Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (14 page)

Lillian felt the carriage shift as Ben Talbot climbed onto the driver’s seat. “It is heartening to find us conversing together this day.”

“I-I have thought a great deal about what you have said.”

“And?”

“My mother says you are right.”

“What your mother says is less important to me than what you yourself think.” Lillian caught herself. “Forgive me. I have no reason to speak so crossly with you.”

Abigail blinked. Clearly she was unaccustomed to having adults apologize to her for anything.

“It is this meeting, you see, that has gotten me out of sorts. I hope you never know the pain of addressing a banker to whom you owe money you cannot pay.”

“It must be dreadful.”

Lillian more closely examined the girl seated beside her and decided Abigail was not a girl at all. The clear light to her face was deceptive, as well as her youthful dejection over her first great fall in life. But she looked back with the steady gaze of one open to accept a woman’s wisdom. There was considerable strength there, even now when she appeared so weakened by her own self-condemnation.

Lillian said simply, “Yes, more so than I ever imagined possible.”

“My father once said a strong man is one who can hold his head up even when the entire world is bearing down on his shoulders.” Abigail’s hair looked aflame in the afternoon light, as though she had managed to claim autumn’s finery as her own. “I wish I had your strength.”

“You have your own.”

“I haven’t been very strong lately.”

“No. But everyone is laid flat the first time they realize just how harsh life can be.”

“How old were
you
when that happened?”

“Fourteen.” How easy it was to talk with this girl-woman. How easy and how dangerous. “I was fourteen, and we shall not sully this day with more burdens than it already has.”

“Yes. Of course. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It was once said a proper lady never apologizes. I disagree with that. It reeks of silliness and false pride. But a woman must be sparse with apologies. She must move through the world as though it is her right and all the doors are meant to be open in advance of her arrival. There are so many obstacles placed in our way, you see. We must take great care to guard those few opportunities which are granted to us.”

Abigail’s gaze had not wavered one iota. “Mother says I shall learn a great deal from you if I am willing.”

The words caused a shiver to course through Lillian’s form.

“Are you all right?”

“As right as I can be. Look, we have arrived.” Lillian was already moving for the door before Ben drew the horses to a halt. “No, you must stay here. Your presence here in the carriage will be my excuse for making this as brief a visit as possible.”

Abigail leaned out the open carriage door to say, “Then I shall sit here and pray for you as hard as I know how.”

The young woman’s words only propelled Lillian more swiftly inside. How could she deceive these good people? And that was precisely what she was doing. Her silence was a constant lie. Lillian spotted Simon Bartholomew walking toward her and willed herself to be strong. To be resolute. To put all distractions aside.

But she could not.

“Lady Houghton.” He bowed precisely, a slender aging man in black broadcloth. His one hint of color today was a silver foulard held in place with an emerald stickpin. “You do my establishment great honor.”

“Mr. Bartholomew.”

“Will you take tea, my lady?” He spoke loudly enough to signal her presence to all who observed the exchange. “Or perhaps a cup of chocolate and fresh cream. My vessel has just returned from a passage around the Horn. It carried beans of a most exquisite aroma. My warehouse is positively awash in the fragrance of cocoa.”

“Another time. I am due at Parliament.”

The piercing quality returned to his dark gaze. “Indeed?”

“Might I perhaps have a word in private?”

“Of course, my lady. This way, if you please.”

He led her down the length of the dark-paneled banking chamber. A uniformed porter held open the door at the back. She followed the banker down a hall lined with the portraits of his forebears, all of whom stared at her with undisguised hostility. They passed through a long chamber filled with clerks at high counting tables. He opened the door to his private office and bowed her inside.

All such civility vanished, however, the instant he shut the door. “Parliament?”

“Aren’t you even going to ask me to sit down?”

He abruptly motioned her toward a chair. “You have taken a sudden interest in politics?”

Her reply was halted by the sight of the bound file resting at the center of the polished meeting table. The leather binding was tied shut with a faded purple ribbon. The cover was stamped with her husband’s crest.

Simon Bartholomew took great pleasure in whatever he saw there upon her features. “I see that no further threats are required.”

She sat out of necessity.

“No further warnings must be issued.” He picked up a gold dagger he used as a letter opener and swished the air as he paraded around behind the table. “No further admonishments to do
precisely
as I command.”

Lillian knew the folder contained the deeds to all her husband’s estates. The country manor, the lands that had been in his family for six generations, the South American holdings, the London townhouse. Everything signed over as collateral for a venture the count had been certain would make them the most powerful family in Europe after the monarchs. The venture whose failure had felled him as absolutely as a bullet to the heart.

Lillian looked from the file to the banker’s gleaming gaze. And she knew then that Simon Bartholomew would never let her go.

No matter what bargain she might make. No matter what he might promise. This banker lived for the power that money gave him over others. It was more precious to him than his own life’s blood. As far as Simon Bartholomew was concerned, she was his forever.

Though Lillian felt she would most likely choke on anything served in this establishment, still she wished she had agreed to his offer of tea. Her throat was so dry she sounded hoarse as she said, “I am going to meet with William Wilberforce.”

“You are what?”

“It has been arranged by the Aldridge family. Their coach has brought me here.”

The banker sank into the chair opposite her.

“Abigail Aldridge is waiting for me outside.”

“The daughter? Here?”

Suddenly she felt weary. What could she do? What good was any of this maneuvering? She was trapped. And trapped she would remain.

“How dare you bring the daughter to my bank!”

“How
dare
I?” Even her ire seemed false this day. “I am doing precisely what you ordered me to do. I am as involved with the family as . . .”

“Yes? Go on.”

She waved it away. They had been through all this before. Why bother with futile arguments? She was trapped. What was more, she could not help but feel that it was all her own fault.

Oh, of course she had nothing to do with the Portugal venture. In fact, she had begged her late husband not to proceed. Why should he seek more wealth when they already had more than they needed? But it was not this last argument that held Lillian prisoner.

Her past, the distant time before her husband had rescued her, the horrid mistakes she had made in her early life—they all loomed up like specters rising from an unearthed grave. She had been so certain they had all been left far behind. Yet now it seemed as though she was forever trapped by the lie of her entire life, the lie that said she was a lady.

“Don’t keep me waiting!”

She forced herself to focus once more on the banker. “I am accompanying the young woman to America.”

“Miss Aldridge? When?”

“Soon. Mr. Wilberforce has some task he wishes for Abigail to accomplish there.”

“So it is Abigail now, is it? You are now on such familiar terms with all the family?”

She ignored both the words and his sneer. “I gather this voyage has something to do with the work of Gareth Powers and his wife.”

He sat up straight as the color drained from his face. “Are you certain?”

“No.” She was certain of nothing save that she wanted to be away. “I suspect that is what we shall be discussing this afternoon.”

He rose to his feet, pretending to a casual air they both knew was false. “You have succeeded beyond my wildest expectations, my lady.”

Lillian started to ask for another assurance that the banker would release her from the debts and his dire threats. But the day’s clarity was too keen. Why insist upon words she knew were a lie even before they were uttered?

Instead, she found herself caught by how lucid everything seemed. She examined not only this moment, but everything that had come together to place her here. She saw the present and all the past forces of her life, and for once she could fathom how she had set this course herself. It was not random chance that had brought her here. Rather, it was her own wrong choices.

The banker was talking now. Speaking about how she should maintain contact with him via certain vessels. She could not bring herself to pay attention. Lillian stared out the window behind his desk. There was nothing to be seen save the brick wall at the rear of the bank’s small courtyard. But she was not interested in the view. She wanted to
understand
.

She found herself recalling what Abigail had said upon their arrival at the bank. Was this clarity due to a young woman’s prayers? The concept shook her more than being seated here in the banker’s lair. When was the last time anyone had prayed for her? The answer was swift in coming. Not since she was fourteen.

“I believe that is everything for the moment,” Simon Bartholomew concluded.

Lillian heard only that she was free to leave. She rose from her chair and permitted the banker to lead her back through the chambers, past all the staring faces, through the tall front foyer with its scents of beeswax and money. She allowed him to bow her through the front doors because it was expected of her. She was, after all, a lady.

When Lillian returned to the carriage, she found Abigail watching her with a fretful look. She had scarcely settled into her seat when the young woman burst out, “I need to ask a favor. It’s not my place, I know. After everything you’ve done. But I must.”

“Thank you,” Lillian said quietly.

“Whatever for?”

“I’m not sure, actually.” The air of the carriage seemed to sparkle. Which of course was silly. “You said you would pray for me.”

“Yes. And I did. Or rather, well . . .”

“Go on.”

“I started.” Her hands fidgeted with the folds of her dress. “I had the strongest impression while you were in there. You see, I have tried so very often to write to Derrick Aimes, the pastor with whom, that is . . .”

“The reverend who was arrested with you and taken to Newgate?”

A visible shudder went through the young woman’s form. “Yes. But everything I have said has felt so inadequate. So I asked my mother if I might go to the church in Soho and speak with him.”

“I can imagine that did not go over well.”

“At first I was certain she would say no. But she asked me why, and I explained that I felt a great need to apologize. Not just for the night. For how I was. For my motives. And how wrong I was to ignore his warning. And how right he was in what he told me.”

There was a knock on the carriage door. “Begging your pardon, ladies. But I was wondering where it is we are headed.”

“One moment, if you please, Mr. Talbot.” Lillian turned back to her companion. “Please continue.”

“Mother said I might go, but only if you would accompany me.”

Lillian nodded her understanding. Abigail’s mother did not feel up to revisiting that night.

“Mother works in the most dreadful of places, helping Mr. Wilberforce in his hospital for the poor and such. But she said she had no interest in taking a closer look at Soho just now.” Abigail gave her a plaintive look. “Today is already so full. I was going to wait until another time. But when I was praying, I had the strongest impression that I needed to do this immediately.”

“When are we scheduled to meet with Mr. Wilberforce?”

“Not until five o’clock.”

She asked the driver, “Can you spy a church tower and read us the time, good sir?”

He craned about and replied, “Just gone three, ma’am.”

Impossible. She had only been inside the bank for a quarter of an hour? It had seemed like days. “Would you be so kind as to retrace our way so far as Soho?”

He had clearly expected nothing less. “Very good, ma’am.”

“Where is it we need to go, Abigail?”

“The church at Soho Square.”

Without further ado, Ben Talbot climbed up top, released the reins and handbrake, and started the horses off with a crack of his whip.

Entering Soho was for Lillian yet another wearisome trek into her own past. Not that she had been here exactly in her youth. But every English town possessed such a quarter. One that lay close to the wealthier districts so that the clientele need not travel too far, but safely removed from the truly vile districts. Soho was dangerous in its own way, but nothing like the area south of the river. Soho’s allure was its mixture of vice and mystery. But that was by night. In the daylight the seamy nature was all too vivid. The buildings were as gray as most of the folk. The lanes were crowded with tired-faced people who had greeted too many dawns from the wrong side.

Runners scampered along the road, outpacing the carriage horses. They headed into Soho carrying long paper streamers dotted with inked designs, and returned with partially sewn garments. The clothiers of Saville Row and Bond Street were far too cramped to sew their wares from scratch. So the designs were measured out on full-scale sheets of blank newsprint, then sent down to the Soho sewing shops. There were hundreds of such establishments. Lillian had known several. Some were brilliantly lit and served as parlors where ladies might stop for chocolate and gossip along with their fittings. Others were foul chambers employing the smallest children they could hire. These were poorly lit and so confined the children sang in unison to keep their sewing arms rising and falling in tandem.