Vanquished (21 page)

Lottie's knowing look cast that assurance into grave doubt. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you very much resemble a young woman in love."

"As I am neither young nor in love, I'd suggest you go back to reading your tea leaves." A pause and then, "Oh, Auntie, I am sorry. I'm a beast to speak to you so and especially when you're sacrificing your day in this stuffy office to help with our mailing."

"Think nothing of it, pet. But you are in the doldrums, I can see it."

Callie made no move to deny it, though missing Hadrian wasn't entirely the cause. The day after the match-factory strike had descended into rioting, she'd gone to the magistrate's office and sworn her statement that Hardcastle had directed his henchmen to attack. After that, there'd been nothing left to do but pay the women's fines and pray the press didn't get a whiff of her involvement before month's end when the suffrage bill came back before Parliament. On a personal note, she'd penned Iris Brown a letter of introduction to a Manchester factory owner known for his fair practices toward workers. As Iris was the ringleader of the strike, Hardcastle would never take her back. It seemed little enough given the depth of trouble into which she'd led them all. But then again, as with most matters in life, only time would tell.

Lost amid her thoughts, she struggled to pick up the thread of what her aunt was saying, something to do with a ball and cheering her up. "Why not come with me to the benefit for the Tremayne Dairy Farm Academy? It's to be held at the Covent Garden Opera House the evening after next. There's to be an auction early in the evening followed by a ball and buffet supper."

Social gatherings such as this were apt to be famous bores no matter how worthy the cause and these days she couldn't seem to think much beyond her next "session" with Hadrian. At some point the sittings had become simply a vehicle, an excuse, for seeing each other. They'd make a show of posing her, only to end up talking for hours until at some point he'd glance toward the window and announce they were losing their light; it was winter, after all. "In that case, shall I come back tomorrow or the day after?" she'd ask, and they'd both smile and agree that yes, yes she should.

Never mind that by now he must have taken enough pictures to fill an entire album. It was a game, a lovely diversion from the stark reality of real life. Some days no matter how hard she worked at juggling, she couldn't manage to break away. Those were dark days indeed, although until now she'd fancied she'd made a rather good show of hiding her true feelings.

Of course they couldn't go on as they were forever. A man like Hadrian must have scores of women vying for his time and attention. She was a novelty at present but eventually he would tire of her, sooner rather than later--or so she suspected. A wise woman would wean herself from him before he cut her off, and yet she couldn't find the willpower to do so any more than a drunkard could dole out his stash of gin. Even though dwelling on the futile fantastical hope that their "relationship" such as it was might somehow blossom into something greater and grander than mere friendship wasn't remotely good for her, she wasn't prepared to stop. Not just yet. To no longer see him, hear his voice, or brush against his sleeve gave rise to a sense of sick emptiness she couldn't shake off. Even the low whistle he was wont to launch into when puttering with his camera equipment had grown familiar to her--and very dear.

Distracted as she was, it was a moment or two before the import of Lottie's words sank in. "Why, that is the vocational school Lady Stonevale founded, is it not? I must admit to being skeptical at first--but from what I've heard the school does quite good work training former prostitutes for gainful employment."

Lottie nodded. "That is so, and by all accounts her ladyship retains the closest of ties with the school. Her sister-in-law serves as its headmistress, in fact. To be seen to support it can only help advance your cause. It is common knowledge Stonevale dotes on his wife as though she was a new bride rather than a matron of a quarter century. Who knows but you might just have the occasion to bend his lordship's ear in your favor."

Lord Stonevale was Simon Belleville, former MP for Maidstone in Kent. Years before he'd distinguished himself among his fellows by pushing to extend the borough franchise to increase representation among the townships. Only when his grandfather, the old earl, died did he leave the Commons to take his rightful place in the Lords, and then with regret. His word held tremendous sway with his colleagues in both Houses. Though a highly respected leader among the Conservatives, he'd been known to cross the floor on more than one occasion to back the opposition's bill when he deemed the cause to be just. The welfare and protection of women and children were particular concerns of his, or so Callie recalled.

Reaching across the table for a fresh stack of letters, Lottie elaborated, "It promises to be the charity event of the year. Oftentimes a change of scene can work wonders to elevate one's mood. Besides Stonevale and his lady, there will be any number of influential persons in attendance, including several Members of Parliament who have not yet taken a public position on the suffrage bill. It might well be that this is your golden opportunity to bring them around."

"I'll go, of course. I can't very well let my dear auntie attend unchaperoned, now can I?"

"Actually, I rather suppose it is I who will be chaperoning you and your escort."

That woke her up. "My escort?"

Lottie clucked her tongue. "It's a formal function, Callie. For a woman of your youthful years and position, you cannot very well go alone."

"But I won't be alone. I'll be with you."

Lottie finished wetting the postage stamp before answering with a shake of her head. "It's just not done, my dear. You're not on the shelf yet no matter how high you button your shirtwaists."

Callie grimaced. It was far too early in the day to reprise this old argument most especially when the problem was so easily solved. "Oh very well, if I must go, I suppose I shall ask Teddy."

Callie had expected the discussion to end there, but instead Lottie looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment before saying, "Is there no one else you might ask? You seem to spend a great deal of time these days with that nice young photographer."

Callie felt herself bristling, for hadn't Teddy said as much just the other day, but with a sobriquet other than "nice young photographer"? "I told you, Mrs. Fawcett commissioned him to make a portrait series of me. I am in the way of being his client. I can hardly impose on him to squire me about town."

Lottie tilted her head to the side, gaze piercing. "Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps Mr. St. Claire might wish to be imposed upon, as you put it, or that he might not necessarily view a pleasant evening spent in the company of a lovely, intelligent young woman as an imposition at all?"

She was about to demur when a thought, too awful to bear contemplation, hit her. "Lottie, you wouldn't dare."

"On the contrary, I would dare a great deal to see you happy. If losing the person I loved best on Earth has taught me anything, it is that life is entirely too short and too precious to waste on foolish pride--or brooding on past ills, for that matter." Her sharp-eyed gaze honed in on Callie's face. "Take a chance, Callie. Be brave in this as you are in so many other ways. Ask Hadrian St. Claire to be your escort."

Callie smiled, she couldn't help it. "Auntie, you have the face of an angel and the cunning of a fox. You ought to run for office yourself."

Lottie grinned from ear to ear. "Why, that's just what my dear Edward used to say."

"I say, mister, here's me and my mate wants our fotergruffs took; and mind, we wants 'em 'ansom, cos they're to give to two ladies."

--Punch,
"Photographic Beauties," 1858

C
harlotte Rivers was not the sort of woman who believed in leaving matters of the heart to chance. She'd married Callie's uncle, Edward Rivers, after contriving to get the poor, dear man drunk as David's sow and into her bed. Though he'd been too muzzy-headed to make so much as a move once he landed there, she'd been ruined all the same. Even that starchy family of his finally came around and agreed that a wedding was the only honorable recourse. So had commenced forty-odd years of connubial bliss.

So despite her promise to Callie to leave off meddling, the next afternoon she directed her carriage driver to let her off at Great George Street. Big Ben tolling out the hour, she came upon the shingled sign announcing H
ADRIAN
ST. C
LAIRE,
P
RACTICAL
P
HOTOGRAPHIC
A
RTIST.
Standing on the sidewalk, she peered through the plate-glass shop window, squinting to make out the small print of the framed advertisement.

A correct and lasting likeness!

Sitting generally occupies no more than one second.

Backgrounds representing a variety of landscapes, Grecian temple, the interior of a library, et cetera.

Price of a single portrait, usual size, one guinea. Portraits and groups taken on plates of an enlarged size. An immense stock of gold and bird's-eye maple frames to select from; also best silk velvet, fancy morocco cases, lockets, and brooches made expressly for portraits. Your absolute satisfaction guaranteed.

Displayed on the velvet-lined shelf were samples of the gentleman's work including pocket-sized photographs of the society models known as Professional Beauties. With the possible exception of Lady Katherine Lindsey, none of the young women depicted could hold a candle to her Callie. If only her niece would cease hiding her light under the proverbial bushel, or in Callie's case, those dreadful high-necked shirtwaists and monstrous hats. On the bright side, she had been leaving off the spectacles more often of late and wearing her pretty hair in a soft chignon rather than scraped back into that tight, unflattering bun. Might a certain photographer be the cause for these small transforming steps from caterpillar to butterfly? Lottie heartily hoped so but then there was only one way to find out for certain.

The shop bell gave off a soft tinkle as she stepped inside, the door falling closed behind her. She stood on the threshold a moment, surveying the scene from dusty glass counter to rustic worktable to bare floorboards. When no one approached, she cleared her throat.

The tall, broad-shouldered specimen of male stepping out from behind the curtained off area had her catching her breath. Now here was a man who knew his way around women, she could see that straightaway. Taking in his confident carriage, bedroom blue eyes, and sculpted features with a practiced eye, she only hoped for Callie's sake he wasn't a cad.

"Good afternoon, madam." Wiping his hands on his apron, he came toward her, rolled up shirtsleeves showing off strong forearms dusted with golden hair to match the thick mane curling about his collar.

Finding her voice, she said, "Mr. St. Claire, I presume?"

He hesitated as though not quite certain whether or not to own up to his name. "How may I be of service?"

"Actually I am here on behalf of my niece." She paused for effect before adding, "Caledonia Rivers."

Judging from the way his pupils widened, he was startled if only momentarily. "Callie's all right, isn't she?"

Lottie prided herself on her judgment of character and his concern certainly seemed genuine. And he'd said
Callie,
not Caledonia or Miss Rivers, another promising sign.

"Oh, she's well enough though she drives herself too hard by half, up until all hours of the night hammering out this article or that speech, then back at it early the next morning. And now, of course, there are her sessions with you." She recalled his advertisement's promise of a second's only sitting, and couldn't resist asking, "How is her portrait progressing? You two have been at it for some time now, nearly two weeks is it not?" Indeed, by now he should have taken enough photographs to fill several books if, indeed, photography was how they truly spent these so-called sessions of theirs. Lottie had her doubts.

His gaze shuttered. "It's to be a series of photographs, actually, and we are making headway, though she is still not altogether comfortable posing before the lens."

That she could well believe. "My niece has never had a proper appreciation for her looks. An unfortunate remark made long ago has put it into her head that she is plain when, I'm sure you will agree, nothing could be farther from the truth. Ah well, I am certain you do all that you can to put her at ease." Her gaze rested on his face, and though he didn't look away, she spotted a muscle jump in his jaw.

Recovering his smile, he invited her to sit. She started to refuse--really, Callie would have her head on a pike were she to catch her out--but before she could, he walked over to the pine table and drew out a chair for her. Resisting the urge to take out her hankie and dust off the rattan seat, she sat down.

He stripped off his apron and tossed it over his chair back. "May I get you some refreshment, tea or--"

She waved a hand in dismissal; she was on a mission, after all. "Thank you but no, I'm afraid I haven't the time. I only dropped by to invite you to a function."

Seated opposite her, he looked across the table's scarred surface, his handsome face an open question. "A function?"