by Justine Cole
Simon turned his eyes to the shoreline, his expression inscrutable. "It's a complicated matter. Women have so few rights, and you know how thorough Quinn was about making this marriage legal."
"There must be a way," Noelle insisted. "What about desertion? Surely I must have some rights. The law cannot be so unjust."
"The law was made by scholarly men anxious to protect the best interests of the family."
Noelle stamped her foot impatiently. "The law was made by men anxious to protect the best interests of men."
"Really, Noelle, you hardly qualify as an expert on jurisprudence. I suggest you let me handle the situation."
"And will you handle it, Simon?" she challenged. "Or do you intend to see that things remain just as they are?"
"That is most unfair. I'll certainly continue making inquiries on your behalf when we reach London."
Although dissatisfied with his response, Noelle realized nothing more could be gained by pushing him further today.
"Very well, Simon. I shall hold you to that."
PART THREE
Dorian Pope
London
Chapter Fourteen
Noelle arrived in London with Constance during the last week of August. A year and a half had passed since the morning Quinn had delivered her to this same house. Now, she was elegantly gowned in apricot velvet. Her shining hair, which fell below her shoulders when she brushed it, was swept up into a flattering arrangement of small braids and soft curls. Even though there was no longer any resemblance between the carrot-thatched pickpocket and the beautiful young woman who stepped so gracefully from the carriage, the house on Northridge Square still overwhelmed her.
Northridge Square was, in fact, not a square at all but a small rectangle with ten houses forming the perimeter, two at each of the shorter ends of the rectangle and three on the longer sides. There was a park in the center with carefully groomed shade trees and a granite pedestal holding a bust of Lord Nelson.
Simon's residence rested in a direct line with the hero of Trafalgar's bronzed gaze. Built of red brick, it was an imposing house, both larger and grander than the one in Sussex. It had high-ceilinged rooms, massive fireplaces, and a set of twin staircases that curved up from each side of the black marble foyer.
One of the first things Noelle did after she was settled was to take out one of the coins she had been so carefully hoarding and slip away from Northridge Square. Tilting her head far enough forward so that the rim of her bonnet obscured her face, she walked rapidly eastward until the homes of the wealthy gave way to poorer dwellings. She had not gone far before she came upon an old costermonger peddling a barrow overflowing with shabby clothing. In rapid succession she bought a black, closely woven shawl, a threadbare cloak, and a pair of worn boots. A quick stop at an apothecary's, then a wigmaker's, and her purchases were complete.
When she returned home, she let herself quietly in through the back garden and stealthily climbed the stairs to her room, where she hid her purchases in the back of her armoire.
Determined to earn the generous salary Simon was paying her, Noelle swallowed her apprehension and set about her new duties as his hostess with all the confidence she could muster. She learned the routine of the household as well as the names of all the servants—from Tomkins, the forbidding butler, and Mrs. Debs, the housekeeper, to Norah, the kitchen maid.
As she explored the house she discovered behind the dining room a small parlor that Constance had rather fancifully decorated some years before in shades of peach and powder blue. There was a set of bookshelves and a sunny bay window with an upholstered window seat, originally bright peach but now faded into softer tones. The room was warm and comfortable, and Noelle immediately appropriated it as her own, adding a small pigeonholed desk.
There Constance showed her how to set up an inventory with the housekeeper, go over menus with the cook, and issue and respond to invitations, all tasks that Noelle immediately detested. To console herself, she hung a fern in the bay window and then added a comfortable pillow so she could curl up and read.
Unfortunately she had little time for literature, as Constance and Simon were both insistent that she begin to be seen socially. It was a mark of Simon's determination to have her accepted by his peers that he reluctantly left his desk several afternoons a week to accompany the women on their rounds. He felt amply rewarded for his sacrifice when he learned that wagers were being laid at several of the most exclusive clubs in London, and Simon Copeland's niece was an odds-on favorite to be the surprise hit of the social season. He was less pleased, however, to observe the collection of young dandies in his drawing room growing by the day.
For her part, Noelle was waiting impatiently for another chance to slip from the house. One chilly afternoon almost a month after her arrival, Simon and Constance were both required at the Copeland and Peale offices to sign a new contract. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Noelle pleaded a headache and informed Tomkins that she was not to be disturbed for the rest of the afternoon.
Locking herself in her room, she took off her crisp muslin dress and fine petticoats and carefully hung them away. From beneath a pile of chemises, she drew out her knife and tied it securely around her calf with the strips of material she had saved. Then she pulled her secret purchases from the bottom of the armoire. With the briefest hesitation, she took out her old emerald gown and slipped it on, shuddering at the terrible memories it brought back.
Her next task took considerably longer. With a pair of silver scissors, she snipped away at the section of fake hair she had purchased at the wigmakers. It was not quite the ugly shade of orange she remembered, but it was close enough. Then using a needle and thread, she sewed the ends of the tufts of hair to the edge nearest the center of the black shawl, settling the shawl around her face several times to adjust the strands. When she was finally satisfied, she tucked her own honey tresses securely out of sight and knotted the shawl under her chin so only the artificial strands of hair protruded, uneven and frizzled. As a final step she pulled on the worn pair of boots and smeared the scarlet rouge that she had purchased from the apothecary across her cheeks and rimmed her eyes in kohl.
Noelle surveyed herself in the mirror. What she saw did not completely satisfy her. She would have to rub some dirt on her face to disguise her healthy complexion; then if the light were dim enough and luck was with her, she could still pass as Highness. Her chances were made better, she knew, by the fact that the one she was going to see was almost blind.
Noelle wrapped only five coins in her handkerchief—too many questions would be asked if she appeared with more—and, throwing the threadbare old cloak over her shoulders, opened her window.
She had chosen a bedroom at the back of the house, although Constance had chided her at the time. "It's such a little room, Noelle. The curtains are old, and it needs repainting. Why not take the pretty yellow room at the front?"
But Noelle had argued that the bedroom in the back would be quieter. After the peace of Sussex, she declared, the front of the house would be too noisy with carriages rattling by all night. Constance pointed out quite logically that Northridge Square was very quiet, and it was not likely there would be many carriages to disturb her sleep, but Noelle remained adamant.
The truth of the matter was that she had spotted a network of sturdy vines growing up around the bedroom's back window. The vines, many as thick as her arms, were shielded from casual view by a dense clump of oaks. She would be able to come and go at will with no one to see her unorthodox stairway.
Opening the window, she slung one slim leg over the sill and caught the toe of her boot in the crook of a vine. Cautiously she tested it. It held her weight. Gingerly easing out the other foot, she began a careful descent.
The vines proved to be as sturdy as they looked, and she was soon on the ground, where she rubbed some dirt on her face and hands and then let herself out the garden gate and into the network of back streets that skirted the prosperous environs
of Northridge Square.
Less than two kilometers away in distance, but a universe away in reality, Noelle found herself at the entrance of a fetid alleyway in Soho. The passage was so narrow and the buildings set so closely together that only on the brightest of days did a few feeble rays of sunlight penetrate the dark, mildewed cavern.
As she stepped into the alley the odors of the past attacked her: the smells of decay, hopelessness, and human excreta. There was another odor that caused the bile to rise in her throat, one vilely familiar to the poor. It was the purification of human flesh, a corpse waiting until the pennies were borrowed or stolen so it could finally be buried. In the cesspools of Soho, Whitechapel, Seven Dials, and Drury Lane the dead were sometimes to be envied; they had escaped the hellish eternity of living.
Noelle pulled the bottom of her shawl across her nose and went on to the end of the alleyway. Peering through what at one time had been a door but was now merely a gaping hole with uneven boards and some crude sacking nailed over it, Noelle looked into the common room that had housed her for many years after Daisy's death.
Filthy straw covered with rags lay in piles along the seeping walls. In two corners of the room were ragged mattresses for the boarders who could afford the extra tuppence a week rent. The room was empty except for a misshapen lump huddled near the apathetic fire.
Noelle gingerly pulled aside the sacking and stepped down into the room. "Bardy?"
"Oos 'at, now?" he called out threateningly.
Dread enveloped her like a shroud as she walked closer to the feeble flicker of the fire. It felt as if she had never escaped.
"It's me, Bardy."
" 'Ighness," the old man cackled. "Blimey! I knowed yer'd be back. There's them that says yer got nabbed, but I tole 'em ya was too peevy a cove fer that. Where yer been?"
She shrugged evasively. "Lots of places, Bardy. I'm up on my luck."
"I'm 'appy fer yer, lass, but the tykes missed yer, they did. With yer gone, there weren't nobody cared 'bout 'em."
"There was you, Bardy."
"Lord love ya, and wot can an old man like me wot's 'alf blind do?"
"You can take this. I'm sorry it's been so long since I could bring you anything." She pressed the coins into his hand. "See that they get what they need. I'll bring more when I can."
He inspected the coins before they disappeared into the ragged folds of his coat. "Yer've got a soft 'eart, 'Ighness. Always did."
"I have to go now, Bardy. I'll be back soon. Buy yourself something, will you? A purple muffler to keep your bones warm."
Noelle heard Bardy's cackle as she slipped hurriedly out of the room and into the alley. She tried to tell herself she was rushing to get back before she was discovered, but she knew she was really fleeing the children. She had to be away before they returned. It had been nearly two years; many of the familiar faces she remembered would be gone, claimed by either death or the law. As for the few remaining, the very fact that they had survived was evidence that they would have changed past recognition. Worse, still, would be the new faces, each one a reminder of the thousands of other abandoned children.
As Noelle sped through the streets of Soho she was surprised to discover that she was crying. Abruptly she dashed away the tears with the back of her hand.
Slowing her steps, she tried to decide what she would do next. She could throw caution to the winds and bring the rest of the money with her on her next trip. There was enough for Bardy to lay in a supply of food and buy clothing and bedding for the children. But she dismissed the idea; it would be dangerous for him to have so much money at once. No. she would just have to bring a few coins with her each time and make more frequent trips, even if it meant traveling at night.
She must also save more of her money. What she had now would only last a few months if the children were to get what they needed. Although Simon insisted she be well dressed, he wouldn't notice if she had five pairs of gloves instead of seven or a refurbished bonnet rather than a new one.
Noelle slipped into the garden at Northridge Square with renewed determination, refusing to admit what she knew—that her mission was ultimately futile, her coins too few, the children too many.
The following week the painters finished in the elegant little dollhouse Constance had purchased near St. James's Square, and she moved in. Although they still saw each other daily, Noelle missed living under the same roof with the woman she had come to depend on for advice and friendship. She consoled herself with the fact that it was now easier for her to slip away and made two more successful trips into Soho. Being able to help the children in however small a way lifted her spirits, so that when Simon announced he would hold a ball in Noelle's honor, she was able to enter into the preparations with a much lighter heart.
Chapter Fifteen
Simon heard a rustle coming from above him and looked up just in time to see Noelle sweep around the curve of the staircase into his view. Her long shining hair was swept up into an artfully arranged composition of soft curls wreathed with fresh ivory rosebuds, archetypes of the silken ones that gathered the hem of her gown into graceful scallops to reveal a filmy underskirt. Only a few honey tendrils had been permitted to escape the charming coif. These fell at her temples and in front of her dainty earlobes, each of which held a single pearl, her only jewelry. Encircling her slim throat was an ivory velvet ribbon fastened at the center with a white rosebud. Beneath the rosebud, the twin mounds of her full breasts swelled, enticingly accented by the lace that edged the bodice of the ball gown. All cream and ivory, she was both virginal and sensual, still the most exquisite woman Simon had ever seen.
For the first time since he had announced to Constance his intention of holding a ball to present Noelle formally, he regretted his decision. She was so breathtakingly beautiful, every man attending would covet her. If she were to fall in love with one of them, he would have no one to blame but himself.
"I thought this was to be a ball, not a funeral. How can you look so solemn, Simon? Is there something about my appearance that displeases you?" She smiled mischievously up at him through thick, dark lashes.
"You little scamp," Simon growled. "You know damned well that you've never looked more beautiful. It seems to me you're trying to weasel a compliment."
"You're absolutely right." Noelle giggled and turned in a graceful pirouette, swirling alabaster against the black marble of the foyer. "Did you ever see anything as exquisite as this gown? It could even make an old stick look beautiful."
Simon's eyes strayed briefly to the lovely breasts rising from their lacy nest. "No one could ever confuse you with a stick."
Disturbed, Constance watched them from the doorway of the ballroom, where she had been supervising the final preparations. Simon was no more immune to Noelle's beauty than any other man. It seemed that all women were destined to fade into insignificance beside her, especially one to whom he had been as unfailingly polite as herself. She yearned for their old relationship, having him growl at her, call her Connie.
"Constance, you look magnificent!" Noelle cried as she spotted her friend. "Look at her, Simon. There's not another woman in London who could carry off that gown."
Constance was wearing layers of fuchsia silk. The vibrant color of the garment should have clashed with her flaming locks but somehow didn't.
"The two of you together look like dessert." Simon laughed admiringly. "Raspberries and Devonshire cream."
"Faith, Simon, I did not realize you had so poetic a nature."
"You know that every shipbuilder has to be a poet at heart, Constance. How else could he build beautiful ships?"
A knock resounded at the front door, and Simon's guests began to arrive. Noelle stood next to him for almost an hour as he welcomed each one warmly and then presented her. Some she had already met, but most were strangers anxious to judge for themselves if the rumors they had heard of Dorian Pope's beauty were overstated. It was obvious from the open admiration written on the faces of the men th
at they did not find the gossips had exaggerated. As for the women, those content with their own lives silently wished her well. The others scrutinized her minutely and, unable to find fault, whispered to each other that, for all her beauty, it was a pity she was said to be so high-spirited. Too lively a manner was unbecoming in one so young.
The ballroom was dazzling. Hundreds of crystal prisms suspended from three magnificent chandeliers shone down on the polished floor and gilded moldings of the room. Set in gleaming brass pots, clusters of potted palms rustled gently in the cool October breeze from the open doors, their vivid green fronds challenging the white walls behind. Backless brocade sofas of the
First Empire were placed strategically along the sides of the room, inviting the grandly coififed and elegantly appareled to lean against their rolled pillows and chat, expound, reminisce in comfort.
As soon as Noelle entered she felt the intoxicating tension of the room. Tonight she was going to dance, laugh, be gay, with no thought of anything but the present. A great burst of joyous laughter escaped her as Simon caught her in his arms and whirled her into the first dance.
