‘Yes. Very likely.’
‘So that’s why I’m ignoring the romantic bit and telling you that you’d better start getting used to the idea. Fix any reason to it you like. Our son, illegitimacy, Linas, me, family likenesses, gossip, whatever.’
‘Yes, whatever. But you’ve missed out an important snag, of course.’
‘Which is?’
‘That I am not good at sharing a man, my lord. Your kind of life and mine would not mix. You have mistresses, I believe? Well, I don’t suppose anything would change there, would it? That would be asking too much of both of us.’
With a sigh, he leaned forwards again to rest his arms along his thighs as he looked at me with a frown of impatience at my recurring theme. Or so I thought. ‘Then allow me to explain, my beauty, once and for all,’ he said in a voice devoid of tenderness.
‘Oh, there’s really no need,’ I snapped, nettled by the reading of my mind. ‘I expect you used Linas’s bed. Or did she prefer the one in my room?’
‘Huh! Listen to me, Helene. In return for land, I train some of Lord Slatterly’s racehorses. It’s a reciprocal arrangement that benefits both of us, so he’d take it very hard if I told his beloved only daughter to keep away. She comes and goes, but I cannot stop her if she thinks she stands a chance with me. She doesn’t, and she never has. Not once. Her friends all make use of her, but I prefer not to. In fact, I’m probably the only one who doesn’t, and I only allow her to stay at my home when there’s a party of friends there too. Never alone. No matter what she may say or imply, that’s the truth of the matter. She’s already wheedled her way through the back door of Stonegate, so I’ve given strict instructions that she must not be admitted while I’m out, under any circumstances. You, on the other hand, are always to be welcomed.
‘But the day you saw her there was also the day you told me you were willing to put the past behind us and be friends, for Jamie’s sake. Helene, I’m offering you more than that. I’m offering you both a new life. All together.’
‘I didn’t expect…that. It’s further than I’m prepared to go, although I can see the advantages and I’m aware that a woman in my position can hardly afford to turn down such an offer without good cause. Especially when it comes from her child’s father. But you see, my lord, ever since I discovered how you and your brother planned to make use of me as if I were a heifer of sound stock expected to produce a healthy bull-calf, the whole business of marriage has turned rather sour on me. My inclination now is to remain chaste until I can decide for myself when to continue my own breeding programme. I had not meant to keep harping on that string, but I seem not to have made it clear that I mean to stay as independent as I was when I first came to York. I find it suits me better. Yes, I know it may sound selfish, but I really cannot allow my three-year-old son to choose a husband for me.’
By the time I’d finished, I was trembling with the effort and with trepidation, too, for he was not a man to take a woman’s snub lightly, having offered so much. So I rose rather quickly from my chair with the intention of putting myself beyond his reach. And his anger.
He moved much faster than I did, and I was caught under the arm and pulled back against him, off balance, my vision blurred by the lamplight and shadows, by the sharp conflict of wills and, in my case, by an explosion of petulance. ‘Let go…let go!’ I cried, struggling furiously inside his arms. ‘I don’t want…no…I don’t want this! You’re hurting. Let go!’
It was all the same, fighting him, loving him, wanting the hard pressure of his body against mine. Even the pain. Even his anger. But I could hear by his breathing, by his soft whispers and by the nudging gentleness of his lips that he was not angry, but enjoying my struggles. His hands restrained me, forcing me to be still while his forehead came to rest upon mine. We stood, head to head, me panting with vexation and he with eyes alight, amused to see my hair slowly slithering down my cheek, the tortoiseshell comb hanging on by a tooth.
His nose rested beside mine as he spoke, gentling me. ‘That’s my beauty. You think I wouldn’t guess how you’d react to that? Eh? How you’d give me another roasting as soon as you had half a chance? Superb woman. Hush now. Not a heifer, sweetheart. Never a heifer. Nothing like. You were always a classy thoroughbred, temperamental, distrustful. You’ve not been handled well, have you? I shall have to remedy some wicked habits, but I can do it. I can make you sweet-tempered again, my lovely witch. And I shall get close to you again.’
‘I shall not marry you.’
‘Yes, you will. Of your own accord. You’ll see.’
His hand raked through my hair to grasp a handful of it, tipping my face to fit against his mouth, closing my eyes as he did in my dreams, sinking me deep into the overlapping sensations that nightly craved consummation. I could not allow him to take me further, rendering worthless all I had striven for over the years. He had once called me unreliable, an insult that still rankled for, of all my copious faults, unreliability had never been one. Murmured so sweetly, his descriptions of me both excited and hardened my heart, for if anyone was responsible for my distrust of men, it was he. I would not make it easy for him, although my boast to choose my own time to breed was an empty threat he must have recognised. If I wanted to keep this roof over my head, I would be obliged to choose its owner above all others.
‘Let me go,’ I whispered. ‘We are never going to agree on this.’
‘You think not? Well, I can wait. You’ll come to me.’
‘Can you wait another four years, then?’
His head jerked back and he was once again the proud powerful hunter with eyes that glinted like polished jet. ‘Don’t play the waiting game,’ he warned, ‘unless you’re prepared to damage yourself and our son while you revenge yourself on me. Time is too precious for that, Helene, and your heart is not really as hard as all that, is it?’ As he answered me, his hand slipped beneath the grey waistcoat, pausing over my crazy heart to feel its beat before straying to one side, cupping my breast, reminding me once again how easily I had given myself to him that night.
Rather than try to find an answer, I prised his hand away, murmuring, ‘Have we explored the other possibilities, my lord? Or is that it?’
‘There were no others worth exploring, Helene. In spite of your cynicism, we are talking about Jamie’s future here. Just remember, will you?’
‘There was never any danger of me forgetting,’ I said.
Again, it was the tone of my voice that betrayed my peevish heart that would have kept its wound for ever open, if need be, at whatever cost. But I was a mother first and foremost, beyond the anguish caused to my womanly pride, and I could no more have put Jamie’s well-being in jeopardy at the expense of my self-esteem than expose him to a cage of lions. He was my life, and here was I, about to reject the best possible future for him, only to wreak vengeance for perceived wrongs. What was I about? Could I afford to ignore the olive branch he was offering to put things right between us? He had even tried to clear up my concerns about the Slatterly woman.
‘Helene, look at me,’ he said, lifting my chin.
I did look at him, and loved and hated him, wanted him, wanted to hurt him, wanted him to persist with me, to see my ritual objections for what they were and not to concede defeat. I wanted him to storm my barriers and crash through to the core that was his for the taking. I had always wanted him. I had lived, wanting him, for years with his brother and child. My body ached for him night and day without ceasing. So I looked up at him, not wanting to hear him accept one single word of my hostility. ‘Don’t speak,’ I whispered, placing a finger upon his lips, ‘until I’ve tried to excuse myself.’
‘There’s no need,’ he said, behind my fingertip.
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him to kiss me senseless.
‘I know I’ve been breaking the law. It’s a way of life for the people along our coast, and when I was given the chance to make some money for my family, I took it, just as I sold my body, and worked here in York, and
scrounged to feed them and clothe myself. Now, you’re offering me a respectable way out for which I am grateful. But they depend on me. The success of the shop has been built on it. You may forfeit Lord Slatterly’s goodwill if you were to give his daughter the cold shoulder, but I shall certainly lose my partner’s goodwill if I suddenly stop providing her with our most lucrative lines. You say you’re willing to share the responsibility for my family, my lord, but they wouldn’t allow it, and nor would I. Linas played no part in their lives, and nor must you. As for your offer of marriage… well, it’s taken me unawares, and I must delay my answer to that. Jamie’s birth certificate cannot be altered: he was born out of wedlock with Linas as his father, but I dare say memories will fade. At this moment, he needs a father more than ever he did.’
‘He needs brothers and sisters, too,’ he said, watching my eyes turn away, my lips part for the sigh that followed.
That was the last weapon left to me, after marriage, the one thing I could hold on to longest in my quest for retribution, though which of us would feel most pain was open to question. How long could I hold out against him? How long would his patience last? He was right about Jamie needing siblings, but one could not ignore the element of self-seeking that went with it. His kisses were telling me that.
He read my expression correctly. ‘No, you’re right,’ he said. ‘One thing at a time. We’ve made some progress, and I have to be content with that.’ He lifted a fistful of my hair and held it on top of my head, with strands wandering into my eyes. ‘Beautiful black witch,’ he murmured. ‘I lie. I’m not content, but it will have to do. As for your family and business, let me deal with that. Trust me?’
‘I may not always agree with you, my lord, but I cannot fault your reliability.’
‘That was taken out of context. One day, I’ll explain it to you. The day after tomorrow is the ball and my parents will be over here for the weekend. Will you bring Jamie to see them on Sunday? For a family lunch?’
‘Yes, we’ll come. Thank you.’
‘Good. Then I’ll send a carriage for you.’ Taking my hand from his chest, he touched my knuckles with his lips. ‘Go to bed early and don’t lose any more sleep over it. We had to come to an understanding sooner or later, did we not, Miss Follet?’
‘For all our sakes,’ I said.
But too much had happened for my thoughts to quit the future and lie quiet in the present, and sleep came nowhere near till the town-crier had called out the hour for the third time and Debbie had brought some warm milk to calm me. One thing that gave me some peace of mind, however, was that I had not shared his beautiful body with the Slatterly woman.
* * *
Next morning, with Winterson’s caution still uppermost in my mind, I went straight to the shop to remove the incriminating notice from the window. Quite what had possessed me to put it there in the first place I will never understand—it was what we had always done without thinking of the possible consequences. Prue was not there, though she had been in.
‘She’s left a message for you, ma’am,’ said Betty, the senior seamstress.
Propped up against a pile of calicoes was a hastily written note, very much to the point. Mother v. ill. Father in a state. Dare not leave them. Sorry. Prue.
It was bad timing. Perhaps the cold had affected them. Her unscheduled absence, however, made it easier for me to take some positive action in advance of any snooping visits from the Customs and Excise Men, a fear that had stayed with me since Winterson’s call. With Prue out of the way I would do as I pleased and remove the damning evidence while there was still time, and none of the sewing-women making the least objection when I explained what we would do.
The unused cellar was ankle-deep in flood water from the street outside, but as each package was placed in the niches set into the darkest wall, this proved to be the safest of all places, the only one too uninviting to be investigated fully.
* * *
As if some supernatural clockwork had been set in motion, we were visited that same afternoon by two dour gentlemen who asked with the greatest courtesy if they might inspect our property in the name of His Brittanic Majesty King George III. As if we had any choice.
Well acquainted with Customs Officers, I found little that was unfamiliar about these two, and nothing that ought to have caused the alarm I felt, or the fear, the appalling guilt, the sickly terror of being just in time, and the dread that something relevant had been missed out. I could only pray that the women would answer any questions calmly, for I’d had little time to brief them. ‘Do you seek anything in particular, gentlemen?’ I said. ‘Where would you like to begin?’
Their eyes darted, missing nothing, but they were uncommunicative. They fingered the fabrics, lifted rolls, drapes and boxes, but we could all see they didn’t know a poplin from a kerseymere. One lifted a length of heavy Argentan lace attached to the dress Betty was stitching. ‘Where’s this from?’ he said, rubbing it between finger and thumb.
Betty hardly paused. ‘Nottingham,’ she said. ‘And Maudie’s sewing Bedford, and over there is the Limerick, and that pile you’ve been looking at is Devon, and that bobbin lace is from Buckinghamshire. It’s known as…Bucks…point…’ But with a lift of his eyebrows, the man had moved on.
‘You have a loft, ma’am?’ said the other man.
‘Yes, indeed we do. The ladder is over there in the corner.’
He clambered up, but came down again immediately. ‘There’s nothing there but chairs,’ he said, pained.
‘No, that’s very true.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because we can’t get up there, can we?’ I replied with a hint of impatience. ‘Everything we sell is on show to our customers, not in a loft.’
The pulling out of drawers, hampers and baskets went on, bolts of fabrics were toppled to expose walls that had to be tapped, with ears pressed against them. ‘You have cellars?’ the man said, frowning at the floor.
‘Yes, the trapdoor is in the kitchen, but we don’t keep anything down there. It’s too damp.’
Nevertheless, they took one look down into the murky hole, saw their lamps reflected on the water and closed the lid with a grunt of acceptance. ‘What’s through there, ma’am?’ said the man, indicating the fitting rooms.
‘My customers, sir. By all means take a look, but please don’t go into the fitting rooms without a warning, or I might never see them again.’
‘So where do these fabrics come from, exactly?’
From the drawer of my desk I brought out a sheaf of receipts and pointed out to him the recent dates. ‘Mostly from Manchester, but some from Sampson and Snape’s warehouses in London, some from Paisley near Glasgow. Shawls, see? Some from Norwich, too, stockings from Leicester and Derby, gloves from Worcester…’ I spread the receipts out before him ‘…and silks and muslins from…’
‘Yes…yes, thank you, ma’am.’
‘…Blackburn, and cottons from…’
‘Thank you, yes. What about the bonnets?’
‘The millinery is made to order, sir. To match an outfit. The Lord Nelson turban is very à la mode, at the moment.’ I took one off the wooden stand and passed it to him.
Gingerly, he took it off me, pulled a face and passed it to his colleague. ‘Nothing much Frenchified about that, Horace,’ he muttered.
‘Nah, c’mon, we’ve seen enough.’ Horace passed the turban back, like a bucket. ‘But you had a notice in your window saying something about these things being straight from Paris, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled. ‘Ladies always fall for that, sir. They see the French modes in our fashion journals, so anything with a French name is bound to draw them in. A little deception, I know, but they understand.’
‘Bit of a wild goose chase, Horace.’
Horace looked at me with—I thought—a trace of sympathy. ‘I heard that Mr Linas Monkton passed on recently, ma’am. Very sad, that was. A lady such as yourself needs protection in these times. And a little lad
, too, I believe. Pardon me, ma’am. No offence.’
‘None taken, sir,’ I said, indulging in a moment of relief that the dreaded inspection had passed without incident. ‘But I do have some protection. Mr Monkton’s family are very supportive. Lord Winterson is my son’s guardian, and he keeps a very close eye on my business affairs.’ It was a boast I never expected to make. I felt them both stiffen, heard them gulp, saw their eyes blink and widen with concern.
‘Lor…ahem!…Lord Winterson?’
‘Aye. He’s a J.P., Horace, is Lord Winterson. Better be going, eh?’
‘Thank you, gentlemen. I shall tell him you did your job thoroughly and with courtesy. Good day to you both.’
The light outside was fading and a fine rain was beginning to spatter against the glass as I closed the door and leaned my forehead on the cool wall. A dizziness passed over me, reminding me that I had eaten no lunch that day. The danger was gone, the goods were safe, and I had used Winterson’s name to protect myself from further investigation, which, to be honest, I ought not to have done. But the blissful feeling of security I had experienced as I spoke the name out loud seemed to outweigh all other considerations.
Coming along the passage to meet me, Betty took me into her arms to quell my shaking. ‘We all knew, ma’am,’ she said. ‘None of us ever said nowt, but we knew. Come and have a nice cup o’ tea.’
There was a slightly hysterical edge to our giggles as we nibbled our biscuits, the tea being just as likely to be smuggled by the tea merchant as our fabrics were by us. And the sugar by the grocer, for that matter.
Underlying that light-heartedness, though, ran another thread of concern about how we should all manage without the goods that had kept us in business for so long. It was not a problem I could discuss in the workroom, yet our handling that morning of the consignment brought by Pierre had only strengthened my suspicions that he must be playing some secret game of his own that I was not being allowed to share. His appearance in York, ostensibly to purchase my mother’s medication, was in itself unusual, for I had taken enough to last her a month on my last visit, some of which had been double-strength for emergencies.
Marrying the Mistress Page 12
