‘Not a place many ladies would care to be,’ Iain said when she told him so. ‘They’d think it vulgar.’
But it struck Cordelia that without all this noise and bustle and dirt and smoke, ladies would have no gowns to parade in Hyde Park, no sugar confections to decorate their dinner tables or coal to burn at their parties.
The Millwall Iron Works, where Iain had business, were on the southernmost tip of the Isle of Dogs, which was not an island at all, but a bulge of land encircled on three of its four sides by the River Thames.
‘It’s not that long been taken over by Sir William Fairbairn and David Napier,’ he said, helping Cordelia down from the gig, which he had pulled up in front of the main building. ‘Both fellow Scots of course,’ he added with a grin, ‘and fellow engineers too. Napier built the boiler for the Comet—the first steam-paddle ship—and he built the Aglaia too. She was one of the first paddle steamers to have an iron hull, though she still had a wooden keel. My own Eilidh has an iron keel. Here he is now.’
Mr Napier had a head of unruly white hair which looked rather like an unspun fleece. His beard, equally white and unruly, descended seamlessly into his white stock. Craggy eyebrows gave his face a forbidding look, but he cracked a genial smile at Cordelia, and shook Iain heartily by the hand, muttering something that sounded defamatory, though it made Iain laugh.
The Iron Works built small ships, mostly for the Admiralty. Napier escorted them around the site, discoursing at length on the advantages of his patented steeple engine over the side lever, arguing vehemently with Iain over a plethora of technical detail that left Cordelia quite bemused. Iain more than held his own in the discussion. It became obvious to her that when he said he built ships he had at some point literally built the things, and probably could still, for it was not just Napier he talked with so knowledgeably, it was his workers too.
Watching Iain peering into a section of paddle, his hands smoothing over the casing in a way that was almost sensual, his face creased into a smile as the shipwright cracked a joke, Cordelia began to understand a little of his love for engineering and a lot more about the man. He was not just a businessman content to make a profit from a blossoming industry, but a man who built ships. It wasn’t the money he wanted from the contract with Celia’s husband, it was the opportunity and the challenge.
She almost wished she had not come. In some ways, seeing him in his own milieu was even more intimate than sharing his body. It made her uneasy, having this private window into his life, she wasn’t at all sure she wanted it. For one thing, it reminded her of her own solitude. She tried to remember a time when she had been different, and struggled. When Celia left? When her father married Bella? She had been eleven or twelve then, not much older when Cassie left too, so there were just the three of them at Killellan.
‘They’ve some problem with the boiler. Napier has gone to look at the plans. Are you all right?’
‘Fine.’ Cordelia smiled at Iain, thrusting the past away. ‘What is the problem?’
‘You really want to know?’
When she nodded, Iain explained patiently in a way even she could follow, and in response to her questioning, led her back round some of the yards, explaining what the new developments Napier had been holding forth on meant in practical terms to the ships and their function. The Works were noisy, dirty and very smelly, but with Iain pulling the whole picture together, piece by piece, Cordelia caught some of his enthusiasm.
‘I’ve actually made a few modifications to Napier’s engine to give us more deck room on our new steamers,’ he told her conspiratorially. ‘I’ve got the blueprints with me, I’ll let you see them later, and the patents are pending. It will revolutionise the Clyde, I’m sure of it.’
‘It will?’
He laughed at her bewilderment. ‘Trust me, it will. With the expansion of the railways, we’ll be able to take people from Glasgow to Greenock and Gourock at the tail of the Clyde in a snap of your fingers. And from there, they’ll board my paddle steamers to take the sea air. Holidays, Cordelia, not just for the well heeled, but for the working man and his family, and it will be my steamers that take them.’
‘You know, I believe everyone should take a tour of the Isle of Dogs. All this noise and dirt are part of progress. These ships of yours won’t just make it cheaper and quicker to import and export goods, they’ll make the goods themselves cheaper. And all these ships must mean more work, more money to spend, more leisure in which to spend it.’
‘You have been listening.’
Cordelia smiled, despite herself, proud of the little glow his admiring look gave her. ‘You made it easy. You tell a very fascinating story. It’s one I think other people should hear.’
He laughed. ‘In one of your guidebooks? I doubt very much you’d find an audience.’
‘I hope you might be surprised.’
* * *
Several days later, Cordelia dined in her rooms on some rather stringy goose, thinking not for the first time since returning to England how much she missed the freshness and simplicity of Italian cooking, the complexity of French. She had forgotten how cold it was here too, despite the fact that summer was just around the corner. And she had forgotten how much more propriety there was here. Walking alone in the Regent’s Park, she had been accosted twice and ogled several times. It was why she was dining here alone, rather than venturing out.
She gazed disconsolately out of the window at the carriages that were, tonight, arriving at a different house in Grosvenor Square. Was it a mistake, coming here? She had set her heart on moving back to England, but it no longer felt like home. Her younger self was too present here, and she suspected it would be worse in the country. Already she knew that she could not purchase any house in the vicinity of her old home, even with Caro as a neighbour. Besides, Caro spent several months of the year with her family in Italy, where Cressie was settled too. When she met Iain in Glasgow, Cordelia had been tired of her nomadic life. Perhaps it was rather the idea of a home than the bricks and mortar she wanted?
She had no idea, and she couldn’t think about it while so much remained unresolved. Returning to her dinner, she began to spoon the minted peas around the serving dish. She had seen nothing of Iain, save for the notes he sent her, updates on his progress, other tasks for her to execute. She could not possibly miss a man she barely knew, ridiculous to think so. It was because she was here in London that she felt more alone, though truth be told, the approaching reunion with her family filled her with as much trepidation as anticipation.
And then there was tomorrow. Cordelia ate a mouthful of cold peas. She had not been surprised to receive Aunt Sophia’s summons, for despite what her father thought, his sister liked to make her own mind up. It was a good thing, Cordelia told herself staunchly, a chance to apologise. Cressie had been of the opinion that Aunt Sophia would understand and would not bear a grudge, but Cressie had not been in her aunt’s care when she ran off with Giovanni, nor had she led everyone, her sisters included, on a merry dance. What’s more, Cressie’s elopement had been with the man to whom she was now married, while Cordelia’s elopement...
What a little fool she had been back then. She could hardly bear to recall that naive, vain young woman gleefully anticipating how shocked everyone would be by her elopement, so smugly proud of herself for pulling the wool over their eyes, so stupidly, foolishly sure she was shaping her own glorious future. She had shaped her own future, that was for sure, but in a very different mould from what she’d anticipated. She would not allow herself to regret it. It had shaped her, and she liked the shape it had made of her—eventually—so she would not regret the deed, though she deeply regretted how she had gone about it.
Iain wanted to accompany her tomorrow, but she had refused, telling him that she wished to see her aunt in private, though merely thinking about the meeting made her feel sick with nerves, and the idea
of him beside her, an ally, a solid, reassuring presence, was shamefully attractive. Her independence, it seemed, was not sacrosanct.
Her conscience nagged at her. ‘Admit it,’ she said, glowering down at her reflection in the serving spoon, ‘the real reason you don’t want him to come with you is because you don’t want him to know the truth.’
Her distorted face gazed back at her, looking troubled. Cordelia threw down the spoon, scattering peas across the table. What had the past nine years been for, if not to ensure that she was answerable to no one but herself? ‘That is something very few women can claim,’ she declared, ‘and it is something I have no intentions of ever surrendering.’
Still, her conscience would not quiet. ‘He will judge me,’ she told it, realising as she did that here was the nub of the matter. If she was not ashamed, she would not be ashamed to confess. If his opinion did not matter, she would not care whether Iain knew the truth or not. And that, she thought wearily, heading for her bedchamber and her nightly tussle with her corsets, was something she really didn’t want to think about right now.
Chapter Five
Iain was waiting for her outside her aunt’s house. ‘Don’t be angry,’ he said, as she descended from the hackney carriage.
Cordelia was horrified. ‘What the devil are you doing here? I told you—I made it very clear I wanted to do this on my own.’
He took her arm and pulled her to one side of the steps. ‘I’m not presuming to know your own mind better than you do, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Then what were you presuming?’ She glared at him.
‘That you could do with some moral support. No, don’t bite my head off,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I know you can manage this on your own but—Cordelia, why make it harder for yourself when you don’t have to?’
Conscious of the fact that her fingers were digging into his arm, she tried to disengage herself, but he wouldn’t let her go. Did he think that her legs wouldn’t support her? Did he think she needed him here to protect her? Or was he simply playing the attentive bridegroom? Attentive faux bridegroom. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you going to lie to your aunt?’
‘I don’t know.’ After a sleepless night, Cordelia was beginning to wonder if she knew anything.
‘You need to remember why we’re doing this,’ Iain said, with that uncanny knack he had of reading her thoughts. ‘Tell me, has your aunt made any attempt to contact you these last nine years?’
Cordelia frowned. ‘No, but—but nor have I, and she is not the one who...’ She stared at him helplessly. ‘Iain, there’s something...’
‘Let me put it another way. She’s going to assume that our betrothal is real, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘So, unless she asks you outright, you’re not going to have to lie to her, are you?’
‘No, but, Iain...’
‘And if I’m with you, right by your side, playing the devoted fiancé, then she’s even less likely to doubt you, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘So,’ he said, tucking her hand more firmly into his arm, ‘it makes perfect sense that I come with you.’
There was something in his voice, in the way he looked at her, that told her he was determined. She could fight him, but he had logic on his side, besides which the sense of release at having the decision taken from her was difficult to resist. He was steering her towards the house. She felt as if she were on a frozen mountaintop. One step and she would slither out of control. The door was opened by Aunt Sophia’s very decrepit but still recognisable butler, and the familiar slightly mouldy, dusty smell of the panelled hallway hit her.
Cordelia handed over her gloves. ‘There’s one thing you need to know,’ she said.
Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. It must have sounded even stranger to Iain’s, for he spoke sharply. ‘What?’
‘My aunt—the reason I am so—or at least one of the reasons.’ She drew a ragged breath. ‘I eloped when I was in my aunt’s care. Nine years ago. I—that’s when it all started.’
* * *
Iain had no time to react to this revelation, for the butler was already leading them up the stairs. Lady Sophia was ensconced in a large leather-covered chair, her heavily bandaged foot resting on a stool in front of her. ‘You’ll forgive me for not getting up,’ she said. ‘Come in, come in, don’t just stand there gawping.’
Cordelia had turned quite pale. She was not quite gawping, but her countenance showed clearly how shocked she was at her relative’s appearance, though she tried to mask it as she let go of his arm and covered the short distance to Lady Sophia’s side, where she dropped into a deep curtsy.
‘You never used to be so formal, come here.’ Lady Sophia held out an imperious and very gnarled hand. ‘Let me look at you.’
His mind reeling, Iain studied the aunt as the aunt studied her niece. Her face was gaunt and lined with both pain and age, little trace of the camel, which is how Cordelia had jokingly described her. The iron-grey hair was set into regimented curls around the papery-white skin of her forehead. Iain decided it must be a wig, though it looked as if it were provided by a wiry and ancient poodle. Her cheeks were sunken, the lack of flesh on her face drawing emphasis to a very strong jaw which, along with the blue-grey eyes reminded him of Lord Armstrong. Frail though she appeared, a bag of bones under her grey silk gown, there was life and a great deal of intelligence in the look she was concentrating on her niece. A force to be reckoned with, Iain thought, and readied himself to do battle, at the same time telling himself that there was no need, and that it was not his fight.
‘You look well,’ Lady Sophia said, breaking the uncomfortable silence, ‘which is more than you will think of me, I expect. I am getting old. No, don’t deny it, for you were never a good liar. A prevaricator, yes, but not a liar.’
‘Aunt Sophia, I am so very, very sorry. I did not mean to deceive you— At least, I did, but I meant it to be— I thought it would be only for a few months. I did not mean— I am so very, very sorry.’
Silence fell once more. Cordelia stood in front of her aunt, hands clasped in front of her, looking like a penitent. Lady Sophia was staring off into space, her jaw working. Fearing that she was about to terminate the interview before it had even begun, Iain stepped forward, though he had no idea what he was going to say, but the movement broke the older woman’s reverie.
‘So this is Henry’s latest protégé, is it?’
He narrowed his eyes, but though she stared him down, and though her words sounded as if they were designed to make his hackles rise, he had the distinct impression that she was testing him. ‘I’m not anyone’s anything,’ Iain said.
Lady Sophia raised a pair of sparse but none the less forbidding eyebrows. ‘A Scot, and a ferocious one at that. My brother gave me the impression that he was taking you under his wing, Mr Hunter.’
He was right, she was definitely testing him. ‘I’m sure he did,’ Iain replied, ignoring Cordelia’s anguished look. ‘Your brother likes to think the world can’t turn without his say-so, but it’s not true.’
Lady Sophia gave a crack of laughter. ‘I see you have Henry’s measure.’
‘Right now, Lady Sophia, I’m a mite more interested in taking yours, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
‘I do not, Mr Hunter, for I intend to do the very same thing, and you have now spared me the trouble of being polite about it,’ she replied. ‘How do you do?’
He took the hand she held out and bowed over it. He would do much better if he was in possession of the facts, but he was not about to reveal his ignorance to this formidable woman, any more than he was about to overset the fragile hold Cordelia had on herself, by demanding to know the truth.
‘Sit down, the pair of you, or I’ll get a crick in my
neck, and I’ve more than enough ailments to bother me already.’ Lady Sophia waved them at the sofa facing her. ‘Help yourself to refreshments. I will take a Madeira, if you please. It is a little early, but I feel the need of it. I don’t have any whisky, Mr Hunter, but...’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, handing her a glass, and pouring a second for Cordelia which she took, but made no attempt to drink. Her smile was faint, apologetic and at the same time defiant. Sorry and not sorry. Looking up, he was disconcerted to find Lady Sophia’s eagle eye on him and decided that his best course of action would be silence.
‘Aunt Sophia.’ Cordelia was pale, but her voice did not tremble. ‘I need to explain to you about my elopement. I need you to know that I—’
‘Henry knew, didn’t he?’ Lady Sophia interrupted. ‘He knew where you were, long before your sisters did. Well,’ she said, her voice sharp, ‘am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much did he know?’
‘He had—he had all the salient facts.’
The look Cordelia slanted him as she said this made Iain wary. He wondered what salient facts she hadn’t told him. He wondered what other salient facts she was keeping back from that aunt of hers, and saw the aunt wondering the same thing. Lady Sophia was drumming her bony fingers on the arm of her chair. Her brother did that too, Iain had noticed, when he was scheming. It was like watching a game of chess. No, if he was honest, he was beginning to feel like a pawn in Cordelia’s game of chess, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit.
One thing life had taught him however, was not to show his feelings. Cordelia might be playing games, but he wasn’t about to let her see that he knew it. Not yet.
‘My brother did not see fit to inform me that you were safe,’ Lady Sophia said.
‘Nor did I, Aunt.’
Cordelia’s face had gone from pale to pink. He wondered that she made no attempt to defend herself when she could have so easily, by explaining that she had been forbidden contact. She was protecting her aunt. No, not just her aunt. She was protecting her perfidious father. If it had been up to Iain—but he caught himself just in time. It was Cordelia’s choice. He couldn’t help but admire her loyalty, even if he didn’t agree with it.
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