Missus Vi scurried up the stairs and back down again, holding a bottle and a small glass, which she filled. Her hands were shaking.
“No, leave it there!” he yelled as she attempted to take the bottle away. “I expect to finish it before I leave here. Now, sit down. We have business to talk over, Mother dear.”
Missus Vi perched on a little chair, wringing her handkerchief in her hands.
“All right, then. How much money do you have for me today?”
“Three pounds and…and sixpence.”
“That’s all? That’s pathetic. You’re running this place into the ground, you old fool. What about you?” he asked Joanna.
“What about me?” Joanna responded coolly. Hannah had sidled up quietly and was holding tightly to her mother’s hand. It’s been a long time since she’s heard voices raised in anger. I had wanted to keep it that way for her.
“How much have you earned outside the shop this fortnight past? Come on, fork it over.”
“What I’ve earned outside the shop is none of your affair, sir,” Joanna said haughtily.
“Isn’t it? You and your brat have been living here quite a while, haven’t you? Paying no rent, eating us out of house and home, I have no doubt.”
Missus Vi attempted to defend her friend. “Joanna works very hard—”
“Oh, I’ve sure she does. One look at her, and I can tell just how she earns her money. Using this place to give herself an air of respectability, a place where that strumpet can make her assignations, then go off to gentlemen’s homes in the afternoon to do her real work! Is that what it’s come to, you senile old biddy? This shop that Father worked so hard to establish over all those years? Turned into a place of ill-repute, run into the ground by a fool of an old woman who’s too blind to even know what’s going on under her nose! The guv’nor must be turning over in his grave. But then, he always used to say, ‘Herbert, your mother doesn’t have a lick of sense.’”
By this point, Missus Vi was crying softly into her handkerchief, her shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to stifle her sobs.
“Well, it’s all going to change, starting now,” Private Herbert said. He swallowed the last of the spirits in the bottle, and he scooped up the couple of coins Missus Vi had obediently put on the table in front of him.
“I’ve met me a woman—a fine woman—who’s going to run this place for me from now on. She has plenty of experience in the hospitality trade. She was head barmaid at a public house over Covent Garden way. King John’s Reward, the place was called. Burned down about a year ago.”
The disreputable fellow gave Joanna a suggestive wink. “Happens that our Betty remembers you well! ‘All airs ‘n’ graces—’ Betty said of you, ‘—but no better than a common streetwalker, for all that. Paradin’ that bastard child of hers around without an ounce of shame.’ Best be out of this place before tomorrow, when Betty moves in here as the new proprietress. And take your brat with you. Betty will need the rooms upstairs for her three children and their governess, Gwenda.”
‘Governess,’ is she now? That’s a good one—that vicious old drunkard.
“We’ll go,” Joanna said coldly, “but not before you pay me my back wages, and repay me the moneys I’ve loaned your mother at your request. I’ve kept precise accounts.”
The soldier laughed. “Kept accounts, have you? That’s a good one. Kept accounts of how much you’ve earned by turning this respectable shop into a bawdy house, more like it. You can whistle for it. You’re damned lucky I don’t press charges—I’ve got Betty as a witness to your character, and Gwenda, too.”
Missus Vi made once last effort to defend her friends. “But Herbert, I promised Joanna she and Hannah would always have a home with me.”
“And so they shall, Mother. Whatever gutter you end up in, you can have them as company. Because I’m kicking you out, too. Betty won’t want yet another old woman under foot—it would annoy Gwenda.”
* * *
So Joanna began living on the London streets as a common beggar, with Hannah and Missus Vi dependent upon her.
It was early summer. Hannah had just turned seven.
Chapter 25
A Summer Alone
For the Duke of Gresham, that same summer stretched out ahead like life in paradise. For days at a time, he found himself entirely alone—a most happy situation, compared to the alternative.
When the London Season had ended in the spring, the Duchess had announced she meant to travel abroad during the warmer months. London emptied itself in the summer—no one of fashion remained there.
The Duchess said she wished to see Prussia. A Prussian Princess, who was third cousin to the Tsar of Russia, had visited Gresham House last Season. In return, Her Highness invited the Duke and Duchess of Gresham to summer at her palace outside Gdańsk.
The Duke of Gresham had no wish to see Gdańsk. He was delighted to let Mr. Coleman accompany his daughter the Duchess abroad. Indeed, although the House of Lords was still seated—requiring the Duke to stay a few more weeks in London—the Duke urged his wife and father-in-law to leave promptly for the continent.
Their absence provided him three long, wonderful months back at Gresham Manor.
This summer, for the first time in his life, the Duke was quite delightfully alone. Even his sisters were not in residence.
Upon hearing of the Duchess’s Prussian expedition, Lady Henrietta had invited herself along. It had been eight years since her first, brilliant London Season, and Lady Henrietta was still unwed.
She was as beautiful as ever—even more so, some said, as her beauty had ripened and matured. But there was a hard edge to her. It might have been traveling in the Prince of Wales’ fast set that had taken the glow of innocence away from her.
Certainly, with her father dead and her brother indifferent, Lady Henrietta had fewer restrictions on her than most nobly born, unwed young ladies would have faced. And she appeared—in private, at least—to have taken full advantage of that freedom.
Or perhaps she was just bored. Bored of the familiar faces courting her attention, bored of the usual gossips monitoring her behavior. Life lacked zest. And other, younger beauties threatened to supplant her among the haut ton.
So the idea of accompanying her sister-in-law, the Duchess, to Eastern Europe had some distinct advantages. Her remarkable beauty would be playing to a new audience. Any whispers attached to her good name would be far behind her.
And Her Grace, being married, could serve as her chaperone. Her Grace, who was less sensitive to the delicate restrictions placed on an unmarried lady of high birth than one born to such a position herself would be. Her Grace, who would turn a blind eye to a great deal, in her eagerness to ingratiate herself with the ladies of the Gresham family.
So Lady Henrietta arranged to spend her summer far from Gresham Manor.
Lady Daphne would also be missing from her childhood home—missing, but not missed by her brother, the Duke.
Against all expectations, Lady Daphne had preceded her lovelier sister to the altar. The Duchess had made good on her promises to her elder sister-in-law—promises, some might say, that had secured Lady Daphne’s support of her brother’s marriage choice.
The bridegroom was a homely but wealthy young man, a cousin of the Duchess, who was perhaps the only member of the Coleman family with a head for learning. He achieved his ‘first’ at Cambridge in theological studies, then took holy orders.
Once he was affianced to a Duke’s daughter, his appointment as a Bishop of the Church of England was assured. With the prim, worthy Lady Daphne behind him, many predicted he would one day be Archbishop of Canterbury—prelate of all England.
In any case, Lady Daphne was in Cornwall with her Bishop, deeply enmeshed in her good works, and unlikely to disturb her brother’s summer tranquillity.
Christopher savored every moment of his solitude. There’s something magical about this summer. Sunrises are more vivid, twilights longer and more mysteriou
s.
With none around but his household staff, he could arrange his days as he wished. He rode out to the fields and surveyed the progress of the crops, he talked to the tenant farmers about improving yields and keeping down pests. He checked almost daily on his horses and livestock, identifying bulls to enter for prizes at the county fair, and horses whose stud lines might produce future champions.
Often he would come home pleasantly tired out in the evening. He would be met by Cook, who seemed to still see the Duke as if he were a lad of ten.
“A nice tray of hot food for Your Grace in the library? Oh, now, you must be weary after your long day’s riding—let me stir up the fire for you.”
Sometimes I think she will tuck a cloth under my chin to keep me from spilling on the furniture! But truly, among these good people, and with my wife and father-in-law gone, I am truly happy.
If only Joanna were with me, then it would be perfect.
For of course he still thought of her. It would have been impossible not to think of her, as he roved through the forest daily. In his mind, every tree, every bend in the stream, brought back some memory of their time together.
Joanna, Joanna, how could you have broken faith with me and left me? I would have done anything to have married you, to have lived my life beside you. We were so close to making it happen. Then, at the first obstacle, you ran back home to your people.
Did you have so little trust in me? Or was I wrong about you—was your character, or your love for me, weaker than I had thought?
Often, on those hot summer nights, his thoughts would revert to the physical pleasure they had shared years before. He relived every moment they had spent in each other’s arms. Every kiss, every intimate caress, he savored again and again.
And then he would think of the one time they had truly been lovers, at Stonehenge among the Sarsen stones. He remember how the curves of her soft body had somehow perfectly matched the hard lines of his own.
He remembered entering her, joining his body and hers as one, then moving in steadily building rhythm until the skies seemed to explode above them.
Was it the magic of the Sarsen stones that had so exquisitely heightened their shared pleasure? Or was it Joanna’s own magic—her waves of midnight hair, her flashing, gem-like eyes?
Christopher would contrast that one blissful day with the many cold, unpleasant nights he had perforce spent with his wife. Then he would despair. Was there no way out for him?
He did not know if the Duchess was worldly enough to realize it, but he had reached the point where he actively wanted to prevent this cold, vicious woman from having any child of his.
The nights he was required to attend the Duchess in her chambers and go through the mechanical motions of lovemaking, he was careful never to let his seed spill within her.
For more than seven years, he had been imprisoned in a bitter, unhappy marriage with a bitter, unhappy woman. It would have been easier, perhaps, if he had never known real love. But there was no way out for him.
One of his father’s hunting muskets would quickly put an end to his misery. There was a distant Gresham cousin, in far off Australia, who would inherit everything and carry on the family name—no doubt quite admirably—if he died. But he could not leave the servants—most likely it would be the female servants—to be the ones to find such a nightmarish suicide scene.
Joanna is likely already married now, to some gypsy fellow. Who was that young man she embraced so passionately in the Gresham Town Common, the day those Travellers were hanged? Maybe she’s wed to him by now. Maybe they have a few babies running around.
Imagining Joanna with a baby—preferably a little girl who looked just like her—tore his heart out of him.
It was high summer by now. The gypsies were back, camping in the woods outside Gresham, as they had done since time immemorial.
Was she there?
Almost superstitiously, Christopher checked the old hollow tree for messages several times a week. But there were no messages.
It was well known that the Travellers celebrated Midsummer’s Eve with a bacchanalian feast.
Christopher slipped into the woods that night. He heard the wild, seductive fiddle music. Through the trees, he caught glimpses of women dancing in rings, their hair flying, their eyes flashing. He saw men grab women from the dance, one by one, and lead them off into the forest.
But he did not see Joanna.
In one way, this was a great relief.
A few evenings later, Christopher was riding home from visiting his tenant farmers. He reached a fork in the road. Right would take him home to Gresham Manor, left would take him into town. On a whim, he turned left.
Christopher rode up to The Shield and Crown, the town’s main public house. He gave his reins to an ostler and entered the tavern. Calling the innkeeper for a mug of ale, he took a seat.
Men rushed up to him from every side. The young Duke was well liked by his people, and it was a rare chance to see him in the tavern at night.
Several men cornered him immediately. Two had minor troubles on their minds. The other had just had his first son, and he was eager to tell his Duke about the child.
The Duke gave each man his courteous attention. For the two with problems, he suggested whom among his estate staff should be approached for assistance. The Duke said to use his own name freely, and he promised to stand behind the men’s requests.
To the man who had just had a son—a young man of his own age—the Duke offered many congratulations. He asked after the good health of the child’s mother, and whether the baby favored either parent in looks. He bought a round of drinks for everyone, to ‘wet the baby’s head,’ as the tradition went.
“Sure, Yer Grace is a good man,” the young father said, overcome by the attention. “I feel like Yer Grace couldn’t be happier if it were yer own son ye were welcomin.”
There was sudden silence, then, and the new father was openly embarrassed. For it was a matter of common gossip that, although so long wed, the Duke and Duchess were still noticeably childless.
“That is to say, Yer Grace—I meant to say—”
But the Duke brushed off the other man’s embarrassment lightly and just asked more polite questions about the young one.
Through all this, there had been some lively fiddle playing in the corner of the public house. As the men toasted the tenant farmer’s new infant, the fiddler stopped playing and joined the other men for a celebratory drink.
The fiddler was Cormac, of course. Just as Christopher had hoped it would be.
Amid the hubbub of conversation, Cormac made eye contact with the Duke and nodded his head briefly in recognition. “Yer Grace,” he said quietly.
“Mr. Cormac, if I recall?”
“Aye. Yer servant, My Lord. A few years, now, since we last saw ye, I’m thinkin’?”
“Yes. You have been well, I hope? And your friend, Mr. Bagley, was it?”
“Ah, now, there’s some sorrow in that story,” Cormac said, taking another slug of his ale. “I fear me friend Domnall Bagley passed from this life several years back.” Mac shook his head regretfully.
“But he was a relatively young man, as I recall—”
“Aye, he was. But his heart was fair broke over losin’ his daughter, Joanna.”
“Losing her?” Something like an icy cold hand gripped at Christopher’s innards at that moment.
“Aye. Ran off to London, she did, and never came back. A beauty, and her father’s only child. And him a widower—she was all he had.”
“You know for certain it was London?”
“Oh, aye. She left a note. And we found she took the London coach from in front o’ The Holy Scrivener, back in Domesday St. Osmund.”
“And she never came back?”
“Never heard hide nor hair of her again. Gone wi’out a trace, ye might say. We asked whoever we could to look for her, but the Travellers don’t have many friends in London.”
“I wish Bag
ley had come to me. I would have had London searched inside and out for her, if I had known.” I thought she was back here with her people, with you.
“Ah, well, that’s good of Yer Grace. But as I recall, ye had yer own hands full right around that time. A fancy wedding to Her Grace, and all that. ‘Twouldn’t ha’ been right to bother ye about something of no importance to Yer Grace. Well, now, best that I get back to me fiddlin’ before the crowd tells me I have to. I do thank Yer Grace for the good drink.”
Chapter 26
Clerkenwell Workhouse
Joanna had never before been brought so low. Always, in the past, she had been able to face adversity with hopeful courage. Now, it seemed there was no hope left.
First, upon eviction from the tea shop, Joanna brought Missus Vi and Hannah to the back door of the Empire. Surely Rosie would help her, one last time.
But a new maid, unknown to Joanna, told them that Rosie no longer worked at the establishment. A rich gentleman had bought out the remainder of Rosie’s period of servitude. He had taken her away and set her up in lavish quarters of her own, somewhere in London. No, the maid did not know the address.
Minette, too, had left the Empire a couple of years before.
So the three of them had nowhere to turn for help. For over two months, Joanna, Hannah, and Missus Vi tried to survive on London’s gritty streets.
The summer was a warm one, so living rough was not impossible. Rainy nights were difficult, though—then the three would huddle in doorways or under footbridges, trying to stay dry.
Food was hard to come by. They begged every day. Sometimes a shopkeeper would throw food scraps out a back door into an alleyway, and Joanna would fight with the other homeless poor to grab her portion of such largesse.
Occasionally, a passerby would look into Joanna’s face and see something finer there, hidden under the grime. Then Joanna might get a few coppers in alms.
Back around Covent Garden, they haunted the carts of the men who hauled produce to market, hoping for a handout. Joanna saw no one there who remembered her. But the grizzled old carters were still among the kindest of the Londoners, and when they could, they would give Joanna their slightly bruised fruits and vegetables.
Tamed By The Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 17
