Star-Crossed Summer

by Sarah Stanley

  ‘There has indeed, sir. Word was brought from Brussels this evening, and is spreading like wildfire. Some like it, others don’t. I’ve heard the Prime Minister’s house has been stoned and the Houses of Parliament are besieged by a mob, but Hyde Park’s all celebrations. I just hope there’s no trouble around these parts.’

  The young wife shrank timidly against her husband. ‘I’m frightened, Jeremiah.’

  Jeremiah put protective arms around her. ‘I’ll look after you, Amelia.’ He turned again to the innkeeper. ‘Have you a room for tonight?’

  Mr Waterhouse was soothing. ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘And for me?’ Beth asked quickly.

  ‘Indeed so, madam. You’ll all be safe in the Swan.’

  The young couple hurried inside, but Beth loitered, just gazing up at the inn, which was four storeys high, with balustraded galleries to the numerous bedchambers. She had escaped, she was anonymous, and the stolen money was still in her possession. Her new life had begun! Turning, she began to follow the other passengers, just as the bells of nearby St Lawrence Jewry began to peal joyfully, drowning every other sound in the yard. Gradually every church in London seemed to join in until the joyous cacophony echoed across the starlit sky. War was over and the Corsican finally defeated; now would come the aftermath.

  Once inside, she gave the name Mrs Alder and asked for a meal, a room and a hot bath for the following morning. Widows were permitted much more latitude, such as travelling alone without any questions asked, and she explained away her lack of luggage by saying it had all been sent ahead several days before. A tired serving girl led her into the dining-room where she was soon served bacon, eggs and fresh-baked bread. To Beth it was a feast fit for a queen, and she felt comfortably drowsy when at last she made her way up the external staircase to her room on the second-floor gallery. She was exhausted as she prepared for bed, and within moments was fast asleep.

  The sun shone brightly the next morning, and after enjoying the hot bath she’d requested on arrival, Beth went down to breakfast feeling really clean for the first time in over a year. The yard was still busy, some church bells still pealed in the distance, and in a nearby street people cheered a military band. While taking breakfast she listened to the conversation of gentlemen poring over an extraordinary edition of the London Gazette that contained details of the great battle. Exhilarating as the news was, she had other things to think about. Now she was in London, she had to decide what form she wanted her new life to take. Even more urgently than that, she had to find some more clothes. One set of togs simply wouldn’t do for a lady in the world’s greatest city. At midmorning she set out to see what could be done. It wouldn’t be easy, because buying a new dress entailed going to a dressmaker or purchasing a length of material to make up. Neither option was practical when she only had the clothes on her back, so she would need luck.

  The overnight riots might have been fleeting and scattered, but the results were in evidence. Broken windows were being reglazed or boarded, dragoons were conspicuous and, lying amid the horse dung on the cobbles, she saw a torn banner bearing the motto Bread & Blood. A newsboy stood on a corner with a wad of broadsheets under his thin arm, chanting, ‘Castlereagh’s house under sie-ee-ge, Castlereagh’s house under sie-ee-ge.’ Nearby, a rival was yelling, ‘Full account of victor-ee-e, full account of victor-ee-e.’ Flags, banners and bunting fluttered from windows and across streets, and shop windows displayed laurels and patriotic slogans. Passing vehicles were decked with flags and more laurels, and every stagecoach seemed to carry young bloods yelling with excitement and throwing their expensive hats in the air. But she saw other things too, a gathering of surly labourers in a shabby yard, and a sailor and whore coupling in a damp alley.

  It was in a much quieter little street near St Paul’s that she saw the sign of a fashionable dressmaker, Madame de Sichel. The bow windows of the double-fronted premises displayed an array of samples, from bonnets and gloves, to chenille flowers and mannequins in modish gowns. It was as good a place as any to start, she thought, going inside. Maybe there had been some orders that had been cancelled at the very last minute. The room inside was very plain, but beautifully decorated. There were floor-standing mirrors and wall mirrors, and chests of drawers from which spilled fripperies of all kinds. Several chairs stood against walls, sheet-covered garments hung from the picture rail, and a tapestry curtain shielded the entrance to whatever rooms lay beyond. The doorbell was still tinkling as an attendant, squat, olive-skinned and middle-aged, came hastily from the back to attend her. Casting swift eyes over Beth’s clothes, and probably assessing her purse at the same time, she nodded superciliously. ‘May I ’elp you, madame?’ she asked in a heavy French accent.

  ‘I was robbed during my journey to London and have nothing left except these clothes I wear, so I need an entire new wardrobe as quickly as possible. My name is Alder, Mrs Alder.’

  Suddenly the curtain jerked aside again and another woman emerged, her grandiose manner suggesting she was Madame de Sichel herself. She was in her forties, tall, angular and rather horse-faced, in a high-necked, long-sleeved mauve muslin gown that appeared to be decked with every known flounce, frill, bow and embroidery stitch. What her hair was like was the vicar’s dog’s guess, because she wore an improbable red wig to which was pinned a little square of very costly cream lace.

  ‘Mrs Alder? I am Madame de Sichel, and I will attend you in person,’ she said in a decidedly English voice. ‘I believe you will not require the pattern books, because I am convinced I already have an entire wardrobe that will fit you.’

  An entire wardrobe? Surely it was too good to be true, Beth thought, as the dressmaker produced an inch tape and began to measure her from head to toe, before declaring, ‘Well, madam, you are the same size as the late Lady Harcotleigh. Such a tragedy and she so young, but it means I have been left with a wardrobe of completed garments.’ The dressmaker ushered her to a comfortable chair and gave her the latest edition of the Mirror of Modes, one of the most important magazines of fashion. ‘If you would care to examine page twenty-three. There is a new design from Paris that is a real masterpiece of beauty. I am sure it will be exactly to your taste, and I have the finest apple-green mousseline de soie that would be a perfect thing over a shell-pink satin slip.’ Madame de Sichel then snapped her fingers at the attendant, who disappeared beyond the curtain, permitting Beth a brief glimpse of a room full of seamstresses.

  Beth turned to page twenty-three. The dressmaker was right, the gown engraved there was beautiful, with dainty flounces at the hem and ribbons floating from the tiny puffed sleeves. It was also going to be exorbitantly expensive to make up. Common sense suddenly prevailed as she realized her excitement had begun to run away with her. On leaving Gloucester she’d had 500 guineas, and had already spent some of them on the journey from Cheltenham and the inn here in London. What was left had to provide her with somewhere to live and support her afterward. She couldn’t afford Lady Harcotleigh’s wardrobe, or anything in the Mirror of Modes.

  She was about to close the magazine on her moments of madness, when an advertisement on the opposite page caught her attention.

  A gentleman of quality desires a tenant for a modest house of great beauty and solitude by the sea. Available on excellent terms due to the owner wishing to settle the property before departing for Jamaica. Particulars from Mr Henry Topweather, Agent, 15 Easterden Street. Mr Topweather answers letters post paid, and advertises if desired, not otherwise. All at his own charge, if not successful.

  A modest house by the sea? Excellent terms? How perfect that would be? Away from the past with all its memories, good and bad, and from the present with its uncertainties and fears. At such a house there would surely only be a future. She would call upon Mr Topweather to ascertain what was meant by ‘modest’. She was about to close the magazine again when, unbelievably, her own name leapt out at her.

  Miss Elizabeth Tremoille. As has been done on previous occasions sinc
e the death of Mr Esmond Tremoille of Tremoille House in the County of Gloucestershire, it is hereby again requested that the above lady, only daughter of Mr Tremoille, contact Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop, solicitors of Caradine Street, London, where a letter from her father awaits her.

  Beth was transfixed. Her father’s London lawyers had a letter for her? Might it concern the lost will?

  The dressmaker interrupted her thoughts. ‘Behold, madam, the late Lady Harcotleigh’s wardrobe.’ She swept a grand arm at the wonderful garments now miraculously hanging from the picture rail. Beth struggled to collect herself. The garments were exquisitely beautiful, and she would have liked nothing more than to wave an equally grand arm and say she’d have them all, yet knew she couldn’t. They were beyond her means, and somehow she had to wriggle out of what was bound to be a very embarrassing situation. ‘Madame de Sichel, I am quite overwhelmed by the magnificence of these clothes, and I really would like to try everything on, but I am afraid I do not have the time now as I have realized I am going to be late for an important appointment with a house agent.’

  The dressmaker’s face fell, but then perked up again. ‘I can have the clothes delivered for you to try on at your leisure.’

  ‘That would be most agreeable,’ Beth answered, ‘I am staying at the Swan in Lad Lane.’ At least she’d have the joy of parading in the incomparable wardrobe, before returning it as ‘unsuitable’. Then her gaze fell upon a décolleté peppermint muslin gown, gathered softly at the high waistline by a little drawstring. Next to it there hung a grey corded silk spencer, buttonless, with a high flaring collar. Both garments were so very much to her taste that she simply had to wear them now. ‘Madame de Sichel, I must have those this instant.’

  The dressmaker dimpled vainly. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, Mrs Alder.’

  Minutes later, the purchase price having been paid, Beth emerged into the sunshine in her new clothes. With the gown and spencer she had little black patent shoes, an elegant grey silk bonnet trimmed with green and cream chenille roses, a cream silk pagoda parasol, dark green gloves, and a capacious new grey satin reticule. She was she was anxious to go to Caradine Street, and hastened to the nearest hackney coach stand. Soon she was on her way to the premises of Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop, her fingers crossed that she’d find word of her father’s final will. The route took the coach down Easterden Street, and she glanced up at the name Topweather painted in gilt on a first-floor window. She would go there next.

  But a great shock greeted her two junctions later, when the hackney coach halted opposite the lawyers’ premises in Caradine Street, for drawn up before the stucco porch of Messrs Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop was Sir Guy Valmer’s green travelling carriage, with Dickon seated placidly on the box.

  Chapter Seven

  Beth was utterly daunted. It could hardly be coincidence that Guy was here. Had he realized that Bessie Alder and Beth Tremoille were the same person? Had the solicitors’ notice brought him? Did he think she’d murdered Joshua and stolen the money? She didn’t know what to do, except hope he was calling somewhere nearby. When she didn’t alight, the hackney coachman climbed down to come to the door. He had a bulbous red nose and bushy eyebrows, and wasn’t in the best of tempers. ‘How long are we going to hang around like this, miss?’ he growled.

  ‘I wish to wait a while.’

  ‘It’ll cost you. I charge double for standing around!’

  It was outrageous, but she nodded. She didn’t dare alight in case Dickon recognized her, nor did she want to drive on before ascertaining if she was worrying unnecessarily about Guy. Another twenty minutes passed before the doors of the building opposite opened and two men came out. She recognized one as the senior partner, Mr Arthur Withers, who had been summoned to Tremoille House on occasion in the past. He was a strangely chinless man, short and well upholstered, in a powdered wig and stern black clothes. The other man was Guy, and she was aghast, having begun to convince herself that he was calling elsewhere.

  He was as perfectly dressed as before, his chestnut hair shining in the sunlight, and he was smiling at something the solicitor said. His maroon coat and cream trousers were a superb fit, and he was the personification of stylish nonchalance as he tapped his hat on his head and began to tease on his gloves. A jewelled pin flashed in his neck cloth, and she distinctly heard him laugh. He really was an extraordinarily attractive man, she thought, trying not to remember that he was the source of the sensual ecstasy she’d experienced the last time she’d lain with Jake. She bowed her head and toyed unhappily with her reticule. It would now be utter madness to approach the solicitors, because doing that would in all probably lead to her arrest, maybe even the gallows. If she simply drove away, at least she would keep her freedom.

  Suddenly the coach door was snatched open and she gave a start on finding herself face to face with Guy. ‘Well, now, if it isn’t Miss Alder,’ he declared, ‘or is it Miss Tremoille?’ She blanched, too intimidated to move or even think. ‘Have you no swift ripostes this time?’ he taunted.

  She couldn’t look away from his spellbinding eyes, but her wits rallied a little. ‘Who are you, sir?’

  ‘You know me well enough, although I admit I almost didn’t recognize you.’

  Beth felt completely trapped. Dread flowed over her as the worst seemed about to happen, but at the same time she experienced such a devastating sense of attraction toward him that he might have been a magnet and she a helpless pin. Her body ached, and her lips were tender and expectant, as if anticipating his kiss. She was shaken by her feelings; ashamed, betrayed and haunted by them.

  He tried to read her thoughts. ‘I’m curious about your transformation from beggar to fine lady. Exactly how much did that pheasant weigh, mm? Somewhere in the region of one thousand guineas?’ The colours she wore reminded him of the fascinating portrait at Tremoille House. She was Oberon’s daughter again, a tree spirit from the depths of an enchanted wood. He drew himself up sharply. Fantasy had no place in this. She was the hunted, and he the hunter. For him she was simply Esmond Tremoille’s heir, and therefore nothing more than a matter of unfinished business. A tricky matter of business at that. What part she’d played in the death of the man Joshua was yet to be uncovered, but a common thief she certainly was, and criminal or not, he needed her in order to regain Valmer property. He’d marry her if she were as ugly as sin itself.

  His silence puzzled her. ‘Why do you persist in this case of mistaken identity?’

  ‘Hardly mistaken identity. I’ve been looking for you, Beth Tremoille. I even found out about your blacksmith and paid him a visit.’ He smiled as her lips parted. ‘So he still means something to you? You certainly mean everything to him, but he’s grateful for the memories. He’s at the forge in Frampney now, should you wish to return to him.’

  So Jake had purchased the half-share he wanted so much. She was glad, but this time nothing showed on her face as she regarded Guy. Suddenly she shouted to the hackney coachman. ‘Drive on! Drive on! This gentleman is pestering me!’

  Guy grabbed her wrist. ‘Oh, no, you don’t! You’re not going to give me the slip!’

  ‘Let me go!’ she screamed. ‘Drive on, for pity’s sake! I’m being attacked! Help! Help!’ The coachman’s whip cracked, and the horse set off at a strong trot. Guy tried to pull her out of the coach, but she resisted with all her might, even going so far as to kick out at him. She felt his gloved fingers slipping, and at last he had to release her. The door swung wildly, and she sobbed as she tried to close it. For a moment her eyes locked with Guy’s as he stood in the street behind. His lips moved, and she knew what he was saying. I’ll find you again, Beth Tremoille, I’ll find you! She sat back weakly on the seat, trembling and feeling sick. Guy was quick-witted enough to have noted the coach’s licence, so it would be stupid to direct the driver to the Swan. Glancing out she realized she was in Easterden Street. Well, two could be quick-witted, she decided, and leaned out. ‘Stop now, if you please!’

  The co
achman hauled on the reins and, as she climbed out, he stretched a hand down to her. ‘That’ll be three shillings,’ he said, ‘unless you want me to tell that fancy cove where I’ve dropped you off?’

  She disguised her feelings as she took the coins from her reticule, but then held them up just beyond his reach and let them drop into a heap of fresh horse dung. She walked away with some satisfaction hearing him curse foully as he got down to retrieve the money. As soon as he wasn’t looking at her, she dodged into a circulating library on the corner, and observed through the window as he wiped the coins on his coat, climbed back up to his seat and turned the coach around to return to Caradine Street. He was going to tell Guy anyway! She hurried from hiding and ran along the street toward the entrance of Mr Henry Topweather’s premises, slipping inside without attracting any attention. The door gave on to a shadowy, unlit staircase to the first floor, where another door admitted her to the house agent’s offices. An elderly clerk, thin and stooping, looked curiously at Beth from his stool behind a high, narrow desk. The quill behind his ear had stained his lopsided wig as well as the top of his ear, and his drab clothes were so comfortably worn they looked as if he hadn’t changed them in six months. ‘May I help you, madam?’

  ‘I wish to see Mr Topweather.’

  ‘He is engaged with a client at the moment, but will not be long. If you’d be so kind as to take a seat over there?’ He indicated an upright chair in a corner, then sanded some papers and blew the excess away noisily. As Beth sat down she became aware of low male voices and the smell of cigar smoke in the adjoining room, the door of which stood slightly ajar. After about five minutes there came the scraping of chairs, and two gentlemen emerged – at least, one gentleman came out, accompanied by a short, fat man of about forty, with perspiration on his high forehead and a fixed smile on his wet lips. He wore a baggy blue coat and grey breeches, and his small dark eyes were like polished pebbles as he fawned upon his companion. The gentleman was maybe ten years older, tall and muscular, with a high complexion and drinker’s nose. His manner was blustering and his temper disagreeable as he jammed his expensive top hat on his sparse hair. ‘I’ve been assured that you are in Baynsdon’s confidence, Topweather. I trust it’s true?’