"Pardon?" she said startled.
"You heard me."
Swallowing hard she pulled down her gown.
"Lower," he ordered.
Slowly she pulled down her bodice.
"Stop!" he barked as the gown reached the tip of her breasts. Knitting his brows, he leaned forward and inspected her shoulders. "She's clean, Mother," he announced.
"Cornelius," said Mrs. Bench as she sat down heavily into an armchair. "I need a light." She spoke rapidly and addressed everyone as inferiors, including her own son. Opening a thin, gold case, Mrs. Bench withdrew a small brown stick and held it to her lips.
Cornelius sighed and slid off the bed, lighting her tobacco.
"I don't believe a woman should smoke a pipe," she said letting out a puff and looking at Lauren. "It's so pedestrian."
Without waiting for an answer she continued, turning the smoking stick in her hand. "These are called cigarettes, my dear. They are all the rage in London and ever so much more refined than a pipe." Again, she drew a long puff into her lungs then let out the smoke leisurely. "Now dear, where were we?"
There was a knock on the door.
"Answer that," she demanded of her son.
With another sigh, he opened the door, and Nemi stood holding a tray with a steaming teapot, three cups and some dainties. He put the tray on the table in front of Mrs. Bench and slipped discreetly from the room. With fingers like plump sausages, the matron stuffed a lemon pastry into her mouth, licked her fingers and demanded of Lauren, "Now, some tea."
Lauren moved stiffly to the tray and poured the tea knowing they were scrutinizing her.
"Is anyone looking for you?" Cornelius asked taking a cup from her.
"No."
"Where is your family?"
"In New France. I have one sister. She is a nun."
Cornelius laughed "My, how very Cain and Abel of you. One a nun and one a--"
“Corny! That is enough!" Mrs. Bench reprimanded. She continued to draw on her cigarette watching Lauren closely. "Have you any schooling?" she asked.
"No--no," stuttered Lauren. "You two are my first customers. Madame Vanoss gave me no special instructions on how to--”
"Not that you little fool," the matron said sharply. "Actual schooling as in books?"
"Yes, I can read," murmured Lauren looking from Mrs. Bench to her son. "I am afraid I don't understand."
"You don't have to yet," muttered Cornelius as he moved to a mirror and fussed with his wig.
"Who taught you to read, a parent?" asked Mrs. Bench.
"No, I attended finishing school at the Ursuline Academy for Girls in New Orleans."
Cornelius stopped arranging his wig and looked at his mother.
The woman smiled slowly and said, "Well, well. I think we have all that we need."
Mrs. Neville Bench and her son left the room briefly and returned with a cloak for Lauren. "Here put this on. We must leave immediately.”
Cornelius opened the door.
Mrs. Bench demanded, "Quickly now!"
The couple hustled Lauren down the stairs and out into a carriage. The horses blew steam and stomped in the cold night air as the three jostled into their seats. The coachman snapped his reins and with a jolt, they were off. Lauren looked at the Benchs for an explanation but was met with only silence so she sank down into her fur lap blanket and waited.
Finally, they arrived at a large brick town house on Duke Street, which Lauren recognized to be a very fashionable section of the city. Oddly, no servants met them at the door, and when they entered the enormous sitting room no warm fire welcomed them. Instead, the room was dark and chilly, littered with the white specters of covered furniture. Immediately, Mrs. Bench barked at Cornelius to get her a brandy.
"Where do you suggest I start looking, Mother?" he said, rolling his eyes.
"Don't be a dolt Cornelius the flask is in my trunk."
"Oh, that narrows it down," he mumbled as he waded through crates, trunks and hatboxes.
"You build a fire," she said to Lauren in French.
Mrs. Bench fell heavily into an armchair. The short excursion from carriage to chair had winded her significantly. "Bring my chocolates as well, Corny. They're near the brandy.
Lauren could not make out his reply, but she gathered it was less than cordial.
When at last the fire was crackling and popping, Mrs. Bench ordered, "Pull the sheet off that chair and sit down, my dear."
Lauren slid onto the edge of a black Windsor chair waiting for her next command. Cornelius returned with a brandy flask and three crystal glasses tossing a tin of chocolates onto the end table by his mother.
She waited until they all had a drink then began, "I have paid Madame Vanoss dearly for you my child, and if you agree to my terms you shall never have to see that hideous creature again."
Lauren looked from Mrs. Bench to her son.
"We have just arrived from London and leased this townhouse. My husband Neville passed away several months ago leaving Corny and I--well somewhat depleted of resources. So here we are, sadly destitute and alone in the New World."
Mrs. Bench touched a hankie to her nose, and Cornelius stifled a laugh. He changed it quickly into a cough after his mother seared a look into him.
"I have sold some land in the Hudson River Valley,” she continued. “And I intend to invest the proceeds here in New York, but first it is imperative that I make the right acquaintances here in the Colonies. These unsophisticated provincials prefer to invest with God-fearing, so-called respectable people so--” she hesitated. “Well in a word, Corny needs a wife. Not just any wife, one of refinement and breeding."
Lauren looked confused. Everything was moving so fast. Only an hour ago she was selling her body for money, now there was a proposal of marriage.
"Why me?" she asked knitting her brow. "Why do you have to shop at a brothel for a wife? Why can't Cornelius find a wife himself?"
Mrs. Bench looked at Cornelius and raised an eyebrow. "He refuses. You see my son has—has rather unusual tastes in lovers and the thought of courting a woman is abhorrent to him."
Cornelius rolled his eyes, leaning against the mantel. "Mother we have been through this a hundred times. That is not the only reason I will not marry. How am I to attract a woman with moths in my pockets?"
Mrs. Bench ignored him. "You are just the woman we seek. You have manners, breeding and to be honest, you are as desperate as we are."
Just as the proposition was beginning to sound inviting Lauren remembered Heathstone. "I'm sorry Mrs. Bench but I'm afraid this is all impossible."
"Why on earth?"
"I am already married."
“Where is your husband?" demanded Cornelius.
"I don't know where he is. He abandoned me months ago."
"Abandoned you?" Cornelius barked. "Why did he abandon you? Are you diseased?”
“No! I am perfectly healthy.”
“You haven’t been in trouble. I checked you myself. You were clean."
"Clean? What do you mean?"
"My son refers to the Fleur-de-Lis of France," explained Mrs. Bench. "It is a brand used by the French authorities to identify a convicted criminal. They apply it to the shoulder usually. He examined you and found you to be free of such a mark."
“I have committed no crimes, and I am not sick!” said Lauren indignantly. “The fact is I don’t know why my husband left me. The authorities questioned me upon my arrival, and I never saw him again. He never came to look for me.”
“Hmm, unusual,” said Mrs. Bench tapping her finger on her lips. “Never mind, is your husband a man of means?”
“I don’t really know, perhaps,” answered Lauren.
“Someone who is likely to move in circles of refinement and respectability?" she continued.
Lauren thought back to Heathstone's dowdy attire and bad manners then said, "No, I don't believe one would ever see him in polite society."
“Do you know anyone at all in the
English Colonies besides your estranged husband?”
Lauren shook her head.
"Well, then we have no problem," shrugged Mrs. Bench. "No one needs to know the truth. We will tell everyone that you and Corny wed several months ago. Actually, now that I think of it, this is all for the best. Marriage to Corny would only complicate things."
"What am I expected to do in this masquerade of a marriage?" asked Lauren.
"Learn English for one thing and as quickly as possible," said Cornelius tossing his drink back.
"Flatter and pursue the right people," instructed Mrs. Bench. "Make the right friends. But above all,” she warned. “You must keep quiet. No one must know of our arrangement. Remember you have as much at stake as we do. The streets are a cold place."
"Conjugal obligations?" Lauren asked in a business-like tone.
"Heavens no!" Cornelius winced.
Turning to his mother, he changed his language to English. Lauren could hear the eagerness in his voice and sensed her opportunity. She knew that women of education and breeding were rare in the New World, and if she played this couple correctly she could further herself in ways unimaginable.
"How am I to be compensated?" she interrupted.
"You will have your food and lodging," said Mrs. Bench.
"Not enough," stated Lauren flatly. "The wife of Cornelius Bench must have a substantial allowance."
The matron's eyes grew wide then she chuckled knowingly, "Why you little--you are a shrewd one, aren't you?"
Lauren continued to meet the woman’s gaze until Mrs. Bench said, "Alright, you shall have it but only because I like your style. I can see you won't crumble at the first stuffed shirt you meet."
"I won't let you down,” said Lauren as she thrust her chin into the air. “From this day on I shall be known as Mrs. Cornelius Bench, daughter-in-law of Mrs. Neville Bench Esquire," then holding out her glass to Cornelius she said, "Darling, get me another drink."
Chapter 22
Lauren rose late the next morning to find the townhouse on Duke Street bustling with activity. A new fleet of servants had arrived that morning and were scouring and arranging the house, getting ready to present the Benchs to New York society. The furniture had been unveiled revealing richly brocaded armchairs and divans, delicate tea tables and fireplace screens, hutches filled with porcelain figurines and elegant china for formal occasions.
Lauren was simply astounded. The Aberjons had furnishings of quality back in Kaskaskia but nothing this extravagant. She acted nonchalant, but in reality she was amazed. Although the townhouse was built in the Dutch tradition, the decorating was overwhelmingly British. There remained imbedded in the fireplace inlaid tiles of quaint Dutch landscapes and several sets of double doors but other than that little remained of Dutch influence. Golden sunlight flooded the sitting room. It bathed the mustard-colored cupboards flanking the fireplace in a sweet, warm glow. A round mahogany table sat in front of the hearth with a breakfast of hard-boiled eggs and toast.
“Good morning," said a voice cheerfully.
Lauren turned just as Mrs. Neville Bench took a seat beside her at the table. The woman had removed her layers of makeup and her wig and for the first time; Lauren was able to view the real Mrs. Neville Bench. She had dull, gray hair swept into a white mob cap, and a voluminous blue dressing gown concealed her thick pear-shaped figure. She stuffed herself into an armchair and began to butter some toast.
“Today we will visit the dressmaker. I have made inquiries, and Mr. Benjamin Byrd is considered the finest dressmaker in all of New York City. He will be our source of information on everything about the richest to the most influential citizens of this colony. I’ve yet to meet a dressmaker who isn’t a supreme gossip.”
“What shall I say about my past? Surely there will be questions,” asked Lauren.
“Leave the talking to me. For now, act shy and demure. You may exploit your charms later.”
After four pieces of toast, Mrs. Bench peeled an egg and took a large bite of the white orb. Lauren studied the woman while she ate. She concluded that Mrs. Bench had succeeded in life because of a quick mind and keen intuition, not beauty. Her wits and boldness probably earned her a place in the aristocracy without regard to the feelings of others. Lauren respected her killer instinct but also feared it. She had to be careful how she used this woman.
Suddenly, Heloise Bench’s small eyes narrowed, and she burned a look into Lauren. “You think you know me. Don’t you? You think you know what drives me?”
She sat back in her chair, arranging her napkin. “Well indeed you do. Put aside the gray hair and bulbous figure, and I am just like you; an opportunistic adventuress who was born in a man’s world.”
Lauren’s eyes opened wide, and she blinked several times.
The woman continued, “You would like to take every farthing I have because you need it to survive. I recognize that hungry look. I see it in the mirror everyday. You’ve slept alone and cold under the stars more nights than you care to count.”
Lauren opened her mouth to protest.
The woman continued, “Don’t act so surprised. Those who have struggled like you can spot the hunger in others.”
Lauren stared at the rug on the floor for a moment, and then she looked up at Mrs. Bench and said, “I admit it. You are right. I will take as much as I can from anybody to survive. I will never scour the streets again like a dog. I claim no love, no family and no home. I will take what I need from you and your son to make my life as easy as possible.”
“Bravo! My dear,” Mrs. Bench cheered. “Bravo! Your honesty is admirable but make no mistake, we are not fools.” The matron threw her napkin on her plate and rose from the table. She crossed the sitting room and paused. “One more thing, there are others out there that have suffered similar privation. No matter how fine your manners and attire, they will recognize this blight in you. They know exactly what you fear and they will use it against you.”
Mrs. Bench started up the stairs then stopped abruptly. “Well what are you waiting for? Lets begin your new life!”
* * *
“I think that fabric is hideous,” whined Cornelius. “Lauren has taken enough of our time today. I’m tired and hungry.”
Cornelius lounged in a chair with one leg flung over the arm looking at himself in a hand mirror. He sat in the corner of a dressmakers shop surrounded by cream-colored cabinets filled with ribbons, thread and faux flowers. The volumes of linen and silk piled high on shelves muffled his constant complaints.
“I’m bored,” he announced again, but no one responded.
“You say that can be done by tomorrow?” pressed Heloise.
“Yes, indeed, Madame,” stated Mr. Byrd bowing low. “Our motto here is, ‘A gown in a day’ and my seamstresses always deliver on time.”
The tiny dressmaker darted back to Lauren’s side running a length of material across her bust line as the girl frowned. Lauren thought it highly suspicious Mr. Byrd had taken her measurement in that spot three times. “Lovely. Yes, so lovely,” he mumbled jotting down some notes hastily. His oily hospitality repulsed her.
Mrs. Bench kept a watchful eye on her new, “daughter-in-law.” She did not like her attitude toward the dressmaker and was anticipating an altercation. She must move quickly. “Mr. Byrd, you seem to be a man who knows citizens of quality,” she asked, flattering him.
“Indeed I may know one or two,” he said with false modesty, bowing again.
“Please say nothing of our arrival to anyone. We choose to live quietly here in New York and not be bothered by people calling. My son is newly married and would like to enjoy domestic serenity. I seek simplicity. I have grown weary of court life in London. I want to enjoy the informal lifestyle here in the Colonies.”
“Oh, of course, of course, I will be most discreet, Madam Bench,” assured the dressmaker. He paused for a moment then asked, “Pardon the intrusion, Madam but you have been presented at court?”
“Of course,
I had my first introduction many years ago. Believe me, over the years it grows tiresome.” Heloise Bench leaned forward and said confidentially, “It is not as grand as one might assume.”
The dressmakers eyes widened and he stammered, “Oh my! Oh, my! It would be grand for me, I am sure, very grand for me.”
He darted back to Lauren straightening and smoothing the length of silk over her bust again. The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Lovely, lovely,” he mumbled, licking his thick lips and looking down her bodice. He started to scribble some notes into a book, but his hands were perspiring so heavily that he dropped his quill.
“Allow me,” Lauren murmured in French as she bent down to retrieve the quill. When she straightened up, she drove her elbow deep into Mr. Byrd’s groin, and the man shrieked in agony.
“Oh! Mon Dieu!” Lauren cried and filled the air with apologies in French.
The dressmaker doubled over and danced around the shop on his tiptoes, biting his lip.
Heloise raised an eyebrow at Lauren and said, “You are lucky that we just concluded our final order of business.”
Turning to Mr. Byrd, she said sympathetically, “How careless of the girl. I am terribly sorry. Good day.” She swept from the shop followed by Lauren and Cornelius.
“Mother, why on earth would you tell the dressmaker that we want to be left alone?”
“Honestly Cornelius,” Heloise scoffed. “After all these years you would think some of my wits would have worn off on you. The first thing that gossip of a dressmaker will do is inform everyone that we have arrived in New York, and that I have been presented at court. Next, he will tell them we want to be left alone and that will make us all the more desirable. Knowing human nature, they will be pounding on our door within a week.”
After dining at the Cheshire Cheese Tavern on Whitehall the three returned to their town home to meet Lauren’s new English tutor. The instant the young man entered the room Cornelius’ eyebrows shot up, and he looked at Lauren. This was no ordinary tutor.
As Frederick Brink crossed the room to kiss Mrs. Bench’s hand, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror. It was brief but Cornelius saw the look of admiration in his eyes. Clearly, this young man was pleased with himself.
The Pride of the King Page 13
