by Regina Darcy
FIVE
“You are an aficionado of music, I see, Miss Hargrave.”
The Earl handed her a glass of champagne. Feeling reckless, she accepted it, and sipped, knowing that his eyes had noticed, with a man’s appreciation, the soft, peach-coloured silk of her dress, and the black ribbon below the bodice that emphasised the curves of her body without breaching the bonds of acceptable standards as set by the discriminating patronesses of Almack’s Assembly Rooms. Her hair, arranged in ringlets that caught the candlelight and cast vivid bronze lights on her cinnamon tresses, emphasised the curve of her cheeks and the soft lines of her face. Her diamond earrings, once her mother’s, fell in a cascade of glittering stones from her ears; the diamond necklace that adorned her throat had been her father’s gift to her when she celebrated her twenty-first birthday.
“Your niece plays beautifully,” she replied. “She has a remarkable touch on the keys. I wish I were so gifted.”
“Do you play?”
She shook her head. “My toys were quill pens and inkwells when I was a child.”
“You’ve done well by those toys. There’s not another business in London that advertises itself with a daughter as a partner.”
She didn’t want to think of herself as that dutiful scribe in her father’s office who tallied figures and issued payments. She wanted to be resplendent and feminine in her diamonds and her elegant gown, sipping champagne and engaging in sparkling repartee with a handsome member of the aristocracy. Elizabeth, as the daughter of the shrewd and respected shipping expert, lived her everyday life in another world, far from this sophisticated setting.
“When Fiona has finished, I shall introduce you. She asked me to do so after I told her about you. She is very young.”
That seemed an odd comment to make; Fiona Grove, the Earl’s niece, was obviously a young girl in her late teens, but she was not a child. She would likely be making her debut soon, and marriage would follow as it typically did for the nobility. She was a pretty girl with her uncle’s dark colouring and an expressive mouth that moved as she played; perhaps she was softly singing, or possibly she was simply responding to the music, but it was an endearing trait that added to her performance.
“Your father has found admirers,” Strathmore noted as they moved through the throngs of people gathered in conversation.
Across the room, surrounded by a circle of gentlemen, her father was speaking, his hands orchestrating his conversation as he talked. Elizabeth was used to him holding the attention of an audience; his knowledge was vast and his appeal magnetic. He had told her that when the end result was money in the coffers, even the most blue-blooded of gentlemen could be quite liberal in his choice of conversation partners. Henry Hargrave delivered profits through expertise, and there was no one in London who knew more about shipping. Elizabeth felt a surge of pride in her father and what he had accomplished with nothing but hard work and determination.
“The docks will open soon and investors want to be involved in what is sure to be a profitable venture,” Elizabeth said.
“Will it be profitable?”
Elizabeth stared at the Earl over the rim of her half-empty champagne glass. “With the backing of Parliament and a requirement that the trade of the West Indies must use the docks? How could it not succeed? Rum, wine, spirits, coffee, molasses, sugar, coffee, spices, indigo, jute, hardwood―”
She had not finished, but the Earl, laughing, had placed his fingers against her lips. “You have convinced me,” he said, his dark, vivid eyes alight with a combination of mischief and admiration that was exhilarating to behold. “Miss Hargrave, you are a most vigorous advocate for investment in the West India docks.”
“I confess, Your Lordship…”
“What do you confess, Miss Hargrave?”
“I confess that my champagne glass is empty.”
He bowed and signalled a passing liveried footman bearing a tray of glasses. “Here you are. Pray continue with your confession.”
“I confess that the subject of the West India docks is nightly conversation at my father’s supper table.”
“It is, I venture to say, a topic at many tables.”
“You sound as if that were something of which to beware,” she said, finding his tone cryptic.
“Do you like the champagne?”
“Very much.”
“Drink as much as you like. I anticipate more confessions,” he said. “Come with me and meet Fiona.”
As the Earl had said, his niece was very young. Elizabeth understood what he had met as soon as they were introduced.
“Miss Hargrave, I have been longing to meet you,” the girl said as if she were confiding a great secret.
“Me?”
Fiona Grove boldly took Elizabeth’s arm. “Indeed I have. Uncle has told me that you are an astute woman of affairs and that I would do well to emulate you.”
Elizabeth glanced at the Earl. “I think that it is I who should emulate you,” she countered. “And learn to play the pianoforte. You play beautifully. How long have you studied?”
Fiona linked arms with Elizabeth. “Since I was a child,” she replied. “Uncle insisted. He said a house is not a home without music, and that it was up to me to provide it. Uncle, sad to say, is not musical.”
“Fiona will expose all of my secrets,” Strathmore said. “I must leave you ladies, and attend to my other guests. Fiona, see that Miss Hargrave is well supplied with champagne so that she will offer her confessions. Why don’t you take her out to stroll in the gardens?”
Obediently Fiona, her elbow still linked with Elizabeth’s, headed outside. “Uncle is very proud of his gardens, you know.”
“I can see why. They’re quite lovely.”
“Yes, but they’re very mysterious at night. My bedroom was used to face this way, and I vow that I saw a lamp flashing on and off, on several occasions. It was at night, and very late.”
“A lamp flashing?” Elizabeth remembered the Earl mentioning his niece’s affection for Gothic mysteries and the works of Mrs. Radcliffe. Doubtless there was no lamplight at all but some entirely natural phenomena which had ignited the vivid imagination of an impressionable young girl.
“Yes, it began last spring. I told Uncle. He said I was imagining it, but that I needed my sleep and so he had my room changed to another wing of the house. It’s a bigger room and much nicer,” Fiona said.
Other guests were also gathering outside. It was a lovely night; not yet dark, with the soft, grey-blue shadows of dusk falling upon the grounds like a cloak. Elizabeth recognised several gentlemen from the docks, some of whom she knew were involved in the West Indies venture. She was pleased that they recognised her, after a moment’s surprise, and seemed impressed by her appearance, and bowed to her as if they accepted her presence in the gathering. Perhaps it was vanity, but she liked the way she was being noticed, and the manner in which, when they were still inside, others had observed her in the Earl’s company.
“It must be splendid to have such gardens,” Elizabeth said. “We live in the city and there’s no room for such luxurious flowers and paths.”
“Come, we’ll walk through them and you can enjoy them at close range.”
“Is that—who is that young man? I think I know him,” Elizabeth said, peering across the lawn at a distant shrubbery.
“I didn’t see anyone. But there are so many people about. Is he still there?”
“No,” Elizabeth said slowly. She could not say to the Earl’s niece that she had seen her childhood friend, Nathaniel Woodstock. It looked very much like him, that irrepressible curly blond hair easily recognisable from a distance. But it could not be him. What would Nathaniel be doing on the estate of the Earl of Strathmore?
“Was it your beau?” Fiona asked eagerly.
“No!” Elizabeth denied, her face flaming. “No, he... we have been friends since we were children.”
“I think it was your beau!” Fiona insisted, just as the Earl approached
them, a full glass of champagne in hand.
“Has Miss Hargrave a beau?” Strathmore asked. “Who is the lucky man?”
“I have no beau,” Elizabeth said, attempting to restore her dignity. “I thought I saw a friend of mine at the far end of your gardens, but he’s gone. Perhaps I imagined it.”
“I should think it likely,” he said easily. “No doubt my niece has convinced you that the Greek god Pan and assorted nymphs and dryads are cavorting amongst the roses.”
“Uncle!” his niece reproached him. “I said nothing of the sort. I didn’t see anyone.”
“I must have imagined it,” Elizabeth said.
“Sometimes the light at dusk can be deceiving,” he agreed. “Have more champagne and I shall play confessor, should you wish to divulge further secrets.”
SIX
The next morning, Elizabeth was alone in the office, the West India docks ledgers spread out on her desk on front of her, but the thoughts in her brain crowded out the numbers and made her feel as if the room were populated with dazzling memories. The Earl had been attentive throughout the evening and her father, occupied by men who wanted to know more about the West India docks, had been too engrossed in conversation to play chaperone when he was, to his mind, more productively engaged elsewhere. The champagne had lessened her constraint but she had behaved properly, and had finally refused the Earl’s offer of more champagne for fear that she would embarrass herself. But it was not the champagne that had sent her head spinning.
She had been the Earl’s companion throughout the evening. They had strolled in the grounds again, sometimes accompanied by his niece, but not always. The Earl had stopped, with Elizabeth on his arm, to speak to various guests. The guests and friends, most of them well acquainted with the Earl, had appraised his escort as if they sought to ascertain the meaning of her presence. She knew that her dress, her hair, even her jewellery had passed muster. But none of that made up for the fact that she was not of the Ton and her antecedents, respectable though they were, were not of the peerage. Did that matter? The Earl’s attentions had been steadfast and she had formed the impression that he enjoyed her company. But he would never encounter her at a royal ball or riding on Rotten Row in the afternoon, or at any of the other time-tested venues where young men and women of society came together.
Elizabeth sighed. It was time to return to her work. The figures before her were solid; on a normal day, they would have commanded her full attention. It was apparent that the investors who were funding the docks were men of substance, capable of delivering the amounts they had pledged. She noted that Mr Doyle Sheridan, a man whose wealth came from new money, was marked down for a substantial sum. Her father was no snob and it did not matter to him whether the funding came from an ancestral inheritance or was of recent acquisition, as long as it was deposited in and accepted by the Bank of England. Elizabeth reviewed the Sheridan records a second time, and then a third. Her quick eye tabulated the figures. Something seemed amiss.
The door opened.
“Elizabeth!”
“Nathaniel, I—it’s very good to see you. How long it has been!” she rose from her chair.
“I saw you last night at the Earl of Strathmore’s estate. I’d no idea that you moved in such exalted circles,” he said, his blue eyes pained.
“You know that I do not, Nathaniel,” she said quietly. Nathaniel appeared agitated. As he came closer, Elizabeth saw that there was a cut on his cheek and a bruise on his chin. “Nathaniel, what has happened? You look as though you’ve been in a brawl.” But surely that was unlikely. Nathaniel was a devout Methodist, a young man of moderation in his conduct. They were equals, she and Nathaniel. There had been a time when she had regarded Nathaniel as her likely future husband, but, while she was fond of him, she did not feel a passion for him. They had never discussed their intimate feelings and Elizabeth was content for that to continue.
“I... where is your father?”
“On the docks, as usual. They open soon, you know and there are many final matters to be resolved before next month.”
“Perhaps.”
“What do you mean? Of course the docks will open. All of London is waiting for the day.”
“There are those who are saying the docks will never open,” he told her.
“Where do you hear such things?”
“It doesn’t matter. Elizabeth, I don’t want to talk about the docks, or ships. I want to talk about us.”
She kept her voice level, although at his words, she experienced a surge of panic. “We always talk about the docks,” she said, forcing a laugh. “We’re both children of the docks; you said so yourself.”
“Elizabeth, I love you. I think I always have. When I saw you with the Earl last night, I—I felt such jealousy that I could barely contain myself.”
“Where were you? I thought I saw you, but then you were gone and I told myself I had but imagined you.”
“I was there,” he admitted.
“What were you doing there? Why didn’t you come forward when you saw me?”
“It’s of no significance. Elizabeth, I love you.”
“Nathaniel…” she looked to the door behind him.
“Of course,” Nathaniel said as understanding dawned. “It’s not seemly to speak of such a matter when you are alone. I should speak to your father.”
“I--”
Nathaniel was grinning broadly. “I love you, Elizabeth, and we shall be so happy together, I promise you that I shall do everything in my power to be a good husband.”
“Nathaniel, please...”
He had put his hat back on his head, and before leaving, he gave her an enormous grin, happy once again, the endearing, faithful companion of her childhood. The man whose proposal she should accept, if he asked her father for her hand. She knew it. She and Nathaniel came from the same background; they each knew the value of hard work and understood that their labour was a way of life. Nathaniel had been to sea as a teenager; upon his return to land, he had gone to work as a clerk in a shipping firm. He and Elizabeth had often spent time in one another’s company, sharing lunches and walks along the docks, both appreciating the coordinated bedlam of activity that made up England’s maritime trade. But for what purpose had he been at the Earl’s residence? It made no sense.
Her father sent word that he and Mr George would be occupied for the remainder of the afternoon. Elizabeth returned to work. When lunch-time came, she went outside for fresh air. She purchased a meat pie from one of the street vendors, those enterprising entrepreneurs who had discovered that there was profit to be made even before the docks opened. People had to eat, and the docks were crowded with men who wanted to take their meals in haste because they were busy.
Back in the office, she brewed more tea, returned to her desk, and ate her meat pie. Sheridan’s numbers... what was she missing? Something nagged at her. She bent her head over the ledger book.
“Ah, Miss Hargrave. We are returned to the workday world, I see.”
“Your Lordship!”
“I very much enjoyed your company last night. You made quite an impression on my niece. If she disguises herself as a cabin-boy and stows away on a ship, I shall hold you personally responsible.”
“I think she’s much more sensible than you give her credit for.”
“She is a giddy girl who sees phantoms where other people see trees and flowers.”
“She did mention seeing lights in the garden,” Elizabeth acknowledged. “But I was the one who saw someone. And it was not a phantom after all. I’ve just spoken with him.
“You spoke with whom?”
“With Nathaniel Woodstock.”
“Ahh, yes. Your beau.”
“He is not my beau! He is my childhood friend,” she said firmly.
“Childhood sweetheart?” The Earl was leaning on her desk, his eyes holding her gaze captive. As he had been every time she had seen him, he was dressed in the very height of fashion, but nonetheless appeared a
s if he could have held his own against any of the men working on the dock construction.
“Childhood friend,” she repeated, aware as she spoke that it was the truth. Even though the Earl was far beyond her aspirations, she could not marry Nathaniel Woodstock. She did not love him.
“You have beautiful eyes, Miss Hargrave. Last night they looked green, but today I believe they are hazel.”
“I... yes, they are hazel.”
“Yes,” he said, leaning closer across the desk, his face inches away from hers. “I see that now. But when you wear that delectable shade of peach such as you wore last night, they are green. I own that I am determined to see you garbed in every colour of an artist’s palette so that I may see the effect on your eyes.”
He was flirting with her. It meant nothing. Gentlemen flirted with every woman they met. It meant nothing. It was as much a part of them as their breath, and just as easily released.
“Do you have business with my father, Your Lordship?” she asked.
“I do. Is he in?”
“Not now, no. He is out somewhere on the docks. Did you have an appointment?”
“I did not.” He picked up his hat. “I shall stop by later in the hopes of catching him. Wear red next time, Miss Hargrave. With your beautiful hair, the effect will be stunning. I wonder what colour your eyes will be then.”
She watched him pass by the windows as he continued on his way. Her heart was beating very rapidly, as if she had expended herself in strenuous activity. But she had not even left her desk. Elizabeth rose and poured herself another cup of tea; the water had gone cold, but it didn’t matter. She was in love with the Earl of Strathmore and the temperature of a cup of tea no longer concerned her.