Lady Disdain

by Michelle Morrison

  “My brother will be along shortly,” Lady Trowbridge said. “He had a bit of business to attend to. I believe he was cancelling his passage to America for a later date.”

  Startled and absurdly glad, Sarah asked, “Why would he do that?”

  “Oh he has obtained an appointment with a London publisher who is interested in reprinting some of Samuel’s maps of America.”

  “Ah,” Sarah said.

  But before she could feel foolish for the surge of nameless emotion, Lady Trowbridge continued coyly, “I am certain there are other reasons as well. Now, tell me how it is you came to run your organization.”

  Sarah shared her well-rehearsed story of how she’d taken in interest in philanthropy, travelled to assist a missionary in his work, and taken over when he had abruptly died.

  “How terribly brave of you! And what is the best part of your vocation?”

  Lady Trowbridge—Caroline as she quickly instructed Sarah to call her—peppered Sarah with questions about Southwark and her work. Her genuine interest completely won Sarah over and she described her daily life in The Mint even as she deflected the more personal questions such as where Sarah had grown up and if she planned to have her own family in Southwark one day.

  “Oh look! There is Sam!”

  They paused by the shores of the Serpentine as Samuel James made his way across the grass toward them. His long legs ate up the distance and he strode with any easy, loose-limbed grace that made Sarah’s mouth go dry with desire.

  “He is a good looking man, is he not?” Caroline asked with sisterly pride.

  Sarah gaped like a fish, unsure of how to respond.

  “Oh he can be a bit of a blockhead, as most of the male species are, but he is a good man as well as a comely one,” she finished. “Hello brother dear! I’d nearly given you up as a lost cause.”

  “You know you should never give up on me,” he said, bussing his sister’s cheek.

  He took Sarah’s hand. “Miss Draper. You don’t know how glad I am to see you again,” he said with a gaze that spoke of kisses and caresses.

  “Mr. James,” she murmured. She didn’t know what her gaze might be telling him, but she was fairly confident her flaming cheeks gave her thoughts away.

  She tried to collect herself as Mr. James and Lord Trowbridge greeted one another. They set off again, winding through the park, though this time, Caroline took her husband’s arm which left Sarah to take Mr. James’.

  “I’ve only just met your sister,” Sarah said. “But something tells me she arranged this tableau so that you and I might, er, see one another.”

  “Miss Draper, I am insulted,” he said with a frown and for a moment, Sarah thought she had said something offensive. “Insulted that you had to ask such a question. Surely a woman of your intelligence can recognize that of course my nefarious sister arranged this for that reason.”

  Sarah felt her lips twist wryly. “Whyever would you be insulted?”

  “Well because it is a question unworthy of your canniness.”

  “Mmm. I think ‘disappointed’ would be the more accurate word. Surely my intelligence or lack thereof is no reflection on you, therefore you have no reason to be insulted.”

  They walked for several seconds in silence and Sarah wondered if this time she really had insulted him.

  “You’re right,” he finally admitted. “Damn. And me a writer and publisher.”

  She smiled in delight and patted his arm in consolation. “Well, you are American. It is to be expected.”

  He burst out laughing at that and Sarah felt a warm glow fill her that was completely different from and yet equally as powerful as the hot flush that normally accompanied her reaction to him. It was as if she’d accomplished something great by making him laugh.

  “Miss Draper, have you any aspiration to be an editor? I would hire you in an instant.”

  She felt her smile broaden and she contemplated what it would be like to work in a publishing firm, her only daily concern the appropriate usage of words like “insulted.” She could even envision writing her own treatise, going to work dressed smartly, interacting with intellectuals and professionals. People like Mr. James. Well, specifically Mr. James.

  But then she thought of Ida and Cora, even Mr. Thackery and the hundreds, perhaps thousands of children she had fed over the years and knew that no work would be more vital for her.

  Still, it was fun to tease Mr. James.

  “I’m not sure you could afford me.”

  “Indeed?” he asked, a delighted spark in his eyes. “Are you certain of that? I am rather well off.”

  “American,” she accused flatly and he laughed loudly enough that the Trowbridges glanced over their shoulders, indulgent smiles on their faces as if they were an old married couple delighting in the antics of youngsters.

  “Shall I hurl ‘English’ at you to imply that your tastes are so rich that you require an exorbitant salary?”

  “Oh indeed,” she said, holding up her left hand and wiggling the finger with the split seam. “Clearly my penchant for frivolous wardrobe expenditures has grown out of hand.”

  He captured her hand and ran a thumb over the tear. “Why do you not buy yourself a new pair of gloves?” There was no judgement in his tone, only curiosity and Sarah answered candidly.

  “Oh I shall eventually. Though not pretty, these still have a bit of wear in them.”

  “Well I shall make a requirement of my donation that part of the money goes to such things as gloves for the head of the organization.”

  “No you will not!” she exclaimed, genuinely upset. Men only paid for clothing for their wives and mistresses. “That would be inappropriate in the extreme. I never use donation money for my own expenses. I have a small annuity which I use for such things. Besides—” she stopped abruptly.

  “Besides what? Tell me,” he persisted as she cursed herself for uttering that word. “I shall nag you mercilessly until you confess. I can tell it’s something important and I’ve learned nagging from my sister who is a master.”

  Sarah frowned and bit her lower lip, but before she could respond, Mr. James held up a finger asking her to wait.

  “Say Trowbridge,” he called out and his sister and her husband paused to turn and look at him.

  “I suppose it is a bit too late to warn you that Caroline nags like a fishwife.”

  “It is favorite of her many qualities,” her husband said gallantly.

  “I beg your pardon, George?” Caroline said with raised brows.

  “Only someone who cares very deeply for me would harry me to do things like take care of myself and be a better person.”

  “Good answer,” Caroline said, patting her husband’s arm approvingly.

  “Here, here,” Mr. James agreed but when he glanced at Sarah, she could see he was uncomfortable. She wondered if it was because he didn’t want her to think he cared…or did. The thought made her stomach clench nervously. Caroline had been watching their suddenly awkward interaction and took pity on them, gamely stepping into the conversational chasm with an animated description of her and Trowbridge’s upcoming honeymoon.

  They continued their walk along the Serpentine, chatting and laughing until Caroline declared that she needed a rest.

  “There is a pavilion not too far away,” Trowbridge said. “It has many benches and if we’re lucky, the sweets vendor will be about and we can sample her iced cakes.”

  “Your sweet tooth is incurable,” Caroline proclaimed as they made their way to the large white-columned structure.

  Trowbridge bent his head and whispered in his wife’s ear something that made her turn a brilliant shade of pink and giggle.

  Having an idea of what he must have whispered, Sarah cast a sideways glance at Mr. James and found him studiously inspecting the low-lying clouds.

  A nursemaid with her charges and a small group of young men and women were enjoying the benches beneath the pavilion and under the watchful eye of several chaperone
s and the structure hummed with the murmur of voices.

  Caroline led them to a row of benches with the best view of the water and Trowbridge set off to find them refreshments. He returned shortly with a paper cone of small, bite-sized iced cakes, which they shared as conversation roamed from the cities Caroline most looked forward to visiting to the types of employment Sarah tried to help people find.

  Lord Trowbridge had clearly never considered the plight of London’s poor, growing up as he had in a life of wealth and privilege. But to his credit, he seemed duly horrified that, as he put it, “The greatest city on earth should have citizens so ill-served.”

  Sarah choose not to debate the merits of the “greatest city,” as it was ever helpful to have members of the aristocracy feel a sense of duty to their fellow citizens.

  “You see, Robert, this is why I wish to contribute to Miss Draper’s cause.”

  Lord Trowbridge suddenly looked uncomfortable and Sarah cast a glance at Mr. James who quickly said, “Caroline, that would be a perfect way for you to spend the money in the discretionary account I set up for you. Besides, it will give you something to focus on besides shopping.”

  Trowbridge’s face eased and Sarah realized that Caroline’s dowry must have come not a day too soon, obvious love match though they were.

  “Yes, of course!” Caroline said quickly. “That’s a splendid idea.”

  The sugared treats devoured, Mr. James left to wash sticky hands in a nearby fountain, having eschewed the wooden skewers that accompanied the treats for his bare hands. Caroline and Trowbridge wandered a short way off and Sarah spied them stealing kisses beneath the low-hanging branches of a chestnut tree. She smiled at their obvious happiness but did not wish to be caught watching and so wandered down to the water’s edge where several well fed ducks swam up to see if she had any offerings. She crouched down and tossed the last crumbs of her cakes to them.

  It was a quiet day, with that muted heaviness that comes with low-lying clouds. Lost in her thoughts, Sarah did not immediately recognize the man’s voice beside her. It was only when the man’s companion laughed rather shrilly that she returned her attention to her surroundings and when next the man spoke, it was as if a goose had walked over her grave.

  She looked over her shoulder slowly, willing her memory to be wrong, but as she saw Peter Greene, her heart sank in recognition.

  Feeling her gaze, he glanced at her and visibly started.

  “Ahh…Sar—Miss Draper,” he said, and his companion looked at him expectantly.

  Sarah stood and turned to face him fully, her fingers going coldly numb, her face feeling wooden.

  “Evangeline,” he said and cleared his throat. “Allow me to introduce you to Miss Draper. We both grew up in Aylesbury Vale in Buckinghamshire.” The woman smiled politely and Sarah forced her head to nod.

  “Miss Draper, this is, ah, my wife. Lady Evangeline Greene.”

  “It’s lovely to meet someone from Peter’s childhood,” Lady Greene said, shaking Sarah’s fingertips gingerly. “He speaks so rarely of Aylesbury.”

  “You don’t live there?” Sarah asked.

  Lady Greene tittered behind her finely-gloved hand. “Good heavens, no. We live in London year round, though I should like to visit the country at least once a year. It is so healthful, you know. Mr. Greene says he won’t step foot in Buckinghamshire until his father passes, which is terribly maudlin of him, as I remind him frequently. But my dear husband is quite stubborn when he sets his mind to it. Confide in me, Miss Draper, was he like that as a young man? I’m sure he must have been.”

  Overwhelmed by the woman’s rapid-fire discourse not to mention Peter Greene’s actual presence, Sarah felt unable to respond. Finally, she forced herself to say, “I’m sure I don’t know, Lady Green. I didn’t really know him at all.”

  “Oh?” Lady Greene said uncertainly. “Well…”

  “If you will excuse me,” Sarah said. “I must finish my walk.”

  “Of course. Don’t let us hold you up,” Peter said quickly. His wife looked a bit put out but nodded politely.

  “It was nice to meet you, Miss Draper.”

  Sarah turned and stumbled out of the pavilion. Behind her she heard Caroline Trowbridge calling her name but she didn’t stop. She all but raced up the gentle incline, her heart pounding more from emotion than exertion. Cresting the hill, she gathered her skirts in her hands and started running. She ran until she could not breathe. Bracing a hand on a tree, she pressed the other to her side, willing her heart to slow.

  Five years since she’d left Buckinghamshire. Six since she’d last seen Peter Greene. Since he’d destroyed her life with a single sentence. She could see him, full of the certainty of his freedom, able to walk away from everything they’d done without a backward glance, with no repercussions. He’d gone on to marry well—if his father was not yet dead, then Lady Greene bore a courtesy title from her noble father.

  “Sarah!” Samuel James was sprinting toward her. She pushed away from the tree to flee but her legs were shaking.

  Mr. James took her arm. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  She swung her arm to free it from his grasp. “Leave me be!” she sobbed, seeing not Samuel but a man of privilege. A man who would leave England as easily as Peter Greene had left Buckinghamshire.

  “Tell me what has happened?” he implored. “Did that man say something to you?”

  Sarah laughed, the sound hysterical to her own ears. She laughed at herself as much as at the irony of his statement. Oh yes, Peter Greene had said things to her: wonderful things, sweet things. And then those brutal words: “I can’t marry you,” after she’d given him her very life for safekeeping.

  She looked now at Mr. James and realized she was doing the same thing with him, imagining a happy ending based on a few stolen intimacies. Neither man had actually said anything about emotions, about the future, about…love.

  The only difference this time, she thought wildly, was that she hadn’t yet given herself to him fully. She had no doubt she would have succumbed to his charms sooner, rather than later, and her own experience as well as those of the women she worked with in Southwark should have set the warning bells off in her head immediately. Well, at least they were clanging now.

  “Sarah, let me help you,” Mr. James urged, again reaching for her hand.

  She jerked away from him. “Leave me alone.”

  “But—“

  “I don’t want to see you again. Go back to America! I’ve had enough of your pretty words and pretend interest. I know what kind of man you are with your looks charm and ability to make me forget myself.” There was more she wanted to hurl at him—six years of hurt she wanted to unleash, but instead she turned and ran to her carriage, tumbling in as soon as the driver scrambled down to open the door. Once it was closed behind her, she collapsed against the seat, dry sobs wracking her body.

  Though she’d not done so in six years, Sarah prayed—prayed that Eleanor would not be in their small flat when she returned. She wanted only to strip off her borrowed finery, close the shutters, and crawl beneath the covers of her bed. Perhaps after a healthy dose of medicinal brandy.

  But like her last prayers, this one also went unanswered, for Eleanor was in the tiny set of rooms they had shared for two years, sorting through a large pile of clothing.

  “The Quakers brought by clothing and food,” she said, gesturing to the stack of crates filling the small kitchen area. “I thought it a dreadful shame they carried all these boxes upstairs when we’ll just have to—Sarah! What happened? What’s wrong?” Eleanor jumped to her feet and crossed quickly to Sarah, putting a hand to her forehead before guiding her to a straight-backed chair.

  “I’m fine,” Sarah said dully, wishing her cousin would return to her parent’s house.

  “You’re quite clearly not. Weren’t you at the park with—” she gasped. “Did Mr. James do something?” She scanned Sarah from head to toe. “Did he say something to you?”r />
  The words were the exact ones Mr. James had uttered not an hour before, said with the exact same concern. Sarah felt her stomach clench sickeningly because as she’d calmed down on the ride home, she’d realized how wrong she had been to pin Peter Greene’s flaws on Samuel James. The two men were nothing alike, and Samuel had given her no reason to suspect him of the same crimes Peter had committed. She’d cursed her foolishness as she realized that she’d crushed the tender shoots of feeling that had been growing between them.

  “Please Eleanor,” she said hoarsely. “Leave me be. Go to your parents’ tonight.”

  “I don’t think you should be—“

  “Go!” she implored.

  Eleanor’s face went blank and then she turned and gathered her things. She paused at the door. “I will be gone for three of four days. My parents and I travel with Lord Reading and his father to their country estate. Will you please keep an eye on Mrs. Sampson?”

  “Yes,” Sarah whispered. Her cousin left and shut the door quietly behind her.

  “What a bloody awful day,” Sarah cursed. For now she’d not only pushed away Samuel James, but she’d hurt the only person to serve as friend, confidante, and family since she’d come to Southwark.

  She paced the confines of her small rooms as it seemed the only action that kept her from jumping out of her skin. She’d always prided herself on remaining calm in times of stress—hadn’t she kept her head when Mr. Thackery had a knife drawn on his wife and Dr. Kendall?

  Running a charity in an area as poor and dangerous as Southwark had long since cured her of reacting emotionally to the constant stresses of life here.

  When she’d first arrived two years before, Eleanor had even commented on it.

  “How do you remain so serene? I am constantly on the verge of tears! People are so cruel here. Life is so cruel here.”

  “Crying and ranting will do no good here, and it very well could endanger you. You must keep your wits about you, Eleanor, not only for yourself, but for those we seek to help. People are no more cruel in Southwark than anywhere else. It’s just that they live so close to the edge of survival, it is a little more obvious. Do you not think they don’t see how bitterly difficult and unfair their lives are? If they think you consider it a hopeless situation, it will only make matters worse. And if you’re in a dangerous situation—which you eventually will be, I assure you—then losing your head may cost you your life.”