To the accompaniment of these and many other street cries, the bearers carried the sedans beneath the fairy-tale arch of Lincoln’s Inn Gate, along the pathway through broad fields studded with wildflowers to Holborn, and then on to the magnificence of the Strand.
Juliana peered through the closed curtains, which protected her from rude stares, to ensure the men halted near the intricately carved, gilded sign of the famous jeweller, Pierre Valere.
For now, she must set aside her considerations of the possibility that Mister Seymour was participating in treasonable activities. Later, she would reflect more deeply on an explanation, and the possible threat to her safety.
She retreated into the past. Her father had found it convenient to shop in the bustling Strand, no more than a mile from his house near St. James Palace. On her fourteenth birthday he introduced her to Maitre Valere, who, Father said, produced some of the best jewellery ever seen at court.
The men put down the sedan chair, and her thoughts returned to the present.
“Mistress Kemp.” Mister Seymour opened the door and then helped her out.
Her breath came and went unevenly. Juliana found it impossible to put aside all thought of his treasonable activities. She chose her words with care in the hope that if she confided in him he would reciprocate. “Like my late mother, Pierre Valere is a Huguenot. My father sympathised with immigrants of her persuasion, who lost all their worldly goods. He contributed generously to the relief fund administered by the French Committee.”
“Commendable,” Mister Seymour murmured, a puzzled crease forming between his eyebrows as though he wondered why she mentioned the subject.
She stared into Seymour’s bright blue eyes to gauge his reaction. “Indeed, one of the few attributes of the late King William, which Father applauded, was His Majesty’s sympathy for Mother’s compatriots. It led to the king, and his queen, setting up The Royal Bounty for the benefit of Huguenot refugees. Yet, I suppose a gentleman of your persuasion has no sympathy for Huguenots, therefore, you would not contribute to their welfare.” She continued staring into his eyes with the hope he would be honest about his allegiances.
He laughed. “Which persuasion? What do you mean?”
“Oh, naught in particular, why should you consider their plight? I am sure they are of no interest to you.” Before she could say more, the attractive dimples, which deepened on either side of his mouth whenever he smiled or laughed, distracted her.
A tall, gangling apprentice opened the door. He bowed. “Maitre Valere bids you welcome, monsieur, madame.”
“Come.” Mister Seymour looked a little puzzled while he guided her into the shop, its interior lightened by a profusion of mirrors to compensate for the lack of windows. “The candlemakers certainly benefit from the window tax,” he remarked pleasantly.
Valere, a robin of a man with shiny black eyes, clad in a brown suit and a flame-red embroidered waistcoat, greeted them. “This way,” he said, ushering them into his immaculate office. “’Eet is my pleasure to see you, Mademoiselle.” Valere indicated her mourning. “And ’eet was with deepest sympathy for you zat I ’eard of your loss. Now, sit, if you please.”
Valere’s shrewd eyes examined Mister Seymour with discretion even as he ordered his apprentice to fetch coffee.
The youth withdrew. Valere turned his attention to Juliana. “Now, Mademoiselle, what can I do for you? ’Ave you come to collect ze diamond pendant your revered father commissioned?”
She shook her head. “No, I have come on a different matter.” She removed her pearl earrings before unfastening the clasp of her necklace. “Will you purchase these?”
Valere took a deep breath. “’Eet is true, Monsieur le Baron was one of my best customers.” He examined the pearls. “’Eet is also true zat ’e was a generous father.” For the briefest second, his eyes softened. “Are you sure you wish to sell zem? You ’ave less important pieces in your collection.”
Damn William. Damn him for reducing her to such circumstances.
“Yes, I do want to sell them.”
The jeweller ran the pearls through his fingers. He looked up. “Zere is little demand for pearls.”
“Maitre.” The apprentice put a silver tray on one side of the ivory inlaid desk and then poured fragrant coffee into expensive blue and white Chinese dishes.
“Mistress Kemp,” Mister Seymour commenced, “business should not be discussed while I savour this excellent coffee. Please do me the favour of going into the shop and choosing a gift for a new-born baby.”
Whose baby was the gift for? Was Mister Seymour married? Faint at the idea, she took an unmannerly gulp of the coffee to revive herself. “Why do you want me to choose it?” she protested.
“Please, Mistress Kemp, do as I ask.”
Lips pressed tight together, she withdrew, inwardly infuriated by his order, yet too well-bred to protest in the presence of those of an inferior station in life.
The apprentice showed her gold rattles and ivory teething rings. Remembering how much Henrietta enjoyed playing with her rattle when she was a baby, she chose one inlaid with turquoise and coral. Still angry because of Mister Seymour’s peremptory dismissal, she returned to the office.
After she sat down on a chair opposite his desk, she nibbled a delicate almond biscuit while Valere rested his elbows on the table and pressed the tips of his fingers together. “I ’ave examined your earrings and necklace, Mademoiselle. Although zere is not as much demand for pearls as zere is for precious stones, zey are a good investment. So, I am pleased to offer you one zousand guineas for zem.”
So much? She had only expected to receive half the sum, or less. After she took care of her other business, the money would provide for her own and Henrietta’s immediate needs.
“I am pleased to accept your offer, Valere,” she said with great relief.
“Bon, I will lodge ze money with Child, your late father’s goldsmith in Lombard Street.”
“Thank you.”
“’Ere is your receipt, Mademoiselle. Now, please be good enough to give me your direction. I will send you ze necessary letter of introduction to Monsieur Child.”
“Thank you,” she repeated. She turned to Mister Seymour to show him the rattle. “Does this please you?”
He nodded and then paid for it before they left the shop.
* * * *
What connection did Monsieur Seymour have to Mademoiselle Kemp? Pierre Valere shrugged. Perhaps he could guess, but no matter, it was not his business. He returned to his office.
If Mademoiselle’s fortunes changed in future, she might be as good a customer as her late father. What of the pendant her father commissioned? Valere rubbed his hands together. In future, who would be the better customer, Mademoiselle Kemp, or her brother? For the moment, it seemed the baron would be. Could he be persuaded to purchase the pendant?
Monsieur trimmed his goose feather quill and dipped it in the inkpot. He must be subtle. First he would remind Lord Kemp that his late father took as much delight in seeing his womenfolk arrayed in costly silks and jewels as the third King William took in seeing Queen Mary arrayed in splendour.
He smiled. By informing Monsieur le Baron of Mademoiselle’s sale of her pearls, perhaps he would be of service to her—and surely the baron would not want it known that his sister was reduced to selling her jewellery. Most likely, he would rush to her assistance, thus earning Mademoiselle’s gratitude for drawing her brother’s attention to her plight.
* * * *
Juliana stepped out of the sedan chair outside her lodgings. “Mister Seymour,” she began after he paid for their transport, “thank you for escorting me to Valere’s, but I cannot refrain from expressing my displeasure over your summary dismissal. It might have jeopardised my bargaining with him, besides, surely you have others to choose gifts for the baby?”
His eyes gleamed, although he said nothing. “My apologies, Mistress Kemp.”
She liked him all the better for not justify
ing his action. “I accept your apology, sir.” She removed a large iron key from her pocket.
“Allow me.” He took it from her and opened the door.
She curtsied.
Mister Seymour handed her the key and then bowed. “Good day, I shall call on you later.”
After Mister Seymour walked away in the direction of Lincoln’s Fields, Juliana entered the tiny reception hall, ringing a brass bell suspended from the ceiling.
Her landlady answered the summons. “Yes?”
“Please send Betty to fetch a small tankard of beer and a meat pie for me.”
Mrs Budgeon rubbed her floury hands on her coarse apron. “I can do better. Would you care for some buttered turnips and a slice of mutton pie of my own making? As for beer, Dick shall bring you a tankard of my own brewing.”
“Thank you, I am sharp set. Please serve me soon.”
“I will, Mistress. Now, I’ve good news for you. My sister’s girl, Sukey, will be pleased to be your maid. She’s thirteen-years-old, as sharp as a new pin, besides being neat and clean. She’ll fetch, carry for you, and do anything else you ask of her in return for her board, lodging, and four shillings a month. I’ll fetch her up to you after you’ve eaten. If you like her, she can start work today.”
Juliana hesitated. An older woman might be more suitable. On the other hand, to preserve her own reputation—if the need to prove her respectability arose—the girl might suit.
“You’d be doing my sister a favour. A wagon ran her husband down. His poor legs are crushed so badly that he can only hobble with the aid of crutches. So there’s my sister with a crippled husband and seven children to feed. Course, I gives her what I can, but being a widow woman, I can’t be of much help.”
Juliana’s ever ready sympathy came to the fore. “Of course I shall employ Sukey if she is agreeable.”
“Oh, she’ll be willing,” Mrs Budgeon said with a note of steel in her voice.
* * * *
Sukey is amenable, Juliana thought while she stared at the young girl, dressed in clothes too large for her small frame. “Well, child, as your aunt suggested, I shall pay you four shillings a month besides providing you with board and lodging.”
Sukey glanced at her aunt.
“Thank your new mistress,” Mrs Budgeon urged.
Although the child’s lips moved, no sound issued from them.
A flood of sympathy for the underweight, mousy-haired slip of a girl swept through Juliana. “After church on Sundays, Sukey, you may visit your family, provided you return in the evening by ten of the clock.” Juliana eyed Sukey’s clean, frayed gown. “I shall purchase two gowns and two petticoats for you, besides four aprons, a warm cloak, a pair of shoes, and other necessities, such as stockings and two linen nightdresses.”
Colour crept into Sukey’s unnaturally pale cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispered, smiling for the first time since her arrival.
“Mrs Budgeon, if you are satisfied, Sukey may take up her position as soon as I buy a bed for her.”
“A pallet on the floor will do,” Mrs Budgeon began.
“I think not,” Juliana broke in. “In the Bible, Saint Luke tells us ‘the labourer is worthy of his hire.’ If she sleeps well at night, Sukey will be all the more worthy of her hire. No one can work well when tired. What do you say, Sukey?”
Her cheeks pinker than before, the girl nodded.
Juliana looked at her landlady. “Mrs Budgeon?”
“Yes, Mistress Kemp.”
“Your niece does not look strong. I will require someone to fetch the coals, and a laundry woman.”
A look of pure avarice came into Mrs Budgeon’s eyes. “If it pleases you, Dick will fetch your coals for one shilling a month, and Betty will do your laundry for two shillings a month. As for the bed, I’ve one to spare. Seeing how you’ve been so kind to young Sukey here, I’ll not charge you for the use of it.”
“I am not a fool, Mrs Budgeon,” Juliana snapped. “A shilling will suffice for fetching the coal. Two shillings is ample payment for my laundry.”
* * * *
Impatient for news to arrive, Gervaise dropped the neatly wrapped parcel containing the rattle into a drawer in his bedchamber.
Peter bustled into the room bearing a pile of freshly laundered shirts. “Forgive me, sir, I didn’t know you had returned.”
“No matter.”
Gervaise went downstairs to dine alone at a table large enough for a score of guests. The meal would not be as enjoyable as it would be if a close companion shared it. The room’s high ceiling appeared to press down on him. All four corners seemed to close in. He regretted that for propriety’s sake he could not invite Mistress Kemp to dine tete a tete with him.
He looked at his butler. “Tell cook she has overcooked the curd tart, but this vegetable pudding is excellent. It has exactly the right amount of salt and pepper.”
Wilson inclined his head. “Yes sir.”
Gervaise smiled, yet his thoughts were all of Mistress Kemp.
Oh, her dulcet voice. The thought of it thrilled him today, as much as it did the first time he heard her speak. Indeed, everything about her charmed him: her curls, her eyes as unfathomable as a lake of deep water, her tiny waist, and full breasts. However, not only her appearance delighted him. From the moment they met, she appealed to the best in him by trusting him and accepting his help. Yet there was more to her than beauty and feminine charm. It took courage to remove her sister from Baron Kemp’s custody and to come to London on her own. At least, she would have been alone if he had not offered his services to her.
He could not decide why Mistress Kemp’s small hands held power over him even as his late wife’s had. With a sense of disloyalty, he realised the young lady’s gestures were inscribed on his heart. He shook his head, shocked both by his betrayal of his late wife as well as the alarming terra incognita, the unknown ground, of fresh emotion.
Lackeys served the second course he had discussed with his cook. He had chosen the somewhat adventurous selection of herb and cheese pasties, vegetable stew, crusty bread with a sallet of lettuce, sorrel, mustard, cress, and radishes mixed with dried fruit and almonds, which he particularly liked. Finally, there would be a selection of small sweet and savoury pies. Tentatively, he tried one of the pastries with a liberal serving of parsley sauce and some sallet. He followed it with some apple pudding flavoured with cloves. The results were excellent; cook’s repertoire increased by the day.
“Wilson.”
“Sir.”
“Ask cook to make a vegetable curry and spiced lentils tomorrow. They are to be served with plain rice and lemon pickle.” He smiled. Perhaps Cook would excel herself; she seemed interested in learning the new receipts.
Impatient to see Mistress Kemp, Gervaise decided not to wait for the third course to be served, so he pushed his plate aside. Half an hour later, he beat a tattoo on the door of Mistress Kemp’s apartment.
A scrawny, shabbily dressed child opened it. Her mouth open, she stared at him and then ducked her head.
“Sukey, has Dick fetched your bed?” Mistress Kemp called.
“No, madam.”
“Who is there?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a gentleman.”
Gervaise’s lips twitched. Did the child consider gentlemen to be a strange species of human beings? “Are you Mistress Kemp’s new maidservant?”
The girl nodded, clutching a mobcap too large for her head with one hand.
He chuckled. “Tell your mistress Mister Seymour has the pleasure of waiting on her.”
The door closed.
Why did Mistress Kemp hire this forlorn waif? He answered his own question. Probably out of compassion, one of the many virtues he had discovered in her since they met.
Sukey opened the door. She jerked her head toward the parlour. “My mistress says please come in.”
Gervaise ducked his head beneath the low lintel. He stepped into the tidy room with a cheerful fire reflected in a s
mall window so clean that it sparkled.
He responded to Mistress Kemp’s curtsey with a low bow, and then at her invitation, sat down on one of a pair of unyielding wing chairs facing the fire. “Mistress Kemp, please call me Seymour. All my friends do.”
Instead of agreeing to do so, a crease between her eyebrows marred her beautiful face. In a pleasant tone, she asked Sukey to scrub the floor of her bedchamber. “And Sukey—”
“Yes, madam.”
“Please don’t shut the doors.”
The girl went into a short narrow hall which divided the spotlessly clean parlour from both the bedchamber and another tiny room.
Mistress Kemp sat down primly, her back straight. “I cannot call you Seymour. As for being friends, I doubt we can be.”
His jaw tightened. “Why not?”
Increased colour stained her cheeks. “We remain almost strangers in spite of the time we have spent together. I do not think it is proper for us to consort so freely.”
Gervaise leaned forward, searching for a clue as to her rejection of his friendship. Could it be—? “Enlighten me. What did you mean when you said, ‘but, I suppose a gentleman of your persuasion has no sympathy for Huguenots?’”
Her eyelashes fluttered. “Can you not guess, sir?”
“No, I do not have supernatural powers.”
She stared at him with dilated pupils. “I will not betray you to the authorities. However, I must ask you to leave.”
“Betray me to the authorities? Why should you? What the devil do you mean?”
She sprang to her feet. “A fine performance, sir! You forget I have your letter.”
How fierce she appeared. “Which letter?”
“The one you gave me to spare you the trouble of delivering to my half-brother.”
“Ah, you have read it?”
“Yes, because I knew not whether it was addressed to my late father or my half-brother. I also read it because I thought it might reveal something about you.”
Far Beyond Rubies Page 6
