommodate some of the workers. After four days of travelling in a coach she was relieved to have arrived in London. As soon as she had left the coach, having no wish to find fresh lodgings and hoping Alistair would let her have her old room back, after arranging at the coaching inn to have her baggage collected later, she had come directly to the shop.

  The cream and pale green decorations were fresh and it was pleasantly furnished, but it lacked that certain something which to Lydia would be an essential part of her own business. She would add velvet chairs to match the decor where customers could sit and discuss designs and fabrics in their desire to dress well and to drink the tea she would provide.

  Emily Hunter, an attractive fair-haired well-mannered young woman whose job it was to receive customers and work on garments when the shop was quiet, looked up from sorting through a box of gloves on the counter when the door opened. On seeing who had entered she smiled her welcome, her face rosy with delight.

  ‘Why, this is a surprise, Lydia. What are you doing back in London? I thought you would be a married woman by now and halfway to America.’

  ‘So did I, Emily. Let’s just say it didn’t work out. No doubt my reputation will come in for a bit of a battering, running off to Scotland like I did with Henry, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I will tell you all about it later.’ She was not yet ready to explain her reason for returning to London.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Emily said sympathetically. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Work—which is what I have always done.’

  ‘Are you back for good, then?’

  ‘Until my circumstances change and I can start up on my own,’ she said, more determined than ever to open her own establishment when she could find affordable premises and afford to buy stock. She was impatient to have independence. ‘If Alistair will have me back, that is.’

  ‘Of course he will. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he knows it.’

  ‘I expect I shall have some grovelling to do first—he’ll enjoy that. Where is he?’

  Emily raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Upstairs. I only hope you coming back will put him in a better mood. He’s been out of sorts since you went and he hasn’t been able to find anyone to replace you. He’s nothing but an overbearing bully,’ she said, careful to keep her voice low.

  Lydia smiled. ‘My mother used to tell me it was because he is a perfectionist.’

  ‘And she adored him as I remember.’

  ‘Yes, she did—and in his own way he adored her, too. I know he didn’t show it, but her death affected him deeply. Behind his bluster and harsh manner he does have a certain charm—when he chooses to employ it, that is.’

  ‘There’s been no pleasing him since you left. I think he’s missed you and will be glad to have you back.’

  Lydia climbed the stairs to the large workroom. She stood in the doorway and watched the familiar scene and smelled the equally familiar smell of the bales of fabrics—silks, satins, cotton and linens, all attractively patterned—stacked on shelves. Dressmaker’s dummies in various stages of fittings stood like effigies of real people around the room.

  Over the years Lydia had developed excellent needlework skills, mastering the skills of cutting and fitting. The desk where she had worked long hours on the sketches for her designs was in a corner of the room by the window to catch more light, while the centre of the room was taken up with an enormous square table on which designs and fabrics were spread out. Seamstresses who stitched the garments worked in a room on the top floor and some of the work was put out to be made by needlewomen in their homes.

  Some of the women working in the room raised their heads and looked he
r way, their eyes opening wide with surprise on seeing she had come back, some smiling their welcome, others merely nodding their heads slightly to acknowledge her, but they did not stop their work.

  Alistair was carrying a bale of cloth to the table. He wasn’t aware of her presence so she took a moment to observe him. He was a tall man, slender in build. His face was thin and deeply lined, his once-brown hair now almost white, making him look older than his fifty years. His eyes were pale and close set. They missed nothing.

  He was a hard master who would not hesitate to discard any time wasters or any woman whose work fell short of his expectations like he would any troublesome baggage. Alistair hadn’t wanted her to marry Henry and certainly not to go and live in America. The way he went about his work two weeks before her departure told her how agitated and infuriated he was by her decision and what it would mean for him to lose his best skilled worker. But behind it all, having known her since she was a child and because of the close and loving relationship he had had with her mother, she knew he was concerned for her.

  But she’d had to go. Henry was offering her an opportunity that might never come again—and then there was the letter from Australia...

  She hadn’t told Alistair about the letter.

  Glancing towards the door and seeing her standing there, he set the bale down and sauntered towards her, studying her coolly.

  Lydia saw a hard glint in his eyes, but behind that hard glint she saw relief—relief that she had come back. He tried to give her the impression that he didn’t care, but she knew differently. She was well thought of by the clients and it wouldn’t have done much to enhance his reputation as a man with his workshop under control when she had left. He knew full well that she had come to ask for her job back. She was confident that he wouldn’t refuse. After all, with her amazing talent for design—as her mother had possessed before her—and the fact that her creations brought Alistair splendid returns, she was a valuable asset to his business he couldn’t afford to turn away. Her gaze was clear and steady as she waited for him to speak.

  ‘Well,’ he drawled after a moment, moving closer, ‘what have we here?’

  Lydia’s hands clenched in the folds of her skirt. Lifting her chin, she looked at him directly, not to the point of haughtiness, but to let Alistair know that she still had her pride. She would not be subservient. ‘What you see, Alistair. I have come back to work—if you will have me.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘There is no husband, Alistair. I—changed my mind.’ She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of telling him the true reason for her return to London, of the humiliation she still felt, knowing she had fallen into the hands of a married philanderer.

  He nodded slowly, digesting what she said and making his own conclusions. ‘If you say so. I only set eyes on him the once, but it was enough to know you and him were worlds apart. Men of his ilk know their places in the social hierarchy and generally keep to them. You’ll have plenty of time to feel the consequences of failing to do so.’

  Lydia smiled thinly. ‘If you say so, Alistair,’ she said, determined not to be drawn into an argument. She needed the work.

  ‘You’re not the first woman to be taken in when a man shows interest in their talents—and I’m not talking about their skills with a needle and thread. Some have left me and when it hasn’t worked out wanted to come back. If they’re lucky and I’m in the mood, I take them back. I knew you’d be back if I waited long enough. I didn’t expect you to be back quite so soon, though.’

  ‘You haven’t set anyone on to replace me, I see,’ she said, preferring to ignore his acerbic comments and glancing towards the empty desk.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So—can I come back, Alistair?’ she asked, smiling softly and knowing he would say yes. ‘I think you need me.’

  Alistair’s gaze ran over her, taking in the challenge her eyes laid down and the beautiful woman she had become. Something passed behind his eyes—perhaps the acknowledgement that she spoke the truth.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Try to contain your euphoria. If I take you back, you will learn to toe the line. You will try not to agitate me—which you tend to do.’

  She laughed, tempted to lean towards him and give him a kiss, which she decided against. That would be taking gratitude too far. ‘I will try very hard not to.’

  ‘Damn your impudence,’ he said on a softer note. ‘I hope you will not think of leaving me again. That would be thoughtless of you.’

  ‘Be assured, Alistair, I have no plans to go anywhere in the immediate future. So—does that mean I can have my room back?’

  With a low grunt he nodded and strode back to the table. ‘I will honour your dear mother’s wishes and allow you to keep a roof over your head. You know what you have to do. Get on with it.’

  Lydia allowed herself to exhale and walked towards her desk. Alistair was right. She knew very well what she had to do and, as she picked up her quill and dipped it into the ink, it was as if she had never left.

  She could almost feel her mother looking over her shoulder, guiding her as she had all her life. The strain of finding herself alone with a young child explained so much about her mother—her focus on her daughter throughout her childhood and her determination that she would experience the best that she could give her, her single-minded protection of her when at thirteen she was old enough to begin her apprenticeship as a seamstress. It wasn’t the kind of work she’d wanted for her daughter. Lower middle-class girls generally gravitated towards dressmaking, but with long hours and small wages it was by far an unenviable occupation.

  She could not change that, but she had made sure her daughter was the most proficient. It helped because Lydia was willing to learn. Her mother taught her lessons other than needlework when they had finished work, often late into the night until exhaustion took over. There was a small table where Lydia did her arithmetic and grammar exercises, and learned enunciation, diction and pronunciation.

  Alistair had recognised her mother’s talent and that she had passed it on to her daughter. It would have been foolish of him to let her go elsewhere, to let someone else get the benefit of her exceptional skills. The only contact her mother had had with her parents was when her father died, leaving her a small legacy, which she’d put away for Lydia’s future.

  * * *

  Lydia worked hard on her return. She had no sooner climbed into bed than it was time to get out again. Two months on from her return to London, there had been no further contact from her father. She was relieved by this, but she felt he had not gone away and that as soon as he arrived in London he would lose no time in seeking her out. Did he know about the demise of her mother? It was doubtful. She now accepted that she could not escape him so she was resigned to wait.

  Her plans for her future were firm in her mind. Working for Alistair, she was never going to accumulate enough money to start her own business. The money would have to come from somewhere. She was twenty years old and she told herself now that she was done with working for Alistair. Considering the difficulties she would encounter on setting up her own dress shop, she was anxious for the next part of her life to begin. Indeed, she was so impatient to do so that she was determined to get the money she needed from somewhere.

  The hour was late and Lydia was working on one of her own creations in her room when Emily came to say goodnight before turning in.

  ‘I’ve seen some empty premises just off Bond Street that would be perfect, Emily. The rent is exorbitant, but if I am to cater for the clientele I have in mind then it is vital to have premises in the fashionable part of London. It also has a small but adequate living accommodation. I’ve even gone as far as to arrange with the agent to let me look inside. The trouble is that I need finance if I’m to open my own shop—to purchase the stock and fitting out the shop.’

  ‘The bank might be able to help you.’
<
br />   ‘Do you think they would loan me the money I need?’

  ‘I don’t know and neither do you unless you try. If not, I suppose you could try money lenders.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Emily. They would rob me blind with the exorbitant interest they would charge.’

  * * *

  Later that week, Lydia and Emily managed to work it so they both had a little time off together to look at the premises Lydia had found. The agent unlocked the door and let them inside the empty shop. As soon as Lydia saw it she knew this was it. This was what she wanted. With its double-fronted bay windows it was perfect.

  It had been a haberdasher’s and Lydia was impressed with how spacious and clean it was. The showroom was large with a counter and cupboards. Two decent-sized rooms leading off could be used for fitting and general use. Up above there was a large workroom with space for the storage of stock, and there were also three small rooms under the eaves for accommodation.

  Lydia could see herself living and working there. It was perfect. Emily agreed with her and should Lydia be fortunate to raise the money she would be more than willing to leave Alistair to come and work for her.

  ‘I can’t let you do this alone, Lydia. It’s all so exciting.’

  Lydia’s heart warmed to her friend. ‘But I won’t be able to pay you much at first.’

  ‘I’ll get by. We’ll get by. I do believe in you—besides, I have a little money put by, too. I also sew well—Alistair said so, which is praise indeed. I just want to be part of this and I refuse to let you do it alone. You need friends around you and that means me.’

  Lydia had faith that taking Emily with her would benefit both her and the business. She was clever and had the ideas and the wherewithal to make their dreams into realities.