Becky grinned at such praise. “There ain’t much of you to fit, is there? So not much yardage was needed.”
“That is very true,” Lisa agreed with a smile, smoothing her hands over the snug-fitting bodice and down over her slim hips.
She tried to look over her shoulder to where the material was tightly gathered into a v-shape in the small of her narrow back, and wished she had access to a looking glass to see for herself how the gown fitted. She certainly felt prettier for wearing such delicate and colorful fabrics, which were a welcome change from her serviceable linen gowns in dull browns and blues. She just hoped these outfits were suitable for her stay at Treat. But as she could not do anything about their suitability, she wasted no more time on needless worry. Teddy’s relatives would have to take her as they found her, and she would do her best to remain in the background, which hopefully would mean no one would notice her or the clothes she was wearing.
“It’s just as well, ain’t it,” Becky continued running a critical eye over the gown and the fabric, and determined to say her piece about the backhanded generosity of Lisa’s cousins. “If you ask me, those gowns had seen better days, and weren’t fit to be worn by the scullery, least of all you—”
“I did not ask you,” Lisa replied with the same smile. “And I am most grateful, to them for any offering of clothing, and to you and Mrs. Humphreys for what you have done for me. Never forget that though I live in this house, I am poorer than Tina. At least the scullery is paid for her services.”
Becky was about to speak when a knock on the door surprised them both, and a maid entered to inform Lisa she was wanted in the drawing room. The girl was asked to repeat this summons because of the specific instructions from her cousin to remain in her room.
“Madam wasn’t the one who asked for you, Miss,” said the maid. “It was one of the gentlemen whose come to look over the master’s medical rooms.”
“One of the members of the Fournier Foundation?” Lisa was mystified as to why she would be called to speak to one of the trustees.
“Aye, Miss. For they all came together. But when the others went through to the dispensary, this gent stayed behind. He did not give his name. Just asked for you, Miss. He be a fine looking gent with—”
“Thank you, Ann. I did not ask for your opinion of him, or his description,” Lisa said, and turned away to say to Becky, “Make haste. I must change out of this gown and—”
“No, Miss,” Becky said firmly. “You should go down to the drawin’ room as you are. ’Bout time you got used to wearin’ pretty things. And as you’ll be in these clothes for the next two weeks, it’s right to start wearin’ ’em now, with this visitor.”
“So shall I tell him—” asked the maid Ann, who still hovered in the doorway, and was cut off.
“No need. I will come straight away.”
And so it was that Lisa silently entered the drawing room, self-conscious in her newly-fashioned cotton gown, a lace-edged fichu tucked at her décolletage, and a small lace-edged cap pinned to the crown of her head. If there was anything amiss with her attire, it was her footwear. Not in anticipation of going outdoors, and having packed her new shoes in the traveling trunk, she only had her half-boots to hand, and they were beside the bed ready for the journey. She still wore her leather house mules on her stockinged feet, which, had she chanced to look down, were rather out of place paired with her cotton gown.
But her apprehension made her oblivious to her footwear, and, in fact, to how she presented in her new gown, for she was deep in thought wondering why she had been summoned by a member of the Fournier Foundation. Was something out of place in the dispensary that required her to explain herself? Perhaps it was the scent boxes, or had she not distributed enough tussie mussies to ward off the odors? But surely every surface had been scrubbed until it was odor free…? She hoped she had not caused Dr. Warner any embarrassment… Perhaps her worry was needless and they merely wished to ask her questions of a general nature…?
She was across the room before she realized it was occupied and she was not alone. But it was not the sense that there was someone else there, it was being addressed that brought her up short. She was so surprised, not so much to find herself spoken to, her private reverie cut short, but by the voice itself. She knew at once to whom it belonged. She was so happy he had returned to Gerrard Street—when he had stormed away she hardly expected to see him again—that it never occurred to her to make a pretense of being anything else. She turned to him with a beaming smile.
Henri-Antoine smiled back. He could not help himself.
Her unaffected delight was his undoing.
~ ~ ~
HALF AN HOUR earlier, in those few minutes before he stepped out of his carriage to join the rest of the trustees who were milling about on the pavement outside Warner’s Dispensary, Henri-Antoine had hesitated, wondering what he was doing here once again. But he knew the answer, and he had brought it on himself. But returning here made him doubt himself, and he never doubted himself about anything.
Why had he orchestrated this meeting when he should have left well enough alone—in plain terms, he should have left Miss Crisp alone. Dr. Warner would have submitted another application in due course, and perhaps the foundation would have given his third submission their full attention, and they would have found themselves here anyway. But those submissions and those visits would have been a good six to eight months in the future.
So he had interfered. And Bailey was always obliging. He had to make certain the inspection happened before he and Jack quit London for Treat. He would be absent from town for a month, perhaps two. What difference would two months make? he wondered. Miss Crisp would still be here. Where else had she to go? The question was not would she still be here, it was why did he care? And that bothered him enough to make him doubt himself.
“Shall we join them, my lord?” Michel Gallet asked into the heavy silence, a glance at Sir John, whose gaze remained on Lord Henri-Antoine.
“Give us a minute, Michel,” Jack said quietly, and waited until the major domo had alighted and the carriage door closed before speaking. “I heard you come in last night.”
“Did you…?”
“I was still up. In the music room. I’ve had this composition stuck in my head for weeks, and had to get it out and write it down, and play it, before we head off to Treat.” When Henri-Antoine made no comment, Jack added, hoping he sounded blithe, “What with everything that’s going on down there—the pre-wedding celebrations, cricket match, fireworks display, the wedding day, the ball that evening—and the place crawling with family and friends, and too many children to count, there’ll be precious little time for my musical scribbles, will there? I doubt I’ll get a chance to pick up the viola. Not that I mind. It’s just I had to get this composition written down—”
“And did you—get it written down?”
“I did… It was about three in the morning when I heard you come in.”
“Was it? You were recently at Toulmin and Gale’s, weren’t you?”
The question threw Jack.
“The shop on New Bond Street that sells travel goods and the like? There’s a stationer’s next door. I bought a new quill. And Bully wanted a travel box for his brother.”
“I suppose my ink and paper must come from somewhere,” Henri-Antoine mused. “Michel would know… Toulmin and Gale have a most excellent window display, which I noticed on my way to the Opera… I had an illuminating discussion with the proprietor—about travel inkwells. There’s a new type of stopper which prevents the ink from leaking—ingenious…”
Jack eyed the parcel tied up with black ribbon on the seat beside Henri-Antoine. It was about the size of a large book and about as thick. But he did not think it was a book. He wondered if whatever was inside the wrapping had been purchased from Toulmin and Gale.
“Is that what’s in that package—an inkwell?”
Henri-Antoine looked at Jack. “Hardly.” He lightly brushed t
he sleeve of his cream linen frock coat, commenting, “I did not make it to the Opera.”
“You played truant with Mrs. M?” Jack couldn’t have been happier, but he gave a low whistle and shook his head. “Now that was a public break if ever there was one.”
“There was nothing to break. Still. No doubt there will be a small struggle to retrieve my Portland catalog, but I have every confidence in Michel.”
“Ha! What incentive did you give him? Mrs. M is known for her temper tantrums and she won’t be pleased with you when you send Michel in your stead. Hairbrushes will fly.”
“I’m giving him leave to visit his twin while we’re in Hampshire.”
Jack frowned, confused. “His brother is in Hampshire. Michel’s brother Marc is your mother’s major domo.”
“Yes. It’s worked out rather neatly.”
Jack gave a bark of laughter then said as casually as he could, when Henri-Antoine picked up the package, “And did you make it to Burke’s, or did you spend the entire evening talking about inkwells?”
“I did—make it to Burke’s. And that answers your second question.” He lightly tapped the carriage door with his walking stick. “Let’s not keep our esteemed colleagues waiting. I’m sure they are thinking more about the dinner afterwards than the fascinating specimens in jars that await us in Warner’s garret. So the sooner the tour is over, the sooner we can get down to business.”
The carriage door opened and a footman held it wide. Another unfolded the steps. One of the lads appeared in the doorframe and Henri-Antoine gave him the package. He then took a moment, sensing Jack was displeased with him. A glance over his shoulder and he knew he was right. Jack was no longer smiling.
“It disappoints you I went to Burke’s.” He held his best friend’s gaze, his thoughts his own, adding softly, “It may give you some comfort to know I disappoint myself. Often.”
“And the package…?”
“Ah. That is my first order of business, not yours.”
HENRI-ANTOINE placed the package on the sofa, only to move it to the low table, and then back again in the short interval while he waited for Miss Crisp to arrive. The trustees had gone off to tour the vacant dispensary where Dr. Warner’s medical associates waited to show them around. Mrs. Warner wanted to stay behind and await the gentlemen in the comfort of her drawing room. Henri-Antoine guessed from her manner, her dress, and her liberal use of cosmetics that she had rarely if ever been inside her husband’s dispensary. A look to his major domo, and Michel knew what he wanted. Mrs. Warner was soon engaged in conversation. So engrossed did she become in whatever topic Michel had broached with her, that she went out of the room with him, following behind the trustees, the door closed, and Henri-Antoine was left alone with the package and its placement.
When Lisa came into the room the package was back on the low table, and Henri-Antoine was standing by the window looking out on the street and the crowd that had gathered, but which was now dispersing as his town carriage moved off, to return when he sent for it.
He turned as the door opened and watched Lisa cross the room with a purposeful but light tread, elbows in at her sides and hands clasped under her bosom in that way she must have been taught at boarding school and which was so ingrained it was habitual. He liked it, and he liked the way she carried herself. What surprised him was the effect she had on him dressed in a simple gown of Indienne cotton. But he gave himself no time to ruminate on this by addressing her so she knew where he was in the room, because she seemed not to have noticed it was occupied.
And when she turned at the sound of his voice and smiled at him, he, for the first time in his life, felt his face split into a grin of its own accord. He was helpless to do anything about it, and felt utterly foolish. Only lunatics grinned. Sane people—he—did not. He was always in control of himself and his emotions because there were times—those times when he was victim to his affliction—when he had no control at all. And yet—and this was new to him, too—for the first time in his life, he did not care.
“Oh!? Hello.” She bobbed a curtsy of welcome. “Is your visit a coincidence, or are you truly a trustee of the Fournier Foundation?”
“I am—truly—a trustee.”
As he seemed incapable of moving away from the window, and his walking stick was planted in the floor, she came over to him.
“Oh!? You are?” She was so surprised she blurted this out, then immediately apologized. “Forgive me. I don’t know why I should be astonished. Of course you could be. Only, it seemed it was a coincidence—”
“—because you hoped I was here to see you?”
She smiled and blushed but she was not backward. “Yes. How did you guess?”
That made him laugh. God! What was wrong with him? First he was grinning and now he was laughing out loud. The newness of this experience made him suddenly light-headed.
Lisa’s blush deepened. He had a lovely white smile when he laughed. And it made her want to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. She of course did not. She kept her elbows in at her sides and her hands together, dropped her chin and turned away to go over to the arrangement of sofa and chairs. She indicated the sofa, saying in what she hoped was an easiness of manner, when she was anything but calm, “Would you care to sit? Would you like me to ring for tea? Would you—”
“—like to tell me how it is you are a trustee of the Fournier Foundation? That is what you want to know, is it not, Miss Crisp?” he replied, coming to join her. He flicked out the skirts of his frock coat and sat at one end of the sofa, one foot slightly forward, and with his walking stick between his knees. He then indicated the rest of the sofa. “Please. Sit. And I will tell you.”
She sat facing him. But not at the furthest end of the seat cushions but halfway along, so that they were in close proximity. Not close enough for her to appear forward, but not so far away that she would come across as a frigid miss. She then put her hands in her lap and waited.
“Si vous êtes d'accord, je souhaite vous parler dans ma langue maternelle.”
She had swift intake of breath and her blue eyes widened. “French is your first language, too?”
She should not have been surprised, but she was. It opened a Pandora’s box of questions none of which she asked. Instead she smiled and replied in French.
“I wish very much for us to speak in French. Though you will have to forgive me because I am only permitted to speak English here in the house. So while I will understand what you say to me, I am out of practice with my speaking.”
“Tout ce dont vous avez besoin, c'est la pratique et la confiance. Plus nous conversons, j'espère que plus il deviendra facile pour vous. Oui?”
She nodded and smiled but did not immediately reply. Not because she did not understand or because she could not answer, but because she needed a moment to compose herself. Listening and watching him as the French language rolled off his tongue with honeyed ease filled her with sensations she did not understand nor could she articulate them in any meaningful way had she been asked to do so. All she wanted to do was lie back on the cushions and close her eyes, and let him talk on and on so that his words washed over her, covering her in a warm coverlet of exquisite conversation. A word came to mind about this feeling—euphoria.
“That is very true: The more I speak in French, the more confident I will become in speaking it… with you,” she said, repeating back what he had said to her, her euphoria twisting itself inside out into foolishness. She clasped her fingers a little too tightly, as if this would stop her from descending further into some sort of ridiculous stupor. “What is it you wish to ask me? Oh! No! But you first,” she added with a light laugh at her own slip. She leaned in a little. “You offered to tell me how it is you are a trustee of the Fournier Foundation…”
He unconsciously mimicked her action and leaned in to her and said, “I see that it pleases you I am.”
She did not dissemble but was also filled with a mix of emotions: Surprised that he saw t
he pleasure writ large on her face; relieved he thought that pleasure derived from a mutual interest in the advancement of medical knowledge; and guilty that she was not thinking about the foundation at all, but was selfishly absorbed in how he made her feel.
“It does, sir. I am not surprised you have an interest in medicine, as anyone with your affliction must. Any investigations that unlock the secrets and wonders of the human body must give you, and others, some hope that one day physicians may be able to offer effective treatment, if not a cure.”
“There will not be a cure for the falling sickness in my lifetime, Miss Crisp.”
“Which makes your involvement in the foundation all the more admirable.”
“It does? It could easily be seen as motivated by self-interest.”
“How so?”
“I am interested in the advancement of medical science for self-serving ends. Everyone else and their suffering—pardon me, but you will—can be damned to hell, for all I care.”
Lisa was adamant in his defense. So much so it brought color to his lean cheeks.
“If that were the case then all a gentleman of your means need do is wait for medicine to advance, without you lifting a finger to help. After all, you are fortunate to be able to deal with your affliction in a most civilized manner and make yourself as comfortable as possible. You need not involve yourself personally in the medical field, and most particularly not in the running of a charitable fund that seeks to relieve the sick poor of their burden of illness, free of charge. Besides,” she rattled on, warming further to her topic, and because his gaze remained fixed on her eyes, “a gentleman such as yourself need not show an interest in the sick poor at all. There are any number of charitable trusts to which you could give of your time and attention, and your wealth, that have nothing to do with poor relief, or medicine. And yet, here you are, a trustee of the Fournier Foundation. And so I do not believe you wish to consign anyone to hell, least of all the poor, sir.”
Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5) Page 14