“Frederick is a very talented fellow,” added Mrs. Bathurst as she looked wistfully over at the man walking by the lake with Mrs. Slater. “A fine young man indeed.”
Molly followed her gaze and studied Frederick Dawes with a new thought taking root. Was it possible that when Mrs. Bathurst mentioned seeing her son fully grown and riding in a carriage with a fine lady, she spoke of Frederick and his benefactress? Mrs. Bathurst’s son would be about the same age, and Frederick had spent his childhood in the workhouse.
Surely it was merely coincidence. A great many children, sadly, grew up in workhouses. She had let her imagination run away with her. In a place the size of London, Mrs. Bathurst’s son could be anywhere. He might even be abroad by now. Or deceased. It was merely her own desire for neat ends and clean designs that made Frederick into a potential long-lost son.
An open barouche rumbled by the lake, following the meandering curve of a gravel horse path. Molly had watched it for several moments, squinting without her spectacles, before she recognized the passengers, and one of them noticed her.
Lady Anne Rothespur raised a hand and waved violently, calling out her name with the usual excess of vitality and lack of decorum. The barouche slowed to a gradual halt just a short way on. Now the lady twisted in her seat, beckoning rapidly.
Mrs. Bathurst peered through a crooked pair of opera glasses. “You’d better go and see what they want, my dear. Two very fine-looking gentlemen! Gracious me, and it is not even the fashionable hour, but that is a very grand barouche indeed. If I were twenty years younger…oh, but you, of course, have no interest in men. I had forgot you are resolved to spinsterhood. Pay me no heed.”
Molly clambered to her feet, brushing crumbs from her skirt. The people in the carriage watched her approach, and behind her, she knew that her friends did the same.
“Lady Anne.” She curtsied with some difficulty, for the ground between her friends by the lake and the people waiting in the carriage was an uneven, grassy slope.
“Miss Robbins, such a fine day, is it not? How glad I am that you get out in the fresh air and do not spend all your waking hours slaving away at work in that dingy little room.”
Carver Danforthe hitched forward on his seat, stiff and unsmiling. “Miss Robbins, you will join us for a ride around the park?”
“We have plenty of room,” said Lady Anne. “If you wouldn’t mind sharing a seat with the Earl of Everscham.” She lowered her voice. “He is, as you know, quite obnoxious company, but you needn’t speak a word to him, and I shall poke him with my parasol if he gets out of hand.” The young lady punctuated this comment with a wink that Molly would rather not have seen.
“Thank you for the offer, but I am with my friends, as you see.” Gesturing to the people by the lake, she saw Carver glance over, his eyes very dark. “We’re having a picnic,” she added.
His lip quirked sulkily. “So I see. Well, don’t let us keep you from your friends.” The last word, if it had teeth, would have bitten her. Her heart ached when she saw the mark on his cheekbone, the wound from his spurned mistress and her thrown diamond earrings. It was true then; he had given the baroness up.
Lady Anne also looked at the people by the lake and smiled, twirling the parasol over her shoulder. “Oh, there is that darling young man, Mr. Frederick Dawes.”
Carver flung himself back into his seat with such force that the Earl of Saxonby looked at him in surprise. Abruptly, Carver shouted to the coachman, “Drive on!”
The barouche rumbled away at speed, wheels kicking up gravel. Lady Anne waved as they rounded a bend and vanished from Molly’s sight.
***
“You’re in love with her,” said Sinjun, his tone incredulous.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your very aspect when my sister mentioned that artist chap…the way you defended her to Covey. The way you sat up when you spotted her there by the lake. Now it all makes sense—the bloody mood you’ve been in of late. I’ve never seen you like it, man.”
“Don’t be tedious, Rothespur.”
But he felt Sinjun’s eyes boring into him. “Remember, I’ve known you too long.”
Lady Anne moved her parasol to look at her brother. “What can you mean, Sinjun? Danforthe in love?” She guffawed. “With Miss Robbins?”
Had they conspired to make him feel like a fool exhibited in the stocks, they couldn’t have done it better, but Sinjun had a habit of saying whatever was on his mind in that moment, and his sister did the same, always much louder than required. Often she was so very loud, Carver wondered if she’d been thrust down a well as a child.
“Your brother has a wild imagination and a romantic constitution,” said Carver, stretching one arm along the back of his seat. “He is prone to moments of mad supposition.”
“He is? I’ve certainly never noticed.” She arched her brows high, and he caught the twinkle of mischief dancing in her eyes. “But I pity you, Danforthe, if it’s true. Miss Robbins is much too good and sensible to become one of your damn doxies.”
Her brother turned his head to glare at her. “Anne! Where on earth did you learn a word like that? For goodness sake, don’t say it in front of Mama, or she’ll blame me.”
“Which word? Damn or doxy?”
“Both.”
“Separately or together? I do love a bloody good alliteration, and damn just makes everything so much more definite.”
Carver put a hand to his mouth and coughed, but his amusement did not last long when she turned her attention back to him. “You’re the very worst sort of man for Miss Robbins,” she shouted to be heard above the hooves and tumbling wheels as they clattered over a stone bridge. “A positively gruesome prospect for such a pleasant, sweetly mannered lady. Besides, she despises you heartily. I fear you quite waste your time, if that is why you wanted me to bring her to Vauxhall Gardens. She has nothing good to say about you.”
“No doubt.” He frowned hard.
Lady Anne closed her parasol and poked her brother with the end point. “See. You’ve got it all wrong. Miss Robbins is quite obviously in love with that delicious artist fellow. I knew she had a clandestine lover.”
“Well, the artist is certainly more appropriate for her. Younger and more handsome too. Don’t fancy your chances there, old chap.” Her brother smiled knowingly at Carver and tipped the brim of his hat with his cane.
Thoroughly annoyed by this travesty of misjudgment—Sinjun’s, Anne’s, and the Mouse’s—Carver pursed his lips, crossed his ankle over one knee, and became excessively interested in the shape of the clouds overhead.
A certain pinch-mouthed, judgmental seamstress rejected all that he could offer her and preferred to spend her spare time with gaunt, pretty young men who daubed paint around on canvas, did she? He realized he was drumming his fingers on his thigh and grinding his teeth so hard they hurt.
“Don’t fret, Danforthe.” Lady Anne exhaled with a heavy sigh, eyes shining. “I don’t suppose it’s a lost cause yet. You’ll just have to try harder, won’t you?”
He glared at the girl and wondered when, exactly, she’d stopped being so flighty and vacant-headed. Clearly she wasn’t nearly as dense as he’d assumed.
But she was wrong if she thought hard work would scare him off. “There are things in life worth making an effort for,” he replied grumpily. “Even I can put myself out for a good cause.”
Sinjun and Anne looked at him in considerable amazement and curiosity. He took superior pleasure in ignoring them both for the remainder of the journey.
***
The solicitor took Molly to view an empty shop on Bayswater Road near Oxford Street.
“Can I afford it, Mr. Hobbs?” She tried not to show too much excitement.
“The lease is quite within the budget, Miss Robbins, and there is a very pleasant room above, which would make a little retreat for you, some additional living quarters.”
“I would not wish to leave Mrs. Lotterby. I am among friends there.”<
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“Naturally, but if I were you, I would furnish the room above and use it for consultations with some of your elite clientele. Far less wear on your boots, not to be dashing about town in all weathers.”
“But my clients expect to be waited on, Mr. Hobbs. What will they think of having to come out to see me, rather than the other way about? They will think it most irregular.”
Mr. Hobbs gently reminded her that the upper classes were an easily influenced lot who liked nothing better than to get “one up” on their friends and neighbors. “You need only convince them that this is the new, fashionable idea, and that if they do not come, they’re missing out on something. They will converge upon the place in no time. The sign of true success, Miss Robbins, will be making them come to you. It will become a mark of status to be brought upstairs at Miss Robbins’s shop.”
“I suppose so,” she muttered doubtfully, still wondering if she could afford the place, trying not to get ahead of herself with too many grand ideas. But Mr. Hobbs was a man of sound business sense, and it was well worth listening to his advice; certainly it would be favorable to have a tidy, clean, dry room in which to meet clients. Meanwhile, the room on the ground floor of the shop would be the place where all the work happened. She would have no more clutter in her lodgings at Mrs. Lotterby’s and could invite her friends for civilized tea and chat without making them sit among scraps and pins.
“Imagine the sign above this window,” Mr. Hobbs urged: “Miss Robbins’s Designs for Discerning Ladies. Yes, I can see it now in gilt paint. Very tastefully inscribed on a black oval, I think. Don’t you?”
Oh yes, she could see it clearly too as he described it.
Thus Molly was persuaded to lease the shop. With Mr. Hobbs’s assistance, she acquired furnishings for the new space, but kept it fairly sparse and open, preferring clean lines and airiness to greet her clients, rather than too much decoration that would detract from her designs. The walls were white, creating a simple background upon which she could show a few samples of fabric from the nearby haberdasher. Beside the swathes of silk, satin, and muslin, she hung sketches of her designs, and around the room there were small, carefully arranged groups of comfortable chairs where clients could sit and ponder their choice, or read a magazine while awaiting a consultation.
Her assistants were ecstatic.
“As much as I enjoyed the coziness of your other lodgings,” said Emma, “I think this workroom will be far superior.”
“No more wailing baby below,” added Kate, hands clasped for joy. “No more unholy stench rising up from the alley on warm evenings. No more Arthur Wakely tut-tutting at us while trying to see up our skirts as we mount the stairs to your room.”
“Should have kicked dust in his eye. That’s what I always did. Oh, and once I threatened to drop an iron on his foot.”
The girls laughed.
“In any case, he seems to have disappeared for now.”
“Good riddance.”
Despite Mr. Arthur Wakely’s tiresome existence and the inevitability of his return one day, Molly had grown to love Mrs. Lotterby’s house and the other people in it. They were, in a sense, her new family, and so were these two young girls whom she thought of as her angels. They’d laughed with her, worried with her, and celebrated with her, surrounding Molly with their warm-hearted light until she, too, glowed with it.
Standing in her new shop, Molly looked around and felt as if she ought to pinch herself. How could so much good fortune and success have come to one poor, plain little girl from Sydney Dovedale? From hard work, a determined spirit, and good friends, that’s how, she told herself with a firm nod.
But she couldn’t help fearing it might not last, that someone, somehow would decide she didn’t deserve this and take it all from her. For when a person went up and up, sooner or later they had to come down. The Molly Robbinses of the world were not meant to find their way up into such lofty heights.
***
Whenever she had a moment to spare, she sat for Frederick’s painting. Although he seemed pleased by the progress, he refused to let her view his work. “When it’s complete, you may see it then,” he assured her grandly.
She asked if he’d ever considered painting Mrs. Bathurst. “Now there is a lady with character in her face. An entire lifetime of expression.”
“True. But who would buy a painting of Mrs. Bathurst?”
“Who would buy mine? I sincerely hope you don’t think to sell it.”
He looked smug. “We’ll see.”
Molly drew the conversation back to Mrs. Bathurst. “She is a dear old lady and admires you very much.”
“Of course she does. Everyone adores me. I am adorable.”
There was something in his expression that reminded her of Mrs. Bathurst. The more she looked, the more evident it became. “You said you have no family still living, Frederick. Where was the workhouse in which you grew up?”
“St. Giles Cripplegate. Why? Do sit still. That’s the third time you’ve fidgeted, and it’s not like you at all.”
Molly fixed her gaze on a point above his easel. “Would you like to meet your mother?”
“My mother? What for? I’ve nothing to give her. I’m not a fat, rich, famous artist yet.”
She sighed. “There is such a thing as love, Frederick. It comes free of charge, but it seems to be so easily dismissed in this town. Folk are too busy for love.”
“Love does not pay the bills or put food on the table. Unless it’s the sort of love sold in a dark alley outside a gin shop for sixpence.”
“Frederick!”
He laughed. “And you’re a fine one to criticize, Miss Molly Robbins. What time do you spare for love, eh?”
She dismissed it with a haughty shake of her head, but he was right, of course. If she was not careful, she would become as hard-hearted as the other people there. Had she not closed her heart inside one of those boxes? She meant to guard it, protect it from harm, but it longed to be set free, to love where it wanted, where it needed. Keeping her heart shut away was as cruel as it would be to keep a lively creature like Lady Anne Rothespur trussed up and locked in a room. It might keep the young lady out of trouble, but it would surely cause her pain and change her for the worse.
Pensive, she wondered what had become of Carver lately. She hadn’t seen him since that day in the park. Had he given up his pursuit at last? Now, when she held his handkerchief to her face at night, she thought his scent was fading. Tears threatened, but she forced them back, felt them scalding the back of her eyes.
Fred promised to unveil her portrait at Mrs. Lotterby’s next dinner party. Despite the nonchalance with which she’d approached the ordeal, Molly was on tenterhooks that evening, wound up with anticipation. However, when they all gathered in Mrs. Lotterby’s parlor, the painting revealed was not of Molly. It was a portrait of Mrs. Slater and her son.
Curbing her disappointment, she declared herself glad that he’d finally followed her suggestion and painted the young widow. “You did great justice to her eyes, exactly as I knew you would, Frederick.”
“It was damned hard to get the boy to sit still,” he muttered to her as they sat at the dining table. “I had to bribe him with treats. Aren’t you going to ask me what happened to your picture?”
“I assumed it came out so badly that you burned it in Mrs. Lotterby’s fire,” she replied curtly.
“No. I sold it to an admirer.”
“Frederick Dawes, don’t fib! Who on earth would buy a picture of me?”
“A gentleman who desires to remain anonymous. As if you cannot guess his name. As if we do not all know it by now after his midnight visit to your room.”
Molly’s face was now warm as toast and could have melted butter.
“He paid a high price, or I would not have parted with it. Now I can pay off all my debts and still have coin with which to celebrate my first sale. He was most generous. For an aristocrat and an old man.”
“Oh, Fred. I wis
h you had discussed it with me before you sold my portrait.”
“Why? You said many times that you didn’t want to see yourself.” He shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “I don’t know why you fret so.”
She couldn’t put it into words, but somehow the thought of Carver Danforthe being in possession of her picture felt rather scandalous. It was almost as if she could feel his eyes studying her closely, as if part of her soul was captured in that portrait and was now his prisoner. There was no mistaking who had bought it, of course; she didn’t need to hear his name.
“Can’t imagine what you see in him,” Frederick added slyly. “Apart from the coin, of course. I suppose I can’t blame you for that. He’s been very generous to all, because of you. Because of his desire for you.”
“What can you mean? Generous to whom?”
The others were all seated now, and her pulse was too brisk, her breathing unsteady. Frederick looked pointedly around the table, and she followed his gaze. Mrs. Lotterby had put on a large spread that week. In fact, all her dinners that past month had been more extravagant than usual. Ever since the mysterious bequest left to her by a never-before-mentioned relative.
Frederick was very smart that evening in a brand new waistcoat. Molly had not noticed it earlier. Occasionally he checked the time on a new fob watch, the gleam of gold bright in the corner of her eye. As wine loosened his tongue, he flirted with a blushing, giddy Mrs. Slater, who had come out of her shell since the welcome, unexplained disappearance of her brother.
Fortune seemed to have turned lately in favor of her friends. Mrs. Lotterby’s sudden influx of coin for repairs and a new roof was just the beginning of it, and where did it end? Was even the delightful absence of Arthur Wakely part of this same pattern of fortuitous occurrences?
Finally to be considered, there was Molly’s new shop in the Bayswater Road. Mr. Hobbs had assured her she could afford the lease there, in addition to her rent at Mrs. Lotterby’s, with only a few small adjustments to her budget. But how could that be? She had been blinded by her own excitement and a willingness to believe in miracles.
Miss Molly Robbins Designs a Seduction Page 17
