A Lady Never Tells

by Candace Camp

  “There are so many buildings,” Rose said, looking around her. “Everywhere you look. And so many people.”

  “I know!” Lily exclaimed, almost skipping as she walked. “Isn’t it exciting?”

  They reached an intersection, and a ragged young boy darted out to cross the street in front of the Bascombes, sweeping before him with a short broom. The girls regarded him in astonishment, and when he turned to them on the other side, an expectant look on his face, they gazed back at him blankly.

  His face fell into a grimace. “Oi sherda known,” he muttered, and hastened back across the street to perform the same ritual in front of an elegantly clad gentleman.

  “What did he say?” Rose asked in confusion.

  “I have no idea. I’m not sure he was speaking English.”

  The gentleman reached their side of the street and tossed the boy a small coin.

  “I see! We were supposed to pay him something,” Mary surmised.

  “For what?” Camellia asked. “Stirring up the dust?”

  “I think he cleans the street so one’s shoes and hem don’t get dirty. I saw some of these boys the other day, but I hadn’t any idea what they were doing.”

  As they walked on, Lily kept glancing back at the intersection. Halfway down the block, she stopped, saying, “Look, he didn’t do it for that man.”

  The sisters all turned. A large, broad-shouldered man lumbered across the street. He wore a cap on his head and a rough jacket, with trousers that hung loosely over his battered work boots.

  “The boy knows he hasn’t any money,” Rose said. “He’s a laborer of some kind, I would warrant, from the way he dresses.”

  “Then I am surprised the boy swept it for us,” Mary retorted.

  They continued along the street, looking around them with great interest. So fascinating was everything that they had walked for almost thirty minutes before Camellia remembered that she had not been paying close attention to where they were going. Neither, it turned out, had the other girls, and they stopped abruptly and looked around them.

  “Well, at least we haven’t wandered into a terrible area,” Mary commented. “The houses are still quite nice and the streets broad.”

  “Perhaps we had better retrace our steps,” Rose suggested, “before we get so far afield we cannot remember how to get back.”

  Reluctantly Camellia gave in, and they started back the way they had come.

  “That’s odd,” Lily commented.

  “What’s odd?”

  “That fellow who crossed the street after we did—the workman that the boy didn’t sweep for. He’s right there up the block.”

  The girls all raised their heads. There, just as Lily had said, was the large man. He was walking along, looking toward them; suddenly he stopped and swung around, staring for a moment at the door of the house next to him. Just as abruptly, he hurried across the street.

  “Are you sure it’s the same man?” Camellia asked.

  “Of course I am. That cap, that jacket—and his hair was longish, too; I could see it hanging out beneath his cap.”

  “I think she’s right,” Mary agreed.

  “Isn’t it strange that he was still behind us?” Lily asked.

  “You always think something sinister is going on,” Camellia pointed out. “Remember when you were certain that Mr. Johnson had killed his wife because no one saw her for a week, then it turned out she had sprained her ankle and couldn’t walk?”

  “That was ages ago,” Lily sniffed. “I was only fourteen. Anyway, all I’m saying is that it’s peculiar that he was still behind us.”

  “Perhaps he’s going to the same place we were,” Mary suggested.

  “But we weren’t going anywhere.” Rose frowned.

  “Well, no, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t.”

  “And we just happened to wander along the same route he was taking?” Rose retorted.

  “Well, that does seem rather unlikely, but … what else could it be?” Mary asked reasonably. “Do you think he was following us?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just … odd.”

  As they trudged on, Lily glanced behind them periodically. Finally, as they stood on a street corner trying to remember which direction they had come from, Lily let out a little yelp.

  “He’s there!”

  “What?” As one, the other three girls swung around to look.

  “I don’t see him.” Mary scanned the length of the block.

  “He ducked behind that lamppost when I saw him, but look, he’s too big—you can see his arm.”

  “Let’s go this way.” Mary whisked her sisters around the corner and up the block.

  A few yards up the street, a carriage stood waiting at the curb. Mary hurried past it, then pulled her sisters into the street a little way in front of the carriage and team. The girls turned, peering around the horses toward the corner.

  “Here, what do ye think yer doing?” the coachman growled from atop his high perch. “Get away from them horses.”

  “We aren’t going to hurt them,” Camellia assured him. “We’re only standing here.”

  “That’s no excuse. These’re the Honorable Mr. Pinkley Fanshaw’s team, I’ll have ye know—prime steppers, every one. I won’t have ye fluttering about, scaring them.”

  “We aren’t fluttering.” Mary frowned at the man. “Would you please be quiet? You’re causing a scene.”

  “I’m causing a scene!”

  Whatever else he had to say, the girls did not hear it, for at that moment their pursuer came barreling around the corner.

  Chapter 10

  He stopped, scanning the block in front of him.

  Camellia darted back onto the sidewalk and planted herself in the man’s path, arms akimbo.

  “Camellia!” Rose hissed, reaching for her, but it was too late.

  “What do you think you’re doing, following us?” Camellia demanded. The other girls, unable to stop their sister, hurried forward to stand beside her.

  The man stared at them, opening his mouth then closing it. He swung around and took off at a run. Camellia started after him, but this time both Mary and Rose reached for her, grabbing her arms and pulling her back.

  “Camellia! Wait! What do you think you’re doing?” Mary asked.

  “I’m going to find out why he was following us.”

  “Har!” A scornful laugh erupted from the coach seat above them. “Why would ye think a lout wouldn’t be following ye?” the driver of the vehicle called down from his perch. “Four of ye, no better than ye should be, I warrant, traipsin’ about, showing your ankles to all and sundry—it’s a wonder ye didn’t have more than one lad following ye.”

  Mary blushed to her hairline at his words, and the four girls glanced down at their skirts. Perhaps they were a trifle shorter than most of the women’s skirts, Mary admitted; after all, repeated washings had shrunk the cotton. But they did not fully expose their ankles, and, in any case, the girls’ legs were concealed by half boots.

  “How dare you!” It surprised Mary that it was Lily, not Camellia, who stepped forward to face the man, arms crossed, her face bright with anger. “We’ve done nothing wrong, and it certainly isn’t our fault if that—that churl was following us. Can four women not walk through this city unaccosted?”

  “That’s right!” Camellia, never one to avoid a fight, moved up to stand beside her sister. “You’re the one who should be ashamed, sitting in judgment like that.”

  “I should, should I?” The coachman climbed down from his seat, an action somewhat robbed of its dramatic effect by the effort it required for him to maneuver his rather too-well-fed body off the seat and down the side of the carriage.

  “Camellia! Lily!” Mary plucked at Camellia’s sleeve. “Please. We cannot get into an altercation here on the street.” She could imagine the earl’s reaction—and, she had to admit, he would have every right to be upset. The driver was excessively rude, of course, but even in Three Corners,
getting into a shouting match with a stranger on the street was not the behavior of a well-brought-up woman.

  But temper had gotten the better of both her younger sisters. Facing the red-faced coachman, their voices rose as they responded to his shouted imprecations. Passersby as far as half a block away were turning to stare. Even worse, Mary saw, the onlookers were drawing nearer. Soon there would be a crowd around them.

  Hissing their sisters’ names, Mary and Rose tugged at their arms, but the two girls dug in, struggling to stay as their sisters inexorably dragged them away. At that moment, two things happened: a small dog came bounding down the street, and a tall, thin man stepped out of the door of the nearest house.

  The dog barked joyously, running in circles around the knot of arguing people, pausing now and then to jump first to one side, then the other and bark even more loudly, his stump of a tail wagging all the time.

  The tall, thin man’s response was less enthusiastic. “Wainsley! What the devil is going on?”

  Rose and Mary, intent though they were on drawing their sisters away, could not help but stare at the man who came down the stairs. Mary presumed this must be the Honorable Mr. Pinkley Fanshaw, owner of the horses. And he was attired in clothes that would have no doubt have wrung a gasp of admiration from Royce’s inebriated companion Gordon.

  His long, narrow legs were encased in tightly fitting pantaloons in a pale shade of green, and his bright blue jacket, nipped in tightly at the waist, was padded out ludicrously at the shoulders and had tails so long they almost touched his ankles in back. The high hat that other gentlemen wore had become two inches taller on him and bowed out at the top so that, to Mary’s untutored eye, it looked rather like a plant pot with a brim. A quizzing glass hung on a chain from one lapel, and in the other was a boutonnière so large that it put Cousin Gordon’s to shame. His waistcoat was a paisley pattern of blue, yellow, and purple, and it sported an ornate watch with a golden chain weighted down by fobs. Rings adorned three fingers on each hand, and a large diamond winked in the folds of an intricately tied neckcloth. The starched points of his collar stood straight up, so high that he could not turn his head with spoiling them, so that when the man spoke to someone, he had to pivot his entire body to face the person. In his hand he carried a glossy black cane topped by a large gold knob.

  He planted himself in front of the girls, posing with one hand on his cane, and repeated, “What the devil is going on here?”

  The coachman bowed as low as he could, given the size of his stomach. “Mr. Fanshaw, sir, beggin’ yer pardon. These girls were messin’ about with yer horses, and—”

  “We were not messing about,” Mary felt compelled to interject. “We were simply standing there. It was your coachman who was rude to us.”

  The man turned and raised his quizzing glass to stare at her. Mary gazed back at him, startled.

  Finally it was brought home to the man that his stare had left Mary unintimidated, and he dropped the glass. “I don’t believe I was addressing you.”

  “No. I was addressing you.” Mary wondered if perhaps the man was a bit dim. “I was saying that the behavior of your driver was quite rude. He began—”

  At this moment the dog, apparently disappointed that the shouting had ceased, darted forward and leapt up in the air several times as if he were on springs. On the last jump, he planted his front feet on the pale green pantaloons of Mr. Fanshaw and left behind two long muddy streaks as he dropped to the ground.

  Fanshaw’s face turned tomato red and he let out an unearthly shriek, swinging his cane at the dog. “You cur! You wretch! You’ve ruined them!”

  The dog easily dodged as Fanshaw lunged this way and that, trying to hit him with his cane.

  “Stop!” Lily cried. “You’ll hurt him! Don’t hit that dog!”

  In fact, the man had little chance of landing a blow, for the dog was much more agile than he and danced around the man, yapping happily. As Fanshaw whirled and stomped, brandishing his cane to no effect, the dog’s gaze fell on the long tails of the man’s coat, flapping enticingly. The dog darted forward and clamped his teeth into one of the coattails. He planted his paws and dug in, growling and shaking his head as he worried his prey.

  This action sent the Honorable Mr. Fanshaw into a spasm of rage. Cursing and ranting, he whirled around and around, trying in vain to hit the dog. Firmly latched onto the tail of his coat, the dog spun with him, always out of reach.

  “Damn you, Wainsley, get this mutt off me!” Fanshaw shrieked, his face so violent a shade of purple that Mary feared he might suffer a fit of apoplexy.

  The coachman strode forward and kicked the dog, catching its hindquarters and sending it tumbling across the sidewalk with a yelp of pain. Camellia dashed for the animal, scooping him up and facing the coachman pugnaciously, her arms wrapped protectively around it.

  “Don’t you dare touch him again,” she warned, her eyes shooting a kind of fire that would have given a more intelligent man pause.

  “You little hussy!” The coachman reached out and grabbed Camellia’s arm, jerking her forward.

  He raised his other hand as if to hit her, but Rose flung herself forward and wrapped both her arms tightly around his, holding it back. Even as he shook her off, Mary charged in, hands clasped together, and began to rain blows upon the man’s head. Lily clawed at the hand he had clamped around Camellia’s arm as Camellia tried to wrest free.

  The crowd drew closer, entranced by the sight of a fop examining the tails of his coat and keening over the damage done to them while a few feet away his hefty coachman shuffled around in a clumsy dance, warding off the blows of three young women with one hand while with the other he clung to the arm of a fourth. The dog squirmed out of Camellia’s grip and landed on the sidewalk, where he proceeded to once again bark merrily at the combatants, now and then springing up in a paroxysm of joy.

  It was into this scene that a gentleman strode, smoothly parting the crowd until he was standing at the edge of the inner circle. He stood for a moment, watching the struggle; then, with a sigh, he stepped forward, raised his cane, and brought it down sharply upon the coachman’s head.

  The burly driver staggered, blinking, and released Camellia’s arm. She too stumbled backward and was steadied by a hand on her arm.

  “Careful there,” said the gentleman who had intervened in the scuffle.

  Mary heard the voice and was swept by a wave of relief. “Sir Royce! Thank heaven!”

  She turned to him, a smile breaking over her face. He swept her a bow, grinning, and in that instant she remembered that she thoroughly disliked him. A variety of conflicting emotions rushed through her, foremost among them an intense gratitude. But following directly on its heels was the humiliating knowledge that Royce had come upon her and her sisters engaged in a public brawl—a fight, moreover, that was being witnessed by a swelling crowd of people. She had been furious with him for calling her a hoyden the other night, but how could she deny his charge when here she was, wrestling with a coachman in the street?

  “Well, I can see that you girls have gotten yourselves into another interesting situation.” Royce’s eyes danced.

  Mary’s lips tightened. She could not even try to make an excuse.

  Lily was not so reticent. “It wasn’t our fault,” she cried, rushing over to Royce. “Truly it wasn’t. We were just standing in front of his horses and—”

  “’Ere, now, wot d’ye think ye’re doin’?” The driver, recovered somewhat from the blow Royce had struck him, planted himself in front of Royce, regarding him in a bellicose manner.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” Royce replied coolly. “What were you doing to these young women?”

  “Doin’! I weren’t doin’ nothing to ’em!” The coachman puffed up with indignation. “It were them what attacked me. And Mr. Fanshaw.”

  “We did nothing to Mr. Fanshaw!” Mary could not keep from joining in at this gross misstatement.

  “That hound of ye
rs did!” The driver pointed an accusing finger, and they all swung to look at the animal in question.

  The dog was sitting on the sidewalk observing them with great interest, his stumpy tail wiggling back and forth. Royce gazed at him for a moment, then turned back to Mary. “You have acquired a dog?”

  “No. He’s not ours. He just came running up when he heard this man ranting and raving. And he did not attack Mr. Fanshaw. Well, not really.” She glanced somewhat uncertainly over to where Fanshaw stood, still morosely examining the teeth marks in the tail of his coat.

  The man’s head came up at her words. “What do you mean? That wretched cur certainly did attack me. Just look at my pantaloons!”

  “Yes, well, I’m sure you can clean them. And he did not mean to harm them,” Mary replied impatiently. “He was merely excited.”

  “My coat is ruined!” Mr. Fanshaw stretched out his hand toward Sir Royce, shaking the end of the coattail in emphasis. “Look at these teeth marks! There’s a rip, too. I cannot just clean this away. That dog ought to be done away with!”

  “No!” Lily cried, and Camellia swept the dog up again, as if the fop might seize him and make good his threat.

  “My good fellow, I am sure there is no need for that.” Sir Royce clapped his arm around the man’s shoulders in a friendly way. “Please, allow me to give you the name of my tailor. I am sure he can whip you up another coat to replace it.”

  As he pulled out his card case and extracted a card, Fanshaw ran an assessing eye over Royce’s olive green jacket. “Weston?” he hazarded.

  “Ah, I can see that you are a gentleman with a discerning eye.”

  “Always found his coats a bit plain for my taste.”

  “I am sure that Weston would welcome the chance to try something more daring.” Royce smiled. “I fear that plain fellows like myself must make his work somewhat tedious. Tell him that I sent you, and he will have you fixed up as quick as you like.”