by Julia Donner
She wished she could teach her husband to cease with his questioning. Marrying him had supposedly been the best way to carry on with hers and Annabelle’s secret mission. To be fair, she wasn’t sorry to have married the man. There were compensations. A smile quirked up one corner of her mouth as she returned to the house.
Chapter 14
Adele looked up when Showers came into the drawing-room. She’d heard the latch lift, and as always, her heart did that strange skip from the expectation that it might be Gordon. Seeing no sign of her husband lurking in the passageway, hopefully to come in and pounce on her, she resigned herself to greeting visitors. Many of the wedding guests had returned obligatory calls due to their invitation to the ceremony and wedding breakfast. Gordon usually lingered during calling hours, but had been missing from breakfast this morning. She’d used the opportunity to stroll by the flowerbed where she stored her cache under a flat rock. Telltale signs of soil recently disturbed could be attributed to weeding, which she always did herself to allay incongruity or suspicion.
“Callers, Mr. Showers?”
“Yes, madam. Sir Harry Collyns.”
“Has Mr. Treadwell returned?”
“Not as yet. He had early appointments with his bootmaker and with Stultz. They must have consumed more time than expected.”
“He did not go to his club for luncheon?”
“No, ma’am. It was my understanding that he planned to return in time to receive callers.”
“Please bring Sir Harry up.”
“But I am already here, ma’am,” a deep, melodious voice said from the doorway.
Glorious in a claret-colored coat, white silk waistcoat spattered with lavender flowers, and pantaloons that looked painted on his legs, Sir Harry strolled into the room. He halted to bring his heels together with a smart click and incline his head in a bow, showing it topped with gleaming, golden curls. At first, his smile looked like one of sardonic humor, but after a moment of assessing her, it softened into a sincere grin, one that must have stopped many hearts. Other than Lord Byron, no other gentleman caused women to faint when he entered a room. Hers remained calm but not unmoved.
Everyone knew Sir Harry. Everyone had their own impression of the person considered the handsomest gentleman in all England—rake, fop, angel, man-milliner, arbiter or particular friend of the Regent. She had glimpsed him from across the room on a few occasions. They had never been introduced, but Gordon and Sir Harry moved in the same sporting circles, which would make up for the breach of etiquette of presenting himself without formal introduction. Up close, he was undoubtedly breath-taking, but her heart did not stutter. Nor did it escalate when he accepted her hand and bowed over it.
Adele dipped a curtsey. “How kind of you to visit, Sir Harry.”
Showers asked, “Shall I bring a fresh tray, Mrs. Treadwell?”
Adele looked to Sir Harry, who said to her, “Not on my account, thank you.”
They sat, he on a chair, and she on the Egyptian motif couch recently bought to replace the smelly one My Precious had ruined. They exchanged the usual pleasantries, until she could no longer hold back the words uppermost in her mind.
“Sir, please forgive my poor manners in saying so, but you are the most astoundingly fine looking man I’ve ever seen, which is saying a great deal, when one takes into account my husband. Don’t you find it tedious?”
He accepted this bit of rudeness with equanimity. “An unfortunate bane to an otherwise contented existence.”
“My dearest friend, Miss Percival, calls it a trial. I refer to her astonishing beauty.”
“Well, it can get in the way, if you understand what I mean.”
“Sir, I can. No one takes the time to see beneath the surface. She is so marvelous a person, all that is kind and honorable, and no one takes the time to notice the finer beauty underneath.”
He smiled. “Mrs. Treadwell, I am so glad I followed Miss Percival’s direction. Will you tell me the reason she wished us to meet? I believe it has to do with an orphanage.”
“Not an orphanage, per se. Spitalfields Manse is a place of refuge and apprenticeship. Through a separate party, we buy children back from chimney sweepers. Sir, some of them are as young as four.”
“May I ask how you became aware and involved with this charity?”
“My maid, Enid. She came from a large family, too many mouths to feed. She was sent off into service, but before that, she had to stand by, too young to do anything, when her youngest brother was sold into apprenticeship as a climbing boy. He was only five!”
Sir Harry said nothing as she struggled to control the gripping horror every time she thought about the event Enid had described, and failed to rise to the task of holding on to equanimity. The outrage and passion congested inside her chest would not remain silent.
“Sir, she relayed the appalling event of her little brother, Eddie, being carried, screaming and begging, from the one room the family lived in, shrieking for his parents as he was taken away. Never to be seen again. Enid tried to find him years later, but he was undoubtedly long dead by then. Most of the boys do not survive more than a few years.”
He did not interrupt her when she paused to dash away tears. She searched for her handkerchief and pulled it from inside the left cuff of her sleeve. She swiped at her cheeks, ready to continue. “You may not know that chimneys are being built narrower. Smaller bodies are required to fit. They are forced to squeeze themselves up narrow passages in complete darkness to put out fires. They are severely burned in the process, and cruelly beaten if they do not obey. Rarely fed, never cared for in any manner. Even girls are abused in this way. They are sometimes used because they are smaller than the boys.”
She swallowed for composure. A glance at Sir Harry gave her courage to go on. His gaze was steady, nonjudgmental. “Sir Harry, forgive my inability to speak of this with composure. It is because we have come to a point in this endeavor where more has to be done. We can and have provided an escape, and for some, a new direction in life, but legislation is required. It is our hope, Miss Percival’s and mine, that you can guide us in how to achieve this in Parliament.”
“I am not a member, ma’am”
“We understand that, sir, but you have influence.”
He paused for a self-deprecating smile. “Yes, that I do. What you are not saying is that it is with the wives.”
“Please, forgive me if you have taken offense. It is a measure of our desperation for help that I must be so terribly candid.”
She could not tell him that they’d received threats from enraged businessmen. If the threats became known to family members and loved ones, their work to save horribly treated children would come to an end, when there was so much more to accomplish.
“Ma’am, I am not adverse to honest and candid discussion and deeply moved by your passionate dedication to assist the poor creatures. I confess to some concern about the dangerous environs in which you must tread in order to affect change in these conditions. You do not actually travel into Spitalfields.”
It was posed as an oblique question—one that she could not answer without creating barriers to their work. Caution warned her to think carefully before giving a reply. Annabelle’s father believed his daughter’s involvement consisted of meetings with like-minded ladies, who convened to chat over how they could assist with donations and perhaps afternoon parties to raise funds. Her father would have a blue fit if he discovered that Annabelle actually visited the Manse to check on the children. Since marrying, Adele used the excuse of shopping with her friend for their excursions to the unseemly part of London. After being left off at the bazaar, they hired a hackney to take them in secret to the Manse, and returned to the bazaar after visiting with Mrs. Jeffries and the children.
Neither could she clarify their deep involvement in the workings and management of the Manse to Sir Harry. If made aware of the danger and recent threats, the gentleman in him might refuse to be a part of an endeavor that expose
d ladies to danger. Some of the written threats had been ugly and specific. She and Annabelle had thrown the messages into the nearest fire. After hugging each other, they’d agreed that the vile letters had only proved to hardened their resolve.
Sir Harry broke into her questioning herself as to whether or not to tell him everything. “If you will permit, ma’am, I shall likewise resort to candid observation. On the surface, and from all I have heard, the impression you have cultivated in the ton is one of sedate spinsterhood. From the fervent expression and your quite vocal declarations, you are not the passive wallflower you present to the world at large. I suspect and surmise this from your passive attendance for a number of Seasons. You, madam, are a radical in sheep’s clothing.”
“So are you, sir!” she shot back, still overwhelmed by her emotions, and inhaled when he smiled at her retort, broadly and with extraordinary sweetness. That did take her breath for a moment.
Cobalt blue eyes stared into hers. There was no evidence of his previous self-mockery when he said, “Then we share a secret, Mrs. Treadwell, in that we both hide under a fleece, each for our own reason. My interest lies in the injustice of slavery. I am a secret abolitionist, and what is being done to those pathetic children is slavery at its most brutal. I shall help you in every way I can.”
Again overwhelmed, this time with relief, she stood, and he rose with swift grace. Extending her hand, she said, “Sir, I cannot find words to thank you. The distressing fact is that there are those in both Houses willing to oppose the idea of helping or relieving the plight of climbing boys.”
Sir Harry kissed her hand and held it between his own. Compassion glinted behind the twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “But, ma’am, as you know, the esteemed members and ministers are not deaf to their wives. A few might try to be, but ladies have their ways of making us miserable. Allow me a week to investigate the lay of the land. Do you ride?”
“Yes.”
“Then we shall meet accidentally in the park. I doubt anyone will ask, since both of us are long past our first Season, but we can always say that we were introduced through the auspices of Miss Percival.”
“Ah, you are clever, for that wording is walking the edge of the truth.”
“So is much of life, Mrs. Treadwell.” He bowed in farewell.
After the door closed she returned to the couch and picked up the pamphlet she’d been devising. Corrections were needed before she had them printed and distributed all over London. Perhaps if an awareness of how the children were being tortured came to light, support for passage of a legislative bill could be achieved. If nothing else, it might soften hearts and encourage households to look into what happened below stairs when they hired a chimneysweep.
The pamphlet idea was an expensive one, to be sure, but perhaps to cover the expenditure she could add one more volume to what she had previously hoped would be a final installment of the Romantic Adventures of the Scarlet Lady. The cache she kept hidden in the garden was nearly depleted. Monies had to come from somewhere. Her quarterly allowance, even with the generous increase upon marriage, had been used. She tucked her handkerchief up her sleeve. More sheets scrawled with lurid prose seemed her only option.
Chapter 15
Gordon paused at the top of the first floor steps, watching as a dandy of the first order exited the drawing-room. Sir Harry Collyns was enough to make any husband with eyes in his head entertain concern, if not alarm.
Hessians sparkled, silver tassels bobbing, as Sir Harry sauntered up the passageway, but no amount of champagne polish could outshine the man’s astounding beauty, only marred by a resolute jaw and the sardonic curl on his mouth. “Good day to you, Treadwell.”
“That remains to be seen. Making a call on my wife?”
“Extending my wishes for a happy marriage.” He paused, allowing his hint of the doubtfulness of that ever happening to register.
Gordon made sure his expression didn’t change. “And no felicitations for me, Harry?”
“You won the lady’s hand. Be grateful for that. She is a most estimable sort, you know. I have it in mind to set her up as a darling of Society.”
This time he didn’t hide his irritation in his reply. “Now why would you expend your precious energy on that? I doubt she has any interest in creating a dash.”
Sir Harry toyed with a gem-studded quizzing glass that dangled from a black ribbon. He didn’t lift it, merely made the suggestion of doing so, as if weighing all possibilities.
Gordon grinned at the hesitation, gratified that this unexpected visitor, the man touted as the most handsome in England—or anywhere else for that matter—had enough sense and self-preservation to not provoke a territorial husband.
“Mrs. Treadwell is deserving of popular esteem. I might make it a goal in life to help her comprehend her worth.”
“I believe you can leave the question of her worth with me.”
Unconcerned with the underlying warning of that directive, Sir Harry airily observed, “I wonder if you are doing your part to establish that understanding. There’s talk of you hiding her away, keeping her all to yourself. That could imply any number of negative suggestions, don’t you think? She should be circulating, Treadwell. Society could use a woman with her intelligence and character.”
Irritated beyond his level of patience, Gordon asked, “Been spending any time at Jackson’s?”
The contender for his wife’s attention smiled with serenity. “Regularly. It’s said you’re a bruiser. Let us set up a match.”
“Yes, let’s do, Collyns.” Gordon advanced a step, which served to amuse Sir Harry rather than intimidate him. Beyond his looks, Sir Harry was known for loving a fight, fists and swords his preference. Gordon would be happy to take on either and leaned into Sir Harry’s space, his purpose clear.
This time, Sir Harry pressed the head of the quizzing glass into Gordon’s chest to halt the advance, pressing directly on the tender crest of the clavicle bone. “Calm your rising blood, Treadwell. There will be no bout today. No time, you see. I’m on my way to visit my mistress.”
“Which one?” Gordon asked, acidic and derisive.
Sir Harry silently laughed and allowed the quizzing glass to fall. “I think, for today…yes, the brunette will do.”
Gordon stepped back, but continued to drill Sir Harry with the warning of a narrow-eyed glare. “Off you go, then. Until we meet at Jackson’s.”
Furious with his lack of control over jealousy, not helped by Sir Harry’s smirking sangfroid, Gordon glared at the man’s retreating back. At the door, he calmly retrieved his hat and gloves from the footman stationed at the entrance, where Sir Harry turned and touched his hat brim in a cocky farewell.
Gordon’s blood simmered. What did the most sought after gentleman in Society want with Adele? She made no secret of her disdain for the ton, its environs and functions. Had she quietly been carrying on affairs? Had she simulated being a virgin?
Wild ideas whirled as he stared at the closed drawing-room door. There was also the intrigue surrounding the peculiar discovery of his wife digging in a garden flowerbed in the middle of the night.
He’d come home earlier than usual, having expected to be out late. He’d informed Showers to retire early and entered the dressing room grateful that a lamp had been left burning. He got out of a layer of clothes with the intention to waken Adele and relieve the constant state of excitement he lived with since marrying her. He’d blown out the lamp, set it on the windowsill, and noticed movement below in the garden.
Peering through the glass, he saw Adele’s bottom in the air as she grubbed around in the dirt. She hoisted up a heavy object and stepped out of the flowerbed to set a container on the edge of the fountain. Brushing it and her hands off, she lifted its lid and took something out. This was set aside, the box shut, and returned to the flowerbed. She hunched over again to work in the soil. Something was lifted and placed on the spot where she’d removed the box. She tucked the item she’d retrieved under
one arm, shook out her skirts, and picked up what looked like a small shovel before leaving the garden.
After thinking for a moment, Gordon put back on the clothes he’d removed and went into his bedroom. When the sound of the door to the adjoining rooms opened and closed, he went out into the hall. He stared at her door for a while, then knocked and immediately entered. Since she was reaching for the bell pull, he offered to act as maid.
As he unfastened her dress, he said nothing about what he’d seen in the garden. While her back was turned, he scanned her bedroom. He noticed nothing unusual lying about, but had already assumed the item would be kept well hidden. Her skill at subterfuge evoked a measure of admiration. She revealed no sense of nervousness, no indication of guilt.
That night, for the first time, he viewed their lovemaking with a vaguely cynical attitude. Some of the wonderment and beauty of his wife’s suppressed sensuality felt tainted, even though the act was as vivid and exciting as always. None of the thrill of coaxing wild responses from his prim wife had lessened, and oddly, left him with a stronger territorial urge and sense of possessiveness.
The truly unsettling discovery was that he noticed his father’s influence on his own temperament as every day passed. An inner demand for maintaining a sense of propriety was taking over his lifelong attitude of delighting in a freewheeling spirit. As he’d feared, marriage was turning him into his father. But there was a difference.
His parents had enjoyed a discreetly fervent relationship, one of deep devotion, affection and respect. His own marriage had remarkable sex but nothing else, not even conversation. He had always respected Adele’s intelligence and resolute character, but now suspicion was eroding his admiration.
He began to realize that she had never given the impression that she esteemed him in any other way than how he could make love to her. This disturbing epiphany brought with it the lowering concern that the proverbial tables had been turned in their marriage. Men perceived the women they married objectively, as a means of procuring a respectable place in the social order, a conduit for procreation, and quite often as a financial solution. Women were objects necessary for practical social goals or physical pleasure.
