by Jane Feather
“I’m hungry,” she said. “And something smells wonderful.”
Hugo sighed. “Of course, you didn’t have your eggs, did you? Well find you a meat pie or something in a minute.” He chivvied her ahead of him out of the inn yard and into the street.
A troop of men in the jerkin and britches of the laborer were gathered in the town square, marching and wheeling to the orders of a drill sergeant. A crowd had gathered to watch, shouting encouragement and good-humored jeers as the marchers stepped on one another’s feet, lost tempo and straggled out of line, or skipped to catch up with their neighbors.
Chloe jumped on her toes, looking over the heads of the spectators. “What’s it for?”
A man wearing ail unusual white top hat turned toward her. “They’re preparing for Orator Hunt, miss,” he said in cultured accents. “The reformers have invited him to address a meeting on manhood suffrage next month. They’re expecting a big crowd and the organizers reckon it’ll be more orderly if they drill groups of participants in advance.”
“Such militancy is more likely to alarm the magistrates,” Hugo said somberly, taking a hip flask from his coat pocket. “It looks more as if the men are being drilled to offer armed resistance than anything else.” He took a swig of his emergency supply of brandy.
The man’s clear gray eyes sharpened. “It’s to be hoped there’ll be nothing to resist, sir. If the magistrates are sensible, it’ll go off as peaceably as a Christmas mass.”
“I have little faith in the common sense of magistrates when it comes to fear of a radical mob,” Hugo said, thrusting the flask back into his pocket. “Come along, Chloe.” Taking her arm, he led her away from the crowd.
“Who’s Orator Hunt?”
“Henry Hunt—a fire-breathing radical,” Hugo told her. “He’s a professional political agitator and as far as civil authorities are concerned, every meeting he addresses brings the country one step closer to revolution and the guillotine.”
“Oh, I see.” Chloe frowned. “Maybe they should listen, then, and do something about it.”
Hugo laughed. “Sweet child, that’s a Utopian viewpoint if ever I heard one.”
There was nothing unkind about his laughter, and Chloe couldn’t be offended. Instead, she smiled at him, tucking her hand into his arm.
Hugo glanced down at her upturned face and felt as if something had punched into his solar plexus. It was absurd. How could she possibly have such an effect on him? She was just a pretty child hovering on the verge of womanhood. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to take her over that verge? Dear God, he was heading for Bedlam!
“Is that boy selling pies?”
The prosaic question returned him to reality. Thankfully, he dragged his eyes away from her and looked around.
A boy pushing a wheelbarrow was calling out his wares in an indistinct singsong. However, the smells were enough to identify his produce, warming on a rack over a bed of hot coals.
Hugo bought a steaming meat pie, and then, all thoughts of seduction banished, watched with some amusement as Chloe, standing on the street corner, bit into it. “Good?”
“Delicious. I was about to faint away with hunger.”
“Well, perhaps you can eat it while we resume our walk.”
Chloe nodded amenably, her mouth full.
Mr. Childe of Childe’s Bank welcomed Hugo with a low bow, gesturing toward his inner sanctum. “If Miss Gresham would like to wait in the anteroom, I’ll have the clerk bring her some tea,” he said with an avuncular smile at the girl in her hideous schoolgirl’s serge.
“Oh, no,” Chloe said. “I wish to understand about my fortune. And I don’t need tea … thank you,” she added in belated afterthought.
Mr. Childe looked astounded. “But … but you can have no interest in funds and percentages, my dear. Young ladies find such things most boring. I’m sure we can find a periodical for you to look at while you’re waiting….” He nodded encouragingly. “The latest fashions, I’m sure, will hold your attention much more than our tedious discussion.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Chloe replied with a sweet smile. “I’m not in the least interested in fashion, but I am most interested in understanding about my fortune. You see,” she explained kindly, “I intend to have the management of it myself when I’m married, so I must learn all about it.”
Mr. Childe’s jaw dropped. He turned in appeal to Sir Hugo, who was looking out of the window, apparently unconcerned by his ward’s heretical statement. “Surely not, Sir Hugo?”
“That would rather depend on the husband in question,” Hugo responded. “It seems a little premature to speculate, since there’s no gentleman on the horizon. However, if the lass wants to sit in, then I see no objection. If she’s bored, she’ll have only herself to blame, and if she learns something, then that’s no bad thing.” With a hand between her shoulder blades, he ushered her ahead of him into the banker’s sanctum.
It occurred to Chloe that she was becoming accustomed to being moved along in this fashion. She wondered why it didn’t irritate her.
She listened intently while the two men discussed financial intricacies. Hugo was patient with her interruptions, but Mr. Childe grew increasingly testy and finally Hugo waved her into silence when she broke into a particularly convoluted explanation of the banker’s.
“Save your questions until later, lass. Otherwise we’ll be here all afternoon.”
“But will you be able to answer them?”
“I’ll try.”
“But—”
“That’ll do, Chloe.”
The sharpness took her aback and she subsided, knotting her fingers in her lap, closing her lips firmly.
Hugo cast her a sideways glance. She was looking distinctly aggrieved, but he had no intention of offering encouragement for further interruption.
“One last matter, Sir Hugo. Will you be continuing the yearly payment to Sir Jasper Gresham?” the banker asked, resting his clasped hands on the pile of documents on the desk.
“What?” This ejaculation of Chloe’s went unadmonished.
“For the past ten years Lady Gresham had instructed us to pay Sir Jasper three thousand pounds a year.” The banker pointedly addressed her guardian. “Her will contained no instructions to us to continue the payments.”
So that was how Elizabeth had protected herself and her daughter from the Greshams. Hugo tapped the tips of his fingers together as the pieces fell into place. Three thousand pounds a year was a tidy sum; Jasper wouldn’t take kindly to its cessation.
“What was Mama paying Jasper for?”
“How should I know?” Hugo lied. He couldn’t say your safety, although he was certain that had been uppermost in Elizabeth’s mind.
Jasper would have tried to take control of the heiress to his stepmother’s fortune. With Elizabeth drifting through life in a laudanum haze, he could have taken Chloe under his own roof and exerted his own inimitable influence over the child. She would have been married to Crispin at sixteen whether she wanted to or not. Elizabeth had managed to protect her daughter into adulthood by removing her completely from Shipton, and by bribing Jasper. She would have hoped that if Chloe reached adulthood untouched by her half-brother’s authority and therefore unafraid of him, she would have the strength to resist the pressure he would bring to bear on her once her mother was no longer around.
And to give her an extra advantage, Elizabeth had called upon the memory and obligation of an old love and aligned Jasper’s greatest enemy on her daughter’s side.
“No,” he said. “If Lady Gresham left no instruction, then the payments should lapse.”
“Good,” Chloe declared. “I fail to see why Jasper should have my money.”
“That’s a most unnecessary statement,” Hugo said repressively, seeing the banker clearly scandalized by this unladylike young lady.
Elizabeth really would have helped him in the task she’d set him if she’d managed to instill some conventional manners into her daug
hter.
He stood up. “Well, that seems to be everything, Mr. Childe. We’ll take up no more of your time.”
“What about my allowance?” Chloe reminded him.
Hugo frowned and said off the top of his head. “A hundred pounds a quarter should be ample.”
“Four hundred pounds a year!” Chloe exclaimed. “When Jasper was getting three thousand, and it wasn’t even his money.”
Mr. Childe’s little eyes seemed to pop in his red face.
Hugo, who felt that Chloe had a point for all its reprehensible presentation, said quickly, “We’ll discuss it later. Come.” He extended a hand in farewell to the banker and drew Chloe forward with the other. To his relief, she made her farewells very prettily, thanking the banker for his time and apologizing for having been a nuisance.
It was hard to withstand her smile and Mr. Childe was somewhat mollified. He patted her hand, then accompanied them to the door. “Will you be informing Sir Jasper about the change in payment, Sir Hugo?”
Hugo shook his head. He intended to have no dealings whatsoever with Stephen’s son. “No, I’ll have Lawyer Scranton notify him.”
Outside, Chloe said again, “Whyever would Mama have paid Jasper all that money? She detested him.”
“It doesn’t matter,” her companion said shortly, beginning to walk down the narrow cobbled street.
“Are you vexed?” Chloe looked up at him, a hint of anxiety darkening her blue eyes. “I know I shouldn’t have said that about Jasper and I suppose I shouldn’t have objected about my allowance, but it all took me by surprise.”
“I must endeavor to keep you from surprises in future,” he said dryly. “Childe was scandalized, and I don’t blame him.”
“I was only expressing an opinion.”
“There are some opinions that should not be expressed before strangers, however legitimate they might be.”
“Ah, so you do agree with me,” she said with a little skip of triumph.
He stifled a grin, stepping over a pile of ordure in the kennel. “That’s beside the point. However, you’re not getting an allowance of three thousand pounds a year, so don’t think it.”
“But in London I’ll need enough to maintain my horses as well as my wardrobe.”
Hugo stopped as they emerged from the narrow alley into a broader thoroughfare. “I told you I didn’t want to hear any more of that,” he stated. “Are we going to continue this errand to the milliner’s or not?”
Nothing would be gained by depriving herself of new clothes. Chloe shrugged and said with an accepting smile, “Continuing, please.”
Hugo cast her a suspicious glance to which she returned a dazzling smile of such innocence, he knew his suspicions were justified. He shook his head in resignation and resumed walking.
The city’s milliners and drapers were gathered together on one street. Hugo was not a frequent customer of such shops, but from a lifetime’s acquaintance with Manchester, he knew the names of the most reputable and had a particular establishment in mind. Chloe, however, was utterly and indiscriminately entranced by every display in every bow-fronted window. She pranced from one side of the lane to the other, drawing his attention to gowns and hats as they caught her eye.
To his dismay, Hugo realized that she had not the slightest idea about what was either tasteful or appropriate. As he listened to her rapturous praise of a gown of violet sarsenet embroidered with paste sapphires and a tulle hat of the most ludicrous proportions, he realized he was going to have to revise his plans for the remainder of the afternoon.
He had intended leaving her in the charge of the dressmaker while finding some much-needed liquid refreshment in a nearby tavern. Now it became apparent that he couldn’t trust her judgment, and knowing how determined she could be, he was fairly certain the modiste would be unable to guide her choice. The bottle of burgundy would have to wait.
He fortified himself again from the hip flask and turned into the doorway of a discreet establishment displaying a dainty gown of sprigged muslin in the window. “In here.”
“That looks very ordinary.” Chloe wrinkled her nose. “I much preferred the other shop—the one with the flame redingote.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did. However, we are going in here.” A hand on the small of her back urged her through the door.
The modiste bustled out of a back room at the sound of the bell. Sharp black eyes examined Chloe and saw through the hideous, ill-fitting serge to the beauty beneath. She bowed to the gentleman, shrewdly assessing his worth. It was hard to tell. He was respectably dressed, the cloth of good quality, but there were no obvious signs of wealth—no jeweled pins or fobs, or even rings. But he was clearly a man whose tastes ran to the very young when it came to setting up a mistress. Although this very young lady was a diamond of the first water.
Smiling, Madame Letty asked how she could be of service. Her smile became calculating as the gentleman explained that to start with, his ward required a riding habit and at least two afternoon dresses.
“Suitable for a debutante?” she inquired, nodding with satisfaction. This promised to be a lucrative transaction. Guardians did not normally accompany their wards shopping, but the nature of the relationship made no difference to profits.
“Exactly so.” Hugo had a fair idea of the construction the modiste had put on her customers, but so long as she knew her job, she could think what she pleased.
Madame Letty called sharply, and a girl of about thirteen came into the shop. She curtsied, twisting her work-reddened hands, keeping her eyes down. At her employer’s instruction she fetched gowns from the back room, laying them out for the customers’ inspection.
Chloe was unimpressed. The afternoon gowns were all of sprigged muslin or cambric, demurely cut, trimmed with lace. Something caught her eye on a rack in the corner of the room. Abandoning the display, she wandered over to the rack and pulled out a gown of peacock-blue taffeta, lavishly adorned with silver thread.
“This is lovely.” She held it up in front of her. “Isn’t it the most beautiful gown?” Her hands caressed the material. “I love the way it shines in the light.”
Hugo winced and Madame Letty cleared her throat. The little maidservant covered her mouth with her hand to hide a grin.
“I think Miss would be more comfortable in muslin,” Madame said,
“Oh, no, I don’t want any of those boring dresses,” Chloe declared with a dismissive gesture at the previous offerings. “I like this. I want something that stands out.”
“Well, you’d certainly stand out in that,” Hugo said.
“May I try it on?”
The modiste looked in appeal at the gentleman, who nodded infinitesimally. With obvious reluctance she gestured to a fitting room. “If Miss would like to come this way, Mary will help you.”
Hugo sat down on a couch and waited for the apparition to appear. He had the faint hope that once Chloe saw for herself how ridiculous she would look in a dress made to appeal to the pretentions of a high-class whore, the issue would resolve itself.
The hope was not realized. Chloe emerged from a dressing room, beaming, rustling across the floor toward him. “Isn’t it lovely? I feel so grand.” She twirled before the cheval glass. “It’s a little big, but I’m sure it could be altered.” She adjusted the neckline of the decolletage with a tiny frown. “It does reveal rather a lot though, doesn’t it?”
“Far too much,” Hugo declared.
“I could always wear a fichu,” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to have this gown. Oh, and you know what will look beautiful with it, that tulle hat we saw in the milliner’s down the road.”
Hugo closed his eyes and prayed for strength. “That hat would make you look like a squashed pumpkin. It’s far too big for your face.”
Chloe looked dismayed. “I’m sure it wouldn’t. How can you know until I try it on?”
Hugo had somehow assumed that women were born with a dress sense as they were born with ten fingers and ten toes.
But apparently it was an acquired talent … one that had not been acquired by this practically motherless child who’d grown up behind the high walls of a seminary, smothered in brown serge.
The situation required drastic measures. He stood up.
“Would you excuse us for a minute?” he said to Madame Letty. “I’d like a word in private with my ward.”
The modiste hustled the maidservant out of the room and Hugo took a deep breath. Chloe was regarding him with an air of earnest inquiry.
He came over to her, took her by the shoulders, and turned her to face her image in the mirror. “Now, listen to me, lass. This gown is made for a woman who lives on Quay Street.”
“What kind of women live on Quay Street?” She frowned at him in the glass.
“Whores,” he said succinctly. Her eyes widened. “Look at yourself.” Reaching around, he plucked at the loose neckline. His arm brushed her breast and he drew a sharp breath but doggedly continued. “To wear a dress like this, you need to be rather more lavishly endowed than you are. You also need to paint your face, wear a great deal of trumpery jewelry, and be at least ten years older than you are.”
Her face fell. “Don’t you like it?”
“That’s an understatement. It’s an utterly tasteless garment and makes you look ridiculous.” Brutal, but he adjudged it necessary.
She bit her lip, tilting her head as she examined herself in the mirror. “It would look better with the right shoes and hat.”
Hugo closed his eyes on another fervent prayer. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “If I can’t convince you, Chloe, then I’m going to exercise a guardian’s right of command.”
“You mean I may not have it?” Her chin went up and her eyes darkened with anger.
“That’s exactly what I mean.” He began swiftly to unhook her. “Try on one of the others and I’m sure you’ll see how much prettier you look.”
“I don’t like the others,” she said flatly. “I want to look different, not ordinary.”
“My dear girl, there is not the slightest possibility that you could ever look ordinary,” he said with conviction.
She continued to look at him in the mirror, assessing the strength of his determination as she had in the stable the previous night. But this time she had no master card up her sleeve.
