He advanced toward Grandmother’s chair, and Sarah noticed how nice he looked in his dark gray tweed suit and knotted cravat of midnight blue.
After leaning to take up Grandmother’s hand gently and kiss it, he said, “And how can I possibly cheer you, Mrs. Blake? I can’t sing or dance.”
He was teasing, for he knew exactly what she was after. Marie knew as well, for her face wore a little smile while he settled into the chair next to hers.
“Well?” Grandmother prompted.
William sent a pointed glance toward the door as if about to divulge state secrets, when actually he had confided to Sarah that he was at liberty to share the commission’s findings except for those involved in current court cases. “This week we fined a canning company and destroyed their stock of pickles for coloring them with copper salts.”
“Pickles.” Disappointment colored Grandmother’s tone just as the copper colored the pickles, but her chin dipped into a polite nod. “And you threw them out, you say?”
“Copper is a poison. The owner faces prison if we catch them at it again.” He withdrew a blue bottle from his coat pocket. “And . . . we put the makers of Filby’s Pyretic Saline out of business for selling salt water.”
“But salt water isn’t harmful,” Sarah told him.
“No, but at six shillings a bottle, it’s highway robbery. Especially with these claims.” He turned the bottle and read the label:
“Provides immediate relief for colic, feverish colds, fainting fits, typhus, scarlet fever, jungle fever, lassitude, prickly heat, smallpox, measles, liver complaint, skin eruptions, lumbago, cholera, and various other altered conditions of the blood.”
“How absurd!” Grandmother exclaimed, her expression animated again. “And you put them out of business, William?”
“We did indeed. Oh, they’ll eventually regroup and find some other means to pick people’s pockets.”
“But you will go after them again, yes?” Marie asked, the same excitement in her amber eyes.
“Like Hannibal after Scipio,” William assured her.
Both women chuckled over that, and then Grandmother said, “You’ve indulged us long enough, William. Where are you and Naomi taking Sarah today?”
William gave Sarah a hopeful look. “Aunt Naomi is upstairs changing, so I’ve not asked her opinion . . . but The Polytechnic Institution just added a diving bell and water tank.”
“I’d like to see that,” Sarah said.
“There, it’s settled,” Grandmother told him. “For you know your aunt will be nothing but obliging.”
“You say a bell for under the water?” Marie said with brow furrowed. “What is so special about that? Who would hear it?”
Sarah excused herself that moment to fetch her coat, hat, and gloves from upstairs, leaving William to explain to Marie. She returned to kiss her grandmother’s cheek and promise, as always, to be careful. Naomi, lovely in her sapphire blue gown, met her and William outside the door. As the coach rumbled east toward Cavendish Square, Sarah asked, “What will you tell them if a week passes with no fraud to report?”
“Unfortunately, we’re backlogged as it is,” William replied. “It’s a wonder that we’re allowed half-Saturdays.”
“But you still enjoy your work, don’t you?” Naomi asked from Sarah’s left.
“I do, Aunt Naomi.” His dark eyes lit. “Why, I almost equate us with Scotland Yard. We try to protect the public from thieves and even poisoners who would feed them copper to save a quid or two. Quite fulfilling, especially when it’s the poor who suffer the most from their hands. They’ll pay for some miracle tonic when they can’t afford a doctor.”
He winced. “There, I’ve gone on and on about it again.”
“Oh, but we love to hear it,” Naomi assured him.
Sarah nodded agreement. Her heart felt a stirring of pride, not so much for the Commission but for dear William, that he was using the education for which he had labored so hard to serve others. She was about to tell him so, when he changed the subject.
“Aunt Naomi tells me you’re to have another tutor.”
“I only hope Mr. Mitchell finds someone soon. I can feel my mind beginning to rust.”
“Mr. Colby’s been gone for how long?” Naomi wore a little smile. “Three days?”
“Let’s just hope your new tutor has no interest in scaling mountains,” William said.
****
The gunmetal gray diving bell was the size of a small coach, and the threesome watched as it was lowered into and raised from a metal tank by a series of pulleys and a ship’s capstan cranked by two burly men. William could hardly be more fascinated if it were the fictitious Nautilus. For a steep half-sovereign each, two people at a time could take a five-minute submerge. Or at least two males, for the narrow hatch and ladder would not accommodate skirts and bustles.
“Go ahead, William,” Naomi urged when he looked longingly at the queue. A dozen men and boys waited, even at that price. “We can amuse ourselves without you.”
“Grandmother always says to spare no expense,” Sarah reminded him.
William shook his head. Any side activity that did not include Sarah was something he should pay for himself. A whole half-sovereign?
He was teetering between practicality and desire, and his aunt was able to nudge him into desire with no effort by simply asking, “How often in a lifetime does a person get to do something like this, William?”
“Very well. If you don’t mind looking about without me.” The corner of his eye caught sight of a fairly large group of males striding in the direction of the queue. Before hastening away, he gave them a grateful smile and said, “But I’m paying my own way.”
The young man at the end watched him all the way over and grinned when William took his place—just seconds before the group fell in behind him. “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Doyle! Fancy meeting you here!”
William recognized the drawl, with its studied mixture of boredom and sophistication. “Lord Holt,” he said and shook the proffered gloved hand. Lord Holt’s face had taken him aback, for gone were the auburn side-whiskers, replaced by a narrow mustache. He was as elegantly attired as from Oxford days, from his top hat’s silk sheen to his black wool suit’s fine weave to the fine gloss of his Hessian boots.
“Not as good a shine as yours, old chap,” the young lord chuckled when William glanced down at the boots. “Remember how we would advise you to give up books and open a boot-polishing stand?”
William’s jaw tightened. He had to stifle the impulse to mention his Commission work. Besides, labor did not impress men such as Lord Holt. They went to Oxford only to learn to be gentlemen or to follow in the footsteps of their fathers.
The man in front of Lord Holt, dressed equally as fine, turned to send William a quick appraising glance. He seemed much younger than Lord Holt, but clearly the two were acquainted, for they exchanged amused smiles before he resumed reading a brochure. The message was as clear as if they had spoken it: This person in the cheap tweed suit wasn’t worth introducing.
Mentally William kicked himself for not taking notice of who stood at the end of the queue before joining it. He thought of excusing himself with the pretense of needing to find a drink of water, but with so many now standing behind him, he didn’t want to keep Aunt Naomi and Sarah waiting any longer than necessary. Nor could he make himself abandon the idea of going underwater.
Lord Holt was still watching him, so out of courtesy and awkwardness he nodded toward the diving bell and said, “Impressive, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” Lord Holt drawled, hands in his pockets. “My cousin Clive dragged me here. He’s from Yorkshire and is determined to see everything in London in three days. But speaking of impressive, who was that striking lady with you?”
“There were two striking ladies with me,” William replied evasively, though he suspected he knew of whom he referred.
“Indeed. But the younger. Don’t tell me you’ve gotten yourself mar
ried.”
“No, but I—” William stopped, repulsed by the interest now showing in the same blue eyes that had attached themselves to such things as the interior of every George Street brothel and the French cards he passed around for leers and snickers. This isn’t Oxford, he reminded himself. And you’re not a servitor anymore. Just because a member of the leisure class asked a question did not obligate him to answer. And so with polite bluntness he said, “I would rather not discuss either lady, if you please.”
At first Lord Holt stared as if he could not believe his ears. Then a sneer curled his mustached lip. “Just making conversation, Doyle.” He turned his back to William and leaned forward slightly to murmur to his cousin. William’s ears burned. But now he was more determined than ever to stay in queue, it becoming a matter of pride not to slink away from their ridicule.
When only a half dozen stood ahead of him, a remarkable thing happened. Lord Holt, who had ignored him for the past half hour, turned a penitent face to him.
“Beastly rude of me to get your goat like that, old chap. I’ve been put out at Clive all day and took it out on you.”
The apology was so disarming that William smiled and took the hand he offered again. “I shouldn’t have been so short with you.”
Lord Holt smiled and jabbed a thumb in the direction of the bell, just rising from the tank with water pouring from its metal exterior. “I’m just hoping it doesn’t decide to spring a leak when I’m in there.”
“There’s faint chance of that. But at least you won’t be on the ocean floor.”
The young lord chuckled appreciatively. Though memories of the man’s Oxford misdeeds were too fresh for William to desire ever to see him again, it was a relief to shed the ill feelings he had worn for the past thirty minutes.
They exchanged waves when Lord Holt stood on the platform with his cousin, waiting for the current occupants to exit the bell. William even chuckled as the young man, just before descending through the round hatch, made a big show of holding his nose.
A worker atop the platform sealed the hatch, and it was lowered with a ratcheting of chains and pulleys. William handed his half-sovereign to a man at the foot of the ladder and was ushered up as soon as the two who had preceded Lord Holt and his cousin reached the bottom.
“Remarkable!” Lord Holt said on the platform some six minutes later. Clive even made an enthusiastic nod.
William forgot all about them as he stepped down into an interior as cool as a cavern. A gentleman of about forty followed. They folded themselves side by side on a metal bench to look out the round window, and a shiver ran through William as the hatch was sealed. After a second of disorientating motion, the bell began its descent, water lapped against the window until the glass was covered.
“What a bore,” the gentleman said, for all that was visible was the tank’s inside wall.
William’s mind carried him beyond the wall, down to the deepest explored depths of the sea. The best half-quid I’ve ever spent!
Ten minutes later, he hurried past exhibits of working machinery and spotted Sarah and his aunt near a demonstration of pressure-cooking methods of canning foods. They were not alone. Sarah noticed him first and smiled. Lord Holt, his side to William, turned and brightened as if greeting his fondest friend.
“There you are, good chap! I took the liberty of informing these charming ladies that you were diving and would be by very shortly. Can you believe, my cousin is in queue for another turn?”
“Indeed.” Especially grating to William’s nerves were Aunt Naomi’s and Sarah’s unsuspecting smiles. Sarah had youth as an excuse, but his aunt knew that women shouldn’t chat with strange men without being properly introduced. “We must be off now, so . . .”
“Lord Holt was just telling us you were friends at Lincoln College,” Aunt Naomi said as if not having even noticed she was interrupting.
E tu Bruté? William thought. “Well, we lived in the same staircase.”
“I’m not in the habit of approaching unescorted ladies, old chap,” Lord Holt explained, nonplused, “but as I had noticed the three of you together earlier . . .”
“It was very thoughtful of you,” Sarah told him, green eyes warm.
“You are too kind, Miss Matthews. And if you won’t think me terribly presumptive, I’m often in Berkeley Square on errands of mercy. . . .” He made a theatrical pause, just long enough for concern to enter both female faces, then raised his brows impishly. “Mother is terribly partial to GUNTER’S ices, you see.”
Sarah smiled as if he had said the cleverest thing, while William wanted to growl, Can’t you tell by looking at him that he’s never run an errand in his life? He wouldn’t even hang his own towels!
He could bear it no longer. While the temple in his vein pulsed, he said, “I’m sure your cousin would appreciate your company.”
“William?” Aunt Naomi’s hand touched his wrist.
As he had in the queue, the man gaped at him. “If I’ve said something to offend—”
“It’s what you’ve done in the past.”
Lord Holt turned to Sarah. “I assure you, Miss Matthews, that I’ve no idea what he means. Gossip was rife at Lincoln, especially against those with titles.”
“William doesn’t lie,” she said, frankness replacing the warmth in her expression. “Please leave us now.”
The man’s eyes shot daggers at William. But he nodded at the women and pivoted on the heel of his polished Hessians. Aunt Naomi and Sarah watched his retreat for a second or two, then turned again to William.
“This is my fault,” Aunt Naomi said. “He seemed so amiable. . . .”
“He’s not lacking in charm, Aunt Naomi,” William told her. “But trust me, he was the basest sort of scoundrel at Lincoln.” And then his anger cooled enough for him to realize how surprised and pleased he was that Sarah would take his word with so little explanation. “You do still believe me, don’t you?” he could not help but ask her.
“Of course.” She smiled at him, her face filled with trust. “I know you would never lie to me, William.”
I would die for you, Sarah, was the first thought that entered his mind.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Eleven days later on the seventeenth of February, Sarah stood at the sitting room window looking out past streamlets of water running down the glass. The occasional unfortunate pedestrian passed by, always a man with his head swallowed by an angled umbrella. Beyond the gray curtain of rain stretched out an even grayer Berkeley Square, not yet showing evidence of the approaching spring.
She wondered if the rain was also reaching Saint Matthew’s. If so, the girls would have already set out pots under the leaking roof. But not for much longer, she told herself, smiling at the thought. Grandmother refused to disclose exactly how she had convinced the headmistress to change her mind. Still, Sarah was impressed to be related to the one person in England whose will was stronger than Mrs. Forsyth’s.
A team of horses and a coach seemed to slow down just in front of the house. But the driver did not look her way as it passed on by, just sat with his head drawn into his Macintosh as much as possible, like a tortoise halfway burrowed into its shell. Sarah looked back and read nine-thirty on the chimneypiece clock. Thirty minutes late. Yet how could she fault him when the deluge had prevented Naomi and Mrs. Bacon from attending their charity sewing meeting?
He’ll be here sooner or later, she reminded herself. Days from now she would not be standing at that same window, anxious to meet the person who would lead her into the realm of higher education if he passed Grandmother’s interview. Less than five minutes later her pulse gave a little jump at sight of the hackney cab stopping, another Macintosh man at the reins. An umbrella sprang open just outside the hood and then bobbed as the legs and torso visible beneath it stepped down to the pavement. The man paused to shout something to the driver before advancing upon the steps. Sarah hastened out of the room to the door and opened it before he could ring.
> “Whew!” the man, his back to her, was saying from the cover of the porch. He was snapping the umbrella open and shut rapidly to shake off the water. When he turned, their eyes met. His posture seemed to go rigid.
“Forgive me for startling you, sir,” Sarah told him, realizing that the rain had muffled the sound of the door.
“Ah—not at all.”
He had an oval, clean-shaven face with trim side-whiskers. She had expected someone at least as old as Mr. Duffy, but he was more Stanley’s age. And the intensity of his gray-green eyes gave her discomfort. He seemed to notice and shifted his attention to the number on the open door. “This is the residence of Mrs. Arthur Blake?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Terribly sorry about the hour, but I almost despaired of ever hailing a cab.” His eyes flicked over her navy dress with red and gold trim. “You’re not the housekeeper, are you?”
“No, sir.” She understood now why he had studied her. And as the cold damp air pouring into the house was bad for Grandmother, she said, “Please, come inside.”
He thanked her and stepped across the threshold. Taking his folded umbrella, she pushed it into the brass stand. When she straightened again she remembered she had not yet introduced herself. “I’m Sarah Matthews.”
“My name is James Rayborn,” he said with a smile and little bow. “And I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Matthews.”
****
William shook the rain from his umbrella on the portico of the Middle Temple. There was nothing he could do about the wool trousers clinging to his calves from dashing through puddles he could not see for the rain. Fortunately, the satchel containing his papers was dry. His ring was answered straightaway by a young white-gloved manservant who took his umbrella and nodded approvingly while William dried his boots as much as possible on the entrance rug.
This was his third visit to the Inn, which contained offices and housing for attorneys and senior lawyers, so William knew to open the door himself to the second-storey apartment. In the outer office Mr. Howitt’s secretary turned from the top drawer of a filing cabinet and peered at him through spectacles twice as thick as Mrs. Bacon’s. “Mr. Doyle,” he greeted. “Mr. Howitt is expecting you. Please do go on in.”
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