The Spring Bride

by Anne Gracie

  Daisy laughed and turned her back for Jane to unlace her. “I’m never gunna sound like a lady, am I? I’ll have to get someone else to run me posh shop. If I ever get it, that is.”

  “You’ll get it,” Jane told her confidently. “We got a lot done today. Two more outfits finished.”

  Daisy shook her head. “Yeah, but there’s piles and piles of work still to do.” She plonked herself down on the bed with a sigh. “I dunno how I’m gunna manage it all, to tell the truth, Jane.”

  “Even with Polly and Ginny helping?” Lady Beatrice had given two of the maids permission to help Daisy every afternoon.

  Daisy nodded. “Even then. I reckon I might have overreached meself, Jane.”

  “Nonsense.” Jane gave her a hug. “You’re just tired.”

  Daisy’s dream was to become a fashionable dressmaker—fashions to the ton—and the plan was for her to make a splash this season, having designed and made all Jane’s clothes for her come-out, most of Abby’s and some of Damaris’s—only some because Freddy had taken Damaris to Paris on their honeymoon. Damaris had written apologetically that Freddy had insisted on buying her the most beautiful dresses and two gorgeous pelisses, that she didn’t have the heart to say no to him and she hoped Daisy wouldn’t be offended.

  Daisy had admitted to Jane that far from being offended, she was a bit relieved—it was a bigger job than she’d imagined, making clothes for all three of them for a whole season. Of course, Jane and Polly did all the seams and hems and Ginny, who was skilled at fine needlework, did some of the fancywork while Daisy designed, cut, fitted and did the rest of the fancywork. And Abby lent a hand when she could.

  Still, it was a stretch.

  They’d all underestimated the amount of work it would be. And the space it would take.

  That’s why the two girls were sharing a bedroom—Daisy’s bedchamber was so taken over with garments in various stages of manufacture, a dummy with a half-made dress pinned in place, rolls of fabric, patterns, pins, reams of braid, beads, lace, fringes and whatnot. “Me cave of gorgeousness,” Daisy called it, but her bed had become so buried under dressmaking materials that finally she’d moved the bed and her personal belongings into Jane’s room.

  It was cosier this way, Jane thought. For most of her life she’d shared a dormitory with other girls, and though she’d enjoyed the luxury of having her own room when they first came to live with Lady Beatrice, she had to admit she enjoyed sharing with Daisy, and talking over the day’s events as they drifted off to sleep. Not to mention the convenience of having someone to help you dress and undress without having to summon a maid.

  “But enough about me,” Daisy said. “Have you worked out what you’re going to do about Lord Comb-it-up?”

  Jane pulled her dress over her head. “No, I haven’t decided.”

  Daisy frowned. “You ain’t gunna marry him, surely? You don’t even know him.”

  Jane sighed. “Probably not.” She wasn’t dismissing him out of hand, though. A rich man of good family, with nothing known to his detriment, a dutiful nephew who was kind to animals. There was nothing alarming about that.

  And he owned a castle. Oh, she’d grown out of that silly childhood fantasy, but still . . . if she said yes to him tomorrow . . .

  Daisy reached for Jane’s stay laces. “I saw your face when Abby said that about you fallin’ in love.” As she spoke, she glanced at Jane’s reflection in the mirror. “Yeah, that’s the look. So, how come you ain’t so excited about meetin’ some handsome young gent and fallin’ in love?”

  “It would be nice to fall in love,” Jane said uncertainly. “But . . .”

  “Cor, these strings is knotted tight! So what’s the problem? It’s not the broffel, is it? I mean you weren’t touched or nuffin’.” It was how they’d met—Jane and Damaris had been kidnapped and sold into a brothel, and Daisy, who’d been a maid there, had, with Abby’s assistance, helped them escape.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just . . . It’s not so simple. I can’t fall in love with just anyone. I have to make sure he’s the right kind of man.”

  There was a short pause, then Daisy said bluntly, “You mean rich, don’t you?”

  Jane sighed. “I know, it sounds awful, but you must understand, Daisy, a girl like me, without a bean to my name except the allowance dear Lady Beatrice makes us out of the goodness of her heart, well . . . I need to marry a rich man if I’m to have . . .” She trailed off.

  “What? Pretty dresses? Jewels? Lots of parties—what?”

  “Children.”

  “Children?” Daisy stared at Jane in the looking glass. “Gawd, Jane, you don’t need a rich bloke to get kids.”

  “I do.” She knew very well the consequences of being too poor to support children. She’d lived them and she would rather die than submit her own children to such a fate. “I think it’s more sensible to choose a man for what he can offer, instead of trusting to luck to fall in love with the right kind of man.”

  And a rich man who was good to his aunt and who liked dogs didn’t sound like the wrong kind of man.

  She continued, “Trusting to love is like a leaf trusting the wind to blow it to safety. You never know where you might end up. So I don’t plan to fall in love at all. I will choose a husband carefully and then I’ll fall in love with him.”

  “It don’t work like that.” Daisy shook her head knowingly. “Not for you. When the time comes, you won’t be able to ’elp yourself. You’ll fall in love, just like Abby and Damaris; they never expected it neither. There y’are, it’s done now.”

  Jane pulled off her stays and stepped out of her petticoat. “Nonsense. People choose whether they fall in love or not.”

  Daisy snorted.

  “They do, they just don’t realize it,” Jane insisted. She shrugged off her chemise and slipped her nightgown on. “I’ve observed it in others. There’s a period of time at the beginning when a person thinks, ‘Him? Or not him?’ And they either find reasons not to like him, or else they spin rose-colored stories about how wonderful he is.”

  She climbed into her bed. “People choose to fall in love.” And plenty of people who made convenient marriages fell in love, she knew; it happened after the marriage, that was all. Because they chose to make the best of things.

  Daisy climbed into her bed. “Some folks might think like that, mebbe. But not you.”

  “Why not me? You think I’m being a coldhearted, designing female? Maybe I am, but there’s nothing wrong with being ambitious. You are, for your business.”

  “Yeah, but bein’ ambitious and fallin’ in love is poles apart. Anyway, I’m tough, me. I was brung up in the gutter, I know what I got to do to succeed and I’ll fight to make it ’appen. And sure, plenty of ladies are ambitious to marry the richest bloke they can find. But not you—you got a heart as soft as butter.”

  “I haven’t!” Jane said indignantly.

  Daisy laughed. “So who was it who brought Damaris out of the broffel with ’er, endangering ’er own escape—but would you take no for an answer?”

  Jane frowned. “That was different. Damaris saved me from that horrid auction. I couldn’t leave her there.”

  “And then there was that cat and ’er kittens you brought in—fleas an’ all. Without knowing how Lady Beatrice would react. You coulda got us all kicked out.”

  “The building was going to be demolished, they would have been killed. And we got rid of the fl—”

  “And we both know what you do wiv pennies—”

  “That’s diff—”

  “Face it, you’re as softhearted as they come, Janey girl. And knowin’ you, you’ll find the most impossible, unsuitable bloke in the ton and fall for ’im like a ton o’ bricks.”

  “I won’t. I absolutely will not do anything so foolish!” She felt oddly panicky at the thought.

  “
Pooh, you won’t have no choice in it, just like Abby and Damaris didn’t. And if anyone’s made for love, you are. You can say what you like, Janey, love’ll find you anyway. Now go to sleep. We got a lot of work to get through in the morning. Your turn to blow out the candle.”

  Jane slipped out of bed and blew it out. She climbed back into bed. You’ll find the most impossible, unsuitable bloke in the ton and fall for ’im like a ton o’ bricks.

  She wouldn’t. She absolutely wouldn’t.

  * * *

  “Jane! Jane, wake up!” A hand was shaking her shoulder, hard.

  “Wha—” Jane sat up abruptly, staring around her wildly. Her heart was pounding.

  “You was dreamin’ again.” Daisy was sitting on Jane’s bed. “’Nother nightmare.”

  Jane blinked, and her dazed thoughts slowly came into focus. She glanced at the window. The curtains stirred slightly, letting in a few slivers of gray predawn light.

  “You all right now?” Daisy asked.

  Jane nodded. “Thanks, Daisy.” It was the same dream as always.

  Daisy didn’t move. “You been dreamin’ a lot lately. Cryin’ and callin’ out.”

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to wake you.” She hesitated, then, “What do I say?”

  “Can’t make out the words, just a lot of muttering, thrashing around and yelling—but that ain’t the point. I keep tellin’ you, it’s the night air. Everybody knows night air is bad for you, but you will insist on sleepin’ with the window open.”

  “I don’t like it shut,” Jane said.

  Daisy slipped off the bed and stumped over to the window. “Yeah, well, too bad, because I’m shuttin’ it now. It’s bloody freezin’ outside and we got at least another hour before it gets light enough to start sewing, so I’m gunna get some sleep.” She pulled back the curtains and sniffed appreciatively. “Mmm, must be an east wind. Smell that? You can always smell the bread from the bakery when there’s an east wind. Best smell in the world, that is.”

  Jane repressed a shudder.

  “Mmm, lovely it is. Makes me hungry.” Daisy took another deep sniff, then closed the window and pulled the curtains closed. “Funny that,” she said as she climbed back into her bed.

  “What is?”

  “You often seem to have bad dreams when there’s an east wind. Night.” She laughed. “Or whatever you say when you’re goin’ back to sleep in the mornin’.”

  “Night. And thanks, Daisy.” Jane snuggled back down in the warm bedclothes. She wouldn’t get any more sleep, she knew. She never did after she’d had the dream.

  Daisy never asked what Jane’s nightmares were about. She took it for granted that everyone had terrible memories from before. “It’s normal, innit?” she’d said once. “But we’re the survivors, and bad dreams is what we pay for bein’ survivors.” It was a comforting philosophy. Dreams were frightening while you were having them, but they couldn’t hurt you, after all.

  And Jane was a survivor.

  London, 1804

  A fist thumped on the door. Hard. Three loud thumps. With every bang the door rattled. “Come on, little girl, open the door!”

  Silence. Jane didn’t move. Besides, she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was six.

  “I know you’re in there, little girl.”

  She scarcely dared to breathe.

  “I’ve got a bag of sweeties for you. Just open the door and you can have them.”

  Sweeties? She loved sweets, had only tasted them a few times in her life, but she still didn’t move. Mr. Morrison, the landlord, frightened her, sweets or no.

  Besides, she was not to open the door to anyone, Abby had said. Not to anyone. Only Abby.

  Outside in the hallway, Mr. Morrison’s voice lowered. There was someone with him. Jane crept closer to the door and pressed her ear against it.

  “She’s in there, I know she is. And alone—her sister works at the bakery and won’t be back for hours.”

  “Then get that bloody door open. I ’aven’t got all day.”

  Jane froze. She knew that voice, low as it was. It was The Man. The Man. She started to shake. The Man had tried to take her before. Oh, where was Abby? She bit on her knuckle and stared at the door.

  The first time he’d just grabbed at her in the street, but Abby was there and she’d pulled Jane back and The Man had gone away.

  The second time she’d been playing in the street with the other children, and a boy had come eating an orange, not a boy she’d seen before, but he’d come right up to Jane and given her a piece, and oh, it was delicious, so sweet and juicy and the boy had said a man was giving out oranges to children for nothing, just go around the corner.

  Only when Jane had gone around the corner, it was The Man—and he was waiting for her. He’d thrown a bag over her head and would have stolen her away, only she’d screamed and the other children—Mama called them street urchins, but they were Jane’s friends—had rushed up in a group and attacked The Man, and he’d dropped Jane and she’d escaped and run home to Mama, and safety.

  But Mama was dead now, and Jane was alone.

  The knock on the door came again, softer this time, and Mr. Morrison said, trying to sound friendly but she could tell he was cross, “Now don’t be foolish, girl. You know me. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  A key scraped in the lock and the handle turned. Shivering, Jane watched it like a snake. Last month Mama had made Abby put a bolt on the door. Mr. Morrison didn’t know about the bolt. But was it strong enough to keep out him and The Man?

  The door rattled, but stayed shut. Mr. Morrison swore.

  The Man had come here once when Mama was alive. Mama had been expecting Mr. Morrison, come about the rent, and had told her to hide in the wardrobe like a little mouse and to keep the door closed and not to move or come out—no matter what she heard—until Mama called her.

  It was Mr. Morrison, but he’d brought The Man with him. Jane had seen him through a crack in the wardrobe door. She’d listened as he told Mama he could give Jane a good job and a good home and plenty of food and he’d pay Mama ten pounds for her—ten pounds! But Mama got angry and started coughing and telling The Man to get out and that he wasn’t to lay a finger on either of her daughters, but The Man had said he didn’t want the other one, only Jane.

  He told Mama she wasn’t long for this world anyway, and that sooner or later he’d get Jane. And if not him, that someone else would get her, that Jane was worth good money in the right hands, and if Mama sold her to him now, she could buy medicine for herself and food for her other daughter.

  Mama had called him a filthy procu-something, and told him to get out! Get out! And to stay away from her daughters! The more angry and upset Mama got, the more she coughed, and the man had laughed because in the end she could hardly talk for coughing.

  He’d stopped laughing when Mama had coughed blood on him. He’d sworn and backed away.

  People got frightened when Mama coughed blood. Jane and Abby were used to it. After the man had gone, Jane fetched the cloth and the bowl of water and gave Mama some drops from the little blue bottle and soon Mama was quiet again.

  That was when Jane had asked Mama why The Man wanted Jane and not Abby. Abby was stronger and quicker and much cleverer than Jane. Abby was twelve and could read and write and do everything. She even had a job already, at the bakery. Jane was only six and not very good at anything much.

  “So why, Mama?” she’d asked. “Why did he want me, and not Abby?”

  Mama had cupped Jane’s cheek with her thin, white hand and said in such a sad voice, “Because you’re beautiful, my darling. Because you’re beautiful.”

  She’d told Jane then that The Man was a very bad man, a wicked man. And that she must watch out for him and stay away from him, that when Mama was gone, Jane must stay with Abby at all times and not wander off.

 
Mama had died last week but Jane wasn’t allowed to go to work with her sister. Abby’s boss said he wouldn’t allow a child of Jane’s age in the bakery, that she would be a nuisance and get underfoot—no matter that Abby promised him Jane would not. So while Abby was at work, Jane had to stay here, alone, in the small room that was their home. Abby said it was safer here than playing in the streets.

  Jane didn’t feel safe at all. At least in the street there were the other children.

  The door rattled again. “Open this door at once!” Mr. Morrison yelled.

  “Oh, fer Gawd’s sake, just break it down,” she heard The Man say. “I’ll pay for the damage.”

  Jane looked frantically around the room. There wasn’t any place to hide. They’d be sure to look in the wardrobe. There was no way out except the door. Even the window was boarded over from when it had been broken so long ago.

  The window! In the summer, Abby had loosened some of the nails so they could get some fresh air into the room. Crash! The door trembled. A crack appeared down the middle.

  Jane flew to the window. With fingers that were shaking and clumsy, she worked the loose nail out. One of the boards swung down, leaving a narrow gap. She could see outside, to daylight.

  Crash! It was the sound of splitting timber but Jane didn’t wait to see. In a flash she was wriggling through the gap between the boards. It was a very tight squeeze.

  Behind her she heard the door splinter. She heard a shout and footsteps.

  She squirmed frantically, heard something rip, felt someone grab her foot, but she kicked back and fell to the pavement in a heap, one shoe missing.

  “Come back ’ere, ya little bitch!” Mr. Morrison shouted, but Jane didn’t wait.

  She picked herself up and ran and ran and ran, not stopping for breath, not caring that she had only one shoe, not caring that there was a stitch in her side, not stopping until she reached the bakery and ran around the back and there was Abby in an apron too big for her and covered in flour. She hurled herself at her big sister. “Oh, Abby, Abby, Abby!”