Rushed to the Altar

by Jane Feather

  At this auspicious moment the door opened to admit two manservants with heavy trays. Their well-trained eyes took in the fireside scene in one quick glance, and then silently they set out their platters and serving dishes on the table and melted from the chamber.

  “Good lord,” Clarissa breathed in astonished admiration. “I suppose they’re accustomed in this house to entering a chamber and politely ignoring a couple in flagrante delicto.”

  Jasper looked at her oddly. “Of course they are. Why would you sound surprised? You must be used to the convention. They come in when they’re called and leave as if they were never here.”

  Clarissa realized her mistake. She seemed constantly to be making them, which was hardly surprising in the circumstances. Fortunately, for the moment anyway, Jasper was so convinced of her position in Mother Griffiths’s establishment that even while he seemed surprised at some of her innocent remarks, it hadn’t occurred to him to dig deeper.

  “I suppose I never really thought of it before,” she said with a light shrug. “Usually I was too busy to notice.”

  He seemed to accept this and, slipping his hands beneath her arms, lifted her to her feet as he stood up himself. “I for one am sharp set, so let us see what delectations await us.”

  There was a dish of baked crab, a roast duck with a compote of apples, and a dish of buttered salsify. A fresh decanter of wine had also appeared on the table.

  Jasper held Clarissa’s chair for her and then took his own. He unfolded his linen napkin and took up his wineglass, smiling at her over the lip. “I trust I’m not overly optimistic in hoping that this meal we can enjoy to its conclusion?”

  She caught her lower lip, biting back the urge to defend herself. On both occasions he had adopted a tone that somehow reduced her to a possession, a person of much less value than himself. She was prepared to accept that it was inadvertent, simply springing from an assumption he considered accurate and comprehensible. But she wanted to put him right and she couldn’t.

  “I see no reason why not, my lord.” She helped herself to baked crab and took a hot roll from the breadbasket.

  Jasper helped himself, broke his bread, and asked, “What brought you to Mother Griffiths’s establishment, Clarissa?”

  “I told you, my lord, I came to seek my fortune.” She took a sip of wine.

  “Yes, a little too glibly, I feel.” He cast a quick searching glance across the table. “But let’s assume that’s so; did something other than the desire to make your fortune drive you from the country . . . where was it you said you were from?” Studiously he spread butter liberally on his roll, his eyes on his task.

  Clarissa thought quickly. What had she said? “Oh . . . Bedfordshire way,” she muttered, disguising the falter with a cough, reaching hastily for her wineglass.

  “Yes, I remember now. So what drove you from Bedfordshire?”

  She looked up at him, once more composed. “Need, sir. Certain personal circumstances make it necessary to earn my bread.”

  “And may I inquire what those circumstances are?”

  “No, my lord,” she stated. If this was to be another truncated meal so be it. He’d gone back to his old ways.

  Jasper’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp at this flat negative, but he controlled the swift rise of his temper and paused for thought. He had agreed for whatever lunatic reason to court this woman before bedding her, and he was probably not going about it in quite the right way.

  He changed the subject, offering her a smile as he reached across the table to lay his hand over hers. “Can we dispense with the formalities, Clarissa? I have a given name; I would like you to use it.”

  “Jasper,” she said, accepting the olive branch. “I like the name.”

  He chuckled. “That’s certainly fortunate. May I carve you some duck?”

  “Thank you.”

  Throughout the evening Clarissa’s thoughts veered wildly between the need to concentrate on her companion, the pleasure she took in his company even if it required her to keep on her toes, and planning for the morrow, when she would find Francis. How would she get her brother away undetected? Where would she take him at first? It would be so much easier if she were already situated in the house on Half Moon Street. At least there she would be to some extent her own mistress.

  “Do you have a better idea now when exactly I will be able to move into the house on Half Moon Street?”

  Jasper blinked at the abrupt non sequitur. He’d been describing a particularly interesting play he’d seen just recently and had thought her attention showed signs of wandering, but not quite so thoroughly.

  “Why? Are you in a hurry to be gone from here?” He spooned salsify onto his plate. “It seems comfortable enough.”

  “I am anxious to do what has to be done,” she replied. “Particularly after this morning. I must tell you, my lo . . . Jasper . . . that I did not care for your uncle.”

  “No, I can hardly blame you, my dear. He doesn’t care whom he offends. But take heart, he offends everyone equally regardless of status or relationship. And I believe he rather took to you.”

  “He has a strange way of showing it.”

  “That is certainly true. And to answer your question, the house will be ready for you on Saturday.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jasper took his leave shortly before midnight, indulging only in a decorous kiss. He went on his way smiling at the reflection that delaying the consummation of this liaison added a rather exciting frisson of anticipation. It made him feel younger, somehow. And unless he was much mistaken Mistress Clarissa Ordway found him a suitable object for her own desires. He had felt her hesitation when he’d first kissed her, a tentative instant when she’d drawn back a little, but although it had been a good many years since he’d had need of a whore’s services, in his experience of such commercial encounters, kissing was one intimacy they generally withheld from their clients, so Clarissa’s initial withdrawal was natural enough.

  But it hadn’t lasted and there was nothing artificial about the little thrill that had run through her when his lips met hers, or the quick flush of her cheeks when his hand lightly brushed across her breast. He wanted to see her naked, to feel her body moving beneath his, responding to his touches as he knew she would, but in the meantime he would sharpen his appetite with anticipation and allow his imagination full rein.

  If he could have seen Clarissa at this point he might have been a little less complacent. Jasper was the last person on her mind. She had, rather cleverly she thought, orchestrated the perfect excuse for delaying the inevitable, and having resolved that issue at least temporarily she put it from her mind and turned all her attention to planning for the following morning.

  Her mind raced as she prepared for bed. She would need transport to Wapping, as much as anything because she hadn’t the first idea how to get there. She knew where east was, since the sun rose there every morning, but if the East End of London was anything like where she was now it would be a convoluted tangle of narrow streets and dark alleys. She would never negotiate them alone.

  She exchanged the seductress’s chamber robe for her own rather plain but warm woolen one and snuffed the candles on the mantel, leaving only the one by the bed burning, then went to draw back the heavy curtain at the window. She needed a few inches of morning light to penetrate, otherwise she was afraid she might sleep until noon. As she pulled the thick velvet aside, she had her second brilliant idea of the night.

  Of course. The river. That was the obvious way to reach her destination. The watermen went anywhere accessible along the mighty thoroughfare of the Thames, and she needed the river stairs at Wapping. They would take her right to her destination. From there she would ask in the Eagle and Dove about a woman who took in babies. If the baby farmer was hard by the tavern as the peddler had said, then she should be easy to find. But how to make her approach?

  She turned back to the chamber, deep in thought as she shrugged out of her chamber robe
and tossed it at the foot of the bed. She climbed into bed, propping the pillows up behind her. The deep featherbed was a vast improvement on the narrow maid’s cot in the garret and she had a moment of pure indulgent pleasure settling herself under the feather quilt. Of course, the comfort of the bed was for the added pleasure of the nunnery’s clients rather than the cosseting of the inhabitants themselves, but for the moment that did nothing to inhibit her hedonistic enjoyment as the firelight flickered on the ceiling and the bedside candle cast a soft golden pool onto her pillow.

  How to approach the baby farmer? Who would ordinarily approach such a woman? People who needed to dispose of an unwanted child, obviously. Supposing she pretended to be a pregnant lady’s maid, desperate not to lose her situation? She needed to make arrangements for the child’s care after its birth so that she could continue to work.

  That was the perfect story to tell a baby farmer. It would get her into the house at the very least. What happened next was in the lap of the gods, but now that she knew where Francis was, Clarissa felt the dreadful sense of powerlessness slide away. She was in control of her life, of her brother’s life, again.

  She leaned sideways to blow out her candle and lay in the flickering dark as her eyes grew heavy and for the first time in weeks she fell into a deep, dreamless, restful sleep.

  She awoke with the sound of the first iron-wheeled cart rolling over the cobbles beneath her window. The light was gray, promising another chilly and overcast day, but such considerations were unimportant. Clarissa allowed herself to wake slowly, listening to the sounds of the house around her, except that there were no sounds of life, only the creakings and settlings of a sleeping house.

  Early mornings were not well known to the inhabitants of 32 King Street, who rarely found their beds before dawn. Even most of the servants, out of the same consideration, started late.

  Clarissa swung herself out of bed and sat on the edge, pushing her feet into her slippers. She reached sideways for her chamber robe and wrapped it around herself. Her first order of business was breakfast. She let herself out of the chamber and stepped into the deserted hallway. Sconced lamps burned low along the wall as she made her way to the staircase.

  A sudden blast of cold air swept the hall as the front door opened and a child with chapped cheeks and hands came in with a pail of dirty water and a scrubbing brush. She stared mutely at Clarissa, the door banging shut behind her.

  She must have been scrubbing the steps, Clarissa thought with quick sympathy. She didn’t look more than ten years old in her down-at-heel clogs, holland pinafore, and grimy apron, her hair caught up under a mob cap. Her nose was running, which added to the general air of desolation.

  “Is anyone up below stairs?” Clarissa asked gently.

  The child nodded. “Cook an’ the scullery girl.”

  “Have you had breakfast?” Clarissa tried a smile.

  The child shook her head, sniffing vigorously before wiping her nose on her sleeve. “Not till I done the fireplaces, mistress.”

  “All of them?” There must have been at least half a dozen in the downstairs reception rooms alone.

  Another nod and the child trailed off towards the grand salon, dragging her bucket.

  Clarissa headed for the back stairs. She found the cook stirring pots in the kitchen and the scullery maid scrubbing pans in the scullery. No one else had yet made an appearance. “Good morning, Cook.” She greeted the woman as she would have greeted her own cook at home at Astley Hall. “Would you mind if I help myself to a piece of bread and cheese?”

  “Aye, miss, that I would,” the woman declared bluntly. “I’ll send you up a proper breakfast and a pot of hot chocolate directly.”

  “But no one’s up yet,” Clarissa protested. “Indeed I am perfectly happy to take care of myself.”

  “Not in my kitchen, miss. You go back to your bedchamber now.”

  Clarissa knew better than to interfere in a cook’s territory and with a smile of thanks returned upstairs. She was half-dressed in her own countrified linen gown and apron when a scratch on the door produced the scullery maid with a tray of fried eggs, toasted bread, and a pot of hot chocolate.

  “Cook says this was all she could manage at present.” The maid set the tray on the table and scurried away before Clarissa could even express her thanks.

  She ate hastily, wondering if her early morning encroachment on the kitchen regions would reach the ears of Mistress Griffiths. It seemed unheard-of for an inhabitant of the above-stairs regions to visit the below. But on Saturday she would be out of this place and her own mistress once again.

  Her appetite satisfied, Clarissa examined herself in the mirror. How to make herself into a convincing lady’s maid? Pregnant, a little down at heel . . . ? She had to look like someone else so that Luke would not be able to recognize his niece from any description. Her hair was her most obvious feature. She pulled it back from her face and plaited it tightly, pinning the plait into a coil at the nape of her neck, and then tied a kerchief around her head, so that not a single distinctive red-gold strand was visible. Her eyes seemed larger than usual without the softening of her hair. Experimentally, she dipped a finger into the ash in the grate and smudged the skin beneath her eyes, giving them huge dark shadows against her cheekbones. It was an amazing transformation. But not quite enough.

  She looked around the chamber, then her eye fell on one of the small, round cushions on the daybed. She picked it up and went to the mirror, experimentally tucking the cushion against her stomach beneath her cloak. It produced quite a convincing little bump, not enough for an instant recognition of pregnancy, but sufficient proof if someone knew she was carrying a child. She hauled up the skirt of her gown and pushed the cushion into the waistband of her petticoat, tying the drawstring tightly over it, then dropped her skirt down. She threw her cloak around her shoulders, drawing it tightly around her, then examined her reflection again in the mirror. She really didn’t look in the least like herself. She drew her hood up, hiding as much of her face as she could, and hunched her shoulders a little, as if she was trying to hide the shameful evidence of her pregnancy. The transformation was complete; she barely recognized herself.

  She let herself out of the house without encountering another soul. The streets were cold, empty, and piled with the debris of the previous night’s entertainments. She stepped gingerly over a pile of vomit, holding her skirts high, and made her way around the colonnades of the Great Piazza, heading for the river. She threaded her way through the streets leading to the Strand and from there down Savoy Street to the water steps on the embankment at the end of the street.

  There were more people around here and the river was already busy with skiffs darting between the larger barges laden with goods. The watermen kept up a constant whistle as they touted for custom on both banks, poling their craft up and down along the embankment.

  Clarissa descended the stairs to the small platform that jutted out over the water. A skiff with two oarsmen came up immediately. They shipped their oars and one of them leaned out to seize a rope hanging from the platform. He hauled on it, bringing the little boat tight into the platform. He held it steady as Clarissa stepped in.

  “Wappin’ Stairs.” Her voice was a little muffled, her accent that of the Kentish countryside. It was an accent she had heard all her life and she felt reasonably confident she could keep it up as long as she didn’t say too much.

  The waterman nodded, finding nothing remarkable in either his passenger or her destination, and as soon as she was seated on the narrow thwart pushed off from the bank with his oar and he and his partner took the skiff into the mainstream. It was cold on the river and Clarissa huddled closer into her cloak. Her nervousness grew as the skiff moved swiftly towards her destination. She rehearsed over and over in her head what she would say to the baby farmer, concentrating on getting the vowel sounds authentic, remembering to drop the final g at the end of certain words. If she was word-perfect the disguise would be eas
ier to maintain.

  The hulking bulk of the Tower of London loomed up ahead of them after almost an hour. Clarissa was frozen by this time. She’d had no idea it would take so long and guessed now that it would have been quicker by land under horsepower. But it was too late for second thoughts. The watermen brought the boat close to the forbidding Traitor’s Gate, a grilled gate giving onto a dark hole leading into the gray stone of the edifice. She shuddered, thinking of all those who had disappeared into that darkness never to reappear.

  They went beneath Tower Bridge, the rowers carefully steering between the great stone pillars that were sunk deep into the riverbed. The river eddied swiftly at their bases and many a boat had come to grief caught in the swirling currents. They passed Alderman’s Stairs and Tower Bridge wharf, and finally Wapping Stairs came up on the north bank of the river.

  The jumble of buildings along the embankment looked like warehouses. The watermen brought the skiff against a long pier jutting into the water. Steps led from there up to the embankment. Clarissa paid them the shilling fare and stepped out onto the pier.

  The landscape was alien, threatening in its strangeness. Porters darted hither and thither along the pier with great baskets balanced on their heads, raucous shouts filled the air, children struggling bent double under the weight of heavy sacks staggered past her to the barges waiting to be loaded at the end of the pier, and above her loomed the great stone warehouses on either side of the steps. Her only comfort lay in the fact that everyone was too occupied with their own affairs to cast so much as a glance in her direction.

  She climbed the steps, which were wet and slimy with green weed at the lower level where the river at high tide covered them. Once she reached the top she breathed a sigh of relief. The air felt lighter, fresher, although it was still redolent of fish and tar, and the crowded buildings blocked the daylight. She looked around, searching for the Eagle and Dove tavern. It was supposed to be hard by the stairs.