Charlotte

by Virginia Taylor

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “So, why can’t you put me back in the fabric department?” She brushed down her sleeves, stalling while she thought. “I’m good at selling materials because I like selling materials.”

  He didn’t want her as a maid, and he didn’t want to tup her? She didn’t understand what he wanted.

  He heaved a monumental sigh. “And I’m sure you’ll like pretending to be my wife because if you make a convincing job of it, I’ll give you forty pounds.”

  Her mouth dried. Forty pounds! That was double twenty. For twenty pounds she could hire a little shop of her own. For forty pounds, she could not only buy stock, but also employ at least two other Birds from the orphanage. Robin and Nightingale would be her first choice.

  Her breath fluttered. “You don’t want to bed me?”

  He looked her up and down. “Do you think you’re my type?”

  She put her hand to her hair and, blushing, quickly brought her arm down again. A gentleman who owned a number of emporiums, proving a head for business, wouldn’t invest more than a few shillings in an untried, drab bed partner. He could take his pick of women.

  “Well, what would the job entail exactly?”

  “Just doing whatever wives do. Having breakfast with me in the morning, arranging flowers, eating cakes, drinking tea, sitting in the drawing room doing whatever you please until I tell you otherwise.”

  “What might ‘otherwise’ be?” She eyed him narrowly.

  “Standing by my side and agreeing with every word I say while smiling pleasantly at my guests. You can smile, I suppose?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  He gave her a suspicious glance.

  “The job can’t be as easy as you say.” For forty pounds, there had to be a catch.

  “It’s as easy as you want to make it. I have a household that runs perfectly already.”

  “Then why do you want a wife? Other than to idle away the day.”

  Pushing aside his unbuttoned jacket, he slid his hands into the pockets of his biscuit-colored trousers. How he maintained a fit, broad-shouldered physique while sitting behind a desk all day was a mystery to Starling. Although she’d met no other rich men, she had assumed they were those with barrel bellies. “Last week my sister notified me she is bringing a lady with her, a lady she is sure I would like to see. She arrives from Victoria tomorrow.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t like my sister’s plan. She has tried this matchmaking before.” His mouth tightened. “I told her I wouldn’t marry any of her hopefuls.”

  “You don’t need to marry the lady simply because your sister knows her.”

  “Nor do I need to have prospective brides presented to me so often that I give in out of sheer self-defense.”

  “Life is hard for rich men,” she said sweetly.

  “Exactly.” He nodded for emphasis. “If I present you as a fait accompli, I will stop my sister in her tracks. So, are we agreed?”

  She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “My deadline is today. I need to present a wife to my household by tonight. And, since I doubt you own suitable clothing,” he said, averting his gaze, “we’ll pick out a couple of gowns and, er, the trimmings before the emporium closes.”

  She deliberated. “I only have to smile, idle the day away, and agree with you?”

  He nodded. “I want you to be as meek, quiet, and respectful as a good wife should be.”

  “And I will be a wife in name only?”

  “That is our agreement.”

  Growing hope straightened her shoulders. Perhaps her dream was not lost.

  He began to herd her along North Terrace. “I expect it will be worth forty pounds to prove my point,” he muttered.

  “That you won’t ever marry? Are you a lady-man?”

  His eyes widened momentarily. “A lady-man? Do you mean...? You do. Don’t use gutter terms around my guests, or you’ll be out of the house without a penny before you can sneeze. Of course I’m not bent. I simply want only one woman.”

  She could but wish. If she’d thought he only liked men, she could relax. “But isn’t that a reason to marry?”

  “I’m not sure intelligent and smart are the same thing. Enough. You have agreed to our bargain. The lady I want is already married, and it’s time you became the sort of wife I require.”

  Starling nodded. He had specified a wife with a neat, plain appearance. She was neat and plain. Ordinary. Her body was slender, her skin was sallow, and she had brown hair and eyes. No male had ever glanced at her twice. At the inn, her plainness had been her best protection. Meg had told her she could be pretty if she tried, but she had no need to be pretty. She didn’t want or need a man. In fact, her plan depended on her remaining single. No husband would let her follow through with her business idea. Married, she would blight more lives than her own.

  She had nothing to lose by doing as he asked and had gained instead an opportunity to earn a great deal of money. She would obey Mr. Seymour’s every edict. Opportunity had knocked, and Starling Smith only had to widen the door to reach her goal.

  Half a pace behind Mr. Seymour, she passed the lawyer’s offices, the pastry shop, the tailor, and a saddlery. The main commercial thoroughfare of Adelaide was familiar to her: the old wooden sheds, the new Georgian buildings, the constant grind of carriage wheels, the thump-thump of hooves, the bustle of people, and the push of their presence. Not only had she worked in the city, she’d lived nearby her whole nineteen years, watching the adornment of the newest constructions with ornate pillars and pretty plastered curlicues. She couldn’t imagine living elsewhere.

  Mr. Seymour pushed open the front door of his emporium. Dimly lit, the shop was preparing to close. He led the way to the ready-mades area upstairs and stood waiting for attention. The floor manager bowed from the waist.

  “Miss Smith needs assistance,” Mr. Seymour said.

  The manager clicked his fingers for a shopgirl, who hastened forward. Starling knew Jinny, the red-haired assistant, from the boardinghouse.

  “Three new gowns. Nothing gaudy. Help Miss Smith choose. I’ll be back in half an hour.” With that, Mr. Seymour strode away.

  Jinny widened her eyes at Starling, who smiled and shrugged. Jinny moistened her lips and bustled about finding ready-made gowns while Starling stood by her left shoulder, pointing out those she wanted. Brown, being the cheapest dye, had been the color for the foundlings. She had worn brown her whole life until two weeks ago, when she’d exchanged that color for the gray of the Seymour uniform. Knowing neither flattered her, she decided that because this handsome man had chosen a plain woman for his bride, she should not try to change her appearance.

  She kept on the last gown she tried. Patterned in a jaundiced green and brown, the high-buttoned fit was as unflattering as the other two she’d chosen. Continuing her disapproving silence, Jinny parceled them and Starling’s uniform. When Mr. Seymour returned, he took the purchases, cramming them with a few other parcels into a new holdall. Next, he let Starling choose a plain brown hat. She wore that, too, certain she looked even more thin faced wearing a flat-brimmed poke with a long ribbon tie.

  Finally, he took her to the jeweler’s shop and bought her a plain gold ring. Keeping her face expressionless, she slid on the circlet. How she would pass as the wife of a gentleman, she didn’t know. Nor did she know why he thought she might. She could only hope that the colors she had chosen to wear would merge her into the background, as she didn’t plan to lose the forty pounds before she’d seen a single penny.

  When he marched her outside the shop again, she totaled his purchases: one pound for the ring and more good money for a hat and gowns. He had shelled out a tidy sum to deceive a sister who merely wanted to see him happily married. Starling hoped she could play her unworthy role.

  She kept pace with him, her bonnet ribbons fluttering as she moved closer to her goal. Eagl
es might soar. Starlings took chances when they saw them.