‘Don’t talk rubbish, girl. He’s plump in the pocket. He wouldn’t want it to be seen his wife’s family were, ah, less than everything they should be. He can afford to help. He might be trade, but he’s as rich as Croesus.’
That was all that seemed to matter to her parent.
He wouldn’t be once you and my brothers got your hands on him.
‘No.’
Her father put his glass down on a table with a thump, and waggled his finger in front of Belinda’s face. ‘Now look here, my girl, you’ll marry him, or I have no daughter and you go. I can’t afford to keep you.’
When have you ever kept me? I earn my way and more. Belinda firmed her lips. She would not demean herself with a shouting match she would be sure to lose.
‘Now.’ He smiled as he obviously thought he had her over a barrel. ‘What do you say to that then, eh?’ He picked the glass up again, refilled it and drank once more, obviously assuming he’d had the last word. ‘I’ve told him three weeks. Time enough to call the banns.’
Belinda thought it was no wonder her father’s colour was always high and he complained of gout. With the amount of brandy he consumed, when he died there would be no need to preserve the body if it was so needed. It would already be pickled. The bodysnatchers would be able to sell it for a considerable sum, and the medical dissectors would have much to interest them. She’d point them in the correct direction.
Belinda stared at him until he coloured further, and twirled his goblet around in his hands. This man was the person who was supposed to look after her, keep her safe and make sure she had all she needed. Had he ever seen her as anything but an object to be used for his own gain? He’d muttered and moaned about the cost of her schooling, threatening her if she didn’t stop asking for clothes—a gown, one gown only a term—she’d be forced to leave. Until Belinda had discovered that in fact he couldn’t touch the money that paid for her lessons. It had been left in trust for just such an occasion. Even so, he’d brought her home to manage the household at the earliest opportunity. She’d become used to watching him and her brothers drink and gamble their way through what little money they had, dressed in finery that they still hadn’t paid for, whilst she made do and mended. It was lucky, Belinda thought, that she enjoyed all aspects of sewing, or she really would be in trouble.
‘Well?’ her father asked her irascibly. ‘Are you going to be sensible or…?’
‘Thank you—in my eyes, eminently sensible, in yours, perhaps not so. Some things are preferable than being forced to wed. And now, as I have no father, I can be honest. You, sir, are contemptible.’ For the first time during their interchange her father looked somewhat uncomfortable. Not for long. ‘I am, in your words, going to “or”.’
‘You should be horsewhipped for speaking to your father like that,’ he said in a fierce tone. ‘You’ll do as I say.’
‘But as you just informed me, you are no longer my father. Now, it is my pleasure, my total and utter pleasure, to be able to say to you, I feel well rid.’ Belinda curtsied putting every ounce of contempt she felt into the action before she straightened. She spun on her heel so forcefully her dress flew out and rocked the fire irons nearby as she turned her back on him. His cane missed her by inches as he threw it in her direction. As with his shooting, his aim was out. Without another word she picked up the cane and, with a strength she didn’t know she had, broke it in two and threw it on the fire.
Then she left the room, ran upstairs and ignored his enraged bellow of, ‘Get back here, young lady. You do as I say!’ Not any more.
Within half an hour she had left the house, carrying only the basic necessities. Her sewing kit, sketchbook and a miniature of her mother were packed in an old and patched carpet bag. In truth she had little else worth taking. None of her clothes would survive another wash, and her hairbrush had so few bristles it was better to finger comb her dark straw coloured locks.
Two hours after she had swept out of the house—via the front door, and under the worried gaze of the doorman for she refused to creep out like a thief in the night—she sat in the sitting room of Clarissa’s godmother’s London town house. She knew better than to go to Clarissa’s home. It was the first place her father would make enquiries. Her association with Lady L wasn’t one she had ever spoken about.
Belinda wasn’t sure that the fact Lady Lakenby was also Phillip’s godmother was a good or bad thing.
The room she rested in, tea in hand and a plate of tiny fancy cakes in front of her, was elegant, understated and homely. It was also usually a haven of peace and tranquillity. Not at that moment, however. Her hostess was enraged, and happy to show it. She stomped across the Axminster carpet and fisted one hand into the other, before she hit the mantelpiece with such a thump the cake plate slid several inches over the polished surface of the table, and the ormolu clock on the mantel jumped upward and rattled back down again. The minute hand slid down to indicate the number six and stayed there. Lady Lakenby ignored it and pointed her index finger at Belinda.
‘That apology for a man might be your father but he is rotten to the core, always has been. The males of the Howells family are all either tight as a duck’s arse or addlepated. He is both.’
Belinda saw the first glimmer of hope she’d experienced for several long weeks. Ever since her parent had spoken about how they needed money and fast, and hinted she was the way they would get it. Then told her how he expected her to behave and it had been the last straw. ‘He…’ What could she say? She agreed with the pronouncement. ‘I fear you are correct.’
‘I know I am, and you were right to come to me.’ Lady Lakenby harrumphed, and patted Belinda’s shoulder. ‘Now I’ll wait a while and send a message to Clarissa. Once we’re sure your father has been there and gone. Simms will go and loiter.’
The way she began to help went a long way to lift the heavy lump of fear in Belinda’s stomach. She knew she had been correct to think of Lady Lakenby as the first person she could approach to beg for help.
‘Now, child, we shall plot,’ Lady Lakenby declared, once her footman had been given orders on how to stake out Belinda’s father’s house. She pushed her turban back from her forehead in an impatient gesture. ‘Damn thing, why do I wear it?’
Belinda knew it to be a rhetorical question. Lady Lakenby took ideas into her head, and followed them until, as she said with a twinkle in her eyes, ‘The damn fool idiots think it’s the newest fad.’ Then she moved on.
‘I think we need to get you out of his reach,’ Lady Lakenby said. ‘He’ll immediately think of Clarissa and then it is easy for someone to remember me. You must disappear. It will annoy Cedric, and make him wonder when and where you will pop up like the skeleton at the feast, and it will give us time to decide the best way forward. Now let me see. Would you like to go to live at Sinton?’
‘Yes, who wouldn’t? However, as much as I adore your country house, I will not,’ Belinda said resolutely. ‘Well,’ she tempered her refusal, ‘not permanently. I need to earn my living.’ She stood up and began to pace the room. ‘As I walked away from my father’s house I vowed never again to be at the mercy of a man. I will make my own way in this world.’
‘How?’ Lady Lakenby, always known to her god-daughter Clarissa and therefore to Belinda as Lady L, asked placidly. She seemed much more composed now she had ideas and plans and had decided how best to carry them out. ‘Sit down for heaven’s sake. You’re giving me a crick in my neck looking up at you, to say nothing of making me giddy following you around the room. What are your skills?’ She cackled with laughter. ‘Apart from upsetting your fool of a father.’
‘To do so is not a skill, it seems it was my purpose in life. A very easy one. Apart from that? I can sew. Very well as it happens.’ Belinda gestured towards her shabby gown. ‘Not that this shows my sewing skills, but it does advertise my patching and darning ones. I’d like…’ Belinda hesitated, and then rushed on. ‘Mad though it may seem, I’d like to make apparel for the ton.
But not just for anyone, only for a very few. A select and chosen few. To be the one person people yearn to have a garment made by.’ She sat down on the nearest chair with a thump that rattled the cups on a nearby table. ‘Incognito.’
‘Oh yes.’ Clarissa entered the room just to hear the last remark. ‘Incognito. Dressed by Belle.’
‘I expect I’ll need to go somewhere unassuming like Leamington Spa, or Bath where the tabbies are,’ Belinda said, with less enthusiasm than she had for the idea in general.
Lady L looked thoughtful. ‘You could do that,’ she said slowly. ‘But you know if you are going to hide, ’tis best to hide in full sight. Here in London I think. Oh yes indeed, we can manage that with ease. Dressed by Belle is the perfect designation for the way your clothes will be known to all and sundry. A label to aspire to acquire.’ She smiled delightedly. ‘All is coming together now. Clarissa, ring for the Madeira and then please inform the staff we leave for Sinton in the morning. It is time for us to put our heads together and plot. Belinda—no—henceforth you will be called Belle. Belle, how is your French?’
* * *
Six months later, Belinda hummed as she put the last stitches into a frilly and very feminine evening cloak to be used as a teaser to draw ladies’ attention to her work. Clarissa, who had arrived unexpectedly a few hours earlier, looked up from the book of sketches she was studying closely.
‘These are marvellous you know, Bel. Your talent holds no bounds. This chemise? The one with the scalloped hem? It is outstanding. Sexy hinting of all things arousing but demure and innocent. I love it.’
‘Good.’ Belinda snipped off her thread and held the cloak in the air to see it better. ‘I designed it with you in mind.’
Clarissa blinked and went into peals of laugher. ‘To drink my chocolate and talk to the cat in? That’s the only picture I can foresee. And happy I am with it. Men are nothing but trouble.’
‘Hmm.’ Belinda decided that one day soon Clarissa would receive a rude awakening. Her father was too prominent in the ton to be allowed to keep the status quo, surely? ‘I’m sure the cat will appreciate it. But if not, well one day maybe someone else will.’
‘Put it in your portfolio,’ Clarissa advised. ‘That way it will see the light of day. Or should I say light of the candle?’
Belinda laughed and shook her head. ‘Incorrigible.’
‘Oh yes. Oh and I meant to say, Lady L should be here soon.’
‘Lady L is here,’ the lady in question retorted as she erupted—there was no other word for it—through the doorway from the hall, and discarded her pelisse by throwing it over a chair back. ‘Did she forget to tell you?’ she asked Belinda in French.
Belinda grinned and answered in the same tongue. ‘We got carried away with flounces and scalloped hems.’
‘Slow down when you talk, you two,’ Clarissa pleaded. ‘I’m a novice in French compared to you both. I didn’t forget so much as I got distracted. Well, Godmama, so would you be, with this.’ She held the chemise up. ‘Isn’t it perfect?’
‘Perfect,’ Lady L agreed with satisfaction. ‘Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I think you’ve achieved everything necessary. I believe it is time for Belinda to return to the capital, with the new persona of Madame Belle. Your French, ma p’tite, has improved beyond all recognition.’
It was true. Belinda and Lady L spoke in that language constantly. Even Clarissa now professed herself to be proficient, and she had, as she cheerfully admitted, no aptitude for languages other than her mother tongue.
During those happy months spent at Lady L’s country house, Belinda had hardly had time to think. Most of the time, either Clarissa, Lady L or both of them were there with Belinda and provided willing bodies to be dressed. Every time one of them appeared, they brought with them bolts of silk and lace and anything else they or Belinda thought might be useful.
‘The shoes are ready?’ Lady L asked. ‘You have enough pairs to begin with? Do you need more? She had sought the help of the local shoemaker who was now contracted to make footwear for Belle, and the comfortable but fashionable boots and shoes she wore were testimony to the fact that his work was well above average. To be able to offer that extra service was ideal.
‘Certainly enough for now, and Jones has the templates ready for whichever are needed next. We’re as ready as we can be. I have a book of sketches, enough silks, satins and whatever to create several wardrobes.’ She thought for a moment. ‘All I need now is customers and somewhere for a salon and workshop.’ That was the one thing that gave her sleepless nights. Where would her customers find her?
Belinda had practised her designs on both Lady Lakenby and Clarissa, as well as creating new work clothes for the servants and the best clothes Lady L gave them as part of their Christmas box. Belinda was relieved when all were received with pleasure. Belinda waited with bated breath as Clarissa and Lady L wore her designs to one event or another in London and then reported back to her how much they had been admired. Gradually she’d learned how to add her own special touch to clothes so they would be recognisable as a gown, or pelisse or whatever, made by Belle.
Belinda hadn’t missed the city at all, working diligently to increase her basic stock—the gowns and undergarments to show prospective clients her work—and accepted Lady L knew best. Each item of clothing had footwear to go with it, and Lady L said forcibly that anyone who balked at buying that as well as the garment didn’t deserve to be accommodated again.
‘Well ’tis but three weeks to the start of the season and I have news,’ Lady L said triumphantly. ‘I’ve found your premises.’
Belinda jumped as her heart missed a beat. ‘Pardon?’
‘The perfect spot for your salon. And I’ve taken the liberty of arranging the paperwork to buy it.’
‘But…’ Belinda began to speak as Lady L held her hand in the air in an imperious manner. ‘No more—don’t argue, child, it’s so wearying. It’s done and it is in your name. Saves me trying to explain why I’ve left half my fortune to you.’ Lady Lakenby held her hand up again, as Belinda knew her jaw dropped.
‘You…t…’ she stuttered as her mind became blank. ‘You can’t.’
‘Don’t be stupid, of course I can. There are only three people who matter to me. Phillip, who wants for nothing and whose fortune is more than enough, Clarissa and you. Phillip has long known he’ll get the long case clock and all the books in the study, and he is satisfied with that. Clarissa agrees with me that you should get half of the rest and everything is tied up tighter than a gnat’s cravat.’
Clarissa nodded enthusiastically. ‘Although I do wonder at your turn of phrase, Godmama. A gnat’s cravat indeed.’
‘Better than a duck’s arse or some such thing. Now that is vulgar,’ the lady replied with a smirk. ‘Right, so listen well, both of you. No one will be able to get their hands on what is yours. If you try to pass it to anyone, other than a child of your own or failing that the offspring of one of the others, it will all go to a home for cats. In your case, Belinda, so will your cottage.’
‘What?’ Belinda blinked and held on to the elbow-height cabinet for support. Where did Lady L find her expressions? However, that was the least of her thoughts—she was more concerned with the majority of Lady L’s statement. ‘I what?’
‘You need a bolthole. As much as I love having you here, I know you would adore somewhere to call your own. Honeysuckle Cottage is that somewhere.’
Belinda sat down with a thump. ‘That’s not a cottage, it’s a house.’ It was also gorgeous. And it was hers? Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. This unconditional love was something she would never take for granted.
‘Don’t quibble. It is also yours. Now, hold fast, don’t go dashing off to look at it—not yet.’
Belinda’s vision was blurry, and she had bitten her lip so hard, to stop herself crying with joy, that she had punctured the skin, but nevertheless she smiled. She hadn’t moved.
‘Hear me out,’ L
ady L said. ‘Then you can dash off, dance around the rose bush or whatever, but do not jump into the fountain naked. It’s bloody cold, the bottom is slimy and the servants do look askance when you do.’
‘Lady L.’ Belinda giggled until tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘You haven’t.’
Lady L winked. ‘No? Ah well you youngsters are so staid compared to me and my compatriots. Now where were we? Ah yes. Belle’s salon will be in Bruton Street, where only the best will survive. You are the best. And as I know full well what a worrywart you are, it’s a big enough building for you to live very comfortably over the shop so to speak. Don’t you dare cry, Belle, or I will and that will ruin my rouge.’
She patted Belinda’s shoulder. ‘There now. I must get used to calling you Belle, eh? Just pour three glasses of Madeira, so we can celebrate, and then we’ll see how soon we can get back to London and start the next phase of your journey to become the best shared secret in the ton.’ She smiled mischievously. ‘Oh after you’ve decided what furnishings in Honeysuckle Cottage are not to your liking, of course. I know you youngsters, your ideas are probably much too outré for me.’ Lady L gave a barking laugh, as she contradicted herself. ‘In furnishings anyway.’ The cat, which had been snoozing on the hearthrug, opened one eye and closed it again. He was well used to his mistress’s ways.
Lady L winked. ‘In all seriousness, Belinda, if you don’t like the way I furnished it, it is of no consequence. However, I thought that if you want to retire there at any time you can. Mrs Perris will keep an eye on it for you, and Violet and young Bessie are to be available whenever you want them. All are very happy with that arrangement. But mind, no stealing my housekeeper.’
Belinda giggled, sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, before she poured Madeira into crystal goblets. ‘As if I would, or could for that matter. All your staff are incredibly loyal, which is how it should be. Ah, Lady L, I do love you so. But are you sure?’
The Rake's Unveiling of Lady Belle Page 2
