Regency House

by Elizabeth Moss

  This was not true, but she could not risk the maid being too frightened to come to her bedchamber again. And trying to conduct a secret conversation anywhere else in this house would be next to impossible.

  Tentatively, she opened her bedchamber door a crack. To her relief, it made no sound, for she had taken the precaution earlier of asking one of the footmen to oil the hinges. The young footman had stared, but done her bidding without comment. No doubt the poor sap thought she must be planning an elopement or some other secret assignation. Of course, he had not been entirely wrong, she considered, smiling at the thought. But her assignation had been with another female, not some undeserving man.

  Sophia stood listening for a moment, alert to any sign of movement in the house. But the landing was quiet and dark, and the hall below was steeped in shadow.

  ‘Go quickly,’ she whispered, gesturing Becky to leave, ‘and remember, watch for my signal in the next few days.’

  She pushed Becky out of the door, wincing when the clumsy girl’s foot caught a loose floorboard outside her door and it creaked loudly. But nobody came.

  Sophia closed the door a moment later and leaned against it, sagging in relief. She was so tired, but her brain was positively teeming with thoughts and ideas. So there was no Lady Lewis; she had been killed in a horrible carriage accident that some whispered could be laid at her husband’s door. If true, what a dastardly villain he must be. Quite like her own Papa, she considered with sudden loathing.

  Meanwhile, Caroline had been forced to live quietly with this man, all alone in the world except for some interfering aunt. And now that the poor girl was finally poised to make her escape from that household, her betrothed was about to die in a violent and wholly undeserved manner – if Sophia’s scheming father had his way!

  Caroline was clearly in need of some female assistance.

  ‘Mademoiselle Demur, Salcombe Street,’ Sophia repeated under her breath, then crossed to her bed and began to undo the flimsy pink ribbon about the neck of her dressing-gown.

  ‘Tomorrow I shall encourage my mother to pay a call on that stylish establishment. I need two new morning gowns, most definitely, in the palest blue and lilac available.’ She allowed herself a grim smile. ‘A quarter of ten should do the trick.’

  Salcombe Street was a dark and unpromising lane between two broader thoroughfares just north of the river, and although the dressmaker’s had a pretty window display of muslins cut in the classic style, with the rain falling hard that morning it did not look a very welcoming place. Indeed, if their coach driver had not grumpily agreed that this was in fact Mademoiselle Demur’s establishment, and that the lady herself was known to the nobility as a very good French dressmaker, Lady Dryden might have ordered him to drive them back home at once.

  ‘Do you have an umbrella aboard?’ Sophia’s mother demanded of the coachman as he let the steps down, peering out dubiously at the grey, rainy skies.

  ‘Of course, my lady.’

  ‘Fetch it then, Forester.’ Her mother indicated impatiently that Sophia should prepare to get down from the carriage. ‘And do hurry. I am already growing chilled, sitting here in this horrible English weather. You may first escort my daughter to the shelter of the shop awning, and then return for me.’

  As he bowed and turned away, she added, ‘And mind that you hold the umbrella correctly, and none of it is permitted to slide down our necks. I will not have either of us falling victim to the sniffles.’

  The coachman looked back at his mistress scornfully as though to say, it’s only rain, ma’am, but fetched the umbrella nonetheless and did as she bade him.

  Sophia did not wait for her mama to return, but hurried inside the shop. Her feet were cold despite her fur-lined ankle boots and she had no wish to stand in a puddle of water. To her relief it was warm inside, especially once the door had closed behind her, for a good fire was burning in the grate. The room was quite small and narrow, with a low ceiling adorned with gathered silken fabric to create an intimate boudoir feel.

  More accustomed to dressmakers visiting her own home in Jamaica, for their workshops were often too hot to be borne in comfort, Sophia looked about herself with interest. There was a stylish green brocade sofa near the fire, and a heavily curtained alcove set to one side of the hearth, presumably a dressing-room for the proprietor’s clients. Rolls of many gorgeous, silken materials leaned against the walls beside the long cutting-table, and beyond that stood a vast wooden case of pigeonholes, some eight or ten to a row, stretching from floor to ceiling, each pigeonhole containing the smallest objects of the dressmaker’s trade: plain and covered buttons, gold and silver tassels, many dozens of silken threads in assorted colours, skeins of dyed wool, lace frills and trims, bobbins, thimbles, needles, pins and clasps.

  A doorway to her right, hung with thin gauze, led into some larger room beyond. Sophia heard women’s voices, and saw shadows moving through the gauze.

  She went to the gauze curtain and called out, ‘Hello there? Bonjour? Mademoiselle Demur?’

  The curtain rustled, and a diminutive figure wearing a high-waisted morning gown and a lace-trimmed yellow bonnet ducked through the gauze. A pair of smiling blue eyes surveyed her from head to toe, rapidly and expertly assessing both her taste in garments and her fortune.

  ‘Bienvenue, mademoiselle,’ the Frenchwoman said, curtseying very low. ‘I regret that I may not serve you myself, as I am expecting another client in only a few moments. Are you interested in purchasing one of my gowns, mademoiselle?’

  ‘I believe that I may be, yes.’

  ‘Ah, mais c’est merveilleux.’ Again the welcoming smile, and respectful bob of the head. ‘If you would care to come through to our fitting room, my assistant will be pleased to take your measurements and draw up a list of your requirements.’

  The door opened again. It was her mother, looking damp and flustered. The ostrich feather in her new bonnet drooped sadly over her face, and she thrust it back with a muttered exclamation of wrath.

  ‘Mademoiselle’s mama?’ the dressmaker enquired.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  The woman curtsied again, then swept forward, smiling broadly. ‘Madame, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mademoiselle Demur. I was just explaining to your daughter that I am expecting another client in a moment for a very important fitting. Her bridal fitting, indeed. So if you would follow me into the other room … ’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not waiting to be served,’ her mother said sharply, and beckoned to Sophia. ‘Come, my dear, let us not be fobbed off in this manner. We’ll find another dressmaker who will be pleased to wait more promptly upon the Drydens of Jamaica.’

  The Frenchwoman’s eyes opened wide. ‘The Drydens of Jamaica?’ She bent her head respectfully, then held out both hands in a gesture of appeal. ‘Lady Dryden, but what an honour it is to have you visit my humble establishment. Pray, do not go so soon. The wait will be of short duration only, I promise. And my assistant Janine will be delighted to serve you in the meantime. Janine?’ she called through the gauze. ‘Please to fetch Madame and Mademoiselle Dryden a pot of French coffee at once. It is so strong and stimulating in this damp weather, n’est-ce pas? And perhaps, Madame, some … petits gâteaux?’

  Her mother’s face brightened. ‘Petits gâteaux?’ she repeated. ‘Well, in that case … I suppose a very short wait would not inconvenience us too much. What do you say, Sophia?’

  ‘I for one would adore some French coffee and cake,’ Sophia agreed, smiling at the dressmaker, ‘while we wait.’

  Her mother preceded her into the other room while the dressmaker held aside the gauze for their safe passage. But as Sophia hesitated, the door to the shop opened again in a blast of damp wintry air.

  She turned at once, surveying the newcomer with interest, for she was fairly certain she knew who this was.

  The young woman was slightly built, her small stature not disguised by the heavy red cloak and hood which she pushed back now, looking into the p
remises with large blue eyes. Her hair was very long and fair, like that of a princess in a fairy tale, and worn coiled up on her head with a few tasteful golden ringlets descending about her ears. Her blue morning gown was simple and modest for a lady of rank, but the white petticoat which showed as she lifted the hem to enter the shop was elaborately laced and embroidered, indicating her wealth. A pair of pretty black ankle boots, not unlike Sophia’s own, completed the picture.

  Their eyes met.

  Sophia smiled and bent her head in silent greeting.

  The girl hesitated, then nodded back, a little curious but clearly shy with strangers.

  ‘Ooh la la!’ Mademoiselle Demur exclaimed in her typically French way, clucking her tongue in frustration. ‘Here is Milady Lewis arrived already. Oh, tsk, tsk. And here am I, not ready to greet her. Forgive me, milady. I shall be only a moment, settling this other lady and her mama into the waiting room. Do please come and sit upon the sofa, milady. It is very draughty by the door.’

  ‘Milady Lewis’ replied softly to this entreaty, so softly indeed that Sophia could not catch a word of what she said. But since the girl was smiling, it seemed to be some kind of agreement.

  The girl was joined a few seconds later by a large woman muffled in a cloak and voluminous hat, presumably her aunt, who was holding a small dog under one arm, squashed up with a dark brown reticule.

  ‘Take this for me, Caroline,’ the large woman insisted in a voice deep enough to be a touch masculine, ‘and let us sit down, for goodness sake. My feet are aching in these new boots and I am quite overwhelmed with all this endless shopping. I do loathe weddings.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Matilda.’ Caroline took the bulging reticule with a nervous smile, then moved hurriedly to the sofa as though only too eager not to be any trouble to anyone.

  Sophia watched her with interest. So this was the ill-fated bride-to-be, whose betrothed was to be murdered by her father’s hired man before she could even walk down the aisle with him. And all, she supposed, for the sake of some ancient vendetta between her own father and this unfortunate girl’s family.

  How very cruel and petty of them!

  But men, as she knew very well, would never be told about such things and always insisted they were in the right, however wrong they became.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ the French dressmaker prompted her, still waiting in the doorway to the other room.

  ‘Deux minutes, s’il vous plaît,’ Sophia replied politely, then turned to the two ladies on the sofa.

  She smiled directly at Caroline Lewis, who looked quite amazed to be addressed by a complete stranger in a dressmaker’s workshop.

  ‘Pray forgive my intrusion, but I am newly arrived in London and know few ladies of my own age. I would dearly like to make your acquaintance. My name is Sophia.’ Boldly, she held out her gloved hand, and hoped they did not spurn her for over-familiarity. ‘Miss Sophia Dryden, of the Drydens of Jamaica and Leamington Spa.’

  The large aunt stiffened, folding her arms across her ample chest and staring at her with cold disapproval.

  The young bride-to-be, however, half-rose from her seat, looking her over with careful eyes, then held out her own hand, also gloved in delicate white lace. ‘Miss Dryden,’ she said faintly, touching her fingertips to Sophia’s before subsiding onto the sofa beside her silent aunt. ‘How very good to meet you. This is my aunt, Lady Matilda Lewis, ‘ she murmured, indicating her aunt with a tiny nod, ‘and I am Caroline Lewis. Though s … soon I am to be Mrs Farraway.’

  ‘Congratulations indeed!’ Sophia replied, blithely ignoring her mother, who was calling her name in frustration from the other room. ‘Farraway. That name is familiar. Well, perhaps it is a friend of my father’s.’

  The aunt harumphed, still glaring.

  It seemed the lady must be privy to her brother’s enmity towards their family.

  But that could not be helped.

  ‘No wait, I have it. Lord Farraway’s eldest son.’ She forced herself to speak the words, knowing she might leave this young woman prostrate with fear but not knowing how else to broach the subject with her aunt there. ‘I heard whispers of some secret duel to take place this week between a Farraway and some Italian gentleman whose name I forget. Here in London too, where duels are strictly forbidden! We ladies should not know of such dreadful things, of course, but … well, I overheard my brother speaking of it.’

  She noted how Caroline Lewis’s eyes had stretched wide, her colour fleeing.

  ‘Oh, but how wicked and foolish of me!’ she exclaimed, pretending to berate herself. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to suggest that it is your own betrothed who is one of the duellists. No, no, it must be some other man of that name. Or else my brother misunderstood the matter.’

  ‘Yes, quite so,’ Caroline managed to say, but it was clear that she was very much shaken by this disclosure.

  Sophia fished a card from her own dainty reticule, and handed it to Caroline Lewis with a quick curtsey. ‘Perhaps I could call upon you soon, or you could call upon us tomorrow or Friday morning. I do hope you will not consider me forward, but I would be delighted to further our acquaintance.’

  ‘My dear young woman, my niece is very much occupied with the arrangements for her forthcoming wedding.’ Her aunt seemed determined to depress the distasteful pretensions of this upstart young person. ‘The happy event will be upon us by the end of this week. So as you can see, neither of us are free to make social calls, especially to such very new acquaintances. Now if you will excuse us … ’

  But Caroline Lewis was not as passive as she had seemed at first glance. Nor as submissive to her quelling aunt.

  Overriding her aunt’s remarks with a fleeting smile and a nod that sent her pretty ringlets dancing, Caroline replied, ‘I would be pleased to call upon you if I can find the time, Miss Dryden.’

  ‘Sophia, please.’

  ‘Sophia. Thank you, and I look forward to renewing our acquaintance soon. Perhaps after my honeymoon.’

  It was a dismissal. Polite and ladylike, but a dismissal nonetheless.

  There was nothing more to be done.

  Sophia bowed her head in compliance, and withdrew from the room with further murmured apologies for the intrusion, and a winning smile for Mademoiselle Demur. The French dressmaker had stood there all the while they had been conversing, patiently holding the gauze curtain aside, and was now rewarded by her departure.

  But in truth Sophia was bitterly disappointed.

  Her gloved hands clenched into two very unladylike fists, so that she was obliged to hide them in the folds of her gown, lest her watchful mama enquired what had occurred to upset her. And in truth it was none of her concern.

  But damn it all …

  She had tried so hard to communicate to the young lady that all was not well with her betrothed, and she would do well to interfere, assuming she had any influence over her prospective husband, and possibly save his life.

  Perhaps after my honeymoon.

  No, no, no, Sophia thought in frustration, that would be too late. Far, far too late.

  Her mama was staring from a sofa, waiting for her impatiently. Sophia stopped to run a finger down a roll of silk leaning against the wall, admiring its green shot through with thread of gold. She wondered if Becky had any contacts in the household of Lord and Lady Farraway.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ROLLO

  Leaning on his cane, Rollo walked across the uneven ground of Clapham Common with an ever-increasing sense of doom. The rough grass was damp, the mist barely rising, and the place was silent except for the curious baas of a few sheep that dotted their path. The few houses he could see on the nearest periphery of the common were barely visible this morning, thanks to the heavy December mist.

  He gazed at those misty houses. Would any resident be woken by the sound of a shot ringing out so early? Or were the inhabitants of the common so accustomed to duellists in this benighted spot that they would sleep through any amount of pistol fire befor
e breakfast?

  He could just see the roof of a house he knew passably well; a friend of his lived there, one of the abolitionists. Mr Stone, a respected barrister. Jason was his first name. Would he ever seen Jason or any of his friends again after today? Ever discuss the worsening slavery issue with them again, setting out the terms of their abolitionist goals and considering how they might be met by Parliamentary act? Ever sit down to dinner again, or to play a simple game of cards? It seemed far from likely.

  Shaking off such gloomy thoughts, Rollo came to a halt under the oak that was to be their appointed meeting place.

  He examined the lay of the land, then turned to his second, Tom, managing a terse smile.

  ‘So here we are,’ he said, and instantly despised himself. What feeble last words. As for last thoughts, he had none worth the repeating. At a moment like this he should be spouting some intelligent message for mankind, not wondering why his belly was gurgling so loudly.

  His second clapped him on the back, grinning. ‘Good God, is that your belly? Did you not take breakfast before coming out, man?’

  ‘Forgive me, I …’

  ‘Well, never mind, there will be plenty of time for a good breakfast after … erm, afterwards,’ Tom told him heartily, and with only the slightest pause to indicate that he was in fact unsure whether there would be an afterwards. For Rollo, at least.

  Rollo muttered his affirmation, then pretended to admire the massive oak tree that stood before them, the thickness of its mossed trunk, the gnarled and wide-reaching roots that protruded above the ground here, like veins on the back of an old man’s hand.

  He might die in less than an hour. Never living long enough to see such veins on the back of his own hand.

  He blenched. What would his father say if he did not return after this morning’s work? And his sister Ellen? They had been so close as children … Yet he had not even spoken to her of this matter. Like his father, she had no idea about this meeting. Even now Ellen would be lying in bed, still asleep or waiting for the quiet knock of her maid, blissfully unaware that her brother’s life hung in the balance.