Sheri Cobb South (11 page)

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Mr. Brundy spent four days at his mill, addressing his workers’ concerns and reacquainting himself with the business which, he feared, he had sadly neglected since his arrival in London. Nor was his wife idle during his absence. Lady Helen was everywhere to be seen, shopping in Bond Street or driving in St. James Park by day, and waltzing at Vauxhall Gardens or attending the opera by night. Certainly no one seeing her twirling about the dance floor or laughing at some admirer’s flowery compliments would have suspected that this whirlwind of activity was Lady Helen’s way of avoiding a house which had somehow become too large and too quiet, and where her heart had developed an annoying tendency to leap every time she heard a footfall in the hall below.

It was on one of these excursions to Vauxhall that Lord Waverly waylaid her as she admired the Grand Cascade.

“Ah, Mrs. Brundy,” he drawled as he made his bow. “Is your husband not yet returned? So sad, seeing a bride neglected.”

“Am I neglected, my lord?” asked Lady Helen in some surprise. “I did not know it.”

“Forgive me; it would seem I am in error.  Still,” he added, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “if ever you should find you are lonely, you have only to send for me, my dear.”

“If I do that, Waverly, you may be sure that I must be very, very lonely indeed,” Lady Helen replied, then turned and walked away.

She had not gone far before she was joined by Lord David Markham and Sir Aubrey Tabor, both of whom had been present at her wedding.

“Good evening, Lady Helen,” said Sir Aubrey, bowing over her hand. “I say, where have you been keeping that husband of yours? I haven’t seen Ethan this age.”

“He is in Manchester, attending to his mill.”

Lord David’s brow furrowed. “Not trouble with the Luddites, I hope?”

Lady Helen drew a complete blank. “Luddites?” she echoed. “What are they?”

“Bands of men who attack the mills and destroy the machinery,” explained Sir Aubrey helpfully.

“They riot only at night, while the mills are unoccupied, and I do not believe it is their intention to harm persons,” Lord David added hastily, seeing Lady Helen’s eyes grow round. “I am not aware of any recent rioting in Manchester, and I am sure Ethan would have told you, had he believed himself to be in any danger.”

“Of course,” said Lady Helen, but privately she was not so sure.

She graciously accepted Lord David’s invitation to join them in his supper box, where Emily, Lady Randall, was already ensconced, and allowed Sir Aubrey to procure for her a cup of rack punch and a plate of the paper-thin slices of ham for which Vauxhall was famous. But in spite of these amenities, she could not consider the evening an unqualified success. The music seemed too loud and the soprano too shrill, and although the others of the party seemed to have no complaints, even the celebrated ham tasted slightly off.

Upon her return home, she ordered Evers to snuff out the candles burning in the hall, then climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. She allowed her abigail to undress her and take down her hair, but even after dismissing the maid, she did not go immediately to bed. Instead she crossed the room to the small table that stood beside the bed, pulled open the single drawer, and removed a creased sheet of paper. She had kept the note without knowing precisely why; now she spread the folds and scanned the familiar lines. Should she find herself in need of additional funds ... instructed to advance ... whatever amount she might require ... until his return he was, as ever, her most devoted Ethan B.

There was no clue as to precisely why he had gone or when he expected to return, only that he did plan to do so. That his journey might be a protracted one was suggested by his provisions for her to have additional funds as needed. Good heavens! Did the man not realize that she could have gone to his banker with some Banbury tale, then taken every farthing he owned and fled to the Continent?

Unless, perhaps, he had not thought to need money where he was going. Perhaps he had gone to his banker to put his affairs in order in case he did not come back. Perhaps she was even now a wealthy widow. Perhaps at this very moment a courier was en route from Manchester with the news. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle, its ticking noise the only sound in the room. How long would it take for word of his death to reach her? She had resented the loss of her freedom, but now, faced with the possibility of regaining it, she no longer wanted to be free—at least, not at the cost of Mr. Brundy’s life.

Nonsense, she chided herself. Lord David had said that the Luddites did not set out to injure people, but machines. Depend upon it, Mr. Brundy was alive and well in Manchester, and would no doubt be vastly amused to know that she had worried about him. Well, he would pay for frightening her so!
Oh, have you been gone?
she would say when he returned.
I
hadn’t noticed.
She crawled into bed and snuffed out the candle, but sleep did not come quickly.

She awoke in the chill gray hours before dawn to the sound of raindrops beating against the window. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and then again, much nearer. Lady Helen sat bolt upright. That last was not thunder, but the sound of carriage wheels rolling to a stop before the front door. Jerking back the bed curtains, she leaped out of bed, ran to the window, and pressed her face against the cold glass.

A post chaise was stopped in the street below, and as she watched, the door opened and a dark figure, hunched over to protect itself from the rain, scrambled down from the carriage and hurried up the front steps and out of Lady Helen’s range of vision. A moment later she heard voices, and then the now-familiar ring of footsteps on the tiled floor of the hall. She fumbled with her candle in the dark until it finally flared to life, then shrugged on her dressing gown and peered out her door just as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs.

“Mr. Brundy?”

His every movement bespoke exhaustion, but he turned at the sound of her voice. He had shed his drenched greatcoat and hat, but wet tendrils of dark curly hair clung to his forehead, the drops of water trembling on the ends sparkling like diamonds in the candlelight.

“Ah, ‘elen, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he said with a contented sigh. “I’ve missed you, me dear.”

Lady Helen chose to ignore this admission. “How are you, Mr. Brundy?” she asked, for all the world as if she were entertaining a morning caller.

“Fagged out, but other than that, well enough.”

“You’re sure? No trouble with the—the Luddites, or anything of that nature?”

A smile touched Mr. Brundy’s lips. “Now, what do you know of the Luddites?”

This was too much for Lady Helen to bear. “Only that they might have killed you!” she retorted, goaded beyond endurance. “Which is more than
you,
sir, saw fit to tell me! ‘Tis a fine thing when a woman must learn from her husband’s friends that his life may be in danger! Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself, capering all over the country while I sat here frantic with worry! I bid you good night!”

Having delivered herself of this speech, she shut the door in his face. Mr. Brundy, far from being offended, lingered in the corridor, regarding his wife’s closed door with a singularly foolish smile playing about his mouth. She had missed him. More than that, she actually cared whether he lived or died. Whistling softly under his breath, he disappeared into his own bedchamber and soon slept the sleep of the just.

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Lady Helen arose before her husband the next morning, a reversal of their usual routine which was hardly surprising, given the length of his journey and the lateness of his arrival. Although the rain still pelted passers-by in the street and kept morning callers away, all was oddly at peace within the Brundy household. The house itself, which had only yesterday seemed so large and empty, had miraculously resumed its usual proportions during the night, and Lady Helen was no longer aware of the sound of her echoing footsteps as she crossed the hall.

Curiously enough, for the first time in a week she felt no need to fill her morning hours with frenzied activity. In fact, she was contentedly reading in the drawing room when her husband emerged from hibernation, shaved and dressed with his usual disregard for taste.

“Good morning, ‘elen,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning, Mr. Brundy,” she replied, although the hour was in fact past two o’clock.

“I’m off to ‘ave a bit of breakfast, and then I’ve a few loose ends to tie up. I’ll be in me study, if you should ‘ave need of me.”

“Very well.” She watched as he turned to leave the room, whistling under his breath. As he reached the door, she called him back, her voice stiff as if the words were somehow forced from her unwilling throat. “Oh, and Mr. Brundy—”

He paused in the doorway to turn back. “Yes, me dear?”

“Welcome home.”

Mr. Brundy smiled uncertainly at his bride. “I’m afraid it won’t be for long. I’ve a new roller printing machine arriving from Nottingham next week, and I’ll need to be on ‘and to see it installed. You’ll be rid of me for a while longer.”

“Oh.”

Once more he began to leave the room, and once more she called him back.

“Mr. Brundy?”

“Yes?”

“If you’ve no objection, I—I would be pleased to accompany you.”

Mr. Brundy’s expressive countenance registered first surprise, then pleasure. “Nothing would make me ‘appier.”

Chapter 8

Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures.

SAMUEL JOHNSON,
Rasselas

While his wife made preparations for the journey to Lancashire, Mr. Brundy, under the auspices of his ducal papa-in-law, submitted himself to the tender mercies of Schweitzer and Davidson, tailors to no less a personage than the Prince Regent himself.

The duke, having recently settled his delinquent account thanks in large part to Mr. Brundy’s lavish marriage settlement, was welcomed to the venerable Cork Street establishment with open arms. His son-in-law’s reception, however, was considerably cooler. The two tailors bobbed and bowed before his Grace, leaving their underling, Jennings, with the task of giving the boot to the badly dressed Cit who entered the shop in the duke’s wake.

“Good morning, your Grace, and how may we be of service to you, your Grace? Not you, sir,” said Jennings, gently but firmly closing the door in Mr. Brundy’s face. “We don’t do business with the likes of you. May I suggest you try Nugee? I understand he is less discriminating. So sorry, your Grace.”

“So you should be, for you have just shut the door on my son-in-law!” barked the affronted duke.

Instantly Mr. Brundy found the door thrown wide to receive him. “Come in, come in, sir, I beg your pardon, Mr., er—”

“Brundy,” he said, offering his hand. “Ethan Brundy.”

“Mr. Brundy, sir,” mumbled the hireling, uncomfortably accepting the handshake of one who, as his social superior, should have been above overtures which could only be described as familiar.

Mr. Schweitzer, the senior partner, listened in silence to this exchange. As his livelihood depended upon the fortunes of the
haut ton,
he made it his business to follow the latest
on dits,
whether published in the London papers or let fall from the lips of his noble clientele. He knew that all of London was abuzz with the news of the duke’s daughter’s hasty marriage to a wealthy tradesman, and this information, combined with the recent settlement of his Grace’s long-overdue account, gave him a very fair idea of Mr. Brundy’s importance to himself and his partner.

“And how may we be of service to you, Mr. Brundy?” he asked, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to relieve the weaver of his hat and gloves.

“My son-in-law is recently arrived from Lancashire,” the duke informed them. “He wishes you to turn him out as a gentleman.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Schweitzer, eyeing his new client dubiously. “If you would remove your, er, coat, Mr. Brundy?”

Mr. Brundy obliged. “Where should I put it?” he asked.

“You might try the fireplace,” suggested Jennings
sotto voce,
taking the offending garment between thumb and forefinger.

Ordering their underling to fetch a measuring tape, the royal tailors laid violent hands on the unfortunate Mr. Brundy and soon stripped him to his smallclothes, whereupon they stepped back to survey the canvas upon which they were to produce their art.

“Not above the average height, more’s the pity, but the legs are well shaped, and the shoulders are broad,” pronounced Mr. Schweitzer at last.

Nodding his agreement, Mr. Davidson, the junior partner, produced an assortment of fashion plates featuring pen-and-ink renderings of absurdly wasp-waisted gentlemen in tailcoats and breeches. “And for the proper silhouette, we might nip in the waist with a Cumberland corset—”

“I’ll ‘ang first!” declared an indignant Mr. Brundy, feeling very much like a horse on the block at Tattersall’s.

“I think we can dispense with the corset,” agreed Mr. Schweitzer, who knew which side his bread was buttered on. “While Mr. Brundy’s waist is not as narrow as one might wish, at least he has no paunch. I think we can do something with him, your Grace.”

Satisfied on this head, they set upon their hapless client with a measuring tape, Jennings duly writing down each measurement while Mr. Davidson clucked mournfully over the wonders a Cumberland corset might have wrought.  

Their task complete, they surrendered the prisoner’s clothing and set him free, bowing their new client from the premises with all the reverence due an order totaling almost £200. Having seen both duke and commoner on their way, the royal tailors turned their attention to their errant employee.

“Oh, Jennings,” said Mr. Schweitzer, “about your recommendation that Mr. Brundy place his coat on the fire—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered the humbled Jennings. “I meant no offense. ‘Twas only that—”

The senior tailor shook his head. “Wool burns far too slowly to suit the purpose, and it smells abominably.”

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