Ever His Bride

by Linda Needham

  “You’re a very great fool, Hunter.” She plucked idly at the scattering of dark hair on his chest. “When I was a little girl, my father had a saying for those times when I held back in fear of some new adventure.”

  Hunter looked as if he didn’t want to hear it. “Go on.”

  “Father would say, ‘Felicity, although a train is safe in a station, that’s not what a train is for.’”

  Hunter snorted. “No wonder the man left you penniless.”

  “Oh, but, he didn’t, Mr. Claybourne. He left me the richest man in England.”

  Chapter 21

  “Well done, Miss Mayfield!” Mr. Dolan rocked back in his chair and tugged at his mustache, then read on: “‘Among the insupportable evils of the cheap-shoe trade is the employment of apprentice schools students, wherein innocent and abandoned orphans are subjected to working conditions barely tolerable to the most hardened of adults.’ Yes, yes, fine copy!”

  “It’s the truth, Mr. Dolan. I saw it with my own eyes.” But as usual, Dolan was lost in his reading, and paying little attention to her.

  “Oh, and this is good, too: ‘No wages are paid to these wretched children, who are fed floured water and must work eighteen-hour days or be strapped for their slothfulness.’ This is wonderful, my girl!”

  “There’s nothing wonderful about it, Mr. Dolan. Calling an appalling factory an apprentice school is an abomination. These are no more than institutions for enslaving helpless children for the purposes of making cheap shoes for the large emporiums and shops. Which, in turn make large profits for factory owners behind these ‘schools’. I’ll have you know that my own shoes are now made by hand in Hampstead, by a man whose overindulgent wife feeds him too much roast beef. My aim is to close down all of the apprentice schools.”

  “Yes, yes,” Dolan said, waving away her enthusiasm as he scanned the pages. “Here you’ve got store names, too. Good. Good. And proprietors—”

  “Wherever I could find the names. And holding companies, as well. You remember Adam Skinner, the reporter who left you for the Times? He helped me immeasurably.”

  “Well, my girl, you’ve done a right good job of raking up a dust cloud here.”

  “So, you’ll print the article in the Hearth and Heath?”

  Dolan leaned forward in his over-sprung chair and rubbed his palms together. “Oh, I’ll make sure it’s printed. And widely circulated.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Dolan! Thank you.” She’d submitted so little lately, and nothing of her travels, she was sure the man would send her packing. “This will mean so much to the children.”

  “So much to us all—Mrs. Claybourne.” He smiled significantly, and Felicity wished he weren’t quite so eager about her name.

  “Perhaps I should use a pen name, Mr. Dolan. Or my maiden name.”

  He lifted himself from his chair and guided her toward the door. “Oh, no, no. You must use your married name, Felicity. Think of the influence you will have over the opinions of the public, with a name like Claybourne. Who would listen to an unknown Felicity Mayfield crying out against the abuse of children? Boo-hoo!”

  “Well—”

  “There, you see! No one would give your opinions the time of day. But Mrs. Hunter Claybourne—now, there is a name that draws attention! If Claybourne’s wife says that these vile, apprentice-school prisons need to be closed down and their proprietors sent to jail, then people in authority are bound to listen.”

  Felicity had made quite sure that Hunter hadn’t invested his money in any company that used these apprentice schools, nor did he employ children. No possible way to sully his name. Lady Meath herself had praised him for allowing his wife to do charity work in the slums. He would be admired, not vilified. And no one would have any reason to question his past as a result of her story.

  “All right, then, Mr. Dolan. Use my married name.” Miss Felicity Mayfield might not be able to save all the children single-handedly, but Mrs. Hunter Claybourne was going to set the public’s collective ears on fire.

  She left Dolan’s office and met Branson on the stoop.

  “A good meeting, Mrs. Claybourne?” he asked, helping her into the carriage.

  “A fine meeting, Branson.” The man seemed to have endless patience with her errands, and she blessed Hunter for letting her use Branson’s services whenever she needed him. So much more efficient than hailing cabs on her own, or walking from one end of London to another.

  She sat down in the carriage and found Giles sitting across from her, looking more apple-cheeked than ever.

  Branson stuck his head in the doorway. “The boy said he had a delivery for you.”

  Giles patted a huge, brown paper-wrapped bundle on his lap. “Donations,” he said, his grin way too prideful.

  “Donations of what?”

  “Shirts.”

  “Where did you get them?” Fearing the worst, she retrieved the bundle and began unwrapping it.

  “In Leicester Street. ”

  “And someone gave these to you as a donation?”

  Giles laughed hard. “Give ’em to me? Oh, no, Mrs. Claybourne, I ‘propriated ‘em from a cart out back o’ the linen shop.”

  “Oh, Giles, no.” She groaned at the boy’s admiration of his own cleverness, but couldn’t fault an enterprising lad who was so like the man she’d married. “You stole the shirts?”

  He threw up his hands. “Well, the clerk isn’t going to just give ‘em to me. Pretty good pickin’s for a pup in a poke.”

  Felicity glanced at Branson. He’d been waiting for directions to the next errand. He raised an eyebrow. “To Leicester Street, ma’am?”

  Felicity nodded. “Thank you, Branson.”

  Giles threw himself back into the seat, arms crossed against his chest and pouted as Branson turned the carriage into Fleet Street. “They have a million shirts in that shop. They’re not going to miss a few.”

  “That’s not the point, Giles. Stealing is wrong. And besides, if you’re caught, you’ll find yourself stitching more than shoe-tops this time around. And then I’ll have to rescue you again, and Mr. Claybourne will be very angry, and I know you don’t want to go through that again, anymore than I do.”

  “If I get caught.”

  “When. Don’t forget, Giles, in just a few years you’ll be a young man, and too old for the mercy of the court. You’ll spend your life locked up in Newgate. No more stealing, Giles. Ever. We’ll simply ask for donations.”

  “Good luck, Mrs. Claybourne. I wouldn’t give up nothin’ of mine.”

  “Oh, but you already do give up something very valuable of yours, every day, Giles.”

  He snorted. “I don’t give nothin’ to nobody.”

  “You are very generous with your time. You help me and Gran, and you help the children who can’t read as well as you.”

  “Ballocks!” He blew air out from between his lips. “That’s nothing.”

  “Exactly as it appears to you. And so we must teach our potential donors that the act of giving won’t cost them any more than a moment of their time and will save them money in the long run. We’ll just go back into that shop and—”

  Giles made a grab for the door, but Felicity hung on to his collar band.

  “I’m not going in that linen shop with you!”

  “Oh, yes you are. We’re going to be honest and when we are we’re going to walk out of that store with two bundles of donated shirts, instead of one! And they will be given to us with sincere blessings by the owner himself.”

  “A chocolate says we don’t.”

  “It’s a deal, Mr. Pepperpot.”

  The owner of Malstowe’s Fine Linen Furnishings glanced warily between Felicity and Giles as they stood together in his upstairs office.

  “So this boy stole these shirts from me off a cart in the alley, and now you want me to just give them to you for your school? That’s quite a dodge you have going there, ma’am.” He scowled and pointed a finger at her. “I think I’ll have you both b
rought up on charges.”

  Felicity shook her head sagely. “Oh, but my husband wouldn’t like that, Mr. Malstowe. Hunter Claybourne is a man who values charitable work. And I’m certain that he wouldn’t want anyone falsely accusing his wife of stealing—”

  “Hunter Claybourne? You mean of the Exchange—”

  “Yes, Mr. Malstowe. That’s exactly the Claybourne I am Mrs. to. Not that his name should influence your charitable giving in any way. The desire to give ought to come from the heart. I only wish to enlighten you to the progress we are making at the Beggar’s Academy, where Mr. Giles Pepperpot”—Felicity put her hand on Giles’s shoulder— “lately a thief and pickpocket, is now learning to mend his ways, just as he learns to read and write.”

  Giles toed his shoe into the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Malstowe, sir. I thought I was bein’ ever so ’elpful to the children.”

  Felicity hoped that at least a speck of Giles’s apology was from the heart. “There, you see, sir. Where the boy would have once sold the shirts for his own gain, he brought them directly to me just now, Mr. Malstowe, thinking to aid the poor children of the school, who wear rags instead of clothing. You can see that his heart was filled with compassion, and that he is learning the difference between right and wrong.”

  Malstowe looked anything but convinced. “But, I say—”

  “We will gladly take your damaged goods, sir, and anything else that needs mending. We have developed a program that teaches young women the art of dress-and shirtmaking, and we could also use—”

  “Oh, all right. Here! Take the damn shirts.” Mr. Malstowe shoved the bundle into Felicity’s arms. “Come with me.” He took off down the hallway.

  Felicity smiled down at Giles and lifted her eyebrows just as Hunter would have done, then followed after Malstowe.

  They left the linen shop with four bundles, which included not only shirts but also drawers, kerchiefs, and socks. Giles was silent and surly as Branson stowed the donations in the carriage boot.

  “Now, about that chocolate, Giles?” Felicity asked.

  “I don’t have any money,” he snarled, and kicked the wheel.

  “Oh, but I do, young man. And since I won, I have to buy you a chocolate.”

  Giles’s smile was the most genuinely bright when he was caught off guard, and when his teeth were clean. “Is ‘at how it works where you live?”

  “Of course. Will you join us, Branson? There’s a tea shop in Threadneedle.”

  “I’d be pleased to, Mrs. Claybourne.” He smiled across the top of Giles’s head and led her to the carriage door.

  Giles brushed Branson out of the way and took Felicity’s hand. “After you, miss.”

  She wanted to kiss the little scamp, but he would probably have thrown himself under the next wagon in embarrassment. So she exchanged a nod with Branson and stepped into the carriage.

  Giles was learning.

  Hunter stopped his horse at the top of the rise, and gazed down on Claybourne Manor. The sight pleased him to the deepest part of his soul. If he’d been gone away on some trip during these past few months and only now returned, he’d have thought himself arrived at the wrong house. But the transformation had happened before his very eyes, and the drive up to the house would soon resemble Versailles, with its tidy boxwood hedges and immense stone lions, the banks of roses and chrysanthemums.

  Felicity.

  His heart nearly bursting with the need to see her, he quickly stabled his horse. As he entered the foyer, he heard the ripple of female laughter from the back parlor and wondered what enterprise Felicity had devised for today.

  Where he’d once been greeted by cold, gray stone and the empty echoes of his own footsteps, now he was met with tapestries and landscapes, carpets and settees, and total strangers wandering the halls. And in the midst of all the commotion, he would always find his wife.

  He ached to see her. She had hung her nightgown in his closet the morning after their encounter in the woods, and in the following few days the rest of her wardrobe had managed to make its way across the hall to his chamber. To their chamber.

  The room had become that much to him and more: a place where he could relax, where his wife could dance around in her nightgown until his blood was boiling, where he awakened each morning to her arms and legs draped over his chest, or his fingers tangled in her hair. And she was always ready with her kiss, and more than ready for his.

  Making love in the morning had done wonders for his general mood, and roused him for the day’s work. He had recently found himself whistling his way up the stairs to his office at the Claybourne Exchange, and had only that morning given Tilson a raise when the man’s wife had appeared to deliver his daily lunch. The look of astonishment on Mrs. Tilson’s face had seemed out of all proportion, but he accepted her thanks and had felt exceptionally good the rest of the afternoon.

  Yet his days at the office had become grueling and overlong as he juggled his normal routine with negotiations about the fate of Hudson’s investments. And his impending nomination to the Commission was due to be announced any day.

  He strolled down the gallery toward the noise at the end of the corridor, wondering what manner of activity he would encounter. Last week it had been Lady Meath, Lady Oswin, and three wives of parliament members sitting in the dining room. They had been assembling kits of needle and thread, going on about gardens and traveling, and had giggled like schoolgirls when he had greeted them.

  Not wanting to suffer the same fate today, he peered quietly into the south parlor and discovered a sewing works installed in his home. There were three odd-looking machines, each sitting on its own table, and women bent over them in concentration. One of the women was his wife.

  She raised her head and looked directly at him.

  “Hunter! You’re home early!” She looked startled and a little distressed. Her dark-blue dress was strung with bits of thread, and her hair was stuck through with at least four pencils and some kind of dangerous-looking hook.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said mildly.

  The other women cowered from him, tucked themselves behind their sewing contraptions and piles of woolens. The taint of Bethnal Green was obvious only to him, but he tried, for Felicity’s sake, to ignore the thickening in his throat. He was getting better at it.

  He’d begun to look forward to reports of her new ventures. Felicity Claybourne was no dewlapped, moist-eyed, philanthropic matron. She was knee-deep in goodness, a patch of warm sunlight that grew ever brighter. And sometimes he was made breathless and blinded by his consuming need for her to hold him. His passion for her was always near the surface: scratch at his thoughts and it would be there, banked and ready to flare.

  “Hunter?” She met him at the door, slipped her hand inside his.

  “Ah, yes, love. Just came to say hello.” To insure she wasn’t a dream he’d conjured from his yearning.

  “We’re making winter clothes for the schoolchildren. And the ladies are learning the sewing machine. Please, come in.”

  No matter the time of day or the chaos of the moment, Felicity could count on her heart taking flight the instant her husband entered a room.

  “Come see.” She led him to the machine she had been working on. She sat down, steadied the wool beneath the needle, and then started working the treadle up and down with her foot. The needle rose and fell and set its astounding stitches in a line along the fabric.

  “Isn’t it wonderful, Hunter?” She slowed the treadle and the needle stopped.

  He peered closely at the head of the machine. “Where did you get this thing?”

  “They were in the cellar.”

  “I bought them?”

  “You must have. And we’ve put them to good use. We’re all learning together.” She stood and put her arm around Mrs. Lytle. “In truth, Marguerite seems to have a natural way with the beasts.”

  Mrs. Lytle shied, and turned her face away.

  Hunter bowed slightly. “My compliments
to you, Mrs. Lytle, for your genius. I’m afraid I would stitch my own fingers together.”

  “Dear me, thank you, sir!” Mrs. Lytle put her hand to her lips and exchanged a nervous giggle with her compatriots.

  Felicity beamed at Hunter. He was too much of a distraction, and she led him toward the door. “Out of here, Mr. Claybourne. Or else we will put you to work.”

  “Heaven help me. May we speak a moment,” he said, rather sternly.

  The handsome blighter pulled her around the corner into the gallery and swept her into his arms. She loved his eager mouth and his quick arousal. She slipped her hands around his waist, and he backed her against the wall.

  “Oh, I missed you, Hunter.”

  “I miss you perpetually.”

  “Do you?” She gave a tug on his neckcloth, and his heady moans turned to deep-chested growling.

  “Tonight, love,” he whispered, at the lobe of her ear. “We have a private box at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden.”

  “Is this a threat to make love to me at the theater, Hunter?” She felt his arousal flare against her thigh.

  “That wouldn’t be wise. Though now that you’ve loosed the idea in my head, I hope I can keep my hands to myself until we get home.”

  She ducked out of his embrace. She turned back to him at the door to the sewing room. “And I’ll do everything in my power to see that you can’t.”

  She saw him roll his eyes, and watched in deep appreciation as he straightened his coat and strode purposefully down the gallery toward the library.

  What a fine and gentle man he was! Misguided sometimes, but so willing to listen. He’d looked like a terrified wolf just now, standing among the sewing machines and the disarray of fabric, pretending interest and trying not to cast his judgment on the women she had brought to his home.

  He was doing his best, and she loved him madly for it.

  Loved him even more, because she was almost certain she was carrying his child.

  Felicity tried to pay close attention to the stage and to the over-wrought young tenor, who was struggling valiantly to propose marriage to the aging soprano. But how could she, when Hunter was sitting decorously beside her in their elegant box, splendidly handsome in his cutaway and crisp linen, calmly assaulting the underside of her black, elbow-long glove.