A Lady of Hidden Intent

by Tracie Peterson

  Catherine sighed and pushed back her plate. It looked to be a long season.

  Carter rechecked his notes from the previous day’s meeting at Mr. Montgomery’s house. The carpenters were all to his liking, and the initial estimates for the various labors involved were also approved. If the weather held mild, they could actually begin some of the initial work—clearing ground and hauling materials in preparation for the start of construction.

  Analyzing the size and detail of the project, Carter was certain the building would take at least three years to complete.

  Montgomery wanted it sooner, but Carter had stressed that it was imperative to do it right, lest the entire thing come crashing down. He would not encourage the men to rush a job just to meet an unreasonable timetable. If Montgomery insisted on that, he had the wrong man.

  The front door crashed with the impact of someone slamming it shut. Carter got up from his desk to see who had come, but he felt fairly certain he would find his brother, Robin, as the only other person to enter in such a manner was their father, and he was tied up in Baltimore at meetings.

  “Father!” Robin called out from the foyer. “Father!”

  “Sir, your father has gone to Baltimore on business,” Wilson announced as Carter made his way to the scene.

  Robin let loose a stream of obscenities. “Why is he never here when I need to talk to him?” He looked at Carter, as if trying to ascertain whether he could be of any help, then threw off his coat and tossed his hat and gloves at Wilson. Storming past Carter, he demanded, “Come with me.”

  Carter rolled his gaze heavenward and shook his head at Wilson. The butler seemed to completely understand but offered no other word on the matter. Carter knew he would never speak his thoughts on the matter, but there were times when he would have loved to have had a long conversation with Wilson regarding the Danby men.

  With a sigh, Carter followed Robin down the hall. He wasn’t surprised when his brother waltzed into Carter’s office as though he owned the place. Without asking, Robin threw himself into a large leather chair and began to rant.

  “What, pray tell, is Father about in Baltimore?”

  Carter went to his desk and took a seat. It looked as if this tirade might take some time. “I believe there were to be meetings about a cotton contract.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I remember him talking about it. He wanted me to go, but I was already committed to a deal in Kentucky.

  That, however, was canceled last week. I’m surprised he didn’t insist I go to Baltimore in his place.” His brother got up and crossed to the butler’s cord. Pulling it, he shook his head. “Why do you not have any liquor in this room?”

  “I suppose because I’m not given to drink it,” Carter replied and leaned back in the chair.

  Robin cursed again and paced the room nervously. He was not all that different in appearance from Carter. Both men had dark brown-black hair and dark eyes. Both stood about the same height and had managed to refrain from overindulging in food.

  Yet there was a darkness, a sense of arrogance and self-serving, that shadowed Robin. He was used to having things his way, and apparently today that record had gone otherwise against him.

  Wilson appeared and looked to Carter. “Yes, sir?”

  “He didn’t call you, I did,” Robin answered before Carter could. “Bring me a drink. Bring a whole bottle. Make it brandy.

  The good stuff.”

  “Yes, sir.” Wilson looked to Carter. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “You might as well have Mrs. Colfax bring me coffee. What of something to eat, Robin? Would you like something?”

  “No! Just the brandy. And I want it now.”

  Carter nodded. “Just coffee and brandy, Wilson. Thank you.”

  Without another word, the butler exited. Carter looked at Robin and could tell his brother was more than angry; he seemed almost distressed. Carter squared his shoulders and met the matter head-on.

  “You appear to be in quite a state, Robin.”

  “I will speak on it after I have a brandy.” Robin marched with the intent of a soldier about to take on the enemy as he made his way to one of the windows. Pushing back the heavy green draperies, he threw open the window and drew several deep breaths. Closing it just as quickly as he’d opened it, Robin turned and stared at the door. “What in the world is taking that imbecile so long?”

  As if on cue, Wilson returned. Carter waved the man off after he put the tray of coffee and brandy on a small table in the center of the room. “Thank you, Wilson. We can serve ourselves.”

  The butler nodded and left the room, careful to close the door silently behind him. Carter poured himself a cup of strong black coffee and took it back to his desk. Robin just as quickly poured himself a brandy, downed it, then poured another before retaking his seat.

  “Will you tell me now what has you so distressed?” Carter asked again and waited for Robin to speak.

  “You know, of course, about Elsa,” Robin began, then held up his hand. “I don’t wish to hear any of your condemnation about my having a mistress.”

  “I wasn’t going to offer any,” Carter replied. “You already know full well how I feel about your mistress as well as Father’s.

  What is the problem with Elsa?”

  “She’s allowed herself to become pregnant.”

  “She didn’t do this alone, I assure you,” Carter said pointedly.

  Robin pounded his fist on Carter’s desk. “She could have prevented it. She has before.”

  Carter tried to control his anger. His brother’s and father’s casual attitude toward such matters was more than irritating; it was downright alarming. Of course, they weren’t the first men of means to conduct themselves in such a way, but Carter had little sympathy for either one or the ordeals they faced with their mistresses.

  “Again, I’m rather confused as to why you are here. Your mistress is pregnant and your wife is sure to find out. There is hardly anything Father can do about it.”

  “I believe he knows someone who can take care of such matters,” Robin said, gulping down the remaining brandy in his glass.

  “You mean, do away with the child?”

  “Of course. I do not need an illegitimate brat running about town.”

  “Shouldn’t you have thought of that before dallying in an adulterous affair?”

  “It’s not adultery. Elsa was quite consenting and knew that I would never leave Anne. It’s hardly the same. No promises were made or broken.”

  “It is the same. It is adultery. You were married in the sight of God and man to one woman. To take another to your bed is most assuredly adultery.”

  Robin sneered as he got up to pour himself another drink.

  “So you would call our father an adulterous man as well?”

  “I would and have,” Carter replied. “Sin is sin. It matters not who takes a hand in it. I will not lie to comfort you.”

  “You are ever so pious and good, Carter. We can none of us hope to live up to your standards, I’m sure.”

  “They are hardly my standards, and I am neither pious nor good. I am simply a man trying to live by the Word of God.”

  “Don’t play that card with me,” Robin replied, slamming down the brandy decanter. “I pay my tithe and take my seat in church on Sunday, just as you do. Choose your way, but do not choose mine.”

  “So you would have an innocent child killed in order to save yourself misery?”

  “It is hardly a child at this point. It is an unborn, unwanted mistake, and I mean to set the matter right as soon as I can.”

  “And what does Elsa have to say about this?” Carter pushed aside his coffee. Robin’s news had soured his stomach.

  “She has no say in this matter. She lives by my generosity and good graces. I will not concern myself with her thoughts or feelings on the matter. She’s hardly old enough to know her own mind anyway.”

  “Yes, eighteen is a tender age. Much too tender to have been forced i
nto such a life.”

  “Watch your tongue, brother. I do well enough by that young chit. She would be slaving away, losing a little of her youth and life every day in the mill, had I not taken a liking to her. I buy her nice things and have set her up quite well in a very cozy little apartment. She eats regular meals and lives to do nothing but my bidding. Life could be so very much worse.”

  “And if you have your way, it sounds as though it will be,”

  Carter answered, getting to his feet. “I think it is time for you to go, Robin. I can barely stomach your presence, and should you open your mouth to further denigrate that woman or the child she carries, I might very well find myself obliged to punch you in the mouth.”

  Robin looked rather aghast at this. He might be Carter’s senior by six years but was less endowed where muscles or courage were concerned. Carter had bested him in many a squabble when they’d been younger, and by the look of it, Robin had not forgotten this fact.

  “Very well.” Robin got to his feet and slammed back the last of his drink. He left his glass on Carter’s desk and headed for the door. “When is Father to return?”

  “Tomorrow. It should be soon enough for you to plot the death of your unborn child.”

  Carter didn’t even bother to see Robin out. As soon as he had crossed into the hallway, Carter slammed the door closed behind him and made a very loud show of locking the door.

  He couldn’t understand how his father and brother could so easily abuse another human being. Worse still was the thought that his father had arranged the death of other Danby children simply to keep himself from being inconvenienced. How many brothers and sisters might Carter have known had his father been a man of conscience?

  “Of course, were he a man of conscience, he would not take a mistress,” Carter said in disgust.

  CHAPTER 7

  You’ve touched my work and ruined it!” Lydia declared, pushing Beatrix back against the wall.

  “I wouldn’t be havin’ any need to touch yar work,” Beatrix replied in a raised tone. “I have me own work.”

  Catherine watched from the doorway as Beatrix went back to the cupboard to get more pattern paper.

  “I didn’t put this smudge on the sleeve,” Lydia countered.

  “I’m always very careful to wash my hands before working on any of these pieces. You must have touched it after you put coal in the stove.”

  “But it wasn’t me what put coal in the stove,” Beatrix said, forcing her way past Lydia. “I’ve been workin’ in the other room to help Catherine make patterns.”

  “Felicia stoked the fire,” Catherine stated matter-of-factly.

  Felicia crossed her arms and looked bored with the entire matter. “Are you implying that I smudged the dress?”

  “You are the one who works with Lydia now—the one who handles her pieces. You were also the one to stoke the fire after complaining quite loudly about the chill in the room. My suggestion is that you help Lydia get the smudge off the material and get back to work. None of us have time for such petty arguments.”

  “But it’s white satin!” Lydia said, her tone suggesting she might very well cry.

  “Mrs. Clarkson has a list of remedies. For white satin you need some old bread crumbs and cornstarch. Mix it together, rub the stain. Be sure you wear gloves when you do this. The smudge should come right out. You have only to use a soft cloth on it to buff the sheen.”

  “You always have the solution, don’t you, Catherine?” Felicia’s tone was more than a little sarcastic.

  Beatrix picked up the pattern paper she’d come for and headed out of the room, while Catherine finished dealing with the matter. “Stop fretting, Lydia. No one here wants to be the ruin of anyone else. We all have our jobs to do.” Catherine looked hard at Felicia. “I’d like to speak with you privately.”

  Felicia motioned to Lydia. “Go take care of the smudge, then find the black jet we need for Mrs. Wyman’s gown.” Lydia nodded and hurried from the room, apparently grateful to escape.

  “What do you have to say, Catherine?” Felicia asked, arrogance in her expression.

  “I know you are the one who smudged Lydia’s material. I can see the coal dust on the sides of your apron where you thought you’d eliminated the problem. Your sloppiness may well cost you if the mark cannot be removed from the material.”

  The younger woman’s expression changed to one of anger. “I will not pay for something I didn’t do. If you see coal dust on my apron, that is no reason to believe it would also be on the material. Lydia was no doubt careless, or Beatrix is more deceitful than you realize.”

  To Felicia’s obvious surprise, Catherine reached out in a flash and grabbed hold of her arm. Holding up the younger woman’s hand, Catherine revealed that there was still residue from the coal on Felicia’s fingers.

  “I would say maybe the deceit runs in a different direction.”

  She dropped her hold on Felicia and headed toward the door just as Dolley came in to retrieve something.

  “It’s a terrible time of year to be in want,” Catherine said without emotion. “I would hate to see anyone lose their place here because they were unwilling to work together.”

  She didn’t wait for Felicia to comment but quietly left.

  Dolley was gone when Lydia returned. “I can’t find the cornstarch.”

  “Oh, how I hate that woman,” Felicia said, throwing a spool of thread at the now-closed door. “She thinks herself so high-and-mighty.”

  Lydia seemed uncertain of whether she should speak or remain silent. Felicia was just as glad that the girl was quiet.

  Something needed to be done to put Catherine Shay in her place, and Felicia needed time to think about what she might do to accomplish such a thing.

  “Did you hear what I said? I can’t find the cornstarch.”

  “Oh, hang the cornstarch.” Felicia stormed to the far side of the room and washed her hands in a basin of water. As she dried her hands, an idea came to mind. Catherine’s parents lived on the fourth floor. If they could be discredited or if something could be found that might put Catherine herself in a bad light, it would be found in their quarters.

  “So long as Catherine Shay is here,” Felicia said in hushed tone, “we neither one will know any peace or advancement. She has become Mrs. Clarkson’s golden goose, and no doubt the old lady will take Catherine’s side over ours.”

  “I can’t be fired. I need this work. I hate being away from my family, but they would disown me if I were to leave here now,”

  Lydia said, sounding close to hysterics.

  “Oh, stop being a ninny.” Felicia didn’t try to disguise her disgust at the girl’s fearful outburst. “No one is going to fire you.

  But I have in mind something that just might see Miss Shay dismissed.”

  Lydia shook her head. “She brings in too many customers. Mrs. Clarkson will never let her go.”

  “She’ll let her go if there is a scandal that causes the customers to stay away,” Felicia mused.

  “But what kind of scandal? Catherine never goes anywhere but church and the park. And now with the season upon us, she rarely goes out but to church on Sunday.”

  “I’m sure we can find something, but it will mean spending time in search of that something. I will need your help, Lydia.”

  The girl fingered her coiled braid and bobbed back and forth on one foot, then the other. She often did this when nervous, and Felicia had come to detest it. “Oh, for pity’s sake, stand still.

  You bounce about like Mrs. Davidson’s stupid dog.”

  “I can’t help it. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “And you won’t—if you do exactly as I say.” Felicia’s voice took on a tone of confidence. “I have some ideas and feel certain we can have matters under control—if not by Christmas, then shortly thereafter.”

  Felicia went to her table and surveyed the gown she’d been working on for the last week. “Come and sit here. I’ll show you how to pro
perly create bouillons. They can be quite tricky.” She held up one of the puffed-out pieces of tulle and smiled. “And we can discuss my plan without being overheard.”

  Lydia looked at the closed door and moved away quickly as if their conversation had already been revealed. She sat down beside Felicia and twisted her hands together. “Are you sure we should do anything at all? I mean, well, Catherine is usually very nice. I know she’s in charge and sometimes makes me redo my work, but it’s only because I’ve done it poorly to begin with.”

  “Bah. She likes her authority too much. She loves to pick apart perfectly good pieces and make you rework them, because it makes her feel that she has control over you—over all of us. She may act one way and fool you into believing her considerate, but believe me, I know better. She has threatened me more times than I care to remember.”

  Lydia’s brown eyes widened in surprise. “She threatened you?”

  “Yes,” Felicia said, trying to sound as ominous as possible.

  “And she’ll threaten you as soon as she sees how good you are at this job. Anyone who shows skills to match her own constitutes a problem for Catherine Shay. She’s afraid we’ll remove her from her throne.”

  “But Mrs. Clarkson said we should all strive to do a job of which we might be proud. She says that one day we’ll all be so accomplished that every one of us will be a Second Hand and—”

  “And you can hardly believe that,” Felicia said, jerking an unworked piece of tulle to the table. “How can everyone be a Second Hand? It’s a position of authority. We can’t all be in charge.”

  “Well, I know that, but Mrs. Clarkson said that she’d like to have a house with several people who are able to work at the Second Hand level and then have additional girls hired under them. She wants to create the largest, most popular sewing house in the city.”