* * *
There followed a time of great excitement. Lydia did not see Alex, but in a letter he told her that the loan was secure in her account. Lydia lost no time in moving into the premises with Emily. She hadn’t told Emily that Alex had loaned her the money. On her return from the bank when Emily had asked her if she had been successful, Lydia said yes, she had. Emily assumed the bank had granted her the loan and Lydia let it go at that.
They sorted out their accommodation at the top of the building before setting about improving the shop to Lydia’s taste and ordering stock. Decorated in soft cream and pastel-green hues, the salon was smart and bright and well ventilated, the atmosphere pleasant. Lydia introduced an aura of comfort and luxury, with fashion magazines on a polished round table and green-velvet chairs where customers could sit and browse. In the window, shawls, an array of fans, gowns, bonnets and purses were artfully arranged. Upstairs in the workshop shelves were stocked with rolls of fabrics—linen, cotton, gingham, silk, satin and luscious velvets.
Everything was being readied for the opening of the shop and the sooner the better. Emily was a godsend. Along with two experienced seamstresses Lydia had known for some time who were eager to find new employment and hopeful of bettering themselves, they worked round the clock at the various tasks. She knew she couldn’t possibly set herself up as a first-rate house who drew their clients from the upper echelons of society, but she did hope to attract wealthy clients. She didn’t employ enough seamstresses on the premises and some of the dresses she would have to send out to be made up by freelance needlewomen in their own homes.
* * *
Two days before the opening Lydia was in the workroom, leaning over the large square table on which her designs were spread out. Emily, who had been sorting out the drawers behind the counter, came up to tell her that a gentleman was asking for her below.
‘What does he want, Emily? I’m busy with—’
‘I told him that and he says that he understands, but he won’t keep you long.’
Lydia went down to the salon. A man stood with his back to the door, gazing around the shop. Immediately she knew who it was. When she entered he looked directly at her. Lydia stared at him. Her throat became dry and her whole body tensed. Without turning her head, she said, ‘Leave us, will you, Emily.’
Emily looked from one to the other and returned to the workroom.
‘Hello, Lydia,’ Samuel Brook said softly, his gaze seeming to feed on her features, not having seen her since she was three years old. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘I have not seen you since I was three years old and I have only a vague memory of you, but I know very well who you are. I never thought to see you again.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you did.’
Although he was soberly dressed, Lydia noted that his clothes were of good quality. Of average height, he was thin and gaunt. His skull could be seen through his sparse hair. His skin reminded her of leather and it was patched with scales from too much exposure to the sun. His face was drawn. His eyes watched her, clinging steadfastly to her face with something like hope in their depths.
This was her father, she told herself—the bogey man of her past, the man who had cast such a giant shadow over her life she had desperately tried to escape by agreeing to marry Henry and live in America. Looking at him now, she knew she had nothing to fear from him. He was forty-two years old and yet he looked like an old man. His frailty made her reluctant to get angry with him. With one hand he held himself upright and steady with the aid of a cane and sheer willpower, but it looked to Lydia as if it cost him a tremendous effort. He was diminished by infirmity, brought on by the harsh and brutal life of a convict in Australia.
‘Please,’ she said, indicating a chair. ‘Do sit down.’
He did so gladly. They sat facing each other.
‘This establishment,’ he said. ‘It is yours?’
‘Yes. I rent the premises but the business is my own.’
‘You have done well for yourself.’
‘Not yet as it is brand new, but I hope it will prosper. I did not have enough capital to begin with. I’ve had to borrow more before I could set everything up. We open in two days.’ She was filled with questions, with the whys of almost everything that had defined her childhood. But in this short time they were together she only asked him a few of those questions and as she did so she tried to read his face. ‘But what of you? You—have been in Australia I believe,’ she said tactfully.
He nodded. ‘For my sins—for seven years.’
‘What was your crime?’
‘Petty theft. I stole seven shillings to feed myself.’
‘And for that you were condemned to seven years in a penal colony—for every shilling you stole you gave one year of your life? How long did it take for the vessel to reach Australia?’
‘The voyage took nine months.’
‘I cannot imagine how horrendous that must have been.’
He nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said hoarsely as memories assailed him. ‘Many didn’t survive—and some who did could not endure the harsh conditions of the penal colony. They never saw home and loved ones again.’
‘When were you released?’
‘I was given my certificate of freedom four years ago.’
‘Four years? Why did you not return to England then?’
‘I considered joining the free settlers as many emancipated convicts were doing, but after spending some time in the interior I decided to return. In Australia—the worst that could happen did happen.’
‘And yet despite all that you survived.’
He nodded. ‘A man can adapt to anything. He can learn to survive because as long as the will to endure remains, the body and the mind adjust to do the same. But one does not undergo such alterations to one’s life and walk away from the damage without being affected by it.’
‘My mother found that out,’ Lydia remarked, unable to conceal her bitterness over his treatment of her mother. ‘That day when you left us was long ago. It left a tarnished memory, like a piece of old unpolished silver, but it eventually faded. She had no use for it any longer and moved on with her life.’ Watching him, he looked terribly sad. ‘So much has happened in the intervening years. When you deserted us in Coventry we came to London. She met someone—Alistair. He helped her by giving her work—he helped us both.’
‘They were close?’
Lydia nodded. ‘I think they would have married—had she been free to do so.’
Her father nodded, thoughtful. ‘Your mother was a woman of exceptional beauty. It was natural that she would meet someone else. What can I say? I am so sorry.’
Lydia stoically ignored the mistiness she saw in his eyes and heard the unutterable sadness in his voice as she tried to harden her heart. ‘If you think I will forgive and forget what you did simply because you say you’re sorry, then you are wrong.’
‘I understand and for what it’s worth I cannot blame you for feeling bitter. It’s no less than I deserve.’
‘Why did you desert us? For what reason?’
He was silent for a long, considering moment. ‘I have no excuse. I could not find work in Coventry—which as you know was where we went to live after we were married. Your grandparents did their utmost to discourage your mother from marrying me—they did not consider me, a printer’s apprentice—or a printer’s devil as we were called—suitable for their only daughter, but she was determined and defied them.’
‘Yes, I know. According to my mother, my grandparents were strict disciplinarians. As an only child it was not easy for her.’
‘She was a fine seamstress when I met her. She took in sewing—which, after you were born, she was able to do and take care of you at the same time. Sadly things went from bad to worse between us. There were many arguments. I decided to try my luck elsewher
e—always believing that the grass was greener and all that. I was young, weak and foolish. I should not have left her. Eventually I came to London, where I hoped, eventually, to begin my own printing business. I was desperate by then. I had no money and was unable to find anywhere to live. I wanted to find work and then send for you and your mother, but before I could do that I was arrested for stealing.’
‘I see. It’s a sorry tale. What you did to her was unforgivable. You hurt her deeply—but you did not destroy her. She would not allow you to do that, but I was so young when you left. I kept asking her where you had gone, when you would be coming back—it was not easy for her to explain it all to a child.’
‘No,’ he said, unable to conceal his regret, ‘I don’t imagine it was. In Australia I had plenty of time to consider what I did, to rake over the sad debris of my life. It was the shame of my life when I left her—and you. I’ve waited for this moment for more years than you can imagine. I hoped your mother would still be alive. I wrote to her in Coventry and sent letters to her parents’ address in Yorkshire several times. When I did not get a reply I assumed she no longer cared about me. How she must have reviled me.’
‘Yes,’ Lydia said frankly, ‘she did. I never met my grandparents. They died within months of each other several years ago. Mother never received your letters. If my grandparents kept them from her that was wrong. Perhaps they may have gone astray. Whatever happened we will never know. They never forgave her for marrying you and I cannot pretend otherwise to salve your conscience, but she was proud and when you left us she would not go back to Yorkshire. The letter informing me that you were returning to England from Australia—we knew nothing about your imprisonment although Mother did hear a rumour of your being sent to Australia at one time, but we never did find out the truth of it—was forwarded to the address where my mother worked here in London.
‘I went to the establishment where she worked here in London. The man—the owner—told me where I could find you.’
‘That would be Alistair. Did you tell him who you were?’
He shook his head. ‘No, but now I know what he was to your mother, no doubt I left him wondering. When he spoke to me his eyes held speculation and not surprise.’
‘Yes. Alistair is sharp—perceptive. He will know.’
‘Lydia,’ he said, his voice husky with emotion, ‘do you think that some day you might forgive me for what I did to you and your mother?’
Lydia was pierced by his question, as if it penetrated her spirit as well as her flesh. She looked at him. His eyes were both proud and beseeching. ‘I don’t know.’
He drew a deep breath and nodded. ‘If I could undo what I did to your mother, and to you, all those years ago, I swear to you I would do it.’ With an effort he got to his feet. ‘I will leave you now. I will not encroach on your time any longer. I—I just wanted to see you. You are a lovely girl, Lydia—a credit to your mother.’
Lydia stood and watched him cross to the door. ‘You are not well. Where are you staying?’
‘I have found lodgings here—in town. I’m looking for a small property to buy—somewhere I can be comfortable to end my days.’
‘Will—will I see you again?’
He turned and looked at her, meeting her eyes directly. ‘Would you like to see me again?’
She thought about it for a moment. She was overcome by so many confusing and contradicting emotions right at this moment that she found it difficult to analyse her feelings. He was not what she had expected. If she was to continue seeing him, that meant healing the breach in the wall that surrounded her heart, allowing compassion to enter it.
She nodded. ‘Yes, I—I think I would.’
He smiled in relief. ‘Thank you. I’m glad. If you need any further assistance with your business, I have money to spare. I will call on you again and we will talk. We must proceed slowly—one step at a time.’
‘Yes—one step at a time.’
* * *
From the moment her father left her Lydia carried on with her work without thought. Her father’s intrusion into her life gave her complications she did not want right now, so she thrust them to the back of her mind.
Having been told by Lydia about her father and taking note of her pallor and quietness since that encounter with some concern, Emily suggested they take a walk in the park to put some colour into her cheeks.
‘We’re ready for the opening,’ Emily said. Not giving her time to argue, she handed Lydia her bonnet. ‘Some time away from the shop will do you good.’
It wasn’t until they strolled over the rolling green park that Lydia felt as though she could breathe again. It was good to get away from the confines of the shop, where brooding on the situation with her father preyed on her mind.
As it was the fashionable hour the park was full of people, drawing all classes of a pleasure-seeking society. The ring was crowded with mounted riders and elegant carriages. Some people strolled and some gathered in clusters to gossip. Rosy-cheeked, excited children played all manner of games. An abundance of multi-coloured flowers in beds and borders added a vivid splash of colour to the park, and the grass was like soft green velvet. Dressed in their finest, the two girls attracted many admiring glances.
What Emily was saying drifted away into the depths of Lydia’s mind, the words disjointed and coming to her from a distance when her eyes fell on a carriage, its occupants being a man and a woman. It was the same gleaming midnight blue carriage she had ridden in with Alex on the day she had gone to the bank. Alex saw Lydia walking across the grass and instructed his driver to halt. He had appeared too suddenly for her to prepare herself, so the quickening of her heartbeat and the heady surge of pleasure that beset her was evident in her eyes and her quick intake of breath.
His gaze passed appreciatively over her. Dressed with tasteful simplicity in pale blue silk, the material so fine, the colour so light as to be almost white, she was a vision of elegance and grace. Her bonnet was of the same pale blue, wreathed in white and tied beneath her chin with a broad silk ribbon of a deeper blue. Under it her hair, taken back in a chignon, shone rich and dark.
They looked at one another across the days that had passed since they had parted, when Alex had offered to lend her the money for the shop. His eyes were warm, filled with a velvet-textured softness. He was dressed in a brown coat, and nothing else he wore of contrast other than the snowy white of his cravat. His dark hair was smoothly brushed and the familiar scent of his cologne assailed her. She could feel his seductive power reaching out to caress her.
‘Mr Golding,’ she said politely. ‘This is a surprise.’
He smiled, seeming to be unable to tear his eyes from her. He noted her pallor and the blue smudges beneath her eyes. The last time he had seen her she had been a young woman with a purpose in life. Now he sensed her withdrawal and that something was wrong. ‘A pleasant one, I hope.’ He turned to the young woman by his side. ‘Miranda, I would like to introduce you to an acquaintance of mine, Lydia Brook. She is to open a dress shop shortly. Miss Brook, may I introduce my sister, Lady Seymour.’
Lydia bowed her head politely. ‘How do you do, Lady Seymour. It is a pleasure to meet you. And this is a friend of mine, Emily Hunter,’ she said, taking Emily’s arm and drawing her forward. ‘She is also an excellent seamstress and is assisting me with the opening and afterwards.’
Emily bobbed a little curtsy, a stunned expression on her face on being introduced to two such important people.
Holding a brown-silk parasol decorated with lace, Alex’s sister was a young woman with a fair complexion and thoughtful, greyish-blue eyes. Her hair was dark brown and arranged in ringlets which bounced delightfully when she moved her head. She was extremely pretty, with a vivacity and freshness to her manner, and she was all smiles, for who could resist such a lovely and well-mannered young woman her brother had halted the carriage to acknowledge. She
seemed to be assessing Lydia with interest and when her eyes ceased to regard her so seriously her lips curved in a wide smile.
‘How exciting,’ Miranda exclaimed. ‘And when do you expect to open your shop, Miss Brook?’
‘Salon,’ Emily was quick to say. ‘It’s not a shop, it’s a salon.’
Lady Seymour laughed. ‘My apologies. I stand corrected. Salon it is.’
‘It hardly matters,’ Lydia said. ‘Salon or shop—we sell the same things.’
‘Of course it matters,’ Emily argued lightly. ‘Salon sounds much more interesting and appealing than a shop. Very grand, in fact.’
‘Of course it does,’ Lady Seymour agreed. ‘Are you to open soon?’
‘The day after tomorrow,’ Lydia provided.
Lady Seymour’s eyes widened. ‘As soon as that—and yet here you are taking a walk in the park. Goodness!’
‘We have been working non-stop for the past month. We are as ready as we can be, with just a few finishing touches to take care of. We thought it would not do any harm to take an hour off.’
‘Quite right, too.’ Lady Seymour glanced at her brother, a quizzical look in her eyes. ‘You have known Miss Brook long, Alex?’
‘Several weeks,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘We—met through a mutual acquaintance.’ Unable to resist, he glanced at Lydia briefly just as she looked at him. He caught her gaze and held it frankly, sending her a faint, conspiratorial wink which went unobserved by his sister, but not by the sharp-eyed Emily.
‘I see,’ Lady Seymour said. ‘Well, Miss Brook, you have aroused my interest—and more than a little curiosity. I am interested in fashion. Did you make the dress you are wearing?’ she asked, her gaze appreciative. ‘It must be the latest thing.’
‘Yes. I design and sew all my own clothes.’
‘Which is a fitting advertisement for your work. It is such a lovely gown—the colour most unusual. I want a new morning gown so I may find my way to look at what you have on show in your salon some time very soon. If I like what I see then I will happily pass your name on to my friends, too.’
Carrying the Gentleman's Secret Page 11