Loving Lily: Fair Cyprians of London: a Steamy Victorian Romantic Mystery

by Oakley, Beverley

  “To Robert? Dear God, not that,” she muttered, sinking down onto the chair nearest her.

  “And you have no friends or family who will take you in otherwise you’d have left Madame Chambon’s at the first opportunity.” He clicked his tongue. “I was not pleased when you bolted from the carriage, but events worked out surprisingly well. I admit, it had been something of a shock to discover the poor physical condition of the apparently exquisite Lady Bradden. In fact, I nearly left you where you were. But the possibilities of what you could achieve should you regain your former glory were too intoxicating.” He gave a short laugh. “The fact that you chose the most notorious brothel in London to seek refuge would have been comical if it hadn’t proven such a boon. Madame was happy to feed and clothe you for a nominal fee. She could see what I could not—that you had potential. No doubt she has vast experience of what feeding and decent clothes can do for a girl. And when a girl has no protectors, but the potential to be a beauty, a bit of food and a shelter is worth a punt. Incidentally, she’s more than willing to take you back.”

  “You mean, if I don’t perform to your standard.”

  “Oh no, you are too perfect to fail at what I have in mind. Have no fear on that score.”

  “I have fears on many scores, Mr Montpelier, but since you refuse to enlighten me, I have no choice but to kick my heels and await illumination…or rescue.”

  He rose and, at the door, stopped and turned. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, Mrs Eustace. You might be beautiful, but there is little else to recommend you to any would-be protector, it would seem. I have made enquiries.”

  After all that had happened and all he had said, his parting words were what finally broke her.

  But only after he’d bowed himself out of the room. For it was too much to be reminded of the fact that she’d grown from a child too unlovable for her sole remaining parent to wish to have anything to do with, into a creature who held absolutely no interest for her husband. A husband who would no doubt be delighted to hear that his barren wife might be replaced by one who would give him heirs.

  Chapter 8

  A parliamentary debate. A dry discussion that would be of interest to some readers.

  An archery competition. One that featured both men and women drawing their crossbows and certainly was of greater interest, visually, than anything else Hamish had on his desk, and this being due to the fact that the photograph featured Lady Whittington, a famed society beauty who looked like a majestic Amazon in her gown of black-and-white stripes.

  With a fingertip at the bottom of each image, Hamish moved the former to the left, and the latter to the pile of possibilities on his desk just beneath the inkpot.

  The left would definitely be included in the next issue of Manners & Morals. It would inspire some robust debate in the Letters to the Editor section which would please the magazine’s founder.

  And pleasing his father was, after all, Hamish’s chief responsibility if he wished to remain at the helm while old Mr McTavish was on his sickbed.

  If he included Lady Whittington’s picture, he’d have to jettison his plans for a serialised adventure story that contained a suggestion of romance and replace it with a more prosaic homily for children.

  “Thank you, Archie,” Hamish said in dismissal. The photographer was standing close by his left shoulder, having just delivered the selection of photographs Hamish had requested. “That will be all.”

  “I ain’t done, guvnor,” said the photographer, his final offering already between thumb and fingertip, a secret little smile playing about his lips, Hamish saw when he glanced up. Silently, and with an air of triumph, Archie dropped the photograph onto the desk in front of Hamish.

  Hamish drew it before him and frowned. The photograph was not up to the technical standard of the archery competition or the debate. Those subjects had obviously posed, unmoving, for the requisite time.

  In this photograph, the subject was clearly not aware she was being photographed, though the fact she and her companions had kept still for a sufficient length of time made the younger woman easy to identify with just a slight blurriness at the edges.

  “Ain’t she the one yer wanted me ter find?” Archie asked. “The blonde, not the brunette? Or were it both, cos the brunette weren’t there? Nevva mind, I knew yer was lookin’ fer the blonde ’cos yer couldn’t resist ’er enticements fer all yer’d not admit it even ter yerself.”

  “Lord, Archie, that’s not true—”

  “Reckon ’tis,” said the photographer, his sly grin stretching wider. “That is ’er, ain’t it?”

  “Mrs Eustace? Yes.” Hamish held the photograph up to the light and tried to place her surroundings. She was in a room, seated on an elegant sofa, a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman standing at her right shoulder, a stout, middle-aged woman in black seated beside her, both with their hands upon a card table in front of them.

  “What are they doing?” Hamish’s frown deepened.

  “It were Mrs Bennet’s Wednesday ‘At ’Ome’ an’ I were photographin’ ’er little crowd in diff’rent vignettes, as she called it. Yer can imagine me excitement when I recognised Mrs Eustace.”

  “Why did Mrs Bennet request your services?”

  “’Parently she’s a member o’ a spiritualist group wot talks ter the dead. People come ter ’er At ’Omes an’ listen ter spirits rappin’ on the table, an’ the like, tryin’ ter talk ter their loved ones. Least, that’s wot I were told.”

  Hamish looked more closely at the gentleman who appeared, on closer examination, to be focusing his gaze down Mrs Eustace’s bodice rather than upon the baize-topped table.

  He was surprised at the discomfort this occasioned and refused to recognise it as a twinge of envy. “And who is the man?”

  “Lor’ Elkin’ton wot’s big in spiritualist circles.” Archie leaned over and took possession of his photograph. He held it up and gazed at it lovingly. “A real beauty, ain’t she?” he murmured. “Reckon Lor’ Elkin’ton ’fought so too.”

  Hamish tapped his fingers on the table and stared through the window. “Is that the impression you got?” he asked with a contrived show of unconcern.

  “Well, ’e didn’t want ter stop talkin’ ter ’er. An’ then ’e got mighty excited when he ’eard that she were a medium an’ all—”

  “What?”

  “A medium. I ’fought I tol’ yer. Someone wot talks ter the dead ’an conveys their messages ter the livin’—”

  “Yes, I know what a medium is. But…he didn’t believe her, did he? Good lord!” Hamish rose and began to pace his office, trying to keep his breathing under control. “Does she have this effect on all men? Is she going to pull the wool over his eyes like the charlatan she is?”

  He realised he’d gone too far when he glanced up to see Archie’s interested look. “’Ad no idea she’d got ter yer like that, guvnor. Yer shoulda said the word ter ’er when yer ’ad the chance. She were only too keen ter get out o’ that Madame Chambon’s place, me Gracie tells me. Woulda jumped at any offa. But then, yer not in the market fer that kind o’ piece. Not a Puritan like yyerou.”

  “I am a Methodist, not a Puritan.”

  “Same thing.” Archie didn’t appear to notice that Hamish had taken umbridge. “Terrified o’ beauty. Or rather, o’ beautiful women like this Mrs Eustace.”

  “I object—”

  “Course yer do, course yer do, guv, but that ain’t me concern, ’ere. I want ter sell yer me wares an’ yer ain’t interested in wot I reckon is me best photograph by a ragged mile, so I’s jest gildin’ the lily, so ter speak.” He flicked a cheeky grin at Hamish over the top of his hands, for now he was holding a fistful of five photographs and going carefully over each one.

  “There!” he said again. “Mrs Eustace, encore! Knew yer’d not be able ter resist in the end. ’Ere she is discussin’ spiritualism wiv Lor’ Elkin’ton wiv their ’eads close together. Mighty ’andsome couple they make, don’t they? I’s given yer the ca
ption an’ everyfink. Yer don’t reckon the public would be interested? Then yer’ve lost yer touch, I reckon.” He dropped the five photographs onto the table with a dismissive snort.

  Hamish gripped the tabletop and kept his temper in check. “Sometimes you go too far, Archie,” he growled.

  “I’ll go as far as I need ter,” the little photographer said cheerily. “Now, wot’ll yer pay me fer these? Every one is front page worthy.”

  Of course, Archie bested Hamish. Archie could sell fish to the Greenlanders, Hamish told him as he’d forked over a handsome sum for the dubious pleasure of owning Mrs Eustace’s image, earmarked for his bedside table drawer rather than Manners & Morals, together with a horse-racing scene and a couple of standard society photographs, the type of fare his subscribers were used to seeing after a surfeit of missionaries and ministers.

  Now, as the sun dipped beneath the roofs of the buildings across the road, Hamish hunched in his chair and surveyed the articles, drawings, and photographs that littered his desk.

  His concentration was intense, as usual, so that he leapt at the sound of a brisk rap on the door which opened peremptorily without waiting for invitation, and a pert, bright-eyed face peered at him.

  “Goodness Lucy, have you not heard of knocking to announce yourself?” he barked.

  “I did, but I knew there was no point in waiting for an invitation,” his sister said, undeterred by the set down. “Here, I’ve brought you something from the pie shop so I don’t find a corpse when I get back from my visit to Aunt Periwinkle.” She sighed. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us on Saturday?”

  He shook his head, ignoring the canvas bag on the table from which emanated an appetising aroma. “No point when there’ll be so little time. Do send her my regards, naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  He looked up at her sarcastic tone, raising his eyebrows with what he hoped was an admonishing look. “You didn’t come here alone, did you, Lucy?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” she said with a complacent smile. “I’m twenty years old, Hamish. And I have no mother or father to answer to.”

  “If you don’t show sufficient respect to your brother, then I promise I will return you to Father.”

  She blanched at this and immediately Hamish was sorry for the thoughtless remark. “An idle threat. Pay me no mind. Now, tell me why you’re here, but not before you tell me why you’re unaccompanied. It’s dangerous for a woman to walk the streets alone.”

  “It’s not dark, Hamish. And besides, there’s every chance I shall be a comfortably married matron before the end of the year and able to do what I like.” She reached across and put her hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. “That is, if you’ll only agree to let Mr Myers call,” she added cajolingly.

  “Not a chance.” Hamish leaned back and closed his eyes briefly, though he gripped Lucy’s hand before she could withdraw it in pique. “He’s not good enough for you and I won’t see you throw yourself away.”

  “But I love him, Hamish. It’s true that his position is lowly but he has prospects, and he loves me and I love him.” Her voice grew tighter. “Are you really going to turn into Papa?”

  “You know I’m not, otherwise I wouldn’t have fought the battle I did to let him relinquish you so you could live with me,” Hamish muttered.

  “And for that I’m eternally grateful. And you would change your mind about Mr Myers if you only got to know him,” she said with fierce determination. “Do you know how easy it would be for him to call without you even knowing of it. There, see how honest I am?”

  “You’re not honest. You just know that Maggie doesn’t let anything you do pass her by, and you’d be found out and I’d be told of it –”

  “And what would you do then? Throw me into the street? Gracious, Hamish, just thinking of it makes me shudder. I truly thought Father would when I defied him one too many times. We both know he is capable of such callousness. You’re not.” She grew thoughtful, withdrawing her hand and murmuring as she wandered about his office, “Imagine what I should do if I were cast into the streets simply for displeasing you? I’d be ruined, of course. I’d have no future and end up selling turnips from a fruit and vegetable barrow.” She shuddered then straightened and said more forcefully, “For all your concern about people’s morals and manners, I think you should be more concerned about the cruelty of a society that offers no support to women who are cast out into the world and forced to become what they have no wish to be, simply because they have no choice. Papa would never listen to such talk, but I’m not a child, and I had a friend, Dorrie, at the Ladies Seminary—she was a servant, actually—but she sometimes told me about what life was like for girls like her. How hard it was to earn enough to be considered respectable. How hard the men were on their wives and daughters. In a different way, Hamish.” She looked stricken. “Papa clipped my ear and used the birch rod often enough, but if it hadn’t been for you launching in to save me from an even worse hiding, which was becoming a habit, I’d have been like Dorrie and her sisters, and so many other young girls who worked their fingers to the bone dragging buckets of water up and down stairs and blacking the grates. The only difference being that I’d be wearing fashionable clothes. At least I’m looked after properly…and kindly…by you. I hope you know how much I appreciate that.”

  Hamish stretched his long legs, uncomfortable by the shift in conversation. “You were not so forgiving of the woman who stole your bonnet,” he reminded her. His throat felt dry. Imagine if Lucy knew what Hamish knew about her.

  Felt about her.

  “She was different. She was a filthy beggar who had been born in the gutter and had no concept of morality so, sadly, would have had no hope of being guided into a better life. She wasn’t like Dorrie who worked so hard but who would never commit a crime like stealing. I’m talking about women who were once good and virtuous but who, through no fault of their own, suddenly are cast adrift. Why don’t you write about their plight in your newspaper, Hamish?”

  “Because our father would remove the editorship from my hands, you know that.” Hamish was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. He changed the subject. “I’m sorry you’re cross with me, and I have said that if Mr Myers can demonstrate that he can support a wife, then he is welcome to call and state his case.” He paused, adding, “And I’m sorry if I didn’t fulfil my brotherly obligations earlier, Lucy. You know I would have if I’d had an inkling. I’d have come back from France on the next steamer.”

  “Gracious! An apology is not what I was expecting,” she said, making light of what had been a frightful time in Lucy’s life when their father had, indeed, lost his temper to such a degree that his violence had nearly gone unchecked. Hamish’s return had been just in time. “And nor is it like you, Hamish, my darling brother whom I have never heard apologise to anyone in his life.”

  “I would be the first to admit when I was in error,” he said stiffly.

  Lucy put her head on one side and crinkled her brow. “Then you must never have been in error and I should rejoice at my good fortune in having grown up with a paragon.”

  Hamish’s face relaxed in an unaccustomed smile. “I don’t know if I should send you home with a clip over your ear or thank you for relieving the tension. Lord knows, it’s needed around here as we prepare to go to print.” He reached for the food she’d brought. “Thank you for taking such good care of me,” he mumbled, his stomach growling as he realised he hadn’t eaten since early morning. “I don’t know what I’ll do with myself when Mr Myers proves himself worthy and you leave me.”

  “Lord knows, you can’t look after yourself. You’ll have to find yourself a wife, of course,” Lucy said.

  “I haven’t time for that.” Hamish took a bite.

  “Time? Or inclination?”

  “Both.”

  She studied him a moment as he ate, before one of the photographs caught her eye and she reached across and held it up to the light
. “Now that’s a beautiful woman, indeed. And she is with, if I’m not mistaken, Lord Elkington. She’s not his wife, is she?”

  “Heavens, no!” Hamish expostulated and was immediately embarrassed for she looked at him with obvious surprise and the expectation of elucidation. Awkwardly he said, “She’s not the kind of woman you should associate with, that’s all I can say, Lucy.”

  “You can be such a Puritan sometimes, Hamish,” she grumbled, looking more closely at the picture. “How would you even know that? She looks perfectly respectable to me.”

  “Looks can be deceptive,” he said. “And I am not a Puritan. Someone else called me that today and I took exception.”

  “Well, you are buttoned-up and judgemental which is tantamount to the same thing.” Lucy flashed him a smile. “You need to fall in love with a girl who will make you forget that you’re just a sinning mortal here on this earth for only a short time.”

  “I believe that is the philosophy behind what these people are so very interested in refuting,” Hamish said, indicating Lord Elkington. “His lordship regularly communes with his dead wife at Mrs Bennet’s seances.”

  “And this woman?”

  “Mrs Eustace?”

  “Oh, you’re familiar with her?”

  The artless question made his body stir. Their exchanges had been brief, unusual, and few and far between. But each had had a considerable, and intense effect upon him.

  His brow clouded. “I know nothing about her. You know I don’t believe in this quackery.”

  “You don’t believe in spiritualism, dear brother?” she asked in mock horror. “When the spirits are all around us?”

  “You know me, sister. I only believe what I can see.”

  “Except for our Heavenly Father.”

  He grunted. “You should be heading back, Lucy. Thank you for the pie. It’s much appreciated as I shan’t be home for hours. Get Mrs Dawkins to walk you home. It’s nearly time for her to leave, anyway. I’m sorry but you’ll be dining alone, tonight.”