by Anne Gracie
“Featherby is a butler; it is not for him to approve or disapprove of my doings.”
He wanted to shake her. “Perhaps not, but I’ll lay odds he would have sent that giant footman with you if he had any idea you were going out at this time of the day—and in these streets. And don’t think I haven’t noticed you failed to answer my question about Lady Beatrice. I can see from your expression she doesn’t know, either. Does anyone know?”
She looked away, her jaw clenched, presenting him with a view of her profile. A beautiful profile, he mused, if currently a touch mulish. The sun was almost up, staining the sky pink and lending a faint blush to her milk-white skin.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Daisy knows.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right then,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “Daisy’d be a lot of help if you got into trouble. Do you have any idea of what kind of neighborhood you’re in?” He gestured to the run-down surroundings.
“I know exactly what sort of place this is,” she retorted. “Better than you, I expect.”
Better than he? He narrowed his eyes. “Why? How do you know this place?”
“It’s none of your—”
“Don’t give me that. I promised Max I’d keep an eye on you all and I don’t make promises lightly.” Not at all, if he could help it.
She glanced down the alleyway to where a couple of shabby-looking men had come out of a yard and stood watching them with interest.
“Make all the fuss you want,” he told her. “You’re not taking another step until you give me a satisfactory explanation.”
She made a small irritated noise. “If you must know, I have a job here. Now please release me, or I’ll be late.”
“A job?” He didn’t believe her. Girls who lived in Mayfair under the care of a doting aunt didn’t have jobs. Even if the aunt wasn’t a real aunt, the security she provided was real enough.
“What kind of job?”
“I paint china.”
“China?” It was the last thing he would have thought of. “What sort of china?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “What sort do you think? Cups, saucers, plates, bowls, jugs.” She bared her teeth at him in a falsely sweet smile and added, “Chamber pots.”
“But why?”
She pursed her lips and tried to pull free of his loosened grip, but he wasn’t having any of that. “For money, of course.”
Freddy frowned. Money? A job like that wouldn’t pay much. Lady Beatrice made all the girls an allowance. Pin money, but it would be plenty for their needs. Unless . . . “Have you been gambling?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why are you short of money?” What could be so important that she’d taken up a menial job in secret, in a seedy part of town, at this indecent hour?
He waited, still gripping her slender wrist firmly. A clock somewhere chimed, six sonorous chimes. “I’m not short of money and what I do in my own time is none of your business.” She twisted against his grip. “Now let me go! You’re making me late.” She glanced down the alleyway.
Freddy followed her glance. The two men had been joined by a middle-aged woman.
Freddy returned to the point at issue. “If you’re sneaking out of the house to work in a job in this part of town it’s Max’s business, and Lady Beatrice’s, since you’re living under his roof and under her protection,” Freddy pointed out. “And while Max is away it’s my business.”
“It’s nothing for either of them to be concerned about.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
She made a frustrated noise. “Very well, I’ll tell you, as long as you promise to say nothing about it to anyone.”
She waited, but Freddy would make no such promise. “I’ll decide that when I know what it is.” What if she was involved in something dodgy or dangerous?
She moistened her lips worriedly, considering her options. Freddy stifled a groan, unable to take his gaze off her rosy damp mouth. Dammit, Max had no business asking him to keep an eye on such lusciousness, knowing he could only look and not touch. It was above and beyond . . .
She bit down on the soft, plump flesh, which almost made him groan aloud—he could practically taste it himself—but she seemed to have come to some decision, for she said, “Well, if you must know—”
“This feller botherin’ you, Miss D’maris?”
Freddy felt a heavy hand clamp down on his shoulder.
At the same time a meaty fist grabbed Freddy’s neck and something cold—a blade?—pressed against his throat and a different voice rasped, “Let ’er go—she ain’t for the likes of you.”
Freddy released Damaris’s wrist and the pressure of the blade lifted. Now she would understand the danger she courted in districts like this. He willed her with his eyes to flee—things were about to get ugly. Freddy might dress like a pink of the ton, but he boxed regularly at Jackson’s parlor. He could beat off these two, but he didn’t want Damaris in the way, not when knives as well as fists were flying around.
He gave her a hard look, willing her again to run, and braced himself for action. Only to hear her say in that soft, smoke-honey voice, “Thank you, Amos, Henry, but it’s quite all right. This gentleman was just leaving.”
Amos? Henry? She knew these ruffians?
The knife disappeared, but the heavy hand remained on Freddy’s shoulder. “We’ll see the fancy gent off, miss, don’t you worry.” There was a wealth of meaning in his voice. And a wealth of onions on his breath. Freddy turned his head away.
Damaris laughed softly. “No, really, he’s harmless. He was just satisfying himself that I really do work here.”
Harmless? Freddy stiffened. Harmless?
“Let him go, please,” she said in that governessy tone, and to Freddy’s amazement—and annoyance—they did.
“Come, let us go to work,” she said, and like little lambs the two thugs shambled in her wake down the laneway, casting threatening looks back at him from time to time. They reached the plump little woman, who put an arm around Damaris’s waist and cast an indignant glance at Freddy, then all four of them disappeared into the yard.
Tall iron gates closed behind them.
Freddy followed and looked through the high gates just in time to see Damaris ushered through a doorway by the little woman, who appeared clean, dowdy and respectable. Not at all like a procurer of hapless females.
A large brick kiln dominated the yard. Nearby stood an open shed that held racks and racks of china of various shapes and sizes and in various states of glazing. Amos and Henry started moving trolleys containing unglazed pots.
It was indeed a pottery. How very curious.
He watched as a young lad stacked unglazed pots.
“Oi, you!” It was a harsh, female voice. The woman he’d seen earlier was marching across the yard toward him; a small, aggressive barrel of a female, intent, apparently, on conversing with him.
“Madam?” He raised his hat politely.
“Don’t you ‘madam’ me, you randy rake!” snapped the barrel.
Freddy blinked.
“And don’t you come sniffin’ around Damaris no more, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I am not sniffing—” he began indignantly, but the woman stormed on.
“She’s a respectable girl, is Damaris—a good girl, and she don’t want nuffin’ to do wiv fancy gents who ain’t got a moral to their name!”
“My good woman—” Freddy began.
“And I ain’t your good woman, neither!” she retorted, planting her hands on her considerable hips in a belligerent stance that made Freddy quite glad the gates between them were firmly shut. He didn’t mind brawling with men, but women were another matter altogether. And this one barely reached his waist.
“I assure you, mad—er, missus—that�
�”
She swept on. “I dunno what the world’s coming to, rakes an’ reprobates sniffin’ around the skirts of hardworkin’ respectable girls in broad daylight!—oh, yes, you can poker up all you like and look down your nose at me like I’m dirt under your boots, but I know all about rakes and what you do to innocent girls!—and our Damaris is not for the likes of you—understand?”
“I am standing in place of her guardian,” Freddy said coldly. He’d never corrupted an innocent girl in his life! “And I did not look at you as if you were dir—”
The woman made a rude noise. “Guardian? Pfft! Is that what they’re callin’ it these days?” She snorted. “I saw the way you looked at her. I know a lust-sodden lecher when I see one! Now go on, get out o’ here, and if I see you hanging around her again, my lads’ll give you the thrashing you deserve, gentleman or not!”
There was clearly no reasoning with the woman. Freddy shrugged. “You are mistaken as to my motives, but clearly you have no interest in the truth, so I will bid good day to you, madam.” He turned to leave the scene with dignity, ignoring the extremely vulgar noise the woman made to his back.
Then a thought occurred to him. Damaris should not be walking these streets unescorted at any time of the day. He turned back. “What time does Damaris finish work?”
The woman swelled with visible indignation. “The cheek of you! I just told you to stay away from her. Asking for a beating, you are.”
“No,” Freddy said coolly. “Simply asking what time she finishes work. I shall escort her home.”
“Down the Road to Roon is the only place you’d likely escort her,” the woman declared. “My lads will walk Damaris home, right to ’er very door. So how d’you like that, Sir Rake?” she said with an air of triumph.
“Damn. That’s foiled me,” Freddy said with what he hoped was a convincingly frustrated air. Having satisfactorily arranged the matter of Miss Damaris’s safe escort home, he took himself off to catch up on some much-needed sleep.
No trouble? Max had a great deal to answer for.
• • •
Inside the pottery, Damaris hung up her cloak—Abby’s old cloak, really—on the nail on the back of the door, collected her brushes and sat down at her usual bench. On a stand to the left of her, Mrs. Jenkins had laid out all the pieces to be painted. They’d already been fired with a white overglaze. Each piece would be perfect; anything with even the slightest imperfection would be put aside and painted by one of the other girls. Damaris’s work fetched the best prices.
The stand on her right would hold the finished pieces, left to dry, then be taken for a final firing. She picked up a brush and frowned. Her hands were shaking. Why? Surely not from that mild little exchange with Mr. Monkton-Coombes.
She’d managed to appear calm and undisturbed while talking to him—she was used to keeping calm when men raged, and Mr. Monkton-Coombes could hardly be said to have raged. Papa in a rage had been far more frightening. She hadn’t been at all fearful of Mr. Monkton-Coombes. More . . . annoyed.
So why this reaction? It was almost as though she could still feel his leather-gloved fingers holding her wrist. But he hadn’t hurt, or even threatened to hurt, her. He hadn’t shouted or menaced her in any way. He just wanted to know what she was doing. Because Max had made him responsible.
It was inconvenient, but not outrageous. And he’d been perfectly gentlemanly about it. So why, now she was inside, had her hands started trembling?
Cold, perhaps? Whatever the reason, she couldn’t paint with shaking hands. She rose and went to stand beside the small iron stove—the pottery works were always warm from the kiln, but even so, a fire was always kept going in the workroom stove, for mixing glazes, for making tea and, on mornings like this, to thaw out the cold hands of the girls who painted the china. It had been an exceptionally cold summer, and the winter was expected to be even worse.
She was holding out her hands, rubbing them next to the stove, when Mrs. Jenkins bustled in from outside.
“I sent ’im off with a flea in his ear,” she said, dusting down her skirt with a satisfied air. She snorted. “Tomcat in gen’leman’s clothing, that’s what ’e is—a rake through and through.”
“Rake? You thought—”
Mrs. Jenkins snorted. “I knew what he was the instant I clapped eyes on him! Dressed like that in his fancy duds at this hour of the mornin’. The cheek of ’im, thinking he could seduce away one o’ my girls in broad daylight.”
“But he wasn’t—”
“Bless you, my dove, you’re too young to recognize a Wicked Seducer when you see one, and I grant you that one is an ’andsome devil, and charmin’ as an oiled snake, I have no doubt!” She fixed Damaris with a gimlet eye. “But it don’t do for a girl like you to catch the eye of a gentleman, take it from me. He’ll soften you up with sweet words and little gifts and . . . and poetry, and you’ll think ’e’s ever such a nice fellow, then in the twinklin’ of an eye, he’ll ’ave your skirts over your ’ead, and there you’ll be, rooned forever!”
“But Mrs. Jenkins—”
“Rooned forever!” Mrs. Jenkins repeated firmly. “And we don’t want that, do we? Now, I’ve given him a piece of me mind—blistered ’is ear’oles good and proper, I did—and if ’e knows what’s good for ’im, he won’t be back to bother you again, so let’s get to work.”
Damaris nodded and resumed her seat at the bench. Her hands had stopped shaking but she had to press her lips together to hide the smile that kept threatening to break out. She could just imagine Mr. Monkton-Coombes’s face when he was confronted with Mrs. Jenkins, four foot eight of Righteous Indignation. “Are there any special requests?”
“No, we’ll keep going with the blue and white designs—they’re flyin’ off the shelves, can’t make ’em fast enough, so off you go, me dear, as many as you can. Leaving at two again, are you?”
Damaris nodded. If she left at two, she’d just be able to make it home in time to change and be ready for Lady Beatrice’s literary society. She picked up the brush. She was lucky to be able to set her own hours. The other girls who worked here had no such option. Damaris’s unique skills gave her choices they did not have.
Once again she thanked God for giving Papa the impulse to send her to Master Cheng for lessons. And for Master Cheng, the gentle, elderly scholar and artist who’d treated a mere girl-child—a foreign girl-child at that—with a generosity of spirit that still humbled her.
It had been forbidden for Chinese to teach foreigners their language, on pain of death, but as a child, Damaris had picked up the spoken language quickly. Papa’s great dream was to translate the Bible into Chinese, but he had no ear for the language and struggled to be understood in even the most simple transactions. Almost from the start, he’d relied on her to interpret for him. And after her mother died, he sent Damaris to Master Cheng to learn to write the language she spoke so well.
It was risky for Master Cheng too, but the old man had told her knowledge was a gift to be shared, and that he was too old to worry about being beheaded, that such a death would be clean and quick. Still, it was wise to be careful, so painting became the ostensible reason for her lessons, and because he was a man of his word, he incorporated painting with reading and writing lessons; calligraphy was an art, as well as a discipline, he said.
Had it not been for Master Cheng, Damaris would never have discovered she had a gift for painting.
She lined up a dozen bowls in front of her, then closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing exactly what she would paint. A bamboo theme today, she thought; her bamboo designs were always popular.
In her mind’s eye she pictured the bamboo grove that Master Cheng cultivated in his small enclosed garden, the long graceful canes of black-stemmed bamboo, the precise angle of the elegant green leaves. She sat quietly, breathing deeply, until she could almost smell the garden. How many times had he ma
de her paint that bamboo, over and over in black ink, until in just a few strokes she could make it come alive.
With a deep breath, she opened her eyes, dipped her brush in the mix that would become a brilliant blue after firing, and started to paint in sure, confident strokes. A slender stem of bamboo sprang to life on the pristine white glaze, the leaves almost quivering from a sudden summer shower.
Damaris smiled. It would be a good day’s painting, she could feel it. She loved this work, really loved it. Even if she didn’t need the money so desperately, she would still want to paint. This way she could do both.
After half a dozen bowls, with her rhythm established and her brush moving as if of its own accord, her thoughts returned to the confrontation with Mr. Monkton-Coombes.
He was bound to tell Lady Bea. Damaris had always known her secret would come out eventually, but this was too soon; she didn’t have nearly enough money yet.
Lady Bea wouldn’t be at all happy about her having a job. Perhaps she could talk to Mr. Monkton-Coombes at this afternoon’s literary society meeting, convince him to keep quiet. What she was doing was harmless, surely.
Damaris painted on, her mind a whirl of possibilities, her brushstrokes sure and swift.
Chapter Four
“Books—Oh! no.—I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”
“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”
—JANE AUSTEN, PRIDE AND PREJUDICE
Lady Beatrice’s literary society met three times a week in the afternoon. At this time of year, with the majority of the ton in the country, sophisticated London entertainments were few and far between, so those members of the ton who remained in town during the hunting season were delighted to be offered something a little different from the general round of morning calls.
