by Galen, Shana
“You’re here. My mother’s here. Home is here. And a place to cook is here.” She took his face between her palms and kissed him, sweet and lasting. “It’s easy for me to stay. And sometimes one of us might need to leave, and that’s all right. Just be honest with me.”
“And if I leave, kiss you when I come back?”
“That is a requirement,” she said. “Not every fruit has a stone, Jack. Some have seeds. When the fruit gets cut or damaged, that’s when the seed can grow into something big and wonderful.”
And it did. It had. It would. The friend of childhood would be the companion of adulthood and the strength of old age and the lover of a lifetime.
“Then you’ll marry me?” Jack asked.
“As soon as the banns are called for us.” Marianne took his hand again, looking at him with her heart in her eyes. “Come, let’s tell the bees there’s going to be a wedding.”
Jack kissed her, and agreed, and went with her.
Epilogue
ONE YEAR LATER
“Use your favorite poem or song to help you keep a rhythm,” Marianne told her new students. The girls looked at her like owls, eyes wide and blinking, half worried and half hopeful. “Get your hands into the dough—yes, just like that, Jemma. You can’t hurt it, Elsie—it’s all right even to slap it against the table.”
From her table at the front of the large converted room, she showed the half-dozen students how to knead and pummel and otherwise abuse their bread dough. “If there’s a fellow you’re angry with, you can imagine his face,” she said, working her fists into the soft mass.
As she hoped they would, the girls laughed, and they began to settle into a rhythm of their own at their long worktables. Some chanted in a quiet voice; some merely moved their lips. Some caught on quickly; some called for help from Mrs. Grahame—that was her!—and needed Marianne to stand near, coaching each step.
Marianne’s dowry, invested in the funds, yielded a steady dividend, and she used it to pay the students a wage to attend her school of cookery. These girls needn’t become maids at the age of twelve. They could learn to work with food, to gain themselves better posts. To help themselves and their families and those who loved them, lifelong.
With Marianne, they learned for a few hours each day, five days a week. Boys came for lessons at other times, other days. Some learned joinery, some studied languages and penmanship to prepare for clerkships. They too received a wage and were taught by those with knowledge.
Marianne still kneaded her dough to Shakespeare, but no longer to the words of Macbeth. Sometimes now it was The Merchant of Venice:
The qual-i-ty of mer-cy is not strained.
It drop-peth as the gen-tle rain from heav’n.
And sometimes she paced herself with sonnets. She particularly liked the one about the marriage of two minds, and love not altering when it alteration found.
Mercy and love, and the changes that time brought to a loved one. With these sweet balms, she had healed her heart. And whole, it was hers to give again.
She’d been like these girls once, uncertain of her place, though she’d had advantages they didn’t all have. She’d had a home to leave and to return to and the knowledge of love, though she’d thought it dust and shaken it from her feet.
And she’d been hired by Mrs. Brodie, been taught by Mrs. Patchett, aided by Katie and Sally and the four Js and several other marvelous maids and assistants. They’d all seen to her future. Now she did her piece to see to the future of other girls, one roll and sauce and tart at a time. One perfectly cleaved apricot.
One strawberry in season, and one honeycomb still sticky sweet.
Outside, one of the last cool days of spring chilled the ground and the air; within the just-christened Helena Wilcox Grahame Academy, all was warm and bright. Marianne would finish today’s lessons, then speak to Edith James about beginning to teach one day per week. The newest Grahame, Marianne and Jack’s first child, would be born near Midsummer. While Marianne recovered from her confinement, she’d need someone to teach for her all the time.
Edith had been Marianne’s first student, a quick and eager learner. She could take over the instruction, and well. And someday, so could several of the others. Love was generous, not selfish, and these girls watched out for each other.
They were exceptional young ladies, and sooner than they expected, they would be equal to anything.
About Theresa Romain
THERESA ROMAIN IS THE bestselling author of historical romances, including the Matchmaker trilogy, the Holiday Pleasures series, the Royal Rewards series, and the Romance of the Turf trilogy. Praised as “one of the rising stars of Regency historical romance” (Booklist), she has received starred reviews from Booklist and was a 2016 RITA® finalist. A member of Romance Writers of America and its Regency specialty chapter The Beau Monde, Theresa is hard at work on her next novel from her home in the Midwest.
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Books by Theresa Romain
IF YOU ENJOYED THIS story, read more from Theresa.
The Romance of the Turf series—featuring a talented but troubled family at the heart of the Regency horse-racing world.
The Royal Rewards series—in which a theft from the Royal Mint leads to treasure hunts, heists, and HEAs.
The Matchmaker Trilogy—characters at the fringes of the ton find love in these Regency twists on classic literature.
The Holiday Pleasures series—festive romances featuring connected characters.
Stand-Alone Works—novellas not part of any series.
Counterfeit Scandal
Shana Galen
Bridget Lavery gave up her son Jimmy when she was sent to debtor’s prison. Now that she’s free and has found steady work at the academy as a teacher of art and counterfeiting, she’s desperate to reunite with her son—but he’s lost in the warrens of London’s streets. When she encounters Caleb Harris, a man from her past—a man she thought was dead—he agrees to help in her search. But both Bridget and Caleb have secrets. Some of them deadly…
Caleb Harris is a man with a price on his head. He knew his work during the war was dangerous, but he didn’t think it would haunt him the rest of his life. Before he left for the war, he and Bridget had a passionate affair. Finding her again means everything to him. He wants to help her and he definitely still loves her, but loving her might just be too dangerous for either of them.
Counterfeit Scandal
A Novella
Shana Galen
Chapter One
BRIDGET LAVERY MOVED among her students, observing their penmanship. It was her last class of the day and comprised of about twelve girls ages eight to ten. Officially, she taught art, reading, and penmanship.
Unofficially, she taught counterfeiting.
What was counterfeiting currency but the melding of art and penmanship? These pupils were too young to try their hand at actual counterfeiting, but they were learning to copy the styles of writing on various bank notes issued by England, as well as other countries.
“That’s very good, Susan,” she said as she peered over the shoulder of a thin blond girl. Most of the work in this class looked rough and unrefined, but Susan’s hand was exceptionally steady, and she had a good eye for her age.
“Thank you, Mrs. Lavery,” Susan said, smiling up at her. The little girl had blue eyes, and whenever Bridget looked into them, her chest tightened. Susan’s eyes were almost the same blue as James’s. He would be the same age as the youngest girls in the room too. Just eight.
When Bridget looked at Susan’s blond hair, she wondered if James’s hair was still blond, or whether it had turned darker like her own.
Bridget forced herself to keep moving, to continue nodding and smiling at the girls’ work, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in memories of
a smiling toddler, arms out as he wobbled toward her on unsteady legs.
“Mrs. Lavery?”
Bridget blinked and glanced quickly at Abigail, whose hand was raised. “It’s past four o’clock. May we be dismissed?”
Bridget looked at the small clock on her desk. It was indeed almost five minutes past the hour. How careless of her! She had made the girls late to their pickpocketing class with Mrs. Chalmers.
“Of course. I am so sorry. Gather your materials, and we will continue with this practice next time we meet.”
Efficient as always, the girls were filing out the door within moments, a sea of blue in their school dresses. As soon as the last girl filed out, Bridget gathered her personal items and rushed to follow. This was the worst possible day to be caught daydreaming. She had an appointment at half past four near Covent Garden, and she did not want to be late. She stopped by the room she shared with Mademoiselle Valérie Gagne—who taught French and accent modification—pulled on gloves and a hat, and rushed down the stairs, past a ballroom filled with older girls practicing sharp kicks to hay targets, and out the front door.
A few minutes later, she was jostling among the crowds on Piccadilly, wary of pickpockets, ignoring the cries of hawkers, and trying to stay clear of carriages with overzealous drivers. The boarding house was farther than she would have liked, but she couldn’t afford any of the rooms in Marylebone. She’d investigated every vacancy. She located the street she sought, turned right, and slowed. The street was not as busy as many of the others and not at all what she would call safe. People sat in doorways and watched her pass. As she was dressed little better than they, though her clothes were cleaner, they mostly ignored her.
Bridget carried a knife in her pocket just in case. She’d never had to use it. On occasion, she’d had to pull it out, whereby the lad—almost always a young boy or boys—accosting her decided she wasn’t worth the trouble. Usually, she never brought blunt with her when walking alone. Today, she had a shilling tucked in her glove. The rest of her savings was safely hidden back at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy. Bridget doubted even Valérie could have found it, not that Valérie would ever steal from her.
But Bridget didn’t trust anyone.
Yesterday, when Valérie had been teaching and Bridget had an hour’s break, she’d locked their door, pried up the floorboard, taken the money out, and counted it. She had twelve shillings and six pence saved. It wasn’t much, considering, but she hoped it would be enough to rent a small room in a boarding house. Once she had a room, she could claim James again—if she could find him.
She studied the numbers printed on the buildings until she found the one she sought. A Mrs. Jacobs had advertised “clean, furnished rooms at affordable prices.”
Bridget tapped on the door and waited until a woman with messy brown hair and a dirty apron pulled it open. “What do you want?”
“I’m looking for Mrs. Jacobs. I sent a note inquiring about the room for rent and was told to come at half past four.”
The woman’s eyes slid down Bridget and back up again. “And who are you?”
“Bridget Lavery. Are you Mrs. Jacobs?”
“I am. Do you have a husband?” Mrs. Jacob’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not running a bawdy house.”
Bridget felt her cheeks color. “My husband is dead. I teach at Mrs. Brodie’s Academy in Manchester Square. You may speak to Mrs. Brodie if you’d like a reference or proof I’m not a harlot.”
Bridget hoped the headmistress was in London at the moment. She often traveled, and she hadn’t seen her for a few days.
Mrs. Jacobs opened the door wider, nodding. “The school don’t give you a room?”
“It does, but I have a young son, and the academy is for young ladies. If I want him to live with me, I must procure my own lodging.”
The door inched closed again. “Boys can be trouble.”
“This one won’t be.”
The two women eyed each other for a long moment, and then Mrs. Jacobs stepped back. “Come in, Mrs. Lavery. I’ll show you the room.”
Mrs. Jacobs led her through a dark common room and up a staircase with worn carpet. The subtle scent of mold and cooked onions lingered in the air. At the landing, Mrs. Jacobs continued to the second floor. Bridget frowned. She had been hoping for a room on the first floor, as the top floor would be hot in summer and cold in winter.
“The men’s rooms are on the first floor,” Mrs. Jacobs said, as though reading her mind. “The women are up here.”
The second floor was dark, and Bridget squinted as Mrs. Jacobs led her to the end of the corridor, pulled out a large keyring, selected a key, and opened the door.
She motioned Bridget inside, and Bridget walked in cautiously. The room was small and dingy. It had a bed, a table with one chair, and a basin with a pitcher. “I thought the advertisement said the room was furnished.”
“This is furnished,” Mrs. Jacobs countered. “What more do you need?” She blew out a breath. “You even have curtains on the windows. Sewed them myself.”
Bridget crossed to the window at the other end of the room, all of six steps, and opened the curtains. The window looked out on another building and down into an alleyway. She closed the curtains again.
“How much?”
“One shilling and two pence a week.”
It was reasonable, though she’d hoped for better. “Is coal included?”
“That’s extra.”
“What about meals?”
“Extra.”
She could take meals at the school, but James needed to eat. “Water?”
“There’s a well in the yard. Help yourself.”
“I’ll give you a shilling a week for it.”
“It’s a shilling and two pence, and I won’t take less.” Mrs. Jacobs folded her arms over her chest with finality. Bridget would not be deterred, however. For almost two years, she had been working toward the goal of reclaiming James. She had a plan, and obtaining a room was the last step before she sought James. She needed this room, dingy as it was.
“I’ll pay a shilling and two pence if that price includes a pail of coal a week.”
Mrs. Jacobs hesitated, then began to shake her head.
“I will give you one shilling now.”
The landlady considered. She could continue to haggle, but then she risked the chance of having the room remain vacant. No tenant meant no blunt. She held out her hand. “I’ll agree, provided that Mrs. Brodie vouches for you.”
Bridget nodded, removed her glove, and placed the shilling in Mrs. Jacobs’s palm. It was gone in an instant.
“I’ll speak to Mrs. Brodie first thing in the morning. If she says you’re a good girl, you and the boy can move in tomorrow evening.”
“Very good. It will just be me for now.”
“Why is that? Where is the boy living?”
“It will take me time to send for him,” she said, keeping her answer vague.
Mrs. Jacobs nodded. “As long as he doesn’t cause trouble.”
“He won’t.” Of course, she couldn’t know that. She hadn’t seen James since he was barely three. She didn’t know what sort of boy he’d grown into in the intervening years. And yet, she was well-versed in dealing with unruly children. She could handle her own son, and she would.
She just had to find him first. She’d gone to the orphanage where she’d left James before she’d been sent to Fleet Prison with Robbie, but the St. Dismas Home for Wayward Youth had burned down, and no one seemed to know what had happened to the boys who’d lived there.
She hadn’t known how to go about discovering more. She considered hiring an investigator to look into the matter, but she feared the expense would be too dear.
Mrs. Jacobs, evidently convinced she’d shown the new tenant enough of the room, motioned her out and locked the door again. She began what sounded like a well-rehearsed speech about meals and noise and visitors as she led Bridget back down the stairs. Bridget made sounds of assent, but she was lo
oking at the cracked paint on the walls and wondering what James would think of their new home. What would he think of her? Could he ever forgive her for abandoning him?
Finally at the front door, the two ladies said their goodbyes, and Mrs. Jacobs opened the door for Bridget just as a man was opening it from the outside.
“Pardon me, ladies,” he said when he saw that he had blocked their way.
Bridget began to say something along the lines of, It is nothing, sir, but then she looked up and into his face.
Those eyes. She knew of only two people in the world with that exact shade of blue. One was James and the other his father.
CALEB HARRIS FELT HIS smile fade. There had only ever been a few times in his life where he hadn’t known what to do. Seeing her again was one of those rare times. He’d known it might happen when he was sent back to England and then to London. He’d prepared several speeches in the unlikely event that he saw her.
But looking at her now, her golden-brown eyes riveted to his face, her expression like that of a person who had seen a ghost, he couldn’t think of a single word.
They stared at each other for what seemed like hours, though it was probably only a few seconds. It was long enough for Mrs. Jacobs to clear her throat conspicuously. “Do you two know each other?”
“Yes,” he said at the same time that she said, “No.”
Mrs. Jacobs looked from one to the other.
He was a bloody idiot. Why had he said yes? At least Bridget still had her wits about her. “I misspoke.” Caleb removed his hat politely. “I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure of making this lady’s acquaintance.”
“Mrs. Lavery, this is Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, Mrs. Lavery.”
He nodded. “A pleasure, Mrs. Lavery.” She hadn’t been Bridget Lavery when he’d known her. Nor had she been married. Of course, he hadn’t been Smith back then either.
