Regency Surrender: Debts Reclaimed

Chapter Four

The steady chirping of birds broke through the haze of Laura’s fading dream. First one warbled, then another, until a chorus seemed to sit outside her window. Over the sharp tweets, Laura strained to hear the bell and her father’s voice through the floorboards as he greeted customers in the shop below her room. The only thing she heard was the click of the bedroom-door handle and the soft swish of shoes over the carpet. Laura snuggled deeper into the thick pillow, knowing it was her mother coming to chide her for sleeping late. She clutched the clean sheet up around her chin, trying to snatch a few more precious seconds of rest.

‘Miss Townsend, are you awake?’ Mrs Palmer asked.

Laura sat up, sweet memories of her old room, of her father alive and her mother well vanishing along with the feeling of warmth and love. The loss burned a hole through her chest.

‘Yes, I am.’

A fire crackled in the grate. Laura wondered how she’d managed to sleep through the maid coming in to light it. Perhaps it was the fact she’d slept at all which had allowed her to remain so soundly in her dreams. In Seven Dials, with all the noise from the other tenants and Uncle Robert’s drunken mutterings, it’d always been so difficult to sleep. ‘I’m sorry I’m still in bed. I should be up.’

‘You have nothing to be sorry about.’ Mrs Palmer laid a simple blue-cotton dress across the foot of the bed. ‘Mr Rathbone had Mrs Fairley, Miss Jane’s modiste, send this over. I’m to tell you, you have an appointment with Mrs Fairley at her shop this afternoon. She has a few other dresses from an unpaid order and will alter them to tide you over until a new wardrobe can be made.’

New dresses. Excitement crowded in beneath Laura’s lingering sense of loss. The idea of wearing a dress which wasn’t practically threadbare proved as irresistible as waking in a clean bed with no sign of rats having traipsed across the floor during the night. Laura picked up the sleeve of the dress and examined the fine stitching. ‘I’ve never had a modiste make my dresses. Mother always did it.’

‘You’ll like Mrs Fairley. She does good work and is quite nice, too. Came to Mr Rathbone about two years ago seeking a loan to improve her business and has done quite well for herself since. Mr Rathbone prides himself on patronising those he helps who make a go of things instead of wasting the money.’

Laura didn’t have to ask what happened to those who wasted Philip’s money. She already knew.

She laid the sleeve of the dress down, running her hand over the length of it to press it flat. The dress was sewn from a sturdy but soft cotton, Indian most likely, more utilitarian than silk, but with a few ribbons or the right bonnet it would suit as well for an afternoon at home as it would for attending a small tea. A fond smile tugged at her lips. She could practically hear her father’s words in her own thoughts, see the fabric from the bolt draped over his arm as he explained the weave and quality to a prospective lady buyer. Laura’s hands stilled and the smile faded. That was all gone now. A visit from the modiste would be the closest she’d ever come to experiencing it again.

‘Is something wrong, miss?’ Mrs Palmer pressed.

‘I’m all right, only a little overwhelmed.’ Truth be told, her head was still spinning from everything and it was all she could do to focus. How she would make it through the myriad other, sure to be surprising things which might happen this week, she didn’t know. However, if the most troubling thing facing her today was the shock of a new dress, then she really had no troubles at all. After all, she’d dealt with worse problems during the past year, much worse.

Mrs Palmer slid Laura’s old black dress from the top of the chair where Laura had draped it last night. If Mrs Palmer was concerned about the tatty dress staining the fine silk upholstery, she didn’t reveal it. Her face was all kindness and concern, reminding Laura of the baker’s wife who used to give her leftover biscuits from time to time until her husband had found out and put a stop to it.

‘I know it all must seem so strange, Mr Rathbone making up his mind so quick about you, but I assure you, Miss Townsend, you couldn’t have asked for a better man.’

It seemed Mrs Palmer was as enamoured of Mr Rathbone as Laura’s mother. If only she could be so certain about her decision. However, it was a comfort to see the older woman so eager for Laura to like Mr Rathbone as much as she obviously did. It was better than her trying to secretly warn her off him.

Mrs Palmer’s ruddy smile returned to her full cheeks. ‘Here’s me gabbing with the day getting away from us both. There’s breakfast waiting for you in the dining room when you’re ready. I’ll send Mary up to help you dress.’

‘I can manage.’

‘I don’t doubt you can, but Mr Rathbone wants her to assist you. If you need anything, you be sure to let me know.’

Mrs Palmer dipped a curtsy then left as quietly as she’d entered, the nearly frayed edge of Laura’s old dress fluttering behind her and almost catching in the closing door. The dress would probably be tossed in the kitchen fire the moment she reached it. Laura was glad to see it go. It was an ugly reminder of how much she and her mother had lost during the past year.

What would the next year bring? She still couldn’t say.

Laura flung back the covers and slipped out of bed, determined not to complain or worry, but to face whatever was coming with optimism. At least her uncle had fallen in debt to a young, handsome moneylender and not to one of the many crooked, gap-toothed men she’d seen haunting the rookery in search of payment. It was the only thing of value he’d ever done for her.

A soft knock at the door was followed by the entrance of a young woman with a snub nose and brown hair peeking out from beneath a white cap. ‘I’m Mary. I’m here to dress you.’

The girl said little as she helped Laura dress, lacing Laura’s worn stays over the crisp white chemise. Holding still so the maid could work gave Laura the chance to take her first real look at the room. It was smaller than Mr Rathbone’s, but well appointed with solid, simple pieces of furniture. She wondered if they’d been made by one of the upholsterers who used to frequent the shop. She studied the faint white line running through the flowing silk of the bed curtains, thinking it a familiar pattern, when the image of another room suddenly came to mind.

She wondered how many more mornings she’d wake up here before she found herself in Mr Rathbone’s bed.

She breathed hard against the tightening stays, fear and anticipation pressing against her chest. She should have asked for the banns instead of insisting on the common licence. She wasn’t ready for such intimacy, not yet, not with everything, especially their future together, so unsure.

Mary tied off the stays then picked up the dress, opening it so Laura could slip inside. She held up her arms and let the blue cotton flow down over her shoulders and body. The soft material made her sigh with delight and eased some of her fears. A man who was so loving and tender with his son wouldn’t be cruel to her.

Mary did up the row of buttons at the back, but the dress was too large in the bust. Even Laura’s well-formed breasts weren’t ample enough to keep the front from billowing and gaping open. While Mary pinned the dress to make it fit better, Laura opened and closed her hand. The shock of Mr Rathbone’s touch had remained with her long after she’d blown out her candle and settled into the clean sheets last night. It wasn’t his hand in hers which had remained with her the longest, but the conflict she’d noticed coursing beneath his calm exterior. More than once he’d begun to withdraw from her before his palm had settled again, surrendering to her hold. It was as if he both wanted and didn’t want to draw close to her. It seemed strange for a man who seemed so determined about everything to be confused about something as simple as touching his intended. Although it wasn’t as simple as she wanted to believe.

At Mary’s urging, Laura seated herself in the chair before the dressing table and let the young maid arrange her hair. She barely noticed the tugging and combing as she remembered Mr Rathbone’s eyes upon hers. There’d been more in the joining of their hands than conveying her desire to wed quickly. There was something she hadn’t allowed herself to consider possible when she’d accepted his proposal yesterday—a deeper concern for her than business.

The faint hint of it made her eager to be done with the dressing table and be in front of him again.

With her hair arranged into a simple jumble of curls at the back of her head, Laura made her way downstairs. She felt guilty leaving Mary behind to see to the room. She’d tried to assist her, perfectly capable of making her own bed, but the maid had insisted it was her duty to straighten it and Laura had reluctantly left her to it.

Laura took in the house as she moved slowly down the hallway. Last night, with the myriad arrangements and settling in, there hadn’t been time to explore. Her first time here, she’d been too occupied trying not to be seen to admire anything more than the direct route from the back door, down the hall, to the stairs.

The upstairs hall was plain, the length of it punctuated by doors to the various bedrooms and landscapes in gilded frames. The staircase at the far end made one turn before opening into the entrance hall below. It wasn’t overly high, but wider than those she’d seen in the few merchants’ houses she’d visited with her father when she was a child. Stone covered the floor, leading to a solid door flanked by two glass windows. Through them she could see people passing by in a steady stream along the pavement lining Bride Lane. Some of them entered the churchyard of St Bride’s across the street, the rest hurried on to nearby Fleet Street.

Making for the dining room at the back of the house, Laura noted the rich panelling lining the downstairs hall seemed less dark and foreboding in the bright morning light, though it still made her a touch uneasy to be striding so boldly through the house. It was nearly incomprehensible to think she would soon be mistress of it.

She passed the study, the masculine mahogany desk, neatly ordered shelves and solid chairs inside indicating this must be where Mr Rathbone managed his affairs. He wasn’t there and she ventured inside. The neatness and fine taste of the appointments matched his attire. Where the back room behind the draper shop had always been cluttered with account books and fabrics, not a speck of dirt or an out-of-place ledger marred the clean lines of this room. Though Laura was by no means slovenly, she wondered how she would be able to keep pace with such a man.

The French doors on the far wall leading to the garden drew her to them. Outside, the sky was clear, with a few wispy clouds floating past the sun. They were only a mile or so from Seven Dials, but it might have been halfway around the world for how different everything appeared here. The air seemed cleaner, the buildings solid stone instead of sagging wood. The whole garden was green, punctuated by the white and red of blooming roses, their brightness a welcome sight after the grime and dirt of Laura’s former lodgings.

The moneylender’s fortune must be larger than she’d thought for him to possess the luxury of such a garden, one surrounded by a tall, fine wall. Just beyond it, through the iron gate, the one she’d crept through the other night, she noticed a horse staring out from the mews.

In the centre of the garden, Jane escorted Laura’s mother around a raised brick bed filled with rosebushes. Excitement lightened each muffled word as Jane pointed out flower after flower, motioning to them with the pride of a silversmith displaying her finest wares.

As they made a turn, her mother caught sight of Laura. She raised a hand in greeting, her simple gesture joined by Jane’s more eager wave. Jane’s enthusiasm eased the stiffness in her posture and made her look more like a young girl rather than a female copy of her brother.

Whatever changes Laura’s mother had wrought in Jane, the young lady’s effect on the older woman was tenfold. Laura’s mother wore a dress of dark-blue muslin. It needed to be altered to fit properly, but the clean lines and fine material lent her a measure of dignity which showed itself in the new straightness in her posture. She didn’t lean as heavily on her walking stick as before and for the first time in over a year, she appeared rested and happy. Whatever Laura’s concerns about herself, they were eased by the smile gracing her mother’s thin face.

Laura’s stomach growled and she left the window and the room to search out the food Mrs Palmer had promised. The dining room sat across the hall from the study, a shining table with ball-and-claw feet dominating the centre. The panelling didn’t extend in here, but gave way to a pale-blue paper on the walls overseen by the portrait of a matronly woman in the dress and cap of a few decades ago.

A footman stood beside a heavy sideboard laden with silver dishes full of eggs, ham and bread. Laura gasped at the plenty of it. During all the weak suppers in Seven Dials, she never thought she’d ever see or enjoy such abundance again.

Taking the plate offered by the footman, she selected a little food from each silver server, then sat down at the table. She savoured every bite, glad to be alone so she could relish the simple food without the humiliation of revealing the depths of her previous deprivation. After using her toast to wipe up the last bits of her second helping, she rose to get another serving when Chesterton, the butler, stepped into the room.

‘Miss Townsend.’ Her name sounded so imperious and important in his deep voice. ‘Mr Rathbone would like you to join him in the sitting room.’

‘Of course.’ Laura slid the plate down on to the buffet, suddenly feeling like a thief for indulging so much. The fork scraped and clanked across the porcelain and she winced, wondering when she’d become such a scared mouse. She straightened the knife and fork on the plate, then stood straight, clasping her hands in a businesslike manner in front of her. ‘Would you please show me the way?’

‘It would be my pleasure.’ He almost smiled and Laura caught something of Mrs Palmer’s tenderness around his eyes. With everyone silently encouraging her rather than sneering, laughing or pitying her behind her back, it made the idea of easing into her new place as their mistress a great deal easier.

As she followed Chesterton out of the dining room and across the hall, she thought it strange to have so many people thinking well of her presence here and her the only one in doubt.

Jane came bounding down the stairs, carrying a book and Laura’s mother’s dark shawl, looking more like a thirteen-year-old than she had last night. Spying Laura, she halted and took the last few stairs with the elegance of a woman far beyond her years. ‘Good morning, Miss Townsend.’

‘Please, call me Laura.’ She smiled warmly, trying to put the girl at ease, disliking such seriousness in one so young.

The stiff set of Jane’s body eased with Laura’s invitation. ‘And you may call me Jane.’

‘I see you and my mother are getting along well.’

‘Very well.’ A proud smile spread over her stern lips, bringing back the youthful light which had illuminated her face as she’d come down the stairs. ‘We are to visit Mrs Fairley together tomorrow. She was too tired to go today, but you mustn’t worry about her. I’ll see she gets enough rest.’

‘Thank you. It means a great deal to me to have someone keeping her company while I’m occupied.’

‘It’s my pleasure. I’m going to read to her now. Where are you going?’

‘The sitting room.’

‘Philip summoned you?’

Laura choked back a laugh. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

The girl moved closer as if she possessed something urgent to impart. ‘Touch his hand again like you did last night. Miss Lavinia does it in The Wanderer and it drives Mr Welton absolutely mad.’

Laura crossed her arms, mimicking the way her mother used to stare at her whenever she’d offered unasked-for advice or stuck her nose in where it was unwanted. ‘Jane, were you spying on us?’

‘No, not at all.’ Jane possessed too much of her brother’s confidence to be cowed by Laura’s stern look. ‘I peeked out my door and saw you. You two looked just how I imagined Viscount Rapine and Miss Anne must look in The Lothario.’

‘You’re reading The Lothario?’ Her brother couldn’t possibly approve of such a choice.

Apparently he didn’t, for Jane clapped her hand over her mouth as if she’d mistakenly revealed a great secret. Her eyes darted to the butler standing a polite distance away, then back to Laura. ‘You won’t tell Philip, will you? If he finds out I’m reading romantic novels, he might end my subscription to the lending library.’

Laura dropped her stern look and all pretence at reprimanding. ‘As long as you reserve your employment of their knowledge to dispensing advice and nothing else, I won’t tell your brother and I won’t object.’

Jane sighed with relief. ‘Good, because Mrs Townsend would be very disappointed. We’re going to start reading Glenarvon this afternoon and I can’t wait.’

‘You and my mother are going to read Glenarvon?’ She never would have been allowed to read such a salacious book. With the exception of the few novels Laura had managed to borrow from friends and sneak into her room, her reading had been comprised of business tracts and the stock pages. While she was grateful for the education, especially now, she wondered when her mother had grown so soft.

‘Yes.’ Jane moved a touch closer, whispering with Laura in collusion. ‘I hear it’s quite scandalous.’

‘I’ve heard so, too.’ Laura dropped her voice, encouraging the youthful confidence between them. It was a treat to see Jane acting more like a young lady than a stiff governess. ‘When you’re done with it, I’d like to read it. I might learn a trick or two.’

Jane gaped at Laura. Then a smile broke the line of her lips and she laughed, a good genuine girlish one which brightened the hall. ‘I shall be happy to pass it on to you. Now, I must return to Mrs Townsend. I’ve kept her waiting long enough and she needs her shawl.’

‘And I must answer your brother’s summons.’

Jane sobered, laying a hand on Laura’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, Philip isn’t as stern as he likes everyone to think.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind.’ And she would, for if his sister believed it, it was most likely true.

With a squeeze of her hand, Jane let go and hurried off down the hall, allowing the door at the back of the house leading to the garden to bang shut behind her.

Laura wished she could follow. After a year of looking after her mother, it felt odd to relinquish her duties to someone else, but at least Jane’s attention meant her mother wasn’t left alone in a strange place while Laura attended to business.

‘Here you are, Miss Townsend.’ Chesterton stopped at the sitting-room door at the front of the house.

Laura gave him a smile of gratitude and stepped inside.

Mr Rathbone stood near the fireplace, reviewing papers. Through the sheer curtains behind him passed the shadows of people moving on the pavement outside. Laura barely noticed them. The only thing she could concentrate on was the soft light coming through the delicate fabric and spreading over Mr Rathbone’s profile. It lightened his dark hair and caressed the strong line of his nose. A fine, camel-coloured jacket draped his shoulders, emphasising the solidness of the long arms arched gracefully in front of him as he reviewed papers. He appeared to her like one of the Greek statues she’d seen in the British Museum. She’d gone there before she’d sold her last decent dress to view the Elgin Marbles and distract herself from her troubles. Like the statues, Mr Rathbone was elegant and refined, yet the memory of his sudden, lethal movements facing her uncle made her shiver. There was an edge of danger beneath his calm facade, one she hoped he reserved only for the worst clients.

‘Good morning, Mr Rathbone.’ She tugged down the overlarge bodice, which kept rising up as she moved deeper into the room. She wished she looked as fine and well put together as him, instead of unkempt and thin in her second-hand clothes. ‘You summoned me?’

He didn’t look up from his papers. ‘My sister’s choice of words, I assume.’

‘She has a very interesting sense of humour.’

‘She’s a hoyden.’ He reached up and removed the dagger mounted on two brass hooks to a wood plaque hanging over the mantel. Behind it lay a small safe set into the wall. ‘However, Jane is smart and minds herself well enough for someone her age. She shouldn’t give you trouble. If she does, speak to me about it at once.’

She wouldn’t speak to him. No, she would handle it in her own way and see to it there was more of the spirited young lady on the stairs and less of the dour miss. ‘Yes, Mr Rathbone.’

Resting the mounted dagger on the floor, he finally met her eyes. ‘Please, call me Philip.’

His gaze was intense, but not stern, inviting her to explore more deeply the slight bond weaving them together like embroidery over fine netting.

‘Yes, of course, Philip.’ The name was as awkward on her tongue as a button held with her teeth while she was sewing. It would take practice getting used to such intimacy with this stranger. Except he wasn’t a stranger, but her husband-to-be.

‘And you may call me Laura.’ She adjusted the dress again, then dropped her hands, determined to face him with dignity. Her attire was only temporary and, with the modiste’s help, she’d soon appear respectable again.

Her confidence wavered. Whatever respectability she regained today, it would be thanks to his coin and effort, not hers. Something in her rankled. She’d struggled so hard to save the business, herself and her mother and in the end she could only do it by falling under this man’s protection. She tried to recall her mother’s encouraging words, or even Mrs Palmer’s simple observation about Philip, but none of them came back to her with enough force to push away the strange regret of not having achieved her own salvation, or the nasty idea she was selling herself.

Philip broke from her gaze to open the safe and slide the papers inside.

‘Are you sure you can trust your sister’s behaviour to a woman who sneaks into men’s houses and threatens them in the night?’ It was a flippant question with an edge of seriousness. He was certainly trusting her now by revealing the safe and the key on the small ring in his pocket which opened it. There was nothing to stop her from stealing the key, emptying the safe and sneaking away with her mother while he slept. She would never do such a deceitful thing, but he couldn’t know this.