by Holly West
He crossed his legs in front of him, enjoying the fire. His dress was casual and he wore no wig. I liked the way he seemed so at ease with me, though we hardly knew each other. Tonight was an opportunity to remedy that.
I picked up a baked oyster from one of the platters and dug its flesh from the shell with a finger. “You say you’ve only just returned from Bristol, but what brings you to London, besides your friendship with Mr. Oates?” I popped the oyster into my mouth.
“I think you misunderstand my relationship with him,” Bedloe said, chewing. “It’s true we’re acquainted but the word friendship does not exactly apply.”
“So you came to London for your own purposes?”
“I’ve found that spending so much time away makes me miss England, so I returned from Paris to Bristol to visit my mother and sisters earlier in the year. There are more opportunities in London than there are in the west, so after a few months I traveled here.”
“You have not yet told me what your business is, Captain Bedloe,” I said, selecting another oyster.
“I’m in the textile trade.”
Perhaps that explained the fineness of his dress. “Oh? How then did you come by the title Captain?”
“It is a nickname earned in my earlier days. Quite meaningless now, but it seems I’m stuck with it.”
“Considering you introduce yourself as Captain, may I assume you rather enjoy the nickname?”
He laughed. “I suppose I do at that.”
We ate in silence for a few moments. The oysters were fresh and perfectly seasoned and the wine was of a higher quality than I might’ve expected in a tavern like the Cock and Fox. When the oysters were finished, we moved on to a bowl of sausages boiled in claret and herbs.
“How did you meet Oates,” I said, biting carefully into a sausage so that its juice would not burn my tongue. I felt a little dribble down my chin and wiped it away with my thumb.
“I met him years ago in London and then later, our paths crossed in Spain, when he was at the seminary in Valladolid.”
I nearly spit out my sausage. “Oates was in a seminary?”
“Only briefly. He was dismissed from his post for his indiscretions with some of the other men there.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He was dismissed for buggery?” That was a scandal now, wasn’t it? I wondered if his supporters in Parliament knew about it. Could it be his accusations against the Jesuits had simply been made for revenge because of his dismissal?
“You can see now why I prefer not to be too closely associated with him.” He soaked a bit of bread in the sausage broth.
“Why was Oates at Valladolid at all? It’s a Catholic seminary, and by all accounts, he hates the papists.”
“His reasons are his own. I am not privy to his personal deliberations on the matter. Come now, are you not yet tired of speaking about Titus Oates? I want to hear something about you.”
“What would you like to know?” I asked.
“Let’s see,” he said, stroking his chin as though the choice of question was of the greatest importance. “Have you always lived in London?”
“I was born in Kent. When my father died, my brother Adam brought my brother Lucian and I up to London with him so he could find work.”
“And your mother?”
“She died whilst giving birth to my brother Lucian.”
Bedloe reached over and took my hand and rubbed his thumb lightly over my knuckles. “It must’ve been hard to grow up without a mother.”
“I wasn’t yet two when she died,” I said. “And I did not lack for love.”
“So you are not of noble birth?”
“My father was a blacksmith, like his father and grandfather before him.”
“How then did you come by your title?”
“By marriage, of course. My husband was Sir Ian Wilde, a knight in His Majesty’s guard.”
“He is deceased also?”
“Sadly, yes.”
“And I suppose now you live a lonely widow’s life,” he said, smiling.
“I am a widow, but not so very lonely. At any rate, it’s preferable to marriage. Have you ever been married?”
Bedloe shook his head. “I have lived a somewhat roving life, not well suited to having a wife.”
“Perhaps you should try marriage someday. It’s been my observation that men benefit from it far more than women do.”
He laughed. “Your own husband notwithstanding, I assume?”
“He benefited well enough while he was able to.”
Bedloe stood up and came over to where I sat, resting on one knee. He took my hand in his and raised it to his lips, squeezing my fingers gently. As he laid it down again, he noticed my ring.
“I see I have competition,” he said. “Which of your suitors gave you such a pretty bauble?”
“It was a gift from Adam,” I said. “He died in the plague. To be honest, I’ve missed him far more than I ever missed my mother—or my father, for that matter. Adam made this ring himself. For a time he was the finest goldsmith in all of London.”
Bedloe examined it a moment longer. “His work was beautiful.” He took my other hand and pulled me to my feet, leading me back to the bed. “You must have been his muse.”
My, Captain Bedloe did have a pretty way with words.
He took both my hands and lifted me to my feet. He stepped back and looked into my eyes. “You are indeed beautiful, Isabel Wilde,” he said. He took my face in his hands and ran his lips softly across mine. His gentleness threatened to overwhelm me, and I struggled to recover reason.
I desired him, there was no question of that. But in truth I wasn’t sure I trusted him yet. Who was this man, a newcomer to London who just happened to show up during one of the most tumultuous times of my life? And he was somehow friends with Titus Oates—that in itself was alarming. I gently extricated myself from him and gave him an apologetic smile.
“Is something amiss?”
“The hour is late,” I said. “I should go.”
He frowned. “Have I offended you in some way?”
“Not at all, Captain Bedloe! I’ve had a wonderful time.”
He let go of my hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “I suppose I am a poor substitute for His Majesty.”
I stiffened. “What has that to do with it?”
“Nothing at all,” he said. “It was meant in jest.”
“You’ve obviously spoken to someone about me if you know about my association with the king. Tell me, who was it?”
“I confess that after our first meeting curiosity overtook me and I asked around about you. But of course, a gentleman never reveals his sources.”
“Then I shall not reveal the answer to your question,” I said. “And now I really must go, Captain Bedloe. Thank you for a lovely evening.”
And so I left him staring after me for the second time in two days.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sunday, 20 October 1678
I slept late the next day, luxuriating in the warmth of my bed and thinking about my supper with Bedloe. I was not nearly as offended by his comment about the king as I’d let on, but I did not appreciate that he’d apparently gossiped about me. Intermingled with my annoyance were the memories of his touch. In spite of any faults he might have, Captain Bedloe was a remarkably desirable man and I looked forward to our next encounter.
I realized that for the first time in a long while, I was content. It was surely temporary, for nothing had really changed; I was no closer to finding my diary or Sir Edmund’s killer. Nevertheless, I intended to savor this tranquility, if only for a few hours.
When I finally rose, I ate a quick breakfast and went to my office. It was a small but comfortable chamber adjacent to the drawing room, simply furnished with a desk, a chair, and a bookcase. It had been several days since I’d been to Coal Yard Alley and I spent a few minutes reviewing my accounts. I’d saved carefully in the years since becoming Mistress Ruby and had a substantial sum inve
sted with a goldsmith, but I would have to get back to work soon if I wanted to keep my business afloat. If my visitors stopped completely, I didn’t know what I would do. Sam and I would go tomorrow, I decided.
I closed the ledger and removed a piece of paper from a drawer. I took up my quill and began to write:
20 October 1678: While Sir Edmund Godfrey’s body lies outside on Hartshorn Lane, the frenzied mob is shouting for papist blood. The streets of London are beginning to look more like Bedlam than a civilized place—
A knock on the door interrupted my writing. “It’s Charlotte.”
“Come in,” I said.
She entered carrying a cup emitting wispy tendrils of steam. She must’ve bathed earlier that morning, for her skin was scrubbed shiny pink and her hair hung about her shoulders, still damp at the ends.
“I thought you might fancy some tea,” she said. “Sir Edmund often drank it whilst he worked.”
I thanked her and told her to set it beside me on the desk. I didn’t drink tea often, for it was expensive, but now that she’d brought it in, I was glad to have it. “Sit down for a moment, Charlotte,” I said. She rested herself on the chair next to my desk, hands folded primly in her lap. “I spoke to Sir Edmund’s friend Mr. Wynel yesterday.”
Her eyes lit up. “He’s a fine man, isn’t he?”
“He is. But he told me something that troubled me, and I thought perhaps you could help explain it.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, ma’am.”
“How long did you work for Sir Edmund?”
“He took me in when I was a child, ma’am. Just nine years old.”
“So young? What happened to your parents?”
Charlotte swallowed hard, as though the memory pained her. “My mother died birthing my brother and after that my father became fond of drink. He worked for Sir Edmund for a time but one day he just disappeared. Sir Edmund took pity on me and offered me work and shelter in his home. Were it not for him I would’ve starved.”
Her devotion to him was understandable then. He must’ve been like a father to her.
“What was Sir Edmund like?”
Charlotte reddened and her nervous manner returned. “I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.”
“I mean, was he a kind master? Cruel?”
She smiled and her features became more relaxed. “Sir Edmund was very kind to me. I loved him very much.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she did not cry.
“Do you think he was a happy man?”
“I don’t rightly know,” she said, wrinkling her freckled brow. “I suppose he was happy sometimes—I hope he was.”
“Mr. Wynel told me Sir Edmund suffered greatly from melancholy. Did you ever hear anyone speak of it?”
“Mrs. Pamphlin sometimes made reference to it. She’d warn me not to disturb Sir Edmund whilst he was in such a state. He would often lock himself up in his bedroom and not come out for days.”
“Did Mr. Moor or Mrs. Pamphlin ever express worry about Sir Edmund?”
“Mrs. Pamphlin worried over him all the time. She was like his mother, she was.”
“No, I mean—was she afraid he would do harm to himself?”
Charlotte shook her head vigorously. “Oh no, ma’am, Sir Edmund would’ve never done such a thing, I’m certain of it.”
“So you never heard anyone in the household talk about it, ever?”
“Never.”
“Even after he disappeared?”
“No, ma’am.”
I paused, uncertain of how to proceed. I didn’t think Charlotte would lie to me, but wouldn’t she have overheard something if anyone even suspected Sir Edmund had taken his own life? I took a sip of the tea, which had cooled slightly. It was stronger than I normally liked but good. “What’s your opinion of Sir Edmund’s brother?” I asked.
She shrugged slightly. “I don’t know him very well. Before Sir Edmund disappeared, I’d only met him once or twice. After he disappeared, Mr. Godfrey came to stay at the house, but he barely spoke to me.”
“What about Mr. Moor?”
Charlotte frowned, clearly reluctant to make her feelings known.
“Don’t worry,” I coaxed. “Anything you say to me will be kept in the strictest confidence.”
She sighed. “I don’t know that it matters anyway. He’s not likely to hire me back, is he? Mr. Moor is not a kind man, m’lady. Oh, he was nice enough when Sir Edmund was within earshot, but otherwise he’s meaner than a mongrel dog.”
“But he and Sir Edmund got along?”
She nodded. “Mr. Moor managed all of Sir Edmund’s affairs, and Sir Edmund put a great deal of trust in him. Michael Godfrey didn’t like it, I could tell. I overheard Mr. Godfrey and Mr. Moor argue about it more than once. Mr. Godfrey said he’d burn the house down before he’d let Mr. Moor have it.”
I smiled. Finally, I was getting somewhere. “Was this before or after Sir Edmund’s body was found?”
“It was the day they reported Sir Edmund missing.”
I took another sip of tea and said, “Did you have any luck finding a new post today?”
She looked down at the floor. “I made a few inquiries, but no one at Sir Edmund’s residence will give me a recommendation and I don’t know how successful I’ll be without one. Mrs. Pamphlin will do what she can for me. I’ll look for a new post tomorrow, I promise. I’m certain to find something. And I’ll leave your home tomorrow, if you’ll allow me to stay one more night. I truly appreciate everything you’ve done for me already.”
She was so sincere and pretty sitting there that I could hardly bear to send her away. But given the worrying state of my business—
“It happens that I’m need of a waiting woman,” I said impetuously. “Would like you to come work for me?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, ma’am! I’ve never held such a high post. I’m not a waiting woman. I’m a servant—I wash and clean and empty chamber pots.”
“Nonsense,” I said, laughing. “With a new dress and your hair done you’ll look the part in no time.”
“I’ve only ever worked for Sir Edmund. I confess—I don’t even know what a waiting woman does.”
“You’ll be my companion, tend to my hair and clothing, and look presentable when we go out together. The last part won’t be difficult. When you are properly fed and clothed you shall be as pretty as one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.”
She clapped her hands together with excitement. “Thank you, my lady,” she said. “Thank you!”
In hiring Charlotte, I’d completely disregarded Sam’s warning that she might not be trustworthy. I could only hope I hadn’t made a big mistake.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Monday, 21 October 1678
The next morning, Charlotte and I stood in front of my wardrobe looking for an appropriate dress for her to wear. I selected one of my older gowns, a blue silk frock trimmed in black lace, and held it up against her thin body.
“This is too big,” I said, “but it’ll be perfect once we have it altered.”
Charlotte put her hand to her chest. “Oh, no my lady, I can’t—”
“Someday soon we’ll have a new dress made but for now this will have to do.”
“Indeed it will—I’ve never worn anything so fine.”
I smiled and pulled a white linen garment out of a drawer. “You’ll need a shift to wear beneath it.”
She slipped out of her own dress and donned the shift, adjusting it when it slipped off her thin shoulder. I lifted the gown over her head and helped her wiggle into it. It was comically loose upon her slight frame so I gathered it at the back and pinned it closed. The effect was awkward but at least it wouldn’t fall off of her.
Alice came upstairs to tend to Charlotte’s hair while I painted her face. After I dusted her cheeks and lips with red cochineal powder, I stepped back to check my work.
“There now! Didn’t I say we’d make a proper lady of you?” I said.
“Lord, ma’am, you do
work miracles!” Alice said.
Charlotte turned to look into the mirror and stared wide-eyed at her transformation. “Oh m’lady!” she said. “I hardly recognize myself!”
Charlotte removed the dress so we could take it to Madame Laverne’s for alteration. The shop was nearly empty when we arrived—odd, given its usual clamor. The only customer was a tall, willowy woman standing patiently on the platform while Marie measured her. At the sound of the doorbell, Madame Laverne came in from the back room to greet us.
“Bonjour, Lady Wilde!” she said.
“Good morning, Madame Laverne,” I said. “This is Charlotte, my new waiting woman. She needs this dress altered.”
“When Marie is finished with Madame Renard, she will measure Charlotte.”
Madame Laverne turned her attention to Madame Renard, and the two women conversed in French, a language with which I had little familiarity. I thought I heard the name Sir Edmund Godfrey uttered but I couldn’t be sure. When Madame Laverne and Marie finished, Madame Renard stepped off the platform, paid Madame Laverne for her work, and kissed her on both cheeks before exiting the shop. As she passed us, she gave me a disdainful look.
“Charlotte, is it?” Madame Laverne said. Charlotte stood and bobbed her head shyly. “I am ready for you.”
Charlotte turned and looked at me, as though to ask permission. I gave her a gentle shove toward the platform.
“Go on, it won’t hurt,” I said, laughing.
Charlotte stepped onto the platform and Madame Laverne examined her from top to toe, assessing her figure. “My, but you are a skinny girl,” she said. “Now, go behind the screen and put on the dress.”
Charlotte hesitated only a moment before shuffling off behind the screen. We heard the rustle of satin followed by a deep sigh. “Do you require assistance?” Madame Laverne called. When there was no reply, Marie went to help her and a few moments later they reappeared.
The look of wonder on Charlotte’s face reminded me of the first time I had a dress fitted. It was so strange to have the seamstress fussing over me, holding various colored fabrics against my face and recommending different styles. Adam had saved up the money to pay for it, believing his sister should have at least one pretty gown. I still owned it, though it was now many years out of style and I’d long since outgrown it.
