Ever His Bride (19 page)

F
elicity spent the
rest of the week collecting candle stubs and worn-out china from
the household stores and cupboards, all of which she replaced with
the newer goods from the crates. As she unpacked a mountain of new
blankets, she set aside a dozen ragged-edged ones for the
children—and for Giles, if she could ever find him again.

Mrs. Sweeney squealed in delight at the sight
of all the new kitchen tools, and didn’t seem to notice the dented
pots and bent spoons disappearing into the plow shed with the rest
of the contraband.

She kept a careful accounting of everything
she took. When Uncle Foley returned with her portion of the
profits, she would pay back Claybourne for every candle stub and
chipped bowl.

His house no longer frightened her, and
Claybourne and his blustering rarely did. She had set the staff to
hacking away at the choke weeds that strangled off Claybourne Manor
from the sunlight. Ernest took to the garden with enthusiasm, and
soon became expert at maneuvering the new lawn mower around the
hedges and trees.

If her surly husband noticed the taming of
the wilderness into a nearly workable garden, he never said
anything.

And neither did she, for fear that he would
command her to stop. He allowed her the use of his library, and
didn’t seem to mind that she had peeled back the drapes in the
dining room and removed the dreary bushes that blocked the light.
He occasionally engaged her in stilted conversations, usually about
some minor domestic matter, sometimes about George Hudson.

She sometimes fancied that he enjoyed her
company.

And she sometimes fancied that she enjoyed
his.

The thought startled her one evening as she
sat opposite him at the dining-room table, which had quadrupled in
length and now had a dozen chairs stationed around it, awaiting
guests who would probably never be invited.

He had arrived home in time to take dinner
with her—nothing more than a coincidence, she was certain, since he
had seemed startled to see her enter the dining room. But he now
sat easily in his chair at the head of the table, unlike his
posture outside Claybourne Manor, where his shoulders were always
squared and his eyes always alert.

She liked him this way: his guard down, and
his eyes gone to the gray of smoke instead of black obsidian.

“You were about to say, Miss Mayfield?”

Felicity caught herself staring at him again,
and gave a quick glance at her bowl of stew before raising her chin
again.

“I had been thinking about what you just
said—the possibility of a telegraph cable being laid across the
Atlantic. Imagine if such a thing existed right now: when my uncle
landed in New York, he could just send me a telegram telling me
that he had arrived safely.”

“Yes, he could.”

She saw him try to hide a smile with a finger
to the corner of his mouth, certain that he thought her an
imbecile. She tried again.

“I’ve read about the plans to lay a cable
between Dover and Calais—have you a financial interest in such a
project, Mr. Claybourne?”

He lowered his brow at her as if she were his
rival in business. “It’s no secret. I have secured the contract to
supply the cable, a design based upon the specifications of the
project engineers. Whether the project succeeds or fails, I will
have my profit.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He was so
very sure of himself, born to the certainty of his wealth and
privilege. “And what about the cable across the Atlantic? Will you
be taking your profits from that as well?”

“Not for a few years yet.”

“But you must be looking forward to such a
grand achievement and its advantage to your business. You can
decide to buy an American railway in the morning, telegraph your
bid before lunch, and learn of the seller’s acceptance before you
go home that night to eat your plate of stew.”

He laughed mutely and raised a brow, as if
the thought of doing business by telegraph across the ocean hadn’t
yet occurred to him. “Indeed,” he said, gliding his forefinger
around the edge of his glass.

“I will be going to London again tomorrow,
Mr. Claybourne.”

“For what reason?”

More half-truths, but they would have to
serve.

“For many reasons. My Northumberland project
for one, and to consult with Mr. Dolan. Also I need to see Madame
Deverie. If I don’t return for the final fitting, the wardrobe you
spent so much of your hard won money on will go to waste.”

He hadn’t moved a muscle. “If you dare come
home stinking of—”

“I won’t, Mr. Claybourne.” She touched her
napkin to her mouth. “You can be sure that you’ll not smell Bethnal
Green on me ever again. I prefer to bathe in my chamber—in warm
water, with lavender soap, thank you very much.”

He scowled at that, dropped his linen napkin
on his plate and left the table. His footfalls echoed on his way
toward his library. He would probably be there all night.

Yet she had heard him more than once leaving
the library after dark, had seen him carrying a lantern away from
the house, perhaps to wander the wilds of the estate. She’d caught
him on the staircase the night before, after one of his
wanderings—his waistcoat open, his shirt stuck to his damp skin,
and bits of wood splinters caught up in his hair and on his
trousers.

He had grunted and passed by her without a
comment.

He was a strange man. And too handsome by
far.

But he had accepted her reasons for going to
London. And every morning for the next full week, she loaded up her
new portmanteau with as much as she could carry, stuffed it into
the boot of the carriage, and rode with her husband into the
City.

She hadn’t promised not to go to Bethnal
Green; she’d only promised not to smell of it.

“Christmastide in June!”

The boys and girls of the Beggar’s Academy
shrieked in perfect delight over each and every item Felicity
unpacked. Chipped bowls, a book of fairy tales, socks with
holes—

“And another blanket!” Gran clapped her
craggy hands against her withered cheeks and sighed. “And more
candles! Dear child, every day you come bearing the treasures of
Solomon! The Beggar’s Academy thanks you, each and every one of
us.”

Blankets and pots and candle stubs could
never take the place of fragrant meadowlands and pure sunlight. How
could she hope to bring the children what they truly needed?

“It’s my pleasure, Gran.” She would have to
explain later that this would be the last of it for a while. Until
she could earn some money of her own.

Hardly Christmas.

She lifted little Jonathan onto the table to
put clean socks on his filthy feet. The socks were too big, and
without shoes would last only a day, but for the moment his little
toes would be warm and safe. He winced as she lifted his foot.

“I’m sorry, Jonathan. Have you got yourself a
sore here?” More than a sore, the boy’s foot was covered with cuts
in various stages of healing, and a few long, pink scars. “What
happened?”

“Jonathan is a mudlark,” Gran said, from her
pot at the cookstove.

“A mudlark?” She’d heard the term but didn’t
really know its meaning.

“It’s nothin’.” Jonathan sighed, obviously
impatient with these adult anxieties. “I gets cut steppin’ on glass
buried in the mud, miss.” He hooked his foot with his hands and
inspected the sole. “Looks good compared t’ some days.”

“In the mud? Where?”

“The Thames, mostly,” he said, letting her
peer at his feet. “Coal is m’ biggest business. I gets the stuff
what falls from the barges.”

“The Thames is a sewer,” she said, trying not
to let her horror show. “You shouldn’t be walking in it.”

“I don’t mind, miss. Glass sells good as
coal. When it cuts m’foot, I find it, then I sells it. A fair
trade, I warrant.”

“Why don’t you wear shoes?”

He shrugged and picked a dark thing from
beneath his jagged fingernail. “Haven’t any. ‘Sides, they don’t
last long, being wet and muddy all a’time.”

She made a mental note to acquire a steady
supply of ointments and thick-soled boots. The list was dreadfully
long, and her time was so short. If she was to make a success of
her new travel guide, and earn the money for it, she would need to
spend a few weeks traveling through Northumberland. And then there
was always Giles. She hadn’t given up trying to find him again.

She stayed as late as she could until the
afternoon, unpacking, helping with supper, and finally reading
aloud from a book she had discovered among Claybourne’s things.

Robin Hood.
They seemed to love that
the best.

As she read, she became as enchanted as the
children. Not with the valiant man who shunned his wealth and
station to ease the plight of the downtrodden, but with the
settledness of the school, the sense of home she’d found there
among the children. She’d never really had a home, and this one
felt very good.

But the afternoon was lengthening, and she
needed to spend some time looking for Giles before she had to race
home ahead of Claybourne and scrub her skin raw and her clothes
threadbare, just to keep his prickly sense of smell appeased. So
far, he didn’t suspect a thing.

She said good-bye to the children, then
turned to Mrs. McGilly. “I must go look for Giles. He’s eluded
me—”

“Mrs. Claybourne,” Gran whispered. Her face
looked terribly solemn. “You won’t find Giles.”

“Why not? Is he ill?”

“The fool was caught in Chancery Lane a few
days ago, cutting a purse, I hear. The police have him.”

“The police?” Her heart sank. She’d saved him
from Claybourne, only to lose him to the magistrates. “Where was he
taken?”

Gran shook her head and sighed. “No one seems
to know. The poor boy could be in Newgate by now.”

“But he’s just a child!”

“That doesn’t matter a whit to the
magistrates.”

“Well, it matters to me!” She kissed Gran on
her leathery cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

Felicity found a hackney on Shoreditch and
hired it to Chancery Lane. The station house was small and crammed
with every kind of person. She worked her way to the counter, and
finally gained the attention of a stiff-coated officer.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for information
about a pickpocket.”

He didn’t look up. “Had your purse snatched,
miss?”

“No. I want to know where a young prisoner
might have been taken. He was arrested a few days ago on Chancery
Lane.”

“We get ’em in dozens, miss.” The man seemed
thoroughly bored. “Do ya have a name?”

“Giles Pepperpot, or Potter, perhaps.”

The officer muttered about long hours and low
pay as he leafed backward through a book of names and dates. “Yes,
here it is. Giles Potter.”

Well, at least she’d found him. “What’s to be
done with him?”

The officer studied the page and then
consulted another book. “Looks like it’s already been done.”

“Done! What has been done? Dear God, he’s
only a boy.”

“Convicted of theft and . . .” The officer
fumbled with a pair of spectacles as she rode out her fears,
waiting to hear the worst. “Hmmm. Sent north to—”

She slapped the countertop and drew a dozen
stares. “To where, sir?”

The officer peered at her over the top of his
rims, his opinion of her station in life having drooped along with
his frown. “To an apprentice school. Are you his mother?”

“To a school?” Her heart lightened. He wasn’t
in prison after all; he was in a school. He would learn a trade,
just as she had hoped for him.

“Does it say where the school is?” Feeling
quite charitable toward the officer, she smiled and peered over the
counter, trying to read the name upside down.

“Blenwick.”

“Perfect!” She couldn’t believe her luck.
Blenwick was in County Durham, on her way to Northumberland. She
would take Giles a package of sweets to share among his
schoolmates, and maybe slip him another shirt, some money for
supplies. Surely a young man at school could find a use for a bag
of treats from a friend.

“I’m leaving, Mr. Claybourne.”

Hunter looked up from his accounts and found
his wife dressed for travel in a functional brown suit done up to
her neck. He liked her better in wet linen, but he couldn’t very
well tell her that. She dropped her new portmanteau on the floor.
It gave a decisively leaden thud meant entirely for him.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said evenly,
returning to his figures. He’d come home at noon to finish his work
in the quiet coolness of his library, but peace and quiet were
nearly impossible anymore. And then there was her scent, that faint
coiling of lavender that could stop him dead in his thoughts and
dangle him over a cliff side.

Crinoline whispered from beneath her skirt as
she crossed the carpet to his desk. He refused to look up again.
He’d given his order. She was staying.

“I’m leaving,” she said. “Today. There’s a
running of the cheese in Brimsleigh tomorrow afternoon, and I want
to be there to report on it firsthand.”

“What the hell is a running of the . . .
never mind.” He was about to repeat his denial and send her to her
chamber when she plucked the pen out of his fingers.

“I’m a pest, aren’t I, Mr. Claybourne?”

“A bloody plague,” he said, grabbing for the
pen but finding a drop of ink dangling from his fingertip
instead.

“You resent my existence.” She replaced the
pen in the holder.

“Every minute of every day.” He wiped the ink
off his finger and watched her saunter toward the windows.

“Then why keep me here under your roof? So
dangerously near London, where I might sully your name. Why not
send me out of town where no one knows our connection? Be rid of
me.”

“No.”