by Cheryl Bolen
Once they were in his coach, she felt even more exuberant. How thrilled she was to be alone in the coach with him, to have him sitting at her side, holding her hand. "What did you mean our attention? You're not racing to get back to that bank of yours?"
"I set my affairs there in order yesterday. What needs to be done there can be handled by my clerk." He drew a breath. "I thought you and I would pay a visit today at the Ceylon Tea Company."
She peered up at him from beneath lowered brows. "Then you're thinking what I'm thinking?"
He nodded, squeezing her hand. "As husband and wife, we share everything, Emma. All I have is yours. And all your cares are mine. You must feel free to speak with me upon any subject—especially your suspicions about your uncle's will."
“You think there’s a chance my uncle’s new will was forged?”
“I do.”
Her eyes misted, but she was quick to tell him she was not going to cry. "I'm just so touched by your concern for and understanding of . . . me. But before we go to the tea company, I want to show you the last letter Uncle wrote me. A man who wrote that letter could never have cut me off as he did."
"We'll go to our house now and read it."
Our house. It was almost as difficult to believe that gracious mansion her home as it was to think this magnificent man her husband. She did so feel like the waif who found out she was a princess.
Chapter 8
At Adam’s house, the staff came rushing into the entry corridor, all starchy and neat, bright smiles on their faces. Studewood bowed to his employer. “I have taken the liberty of assembling the servants to meet the new Mrs. Birmingham.”
At first she thought the butler was talking about someone else. It was difficult to think of herself as Mrs. Birmingham, and equally difficult to imagine herself as mistress of this magnificent house. How touched she was that Adam, with all the duties he’d had to discharge in the past four-and-twenty hours, had thought to notify the servants of his nuptials.
She duly faced each of the nine servants and inclined her head as they were introduced, as each of them curtsied to her. She would endeavor to remember each of their names.
“Now, my love,” Adam said, proffering his arm, “it’s time I give you a proper tour of your new home.”
My new home. She could barely credit it. As happy as she was, she feared someone would come tap her on the shoulder and tell her it had all been a mistake and she must return to Upper Barrington.
During her previous stay here she’d only been able to briefly gawk at this splendid house. Now she would be able to take as long as she liked to peruse each room. The ground floor was of little interest. It housed the usual porter’s room and morning room. From there they climbed up the richly banistered staircase to the floor that had been calculated to dazzle the visitor. The huge drawing room she had so reluctantly been whisked past that first night brought her to an abrupt halt. She was compelled to merely stand there in awe of its beauty.
Everything in the, yes, opulentacious, chamber was palace-worthy from the elegant richly cut, soft green velvet sofas in the French style, to the fine silk draperies in hues of the rising sun, to the Administer carpets which picked up the design on the wainscoting of the lower wall. Huge, multi-tiered chandeliers hung from the ceiling far above.
But the most mesmerizing item in chamber was a large portrait of a beautiful woman which hung over the chimneypiece.
Maria.
She wanted to ask if Maria was the beauty, but she didn’t want to have her suspicion confirmed. Who could ever compete with such an incomparable woman? The woman in the portrait was possessed of dark hair, creamy skin, and a voluptuous figure. All assets that Emma lacked.
She was too curious to remain silent. Never removing her gaze from the portrait, she strove for a casual voice when she asked, “Is that Maria?” She held her breath. Why had she permitted that horrid Maria to intrude on her own wedding day.
He shook his head. “No, that’s a young Lady Hamilton. Romney was obsessed with her youthful beauty.”
“Romney? And Lady Hamilton? This must have cost a fortune!”
He chuckled. “You’re right. The bidding was very steep.” He refrained from reminding her how wealthy a man she had married.
She drew a deep breath and once more attempted to adopt a casual attitude. “So, do you have a portrait of Maria?” Truth be told, her curiosity to see her rival was eating at her like a corrosive acid.
“I regret I never thought to have her sit,” he said somberly.
His words and the melancholy manner in which they were spoken wounded her. Emma did not know if it was good or bad that he hadn’t thought to have Maria’s portrait painted. Did that mean he’d thought of Maria as a disposable mistress for much of their affair? Or did it mean he didn’t need her portrait because he never planned to be away from her? She eyed the Romney and changed the subject. “So this was painted before she was Lady Hamilton?”
“Yes. I believe she was then known as Emma Hart the Tart.”
“How uncharitable!”
“I shouldn’t have spoken in such a manner in front of you. A maiden.”
She moved to him, placed a gentle hand on his sleeve, and lowered her voice, aiming for something sultry. “You forget, sir, I am now a married woman.” Her heart pounding furiously, she gazed into his black eyes, took in the strong planes of his handsome face and was breathtakingly cognizant of how close they were, of the warmth of his flesh, the way he towered over her like a knight protector. Which, indeed, he was to her.
Striving for sultry had not succeeded. He merely turned away. “Well, now, allow me to show you the dinner room.”
She latched onto his arm as they strode past the stairwell that was lighted from a huge glass dome on the house’s roof.
The dinner room was not large, no doubt owing to the necessary narrowness of town houses (unless one had a huge, landed property on Piccadilly, as did Nicholas Birmingham). The mahogany table here could not accommodate more than a dozen—unlike Sir Arthur's huge dining chamber at his country house, which could handily seat four-and-twenty. The large fireplace here centered the chamber, and because the room was not vast, she suspected dining here would be wonderfully cozy and warm. Especially on winter nights.
He came to stand beside her, setting his arm about her shoulder. “Now that I am a married man, we shall have to host dinner parties.”
She look up at him and smiled. “How fun.” In truth, she was terrified of planning and presiding over a dinner party. She was but twenty years old and green in the ways of the ton. But she had no intentions of letting Adam know of her insecurities. She would do everything in her power to be the best wife a man could have. She vowed to make herself capable in every way.
He turned to her. It was as if he were reading her thoughts. “Don’t be alarmed. I realize you know no one in London at present, save for my brothers and their wives. I promise you, that will change. With Ladies Fiona and Sophia guiding you, you’ll soon be the toast of the Capital.”
She doubted that. Even with Adam’s money and all the finery he bought for her she would never be as remarkable as either of her beautiful sisters-in-law.
Next, he led her up the last flight of stairs. “I hope you’ll be satisfied with your apartments.”
Her brows hiked. “More than one room?”
He smiled and nodded. “The previous owners, Lord and Lady Albuthnot, took the whole floor for their apartments—save for the chamber where you slept the other night. They had no children, and they hosted guests only at their country house.
Wideacres. She’d read in the society pages of Lord and Lady Albuthnot’s lavish country estate in Warwickshire.
“No wonder the house is so magnificent! The Albuthnots are famed as arbiters of good taste.” Then she paused. “That’s not to say the Birminghams aren’t also. Now that I’ve seen all three brothers’ homes, I know it would be impossible to surpass them in elegance—not that I hold myself up
as an expert!”
A tender expression on his face, he paused on the stairway and looked down at her. “I saw your selections in clothing and jewels. You, my dear wife, are possessed of an unerring eye.”
She felt lighter than air. My dear wife. Even if his words weren’t heart-felt, the very notion of being his dear wife was enough to push her to the verge of swooning.
“Where are the servants’ chambers?”
“The top floor. It’s accessible by a narrower staircase off the scullery.”
There was something so intimate about having a man show her to her bedchamber.
Her heart started hammering as they strolled along the wooden corridor to her apartments. She stood silently as he opened the door, then she followed him into the fine rose-coloured room. He turned to her and drew her hands into his. “This suite of rooms belongs to the mistress of the house, and that is you, Mrs. Birmingham.”
As happy as it made her to be Mrs. Birmingham, it made her even happier to feel his hands tenderly clasping hers. Two days ago had been the most exciting day of her life (except for the sad news of her uncle and aunt’s deaths, of course). Today was the happiest day of her twenty years.
“I’m very grateful to you, Mr. . . . Adam. I pray you will never regret this day, that one day I will be able to repay you in some way.”
He smiled. “My repayment will be your happiness.”
"Then, sir, consider yourself repaid a hundredfold."
He kissed her hand and dropped it as his gaze circled the chamber. “Now let me show you your rooms.”
The first thing she saw was her banged-up portmanteau. It looked out of place in the perfection of this beautiful chamber. Perfection. It was a word she was beginning to associate with everything the Birminghams touched. Even though her experience in stately homes was limited to Sir Arthur's and to Fleur House, a stately home near Upper Barrington which belonged to a wealthy brewer, she knew that everything about the three Birmingham houses she’d seen was not only of the best quality and in pristine upkeep, but all three glorified residences housed only the finest in furnishings, carpets, art, silver, and porcelains. She had even spotted a Holbein at William and Sophia’s exquisite home. The lavish use of fine silks in draperies, wall coverings and upholstery impressed her as much as anything for she well knew the prohibitive cost of silk. Sir Arthur‘s and Fleur House both used lesser fabrics.
The paper on her chamber’s wall was sprigged with soft rouge-coloured roses, the colour matching that on the draperies and bedcovering. She wanted to take in every detail of this beautiful room but must follow her husband as he was taking her to see the mistress’s study in the adjacent chamber.
She paused in the study’s doorway and gaped. “This room is just for me?” Centered upon a pale pink Aubusson carpet stood a fine gilt escritoire, and all the writing implements awaited her.
“Indeed.”
She sighed. “I shall spend a great deal of time here.”
“You know that many people with whom to correspond?”
“I love the idea of having my own writing room so much, I shall have to write letters to everyone I’ve ever known.” She giggled. “Be assured I shall sign them all Mrs. Birmingham. I do fancy that name.” She did not know what possessed her, but she turned and eyed him. “As I fancy you.”
Her words obviously embarrassed him. “Heigh ho, it’s time to show you your dressing room. You will, of course, need a lady’s maid.”
She started to protest. She’d gotten along very well dressing herself for twenty years. But she did not want to be an embarrassment to him. Nor did she want to embarrass herself by admitting to the deficiencies in her toilette. “How does one go about selecting a lady’s maid?”
“We’ll ask Lady Sophia. She knows everyone. She’ll be able to select one for you.”
Her gaze fanned over the feminine dressing room. Two pieces of furniture dominated it: a gilt and ivory clothes press and a gilded settee covered in more of the rose-coloured silk, this a brocade. “It’s lovely.”
“Well there, now that you’ve seen your chambers, I suppose you should find that letter of your uncle’s.”
She went back to the bedchamber, suddenly conscious of the huge bed with each of its four posters anchoring thick velvet curtains of the same rose. Being in the chamber with him and realizing that most married couples would share a bed brought heat to her cheeks. Her cheeks weren’t the only part of her reacting to the thought. A strange stirring settled low in her torso. It made her feel breathless and lightheaded.
Was something wrong with her? She had never experienced anything like it before.
In her portmanteau she found Uncle’s letter and handed it to Adam.
He unfolded it and began to read.
My Dear Niece,
As I am now in my sixth decade, I lament that I've never married, that I have no children of my own to carry on my life's work. But I am satisfied that my brother's only child, my dear niece, being of a moldable age, can be groomed to continue all that I've begun, now and long after I've departed this earth.
I wouldn't be so presumptuous had you not repeatedly conveyed to me how much you are lured by the Capital. Also, your great aunt has so kindly and frequently written to me, praising your abilities. She has consistently boasted upon your intelligence and remarked on your maturity that exceeds your chronological years. Those are qualities your father —may my dear brother rest in peace—possessed in abundance. Here at the Ceylon Tea Company I am surrounded by those of lesser intelligence and will look forward to being in your good company. A pity your father could not live to see you. I did promise him I would look after you. And now the time has come.
The remainder of the letter dealt with making travel arrangements for her journey to London. Adam handed it back to her. “Something’s rotten in Denmark.”
She scrunched up her nose. “At the Ceylon Tea Company, more likely.”
He proffered his arm. “I suggest we investigate, Mrs. Birmingham.”
* * *
Twenty minutes into their coach ride she spotted the familiar George inn. She had, after all, spent more non-sleeping hours there than anywhere in London. How different it looked in the mid-day sun than it had looked the day she’d spent hours waiting there for her poor uncle.
Her breath caught when just a short distance away she spotted the green and gold sign of the Ceylon Tea Company. A strange, morbid emptiness gnawed at her when she realized how very close Uncle Simon would have been to the posting inn where she’d arrived. If he’d been alive. He could have walked to greet her when she disembarked. If he’d been alive. Seeing the short distance between the two awakened her to her uncle’s thought processes, to his (she hoped) happy anticipation of her visit.
Such a little thing to make her so vastly melancholy. Such a little thing to emphasize his loss more even than seeing his last will and testament.
The company's building was much larger than she had expected. It took up an entire block and was comprised of warehouses on the ground floor and the floor above it. Offices were located on the top floor. As they climbed the stairs to the offices, she tried to recall the name of Uncle Simon’s business partner. “As young men who’d been shareholders of the East India Trading Company,” she explained, “my uncle and his associate established the business thirty years ago.”
“I didn’t realize your uncle had a partner.”
“I do wish I could recall his name,” she said with a sigh.
They were soon to learn, for upon entering the top floor, the first thing a visitor saw was a pair of large offices. One had a large sign on the door reading Simon Hastings, Proprietor. The other, Harold Faukes, Proprietor.
Between the two offices was a desk occupied by a bespectacled, red-headed clerk. She wondered if this could be Ashburnham. Should they ask to speak to Mr. Faukes or to Mr. Ashburnham?
She did not have to decide. Adam spoke. “I should like to speak to Mr. Faukes,” he said to the clerk.
“May I say who’s calling?” the clerk asked in a non-cultured voice. She studied the young man. The sleeves of his woolen jacket nearly covered his hands. It must have come from one of the second-hand shops she'd been told were plentiful in London.
“Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham.”
The clerk’s eyes widened. “Mr. Faukes’ banker?”
“Indeed.”
The clerk went into the office. His desk was stacked with shipping labels, including one he'd just addressed.
"So you really are his banker?" she asked her husband, surprised.
He nodded. "I just this minute realized it. Surprisingly, I was not your uncle's."
Mr. Ashburnham returned, eyeing her husband. “Mr. Faukes will see you now.”
As they swept past the clerk, Adam casually asked, “And you are?”
“James Ashburnham, sir.”
Her stomach lurched. She knew they lived in a society where men were innocent until proven guilty, but she instinctively believed this man guilty of significant fraud.
In Mr. Faukes’ office, the man rose and greeted Adam, ignoring her. “Mr. Birmingham, what an unexpected pleasure. What brings you to my humble establishment?”
Adam looked from him to Emma. “My wife. May I present Mrs. Birmingham, the former Emma Hastings, niece of your late business partner?”
Mr. Faukes looked taken aback for a moment, then his face sombered. “Allow me to say how bereft we all are over your uncle’s sad passing.” He inclined his head. “Please accept my deepest sympathy.”
She nodded morosely.
He then smiled upon her and asked that they be seated. “What a pleasure it is to meet you. Your uncle had been looking forward to your visit.” He gave Adam a puzzled look. “I had not known there was connection between you and Simon’s niece.”
“We’ve only just married.”
“Then I daresay she’s not too distressed over Simon’s new will. Your wife will never lack for money now that she's a Birmingham, begging your pardon for bringing up such a subject.”
