Meg Alexander

by The Gentlemans Demand

Then, to her astonishment, he bowed and kissed her hand. ‘A delightful choice,’ he agreed. ‘That glowing shade of blue is quite your colour, Mistress Firle.’

  Nonplussed by the compliment, Sophie could only stare at him. Then she remembered her manners. ‘Thank you!’ she said in some confusion.

  Madame accompanied her customers to the door, shivering as a blast of icy wind swept in from the street.

  ‘’Tis a bitter day,’ she complained. ‘But then you English are a hardy race. For myself, I long for the south of France. Perhaps, one day…?’

  Hatton threw a comforting arm about her shoulders. ‘Claudine, your day will come,’ he promised.

  Settled once more in the carriage, with a rug about her knees, Sophie gave him a curious look.

  ‘You know Madame well?’ she asked.

  ‘She is an old friend of my father…my family,’ he amended hastily. ‘What did you think of her?’

  ‘I liked her very much,’ Sophie told him frankly. ‘She was so kind. I was at a loss to choose from all those wonderful fabrics, but she understood exactly what I needed.’

  Hatton chuckled. ‘Is anything left of your nest-egg?’ he enquired.

  ‘Of course. I told you. I need some things for Kit.’ She hesitated. ‘Mr Hatton, I know you said that I should spend the money, but I don’t feel comfortable doing so.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Matthew and his family have not been paid for weeks,’ she blurted out. ‘Their wages must come first…’

  ‘That matter is settled, Mistress Firle. I took care of it last night.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ Sophie faltered out her thanks, wondering as she did so if this masterful stranger intended to take over her entire life. She returned to a less controversial subject.

  ‘How came Madame Arouet to Brighton?’ she asked. ‘To me she seemed a most unlikely mantua-maker, although, of course, she has great expertise.’

  ‘Need you ask? Like many another, she is an aristocrat driven from her home in France by the revolution.’

  ‘And her husband?’

  ‘Arouet was beaten to death before her eyes. She and her daughter were lodged in a French prison for some months.’

  Sophie gasped. ‘How brave she is! One would never imagine that such a tragedy had happened to her.’

  ‘She is a courageous woman,’ he agreed. ‘There are many such, forced to use what skills they have simply to survive.’

  Sophie fell silent.

  ‘Something troubles you?’ he asked.

  ‘Not exactly, but I was thinking. It is very strange. When tragedy strikes…I mean, when Richard was killed it was a fearful shock. I was so overcome with what it would mean for me and Kit that I thought of no one else. I should have remembered that I was not the only woman in the world to suffer such a loss.’

  She stole a look at her companion and was surprised to see an expression of compassion on his face.

  ‘You are growing up, my dear,’ he told her gently. ‘Believe me, I was sorry to hear of your husband’s death.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I do believe you. That’s why I’ll help you catch his killers.’

  He handed her down as the coach drew up before Hannington’s in North Street.

  ‘You have an hour to make your purchases,’ he announced. ‘Don’t keep me waiting, Mistress Firle.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ she told him stiffly. She turned away and hurried into the store. Now that she was sure that Matthew’s wages had been paid, she could use that comforting roll of bills to buy flannel for Kit’s shirts and woollen cloth to make him a coat. Sophie had learned to grow clever with her needle. Without those skills she and her son would have been reduced to rags in this last year or so.

  It was a sobering thought. Her fingers closed about the roll of ‘soft’ as Richard had called it. She hadn’t seen so much money since that dreadful day when she’d opened Richard’s desk in search of paper for Kit’s painting.

  She’d gazed at the bills in disbelief. Richard was always pleading poverty, but there was enough here to keep them in comfort for a year. When she’d questioned him he’d flown into a rage, accusing her of spying on him and a lack of trust.

  Well, it was true. From that day on, she’d never trusted him completely. They had become estranged, though it had grieved her deeply.

  She glanced at the clock across the street. She had an hour. Swiftly she moved from one department to another, ignoring the tempting fripperies on display. Then, hurrying past the gaily coloured ribbons, she bethought herself of Bess and Abby. Stuff for gowns would be more welcome, she decided. She added two lengths to her purchases of wool and flannel, and gained the entrance to the street before the appointed hour.

  Hatton raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed. ‘A punctual woman? I can scarce believe it!’

  Sophie ignored the gibe.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked in a jovial tone.

  ‘No, Mr Hatton. I don’t eat luncheon.’

  ‘Well, I do!’ he replied. ‘And you’d be better for it. With more flesh on your bones you wouldn’t feel the cold so much.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern!’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ he answered in airy tones.

  ‘I don’t think anything of it, sir, knowing as I do that your concern is merely for your own ends.’

  She heard a maddening chuckle. ‘Still furious? Blest if you ain’t the prickliest creature I ever met in my life.’

  ‘But did you not say yourself that your experience is not vast?’

  ‘Touché!’ Hatton laughed aloud. ‘I led with my chin on that one, did I not?’

  ‘Fencing and boxing, my dear sir? What a marvel you are, to be sure!’

  ‘Compliments, ma’am? I did not expect them, I’ll confess… How do you come to know so much about these manly sports?’

  ‘You forget…I have a son,’ she told him coldly.

  ‘I don’t forget. He is a fortunate lad, though I must hope that you don’t frown at him as you do at me. That slight furrow on your brow may become permanent, you know. It will do nothing for your looks.’ A long finger reached out to trace the almost imperceptible line.

  Sophie thrust his hand away and stared out of the window.

  Then, as the carriage stopped at the Castle Hotel, she attempted to assert her independence.

  ‘Sir, I explained to you that I was not hungry, but pray don’t let that stop you from dining. I will take a turn about the Promenade for an hour or so.’

  Hatton looked at her in disbelief. ‘Are you mad?’ he exclaimed. ‘Look at that sea. A single wave could knock you off your feet and suck you under.’

  Sophie followed his pointing finger. The leaden waters of the English Channel did indeed look threatening. Whipped up by the wind, great sheets of water crashed inland, submerging the Promenade.

  ‘Very well! I will wait here in the carriage for you. You must know that I cannot dine alone with you in public.’

  ‘Of course you can’t!’ His lips twitched. ‘That is why I took the liberty of bespeaking a private parlour!’ He clamped an arm about her waist and half-lifted her from her seat.

  To struggle would have been both useless and undignified. Sophie suffered herself to be led indoors.

  She wasn’t surprised to find that the food which was set before her was excellent, and in spite of her protestations she found that she was very hungry.

  Hatton helped her liberally to the oyster patties and the roast beef, making no comment as she began to eat with evident enjoyment.

  He confined his conversation to the question of staffing at the inn.

  ‘I suggest that you interview my men at the same time as any others who may apply for work. I’ll give you their names beforehand. That way, they will not arouse suspicion.’

  ‘I am to interview these men?’

  ‘Of course! After all, you are to be their employer.’

  ‘But what am I to ask them
?’

  ‘All the usual questions,’ he said carelessly. ‘You will ask for previous experience, reasons for leaving their last position, honesty, sobriety and so on…’ His eyes were twinkling. ‘I’m sure you’ll think of many more.’

  ‘They may not tell me the truth,’ she objected.

  ‘Of course they won’t, but you must use your judgement. See them in the room where we first met. It’s dark enough for me to sit quietly in the corner—’

  ‘Spying on me again?’ she said bitterly.

  ‘Purely out of interest.’ His voice was smooth. ‘Now, ma’am, there is something else.’ He took a small package from his pocket and gave it to her.

  ‘What is this?’ she cried.

  ‘Why not open it and see?’

  Sophie tore aside the wrapping to reveal a small square shagreen box. She opened the lid and gasped. Inside lay the most beautiful brooch she’d ever seen. The large and glittering jewel at its centre was exactly the same colour as her cloak.

  Sophie was no expert, but she knew at once that this was no trumpery piece of paste. The sapphire alone must be worth a fortune.

  She coloured. ‘I can’t take this!’ she said stiffly.

  ‘You must!’

  ‘Well, I won’t! You go beyond the terms of our agreement. When you said that you’d pretend to be my suitor I did not expect you to give the impression that…that… Well, Madame Arouet believes already that I am your—’

  ‘My light o’ love? That is certainly my intention, Mistress Firle.’

  Sophie pushed the box across the table. ‘Keep it!’ she said. ‘You cannot force me to wear it!’

  Hatton’s patience snapped at last. ‘You will wear it, madam, and you will wear it here, where it is in plain sight!’ He jabbed a finger at her bosom. ‘Now let us have no more of your nonsense. I am tired of it! Your ill temper is the outside of enough. Any more of it and I will turn you out, with your son and your baggage, before this day is out.’ His voice was silky with menace.

  Sophie knew that she had gone too far, but she would not apologise. She sat in silence for the whole of the return journey to the inn.

  With cool courtesy, Hatton handed her down from the carriage.

  ‘I shan’t dine here this evening,’ he informed her. Without another glance in her direction he stalked away.

  Chapter Four

  Sophie was shaken by the day’s events, and Hatton’s threats had terrified her. What a fool she was! She could not afford the risk of being turned out of her home, however much she disliked him. Above all, there was Kit to think about. What demon had persuaded her into behaving so badly?

  She must keep a firm grip on her temper. Just let her gain her ends, and then she might enjoy the pleasure of telling the arrogant creature exactly what she thought of him. She doubted if it would make much difference. This man cared nothing for opinions other than his own. But I’ll do it, she vowed to herself. If nothing else, it would give her so much satisfaction.

  Refusing Bess’s offer of a light supper, she went to find her son.

  ‘Shall I read you a story, Kit?’ She drew the boy on to her lap.

  ‘Yes, please, Mama! I’d like the one about the pirates.’

  Sophie began the oft-repeated tale. She deplored the violence and skirted around the worst excesses of those tigers of the seas.

  Kit stopped her halfway through the tale. ‘You’ve forgotten the blood on the deck,’ he accused.

  ‘Oh, dear, so I have!’ Sophie smiled to herself. Her son could not yet read, but he remembered every word of the tales she told him.

  She finished the story and tucked him into bed. ‘Now I have a surprise for you,’ she said.

  The eager little face looked up at her. ‘Is it something very nice, Mama?’

  ‘I hope you’ll think so. It’s a fishing rod.’

  Kit’s look of rapture was reward enough for her. She’d stolen out of Hannington’s and into the shop next door to make her purchase. An extravagance, perhaps? But then, Kit had so little.

  Now he lay down with the rod beside him, his fingers curled about it. Within minutes he was fast asleep.

  Sophie looked down at the impossibly long lashes curling against his cheeks. Kit was such a little boy. Asleep, he seemed so vulnerable. She bent and kissed him, vowing as she did so that she would protect him at whatever cost to herself.

  What had she suffered, after all? Merely a day spent in the company of an unpleasant creature who seemed to take a positive delight in goading her. And she had risen to the bait, she thought in disgust. She, who had always prided herself upon her calm and her even temper. Hatton, alas, seemed to bring out the worst in her.

  In future she must not allow herself to be teased into fighting with him. A dignified silence appeared to be the answer to his gibes. He would soon grow tired of the game if she did not respond.

  Then she heard the sound of carriage wheels. Hurrying to the window she was in time to see her tormentor driving away, handling the ribbons himself. He’ll never take the corner at that speed, she thought with some satisfaction.

  She was mistaken. Driving to an inch, Hatton negotiated the bend in the lane in style.

  Robbed of the pleasure of watching him overturn the coach, Sophie wandered down to the kitchen.

  There she found a cosy scene. Matthew and his family were seated round the table, deep in conversation with Hatton’s coachman.

  The man was on his feet at once, and Sophie acknowledged his salute with the briefest inclination of her head. Doubtless he, too, regarded her as his master’s latest bird of paradise.

  She eyed him sharply, but in his demeanour she could find nothing but respect. Reuben was an unprepossessing fellow, in spite of that. Short and squat, his arms seemed to her to be unnaturally long. Without a hair on his gleaming pate, his head merged into a bull neck above a barrel chest.

  Clearly Hatton did not require elegance in his servants.

  ‘Mistress, won’t you let me send you up some supper?’ Bess coaxed. ‘I could make you an omelette.’

  ‘I have dined well today,’ Sophie told her with a smile. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite. I believe I shall retire early tonight.’

  ‘Abby has lit your fire already. Mr Hatton thought you might need it.’

  Sophie bit back a sharp retort. The redoubtable Mr Hatton took far too much upon himself, but it would not do to let her servants see her annoyance. She bade them goodnight, and went up to her room.

  It was pleasant, after all, to enjoy the unaccustomed luxury of such warmth. In the past she had wakened often to find ice encrusting the inside of her windows, and it could not be denied that the night was bitter.

  Settling into her fireside chair, she picked up her book and tried to read without success. Her eyes were closing. At last she sent for Abby, slipped out of her gown, and sought the comfort of her bed.

  Sophie slept late next day. It was full daylight when she awoke to the sound of Kit’s voice in the stable-yard. Her fire had been replenished as she slept, so the room was warm.

  She slipped on a robe over her night attire and hurried to the window. Peering out, she could see that Kit, muffled to the ears in scarves and a woollen hat, was absorbed in drawing a large circle on the frosty ground with a long stick. He seemed to be chanting some strange song.

  Intrigued, she watched as he divided the circle into segments. Then he stood in the centre with closed eyes, and pointed the stick in each of four directions.

  She smiled. The child must be absorbed in some mysterious game of his own. Then, as she turned away, she heard a bellow of rage.

  ‘Stop it!’ her son shouted. ‘You are spoiling the magic!’

  A glance was enough to show her that an older boy, almost into his teens, was scuffing the circle with his boots, jeering as he did so.

  ‘Spoiling the magic?’ he mimicked. ‘Well, I don’t mind spoiling your game.’

  ‘You will! You will!’ Almost as red as a turkey-cock, her son doubled
up his fists.

  Sophie gathered her robe about her. Kit would be no match for the older boy. Then she heard a leisurely voice.

  ‘You’re magic, aren’t you?’ Hatton enquired. ‘Why not turn him into a frog?’

  Kit stood very still. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I might just do that.’ He pointed his stick at the older boy who gave a cry of fright and ran away.

  ‘You must be Kit,’ the deep voice continued. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hatton.’

  ‘Thank you, Hatton. Do you know my mother?’

  ‘Indeed I do. I’m on my way to see her now. You might care to accompany me.’

  Sophie hurried herself into the old grey gown. Then she ran downstairs to find her son and his mentor engaged in a serious discussion as to the relative merits of worms or maggots when engaged in the art of fishing.

  ‘My dear Kit,’ she reproved. ‘Will you never learn that it simply is not wise to fight boys older than yourself?’

  ‘I didn’t fight him,’ Kit said simply. ‘I said I’d turn him into a frog. Hatton thought of it.’

  ‘Mr Hatton, if you please,’ Sophie said severely.

  ‘He said his name was Hatton,’ Kit replied in injured tones.

  ‘It will do well enough, since it is my name. Kit, your mother and I have some matters to discuss. Shall you mind very much if I ask you to help Reuben with my horses? They need to be groomed and fed.’

  ‘Will he let me drive them?’

  ‘He’ll show you how to handle the ribbons. Later, I may take you out myself.’

  Kit made a headlong dash for the door.

  ‘One moment, Kit. I need your promise first.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Will you promise not to turn my horses into frogs?’

  Kit came back to rest a grubby hand upon Hatton’s immaculate buckskins.

  Sophie winced, but her companion did not appear to recognise the threat to his appearance.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ her son said earnestly. ‘I don’t use magic on my friends.’

  Hatton rose to his full height and bowed. Then he held out his hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said with dignity. ‘Good friends are hard to come by.’