The Heart of a Bluestocking

by Renée Dahlia

  ‘Books with happy endings must have deep emotions. In fact, you can’t believe a happy ending unless the emotional journey is strong.’ She couldn’t believe he would wave away her favourite books with such flippancy. And to think she’d nearly kissed him. She raised her chin. ‘I suppose you think that writers like Austen are simple and easy too?’

  ‘No, I don’t think that. I haven’t read one, so I wouldn’t dare to judge.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose,’ she said.

  He ignored her surly comment and collected a few pieces of paper from the small wooden desk in the corner of the room.

  ‘Here, this is the paper the post office had on file,’ he said, and passed her the paper. She scanned it quickly and bit back a gasp.

  ‘Yes. That’s definitely Father’s billhead paper.’ She rubbed the paper between her fingers, then held it up to the light. ‘You see, it has the watermark of our Manchester factory, and it’s the right weight of paper.’

  ‘Wedsley guessed correctly then?’

  ‘Who? Oh, the officer who arrested Father. Yes. Now that I see this, I can see why he took that step. If that paper is forged, it’s an excellent copy.’ She sat in an elegant chair. The intricately carved armrests were not welcoming, so she folded her hands into her lap and twisted them together. The faint smell of beeswax from the furniture polish reminded her of her father’s office. She wanted to slump in the chair, defeated.

  ‘How hard would it be to steal one of these pieces of paper?’ he asked.

  She straightened, tapping her fingers on her thigh.

  ‘Quite simple, I’d say. Father has many visitors in his office, and often Clemton, the butler, leaves people to wait in there for him. He usually leaves a footman with the guest, and I’d hate to think that one of our footmen would let someone take a piece of paper. But then, if a person was clever enough, they could make a simple enough reason for requiring paper …’ She let her voice fade away.

  ‘And I assume your footmen are trained to be helpful, so a visitor would only need to ask to gain what they require.’

  ‘Yes.’ She shot to her feet with her hands extended in front of her. Her pulse quickened. ‘And I don’t recognise the handwriting. We will need to quiz the staff, and get a list of visitors over the past month.’

  ‘Two months, perhaps. This scheme has been in the planning for some time.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Wil sauntered into the library. ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just here for a book.’ He picked up a novel from a side table and turned to leave.

  ‘I will come with you,’ said Claire. Wil’s sudden interruption made her realise that she’d been alone with a man, breaking her own rules. Rules that she’d self-imposed for her own safety. She sucked in a quick breath through her nostrils.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Howick. And good hunting.’ She tucked her hand onto her brother’s arm, and tried not to bolt from the room. She never broke that rule, not for anyone. She’d always kept a footman with her when she’d needed to discuss anything privately with someone. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as her mind raced with all the possibilities. How could she be so stupid? What was it about Mr Howick that fooled her into thinking he was safe?

  ***

  Claire shook out her chartreuse silk dress as she stood outside the dining room. She hoped it would provide adequate armour for the evening. With elbow length sleeves, extended half way down her forearms with lace cuffs, the dress had glass beads in the bodice and exquisite floral embroidery. Thankfully, the bustle of the last few years was reducing in size, and the fad for the three-quarter overskirt had simplified. This gown had long, simple lines, enhanced by crisp pleats from the waist line that graced her hips before falling to the ground. A large bow sat upon her small bustle, and a diagonal line of flowers fell from there around and down to her toes. The gown had a high neckline, reaching almost to her throat, and she had hung three strings of pearls over the gown. With matching chartreuse gloves, Claire loved the way the soft colour shimmered against her plain brown hair. She held her chin high, ready to do battle with her unruly emotional response to Mr Howick. She pushed open the door, and entered.

  Lord Dalhinge, Mr Howick and Wil stood in one corner of the room, each holding a wine goblet. She barely registered the presence of the other two, drawn to the sight of Mr Howick in formal attire. The tailored jacket with long tails emphasised the width of his shoulders and his narrow hips, while the crisp linen shirt peeking out from under his blue silk waistcoat gave him an air of containment. He’d removed his glasses, and the lack of barrier to his eyes made Claire swallow. His slightly too long hair added personality to his perfect attire. Her fingers tingled at the thought of running them through his black hair, especially the way it fell into a wave around his ears. He smiled at her, and a soft warmth filled her belly.

  ‘Come in, Dr Carlingford,’ he said. His voice rumbled across the room towards her, and she walked towards him. As she approached, a hint of malt and hops mingled with the floral scents of the huge arrangements on the dining table. How unfair that he smelled like the ingredients for beer? The heady punch of hop flowers, and the deep sweet molasses scent of malt reminded her of visits to her father’s brewery as a child. How was she to resist that? All her hard-fought boundaries were being nibbled away by him in a gentle fashion, like water wears away stone slowly over time. She rested her hand on the back of a chair, pausing in her walk towards the group where he stood. She wanted to believe that this was just a consequence of being ill, that she would get over this, but she knew in her heart that it wasn’t true. Every time they spoke, the tangling of their thoughts called to her with a freshness. He kept a physical distance, even though his eyes spoke volumes as they caressed her, sweeping heat over her skin. Her vivid imagination wondered what he’d feel like if he unleashed that heat onto her skin with his touch. If he kissed her, like he’d promised in the library this afternoon. Her fingers clenched on the cool wood of the chair, and she cleared her throat.

  ‘Are you well enough for dinner, sister dear?’ asked Wil. She blinked, let go of the chair, and straightened her shoulders.

  ‘I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for asking.’

  ‘Back to what you said about Lord Crabbendale and his cohorts, their veneer of politeness doesn’t hide their distasteful ideas,’ said Mr Howick.

  Dalhinge nodded.

  ‘Yes, there are many of the peerage who are only polite out of necessity of position,’ said Dalhinge. Claire’s gaze flicked between the two brothers, and then to Wil, as their conversation returned to what they’d discussed before she’d arrived.

  ‘Honesty, even hurtful honesty, is more admirable?’ she asked unable to withhold her curiosity.

  ‘Life, and people, are complicated. The peerage doesn’t like change, and they don’t like to be pushed outside their comfort zone,’ said Dalhinge.

  ‘No wonder their estates are falling into disrepair. The world has moved on beyond the old power structures of the peerage,’ said Wil, echoing her thoughts.

  ‘In some respects, yes. However, the House of Lords has veto power over the House of Commons, so the lawmaking power remains with the peerage,’ said Howick.

  ‘And I am just one voice among many,’ said Dalhinge, pre-empting Claire’s question.

  The door swung open, and in walked a tall liveried servant whose dark ebony skin reminded her of the grocer back home in Pennsylvania. A chill raced across her throat as she recalled the argument she’d had with her mother as a naïve child.

  ‘But their produce is fresher. Why must we go to Mr O’Reilly’s store instead?’ Her mother had grabbed her arm, pinching her flesh and dragging her away.

  ‘We don’t buy from the Negros. O’Reilly might only be Irish, but he’s our type of person.’

  Claire squeezed her eyes shut to shun the memory. She opened her eyes as Wil leaned in close and whispered in her ear. ‘Dalhinge has spectacular taste in footmen, and his butler is the most striking of all. D
o you know he chose the livery specifically for Jackson’s colouring?’ She glanced at Wil, and raised her eyebrows at the heightened colour in his cheeks.

  ‘Yes, Jackson,’ said Dalhinge. He left their small group and walked towards the livered servant.

  ‘Jackson is the butler,’ Howick whispered in her other ear, as he stood beside her. A ripple of warmth traversed down her neck as a zephyr of his breath seemed to touch her. She nodded slowly.

  ‘Shall I call for the first course to be served?’ said Jackson. Dalhinge leaned in to whisper to Jackson, and a fierce conversation happened between them before Dalhinge nodded.

  ‘Let us all be seated,’ he said. Jackson left the room, and the footman followed. Howick pulled out a chair, and waved in Claire’s direction.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She gathered her vast skirts and sat down. Howick brushed his hand across her shoulder. Accidentally? Or on purpose? Either way, she couldn’t stop a shiver at his touch through the layers of silk.

  Several minutes later, Jackson re-entered the room, and spoke again under his breath to Dalhinge.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Dalhinge to the room. ‘Please enjoy the repast tonight. A small matter calls me away.’ He bowed his head, and walked out, past Jackson who held the door for him. As Jackson followed Lord Dalhinge from the room, Wil’s face drained of colour. The door stayed open, and a parade of footmen brought the first course.

  ‘It’s nothing of that nature,’ said Howick cryptically, and Claire frowned as Wil nodded gratefully in his direction. The comment rattled around her skull like a puzzle with pieces missing. Surely it had nothing to do with her brother’s preferences. He was too clever to let those be known in such company. She drew a deep breath in through her nostrils, and the rich aroma of smoked fish swirled up. She glanced down at her plate. A small roasted beetroot stood bright in the centre of the plate, with a strip of smoked fish curled around it, and a collection of baby basil leaves atop an onion chutney added to the artistry. She sliced into the smoked fish, and slid a piece onto her fork. As she slipped the fish into her mouth and salty taste exploded on her tongue, the door burst open, and Dalhinge rushed in looking unusually frazzled. His jacket was unbuttoned, and his cravat loose, as though he’d been running, and his hair appeared to have been attacked by his own fingers.

  ‘You are a doctor, no?’ he said.

  Claire blinked and half stood. ‘Yes. Does someone require assistance?’ she said.

  Dalhinge stared wide-eyed around the room. ‘Not here. Come,’ he said.

  Claire leapt up with her skirts swishing around her legs.

  ‘You two. Stay. Enjoy.’ And with that pronouncement, Dalhinge left the room.

  Chapter 9

  Claire hitched up her skirts, and ran after Dalhinge, whose long legs ate up the distance of the hallway. Her breath laboured as her corset restricted her intake, yet she forced herself to keep up with him. It must be an emergency if the normally staid Dalhinge rushed like that. Her lungs and legs started to burn. How big was this house? The peerage and their ridiculous old mansions. And still, she ran on. Dalhinge tugged open a door, and held it for her.

  ‘Through here,’ he said with ragged breaths. She could only nod, and continue to follow him along a much narrower hallway, and down an awkwardly small staircase, obviously designed for servants, not someone in an evening dress with full skirts. She grasped the handrail in one hand, and bunches of her silk skirts in the other hand, holding them out of the way of her feet. As she negotiated each narrow step, she heard a loud scream, and quickly picked her way down towards that noise. Someone really needed her help. Dalhinge held open a doorway, and she brushed past him to enter.

  A labouring woman lay on the bed, drenched in sweat, with dark rings under her eyes. Claire stared around the room and quickly took in all the relevant details. The butler, Jackson, stood beside the bed, his huge hands gently cradling the woman’s head. Claire hauled in a breath, and another, until she had enough breath to speak.

  ‘No doctors,’ growled the butler.

  ‘Jackson. Your wife is in agony. She needs someone,’ said Dalhinge.

  ‘No. We will take our chances without any butcher.’ Claire ignored the slight to her profession—she’d heard it many times before after all—and closed her eyes for a second as her lungs burnt for air.

  ‘First, we need clean towels, and clean, hot water,’ she said, her voice ragged as she panted. ‘You—’ She pointed to Jackson. ‘You will take off your jacket and wash your hands and arms thoroughly with soap and hot water. If you intend to stay, you will be hygienic.’ No-one moved. ‘Go,’ she yelled at Dalhinge. ‘I won’t examine her until I am also clean.’ Dalhinge ran out of the room, just as another contraction hit the poor woman and she screamed in agony. The butler’s huge hands stroked his wife’s forehead. Claire waited until the contraction subsided.

  ‘What is her name?’ she asked.

  ‘Harriet,’ he said.

  ‘After Harriet Tubman?’ she asked.

  ‘You know our story?’ he said, his eyes wide.

  ‘Not much, but I do like to read about brave women, and Tubman certainly fits that bill,’ she said. He nodded slowly, and Claire hoped that the small connection, thanks only to her reading the news-sheets from her homeland of America, would allow him to let her help his wife. ‘Is this Harriet’s first child?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The first is usually the hardest work. How long has Harriet been labouring?’

  ‘It came on slowly yesterday evening. It’s been getting rapidly worse in the last two hours,’ he said.

  She rubbed her forehead. It was impossible to tell without an examination, but it sounded textbook so far. Certainly not the emergency that Dalhinge had described.

  ‘The pains. How far apart are they now?’ she asked.

  ‘Too often. I don’t know. This is too early, she shouldn’t have started for another few weeks,’ he said.

  ‘Estimating arrival dates is an inexact science,’ she said. The door opened again, but rather than the hot water she was expecting, Mr Howick entered. Her breath hitched, and her already too tight corset grew uncomfortable. ‘I don’t think poor Harriet requires a cast of thousands to watch this process,’ she said, using sarcasm as a weapon against his masculine presence in the small room.

  ‘My apologies. I just wanted to ensure that Jackson hadn’t frightened you away,’ he said.

  She snorted. ‘Since you are here, there is one thing, no, two things, that I require. Jackson needs a watch to time the gap between pains,’ she said. Harriet started to moan, the noise ramping up into a scream.

  Mr Howick’s eyes widened. ‘Is that normal?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. It’s going to get worse than this, but there are a few things I can do to help her, if Jackson allows.’ After several minutes the pain abated, Harriet closed her eyes and her head rolled backwards against Jackson’s hand.

  ‘Here. Jackson, have my watch. Dr Carlingford says you need it, and I trust her in this area,’ said Howick. Claire’s mouth dropped open at the easy praise, and she had to force herself to keep her focus on her patient. Mr Howick unclipped his watch and handed it to Jackson. ‘You said you required two things?’ he asked. She turned towards him only to see his dark eyes staring at her. She hesitated. Her request was purely practical, a simple matter to allow her to breathe, as well as to preserve the expensive gown she wore, but the thought of Mr Howick assisting her made her already rapid breath shallow, and her skin hot. She cleared her throat. Harriet must come first, modesty could wait, and she simply couldn’t work in this voluminous gown with its tight lacing. She tugged off her gloves, and hung them over the back of a chair at the edge of the room. Her fingers trembled, stumbling as she started to undo the buttons down the front of her bodice.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Mr Howick, his voice raspy.

  ‘I cannot work in an evening gown. Don’t panic. With the multitude of petticoats underneath, I will be modest enough for thi
s purpose,’ she said, as she continued to unbutton. She tugged off the bodice, pulling her arms out, and hung it over the same chair as her gloves. She let out a shaky breath, as she stood there in her corset with a simple linen cover. Modesty shouldn’t matter when she had a patient in need of her help.

  ‘If you could untie that large ribbon,’ she said. Mr Howick came close enough that she could feel his breath warm on the back of her neck, but his fingers didn’t touch her as he helped untie the large train that created most of the volume in her outfit. He stepped away, taking his breath with him, and she freed the long ribbon from around her waist to allow the overskirt and attached train to fall free. She stepped forward.

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Jackson. His voice punched the tension between her and Mr Howick.

  ‘Ahh, just the trickiest part to go,’ she said. She’d mostly recovered from her sprint down the hall, but her breath was still shallow and her voice tight. She had to loosen this corset, the tight lacing for dinner wasn’t going to allow her to help Harriet when she most needed it. The thought of Mr Howick’s hands on her lower back as he loosened her lacing, made her face heat. She glanced at Jackson, grateful to have other people present.

  ‘I will need more movement. If you could just loosen my corset lacing … I mean, there is no need to undo it completely.’ Her face burnt bright hot.

  ‘I can call for a maid, if you prefer,’ said Mr Howick. She didn’t get to answer as another labour pain hit Harriet, and her screams filled the room. The door opened again, and three maids entered carrying buckets of steaming hot water.

  ‘Here you are, Miss. Where do you want them?’

  ‘Just there will be fine. Out of the way of the door, and away from the bed.’

  ‘I will leave you,’ said Mr Howick with a nod. Claire barely gave him a glance as she focused on her work, giving orders to the maids. One of them loosened her laces, just the perfect amount, while she scrubbed her arms. She stepped forward to examine Harriet.