Seeing her sisters still tucked cozily beneath their blankets - Delilah with a book pressed to her nose and Temperance with an arm thrown across her face to block out what little sunlight had managed to pierce the cloud cover and was shining in through the window - Lynette sighed and leaned back against the door, closing it behind her with a loud click.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “It is nearly half past seven and you are both still abed.”
“I am awake,” Delilah provided helpfully. Marking her page, she set her book on the bedside table and sat up. Her long hair - several shades lighter than Lynette’s - spilled over her right shoulder in a wave of coppery blonde. “Tempy is the one who is still sleeping.”
“Am not,” came Temperance’s muffled reply. “And I told you not to call me that.”
“Call you what?”
“Tempy.”
Delilah frowned. “But I always call you that.”
“And I always tell you not to.”
“Well I did not think you were being serious.”
Throwing her blanket aside, Temperance shot up. “Did you think I have been doing it to hear myself talk?” she asked incredulously. “I swear, if you call me Tempy one more-”
“Enough.” Always the peacekeeper - though more times than not she would have liked to simply close the door and let her sisters fight it out - Lynette held up her hand. “Delilah, do try your best to use Temperance’s full name and Temperance do try to remember that Delilah is not trying to annoy you on purpose.”
Temperance crossed her arms. “On purpose or not, she’s doing an awfully good job,” she said sullenly.
“It’s not my fault,” Delilah exclaimed. Her lower lip jutted out in a pout. “You used to like it when I called you Tempy.”
“When you were five and you had a stutter!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Did-”
“Enough!” This time Lynette’s raised voice was enough to silence her squabbling sisters.
Unfortunately, the silence was only temporary.
“Well there is no need to yell,” said Temperance.
“No need,” Delilah echoed.
Lynette massaged her temple with her thumb and pointer finger as she silently wondered how their mother had done it. How had she raised three young girls without wringing all of their necks? All things considered, it was a miracle they’d managed to survive past the age of ten. Taking a deep breath, she prayed for patience. “There is every need when you are both acting like ill-behaved toddlers. Temperance, you are eighteen now. You should be setting a good example for your sister to follow, not goading her into an argument. And Delilah, please try to honor your sister’s wishes. If she wants to be called by her full name, then that is what you should call her. Now please get up and get dressed. We are running late enough as it is.”
They both stood, albeit reluctantly.
“Why do we need to be ready so early again?” Temperance asked, muffling a yawn as she crossed the small bedroom and opened a narrow armoire. Packed to the gills with hand-me-down dresses (most of which had belonged to Lynette before she gave them to Temperance who in turn had given them to Delilah) the armoire desperately needed to be replaced with something larger, but as far as priorities went it was quite low on the list, lingering somewhere beneath paying off the remainder of their father’s debts and above re-stuffing the parlor cushions.
“Because I want to get to Mrs. Weatherby’s shop before her first client arrives and I cannot leave you both here unattended,” Lynette explained for the fourth (or was it the fifth? She’d quite lost count) time.
“Are we getting new dresses?” Delilah asked, hazel eyes glimmering with excitement. “Because most of mine are getting to be far too short. I don’t really mind, except I think the girls in my sewing class are beginning to notice and, well…you know.”
Yes, Lynette knew what it felt like to be noticed for something unfavorable.
She knew very much.
“At the rate you are going you’re going to be taller than most men soon.” Running a hand through her newly shorn hair - she’d impulsively cut the glossy brown locks to her shoulders only last week - Temperance smirked at Delilah over her shoulder and added, “Why not forgo dresses entirely and start wearing trousers? They’ll fit you better at least.”
“Temperance, that is enough,” Lynette said sharply. “If you can think of nothing complimentary to say, best not say anything at all.”
Yanking a yellow muslin day dress out of the armoire, Temperance stalked behind the dressing screen in tightlipped silence and Lynette bit back a sigh. She knew her sister wasn’t trying to be difficult. Of the three of them, she had taken their parent’s death the hardest and whereas Lynette was dealing with her grief by internalizing it and wearing a mask of smiles and good cheer, Temperance was doing the opposite.
It wasn’t her fault.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault.
Not really.
And yet somehow that did not make it any easier to bear.
“We are not getting new dresses, are we?” Delilah asked softly.
“No dear,” Lynette said with a tiny shake of her head. “I am afraid not. But if Mrs. Weatherby hires me as a seamstress we shall be able to start paying some of our bills and you will have the finest gown money can buy for your Season debut in the fall.”
It wasn’t the first lie Lynette had told.
She just hoped it would be her last.
Mrs. Weatherby’s dress shop was located across town. Without the means to hire a hackney, Lynette and her sisters used old parasols to keep the worst of the rain from soaking through their shawls as they hurried down the street. Unfortunately, the rain proved most persistent, and by the time they arrived at their destination they bore a closer resemblance to drowned rats than well-dressed ladies of substance.
“There is water in my shoes,” Delilah complained as they stepped inside, their arrival marked by the cheerful jingle of brass bells hanging from the door. Inside the shop dresses and bolts of fabric covered every imaginable space and it smelled strongly of lavender perfume, but at least it was dry.
“There is water in all of our shoes,” Temperance said. “Didn’t you notice it was raining?”
“Do not start here of all places,” Lynette said between her teeth. Removing her wet gloves she slid them discreetly into her beaded reticule before marching up to the counter, her chin set with determination even as the back of her neck - thankfully hidden by her dark hair over which she wore her very best bonnet - heated with embarrassment. The last time she’d heard the jingle of Mrs. Weatherby’s bells she had been entering the shop as a client. Perhaps not the wealthiest client, but a client nevertheless. And now…now she was forced to leave her pride at the door in order to ask for something she’d never imagined in a hundred lifetimes she would ever need.
Employment.
Growing up, Lynette had been astute enough to realize her parents, though considered landed gentry, were not quite as well off as many of her friends. While her mother had been the daughter of a viscount, she’d married beneath her station when she wed Lynette’s father who was but a simple baronet. It was a title that allowed ‘Sir’ to precede his name but never ‘Lord’, a distinction Lynette had never been more aware of than during her first Season when she’d rubbed elbows with the daughters of dukes and earls and seen for her own eyes the preferential treatment they received. Still, her parents had not been poor or lacking in means - at least not then - and she’d had a chance at making a favorable match…at least before Nathaniel Blackbourne, the lying cad, ruined everything.
It was because of him that she was standing here today. He’d not only ruined her chances at finding a husband, he’d ruined her reputation and in turn had sealed the fates of both her sisters as well for they couldn’t show their faces in polite society without being asked about The Scandal.
Lynette had hoped the gossip might have died down by
the time Temperance made her debut but that day had come and gone without any signs of malicious tongues waning. The ton was rather like a pack of wild dogs in that regard. Once they had a juicy bone to sink their teeth into they were loath to give it up until an even juicier bone came along and every young woman had been on her best behavior as of late.
Unfortunately.
“Stay behind me, both of you,” Lynette said, giving her sisters a stern glance. “And do not speak a word.”
Temperance made a face. “I still do not know why we had to get out of bed and traipse all the way down here in the pouring-”
“Miss Lynette! What a pleasure to see you in my shop again.” Boasting a voice just as large as her barrel, Mrs. Weatherby emerged without warning from behind a thick velvet curtain, giving Lynette cause to wonder just how often she eavesdropped on her customers before choosing to make her appearance known. A large boned woman with a fleshy chin and warm blue eyes, she was known - in addition to her skill with a needle - for wearing large, ostentatious hats. Today she wore a dark purple turban with peacock feathers sticking out of the top and a tiny bird’s nest pinned to one side. “I suppose it is that time of year again,” she continued with a flutter of one hand. “Why, just yesterday my shop was positively filled to the brim with young debutantes! You have brought your sisters, I see. Well then, what shall we start with first? Measurements?”
“Not exactly,” Lynette began as Mrs. Weatherby plucked up a ribbon tape measure from the counter. With a quick glance at the door to ensure no one had come in, she leaned towards the dressmaker and in a soft whisper said, “I have come to see if you could use another seamstress.”
“Another seamstress?” Dark eyebrows pulling together in confusion over the bridge of her nose, Mrs. Weatherby rocked back on her heels. “One of my regular girls did just up and leave me for a ne’er-do-well from the West End, and with the Season only two months away, no less! I told her the man was a scoundrel, but she was in love, she said, and wouldn’t listen to reason. Pity that. She certainly knew her way around a needle.”
“So you are shorthanded?” Lynette asked hopefully.
“It seems that way, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Weatherby scratched one of her chins. “Who did you have in mind?”
Lynette’s throat tightened. For one fleeting moment she considered simply turning on her heel and walking out of the shop, but her problems were too great to be ignored and what was a bit of pride when faced with the poor house? She squared her shoulders. There was no shame in trying to make an honest wage. No shame at all. “Myself, Mrs. Weatherby,” she said in a calm, level voice. “I have myself in mind.”
For an instant the dressmaker looked positively taken aback, but she recovered quickly. “Oh,” she said, drawing the word out. “Well…I hadn’t really thought…that is, I do not know…”
“I have a fair hand with a needle,” Lynette said earnestly. “And I know all the stitches. I can bring you in some of my embroidery if you would like. I am willing to work hard and can make myself available nearly every day.”
“I have no doubt as to your ability, nor your commitment.”
“Then what is it?” Lynette asked as Mrs. Weatherby fell silent and her gaze slid uncomfortably to the side.
“Well,” the dressmaker said, wringing her hands, “the whole of it is I would be more than happy to have you in my shop as a client, Miss Swan, but I cannot have you as an employee.”
“Why not?” Temperance demanded, ignoring Lynette’s request to remain quiet. “You have a position open, you just said so yourself, and my sister is willing to fill it.”
“Be that as it may, I cannot hire her.” Beginning to grow visibly agitated, Mrs. Weatherby fanned her reddened cheeks. “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do to help you.”
“But why? You have to have a reason,” Temperance argued as Lynette’s heart sank to her feet. She knew why Mrs. Weatherby was refusing to give her employment. It was the same reason Lady Havenship had been unable to hire her as a governess despite their many years of friendship. Mrs. Weatherby and Lady Havenship may have liked her as a person, but they could not afford to associate themselves with a woman whose reputation was so far gone. Lynette couldn’t blame them. Were she in their shoes, she would have most likely done the exact same thing. After all, it wasn’t their fault. She’d gotten herself in this predicament all on her own.
But that did not mean she would resort to begging.
“Come along Temperance,” she said softly, putting a restraining hand on her sister’s arm. “We should go.”
“But I want to know-”
“Please, Temperance.” Forcing her mouth to stretch into a smile, Lynette nodded at Mrs. Weatherby. “Thank you for your time.”
“You are quite welcome. I am sorry I could not be of more assistance.” Mrs. Weatherby hesitated before she added in a hushed tone, “Have you tried the textile factory on the other side of town?
“No,” Lynette said as the smile fell from her lips. She would become a man’s mistress before she worked in any type of factory. Aside from their terrible work conditions and awful pay, factories were hot houses for all sorts of horrible diseases. Diseases she would never want to be responsible for passing on to her sisters. “I can assure you it has not yet come to that, Mrs. Weatherby. If you will excuse us, we have quite a few errands to run.”
Delilah and Temperance fell in behind her as she headed for the door. Stopping just shy of stepping out into the rain that was still falling from the sky, Delilah glanced thoughtfully back over her shoulder.
“You know,” she said, “I never very much cared for this shop anyways.”
In silent agreement Lynette took her arm and together the three sisters walked briskly down the street, their spines straight and their chins up.
CHAPTER TWO
“I say, do you want another brandy?”
Looking up to find John Baloch, Earl of Mileview, peering down over his left shoulder, Nathaniel Blackbourne absently shook his head as he studied the cards in his hand. An ace and a two of clubs. Bloody hell. Had he known his luck was going to be this abominable, he would have stayed in bed.
When the man to his right procured the queen he’d been hoping to pick from the deck, Nathaniel threw his cards on the table and stood up in disgust. “I am done,” he said flatly.
“Done?” John repeated, brown eyes going wide. “But we only just got here.”
“Come on.” Clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder - the two had known each other since their days at Eton - Nathaniel steered him towards the bar. “I’ll buy you a brandy and a pretty blonde to go with it.”
John hesitated. “What time is it?”
Digging into the front pocket of his waistcoat, Nathaniel focused blearily on the face of the gold watch he’d been gifted by his father on his sixteenth birthday. It was a tradition in the Blackbourne family. A tradition Nathaniel’s mother was forever fretting her eldest son would never carry out as his thirty-second birthday had just come and gone without an heir or even a wife, for that matter.
Noting the Roman numeral at which the short dial was pointing, Nathaniel frowned and gave the watch a little shake.
Surely that wasn’t the correct time.
“Well?” John prompted.
“This says half past ten, but I–”
“Half past ten in the bloody morning?” As his face blanched, John took a staggering step backwards and nearly fell into a table filled with empty beer tankards. “Mary is going to really have my head on a platter this time,” he moaned, referring to his pretty – albeit quite stern – wife and the mother of his two children.
And this, Nathaniel thought with wry amusement as he watched John stumble around the club picking up the belongings he’d discarded throughout their night of gambling, drinking, and overall debauchery, is why I am not married.
Why any man would ever willingly take a wife was beyond him. Having grown up in a household with an annoying younger sister and
an overbearing mother, he knew firsthand what it was like to deal with dramatic females…which was precisely why he’d taken up his own private residence as soon as he’d been able.
He knew he would have to marry eventually. As the eldest male heir – although only by five minutes – it was his duty to see the Blackbourne family name and title carried on to the next generation. But he would be damned before he allowed himself to be pushed into marriage before he was ready, and he’d be doubly damned before he shackled himself to one of the empty-headed debutantes his mother seemed so determined to pair him with.
Mindless twits, the lot of them. Pretty to look at, certainly, but they were little more than fluff once you looked past their low-cut bodices and fluttering lashes.
And Nathaniel had no patience for fluff.
“Give Mary my best,” he said when John returned to the bar with coat, hat, and cravat in hand.
Looking a bit green around the gills, the earl shuffled his feet. “She is going to show me the door this time. I just know it.”
Shrugging into his own coat, Nathaniel followed John to the door. “Stand your ground. You’re the man of the household. Bloody well act like it.”
John looked back at him over his shoulder and scowled. “Easy for you to say, isn’t it? You don’t have a wife.”
“Thank God,” Nathaniel muttered as they stepped outside and waited out of the rain for their carriages to be brought round. Glancing up at the gray, cloudy sky he pulled his hat a bit lower and buttoned his coat. Given that winter would soon be upon them he supposed rain was better than snow, but it would have been nice to see the sun every once in a while. If there was a place more drab or dreary than London in autumn, he would like to never hear of it. Were it not for the impending season and his mother’s request that he chaperone his sister Annabel, he would have left for the coast of Spain at the first hint of deteriorating weather.
For the Love of Lynette Page 3
