He especially wondered why the portrait hung where he had to look at the damned thing all the time: beside the doors to the lift. Which was currently being operated by one of the footmen to bring Susanna Baird to the ground floor for dinner.
The lift wasn’t easy to operate, as the wheel that turned the gears that pulled the rope that hoisted the lift—and wasn’t that easy to keep in order?—had to be operated by someone outside. Someone other than the person using the lift. The device didn’t provide independence. But it did offer access, which had been lacking.
As soon as the footman fastened the rope that operated the hoist, Sir William dismissed him, then wheeled forward to confront Susanna. “You can’t be using my lift frivolously. I need it. You don’t.”
She looked down at him, but not by much. Susanna Baird wasn’t a tall woman, though her dignity was towering. “That’s not very gentlemanly of you. My ankle hurts all the time.”
“My legs don’t move any of the time.”
She folded her arms. “Do you really need your lift right now, or are you angry about something else?”
Damn these Baird women with their perceptive eyes. “I don’t need my motivations dissected.” He started to roll his wheelchair away, then saw inside the lift. A pile of papers had collected in the corner, and stacked atop was a broken spindle and a glass jar with buttons in it.
He cursed.
“Oh,” said Susanna. “You are angry about something else.”
“Many other things. Thousands of things right here in this house, Mrs. Baird.” He pointed into the little booth of a lift. “Some of them are right there.”
She eased her weight onto one foot, wiggling the other ankle with a crack of the joint. “You threw away that horse, Bridget’s Brown. Jonah saved it.”
“What relevance has that? He didn’t save Bridget’s Brown, and I never—”
“That’s what I’m trying to do with these things. The ones that bother you. They still have some use, and they could do some good.”
She sounded so certain that he had to look again. He leaned forward even, squinting to detect the purpose of these squirreled-away items. The buttons were pretty, he supposed, and useful for a seamstress. But the rest of it? No. It was a pile of rubbish, and it still looked like a pile of rubbish.
“Why do you collect so many things? You don’t even use them. You can’t.”
“They kept me safe,” she said simply, “when I thought I might lose everything. Do you know what it’s like to live around your family—people who’ve known you your whole life and who look like you when most people don’t—and then to lose that?”
He ran his hands over the rims of his chair’s wheels. “Not all of it. But the last part, yes. To fit and then not to fit anymore. Yes.”
“You bought your chair and a lift and a carriage that fits the way you want to travel,” she pointed out. “That’s not nothing.”
“Are you trying to comfort me?”
“Trying to make you count your blessings. Or your guineas.”
“I ought to make you count the number of things you’ve brought into my house,” he grumbled. “You can’t keep them here. Or in my study. Put them in your room, or wherever your husband’s staying.”
Her expression froze. “I don’t think Victor would like that.”
There was something strange about the man Victor Baird and his relationship with his wife. They acted fond, but the smile fell from her face whenever Victor looked away. Placating him? Yet the man was so jovial that he seemed pleased by everything.
Maybe he, Sir William, had forgot what it was like to be married. Maybe his late wife, Mariah, had been just the same as Susanna, saving all her joy for her expression and trusting he wouldn’t care about the state of her heart.
Maybe. But he didn’t think so. “Mrs. Baird, is everything all right with you and your husband?”
She drew a finger along the edge of Young William’s frame. “He’s my husband.”
“That’s not an answer, ma’am.”
“Why do you ask the question?”
“We’re family through our children’s marriage. And I care about your well-being.” He was surprised, a little, to realize that this was true. That his annoyance about her hoard existed alongside admiration for her wit—and her long-lashed brown eyes and voice like the burnt sugar on a cream custard.
“He’s my husband, and that means he’s the head of the family.” Her full lips tugged into a smile. “But I turned his head from the very beginning. I’m all right, Sir William.”
He wasn’t sure about that, but he had to respect her wishes. “You must do what you think best. I’ve no desire to come between a man and his wife.”
A lie, but a polite one.
This morning, he’d idly mentioned the possibility of marriage to Anne Jones, thinking it a solution to a problem already solved. She’d rejected the idea, but not because he used a wheelchair. He disliked the woman in many ways, but he liked her for that.
He looked up at carefree William Chandler in the painting, living with gusto and trusting in his own appeal. If a woman saw him unclothed now, what would she think of his body? His arms were more powerful than ever, but his legs had grown thin. He could see to his own hygienic needs and had been seeing to his own lusts for years too.
As a young man, he’d been inconstant. He’d been distracted by lust, prowling for flirtations and lovers. Now…he wasn’t. He didn’t think that way anymore. He could be around women without trying to persuade them into bed.
Sometimes he missed the old certainty that others would find him desirable.
“If you want to add that portrait to your collection of rescued items,” Sir William said, “I’m thinking of tossing it out.”
Susanna unbent a little. Smiled, even. “If you’re sure you don’t want it here anymore, I’ll find room for it in the attics.”
“What? Not in my study?”
“As you’ve told me often enough, your study’s already full.”
He swallowed a surprised laugh, trying for sternness. “I see we are in agreement. Shall we go in to dinner?”
She agreed, and they proceeded into the dining room. Dishes sparkled, silver gleamed, salvers were covered and ready to reveal the dishes beneath—and no one awaited.
Sir William beckoned Bright, who oversaw the serving of dinner. “What’s happened to everyone else? Are they away for the evening?”
The young butler explained that Victor and Jonah were with Bridget’s Brown, and Laurie was in his room, studying. “He has a library book, Sir William, that he wants to finish before it must be returned.”
Sir William lifted his brows. “Don’t any of them want to eat?” At Susanna’s shrug, he glanced at the clock above the fireplace. “We can wait for ten minutes, perhaps, before the meat gets tough.”
Bright looked pained. “I’ll tell the cook.”
As the butler left, Sir William motioned for Susanna to seat herself. “If it’s not too tempting to await the others without eating.”
“It’s fine. It feels good to sit.” As she eased into a chair, she sighed with relief.
“You had a difficult day at work?”
“They’re all difficult.” She pursed her lips. “Not that I mean to complain.”
“You’re not complaining. I asked.” In the absence of Bright, he filled her wineglass. “Tell me about your day at the shop.”
“Tell you about my day? Really?” When he nodded, she took a swallow of wine. “I started upstairs in the workroom where we sew, which was lucky. It has big windows, so our work is well lit, and in summer it gets hot as soup by the afternoon. One of the other seamstresses had taken the pattern book I needed because she got a rush order from a duchess, and a duchess must be accommodated.”
“They do prefer that.” Sir William poured a measured amount of wine for himself.
“So when the shop opened,” Susanna continued, “I went downstairs to sew there for the day. Have you ever b
een in a modiste’s shop?”
He searched his memory. “Can’t say I have. My wife managed our daughters’ clothing. My younger daughter has always favored riding habits made by my tailor.”
“It’s probably not too different. Stand on a pedestal and hold forth while an employee crouches at your feet, hemming and altering and absorbing your abuse.”
“Not quite how I handle the matter.” He patted the wooden rims of his wheelchair. “But I take your point.”
“Sorry. Right. I didn’t mean any harm.” She appeared embarrassed, inclined to retreat into silence.
“I didn’t assume you did.” As the others still hadn’t made an appearance, he poured her more wine and asked, “If you could do anything, what would you do? Would you still want to sew?”
She splayed her fingers. The skin was callused and nicked, some of the joints twisted. “I couldn’t sew forever. Can’t sew forever. I’m not sure whether my eyesight will give out first, or my hands will.”
“But your daughter said you’d a gift for it.”
“Every gift takes a toll.” She smiled ruefully. “I suppose if I could do anything—since I’m dreaming—I’d be the lady running the shop and telling the seamstresses what to do. I’d design the gowns and approve the finished work. Maybe sew a bit if something fine needed finishing. I think I could do that well and keep my health.”
“Then you should have your own shop,” he decided. “I can help you set it up.”
She laughed out loud. “Easy as that? Come now, Sir William. What women of fashion would seek me? They want white French ladies to design their gowns. I’m black, and I grew up in Shoreditch.”
“When they see how good you are, it won’t matter where you were born.”
Again, she laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Birth matters, Sir William. Do you really think you’d be in London right now if you weren’t wealthy, white, and male? You’d never be able to travel the country if you weren’t. You might not even have survived your illness.”
She wasn’t wrong. “Then take the chance I’m offering you.”
She looked into her wineglass. “What are you offering me? You don’t even want me in your lift.”
“No, nor in my study. I want you in a shop of your own—if that’s what you want.”
“Enough of my impossible dreams,” she said. “You can’t grant my wish. You can’t make this world be a place where someone like me owns a successful shop.”
“Can’t I?” His hands tightened on the rims of his chairs. “I don’t like being told there are things I can’t do, Mrs. Baird. And if that means the world has to change, then it will.”
“You believe that, don’t you? How nice for you.” Fingertips on the stem of her wineglass, she gave it a thoughtful half turn, then another. “Let me ask you the same thing you asked of me, Sir William. If you could do anything, what would you do?”
The movement of her fingers was mesmerizing. He let emotion answer rather than logic. “At the moment, I’d take your hand.”
This time when she laughed, she truly sounded amused. “Is that all? Take it, then.” She upturned her palm, extending it in his direction.
“I shouldn’t. You’re beautiful and skilled. And you’re married. Taking your hand is too much to wish for.” One corner of his mouth pulled up. Sometimes he thought he’d forgotten how to smile. “I used to set no limits on myself. Then, for some years, I set too many. Maybe I’ve finally learned balance.”
“I haven’t. I’ve just been told I’m going to have a shop of my own.” She took his hand. “There, your heart’s desire granted.”
Whatever the reason for her agreement, he liked the feel of her fingers in his. They were rough and strong, just right for the work she did. “I wish,” he told her, “I could grant yours as well.”
He pulled his hand from hers then and gulped at his wine. There was no time to say more, even if he’d known what to say, before the others entered the room for dinner.
***
The last week of term was passing in stacks of exams and essays, in conversations with tearful students and stalwart ones, in celebratory meals and little exchanged thank-you gifts.
For the first time, Irene wanted to put a halt to it all. Because for the first time, the end of term meant more than just a caught breath before the next mission.
She sighed, holding up her sewing to a lamp and trying to find where the stitching had gone wrong. This evening, she had the teachers’ parlor to herself, as Rebecca was teaching a physical defense class to the other staff. Irene had begged off, saying she didn’t feel well, and hoped the constrained tedium of sewing would help her organize her thoughts.
It wasn’t, really. It was making her want to pitch the whole fabric into the fire.
When Jonah returned to Newmarket, her marriage would end, unless she could sort out a way to go with him. She knew he didn’t want an annulment any more than she did, but what did it mean for their future if they were happy together only when they were alone? When they escaped their obligations?
She’d ask him for more time, that’s what she’d do. And if he wouldn’t agree, then she’d quit her work. It was fair. He’d waited for the promised amount of time, and Laurie was accepted into Harton, and…
It didn’t feel fair. But it was.
And it wasn’t as if Irene was vital to the academy, was it? Eli always hugged Irene when they encountered each other, but the child didn’t seem to need her. Soon Irene’s students wouldn’t need her either.
Maybe she really was sick. Her stomach churned; her eyes watered. She wasn’t with child, as she’d had her courses this week. If she were, that would decide the matter for her. She’d give up her work happily for the sake of a child.
Well, maybe not happily. But probably without regret. As it was, no one could decide what Irene was willing to give up except Irene herself. And she didn’t want to give up anything.
The threads were supposed to make a simple line, backstitched so the spaces between each stitch became invisible. Instead, they were crooked, and the back of the fabric showed frays and tiny knots.
She was debating between continuing on or snipping out the stitches and beginning again when a rollicking knock sounded at the parlor door. “Reenie, my girl!” Without awaiting a response, her visitor pushed the door open.
Irene sprang to her feet, sewing falling to the floor. “Father! What are you doing here?”
Victor Baird was at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy. Victor Baird had invaded her sanctum. What the devil…?
Fear clutched at her for an icy second. “Is Mama all right? Has something happened?”
Her father grinned at her. “She’s fine! Everything’s fine.” He loped across the little room to sit in the most comfortable chair by the fire, then motioned for Irene to sit facing him. “I just wanted to come visit my girl.”
Cautiously, she perched on the edge of her chair. “How are you here?”
“Laurie told me where you work. What a good boy he is! Always willing to help out his old dad.”
Ah. Hell. The harm was done, but Irene would have to warn Laurie against telling anyone else where she worked. Not that they had any other unaware and slightly unsavory parents to beware.
“How did you get through the academy security?”
He settled one ankle across his knee. “Told them I was your old dad and wanted to see you! I told them about Laurie too, and that convinced them. They all know Laurie here, do they?”
“They do.” She wasn’t satisfied with the footmen’s response. They should have checked with her before admitting a visitor, much less allowing him to roam the academy freely. Likely, Victor had talked at them until they’d been overwhelmed by the volume of words, ready to agree to anything.
Reluctantly, she picked up her sewing. It hadn’t repaired itself in the fall to the floor, and the needle had come off her thread. She retrieved it, debating whether to continue, then jabbed it into the fabric to await another fruitless se
wing session.
When she’d stowed the cloth in her workbasket, Victor was smiling at her. “You’re not the seamstress your mother is. I always knew you were more like me.”
“How so? Because we can’t set a sleeve into a bodice?”
He laughed. “Because our minds are too busy to use only our hands.”
“I’m using my hands because my mind is busy. Or I was trying to.”
“Want to tell your old dad about it?”
Absolutely not. “No, thank you. It’s something I need to sort out for myself.”
When he only nodded and let a long pause draw out, she knew he was preparing to broach the true purpose of his call.
“What’s on your mind?” she asked. Might as well get it out in the open quickly.
“Since you ask”—he looked pleased—“I’ve had an idea that’ll do us all a great deal of good. Cover Laurie’s tuition and more besides.”
“You’re talking about money? Are you going to pay back your investors from Barrow-on-Wye?”
“Sure! There’ll be profit enough for everything.”
There was a piece missing from this conversation. “But you need something to make this magical profit happen. From me?”
“Quick of mind.” He reached out, tugged at one of her curls. “It’s only a trifle. I need to borrow that horse Jonah bought. I’m in the way of being able to arrange a match race.”
She batted his hand away. “Talk to him about it, then.”
Victor shot her a look of pained patience. “I was hoping you would. He’s feeling cautious about the beast’s health, but, as you and I know, coddling someone never does them any good. It’s only when you push yourself that you learn what you can do.
“He’s done a good job with that horse, though. Bridget’s Brown is shod again, and we take him out for exercise every day. We always bring that dog that loves him—or we did, until today.”
Irene sat up straighter. “You mean the deerhound? Mouse? What happened to her?”
“Ah, well. She was a runaway, wasn’t she? Pure-blooded deerhounds don’t just appear as street strays. While we were out walking this afternoon, a man came over to talk about her. Thought she was the bitch that ran off from his litter a month ago, and sure enough, she went right away with him.”
His Wayward Bride (Romance of the Turf Book 3) Page 19
