Alex's Angel (28 page)

No sooner had Dr Howe gone to visit Alex in his study than John had arrived, scowling and voicing his reluctance to be employed by a New England Federalist.

“Oh, please, John, don’t lose this chance,” she urged him.

He eyed her suspiciously. “And just what chances have you taken him up on?”

“It’s not like that.”

Well, not entirely. She drew her spine straight with a false dignity that almost hurt.

“He intends to help me publish my book.”

“Men like him don’t do favours for free—you watch yourself,” John said, and he left soon after that.

It unnerved her that he had seen to the heart of the matter so quickly. It made her agitated and she longed to stretch her legs. But now, dressed in her cloak, she lingered in the entryway, unable to resist listening to the angry voices echoing from the parlour.

“But what will I tell people?” Rachel sounded aghast.

“That I am her benefactor and I want to see her properly clothed.” Alex’s voice sounded terse, the words bitten off.

“I am just grateful that your dear mother isn’t here to see this day. Imagine forcing your own aunt to preside over a table full of guests with your doxy. I was terrified someone would recognise her as the girl from that tavern—your scrape with Richard.”

A pause.

“Just take her out and make her fashionable for me.” Alex’s voice was terser than ever.

“Just how fashionable?” Rachel asked in frosty tones.

“Purchase everything a young woman her age needs, as if she were Nancy. Don’t stint.”

A longer pause. “Unthinkable! I won’t be party to this indecency.”

“You had no problem outfitting her for the dinner party.”

Silence.

“What’s so different about this?” Alex asked.

“It is as if you are giving her a
carte blanche
. Are you?” Rachel’s voice was accusing.

Another long pause, then Alex spoke again. “As her benefactor, I am responsible for her. No one is going to see it as anything more scandalous than that, unless you—by your attitude—give them the idea they should.”

“Alex, be reasonable.” James’ voice. “You know nothing about her. She could be a Jacobin spy, someone working for one of those dreadful Republican newspapers—”

“Oh, for God’s sake, James—sometimes you’re positively womanish in your hysteria,” Alex snapped. “Very well, Aunt Rachel. If you won’t do this one, small thing for me, then I will have to take her around to the dressmaker’s—”

“Have mercy! How tongues would flap.” Rachel gave a loud, dramatic sigh. “You’ve neatly trapped me, my boy. I’ll do it, but not happily.” Her voice came closer until she appeared in the doorway. As her blue eyes met Emily’s, they went wide.

“Oh, good afternoon, Miss Eliot.” Then she smiled politely, as if there were any way Emily could have failed to hear the whole exchange. “I shall have Sally find you a wrap and we’ll go do a little clothes shopping.”

Emily shook her head. “I don’t need any clothes.”

“But my dear, if you’re going to be living here, you shall need decent clothes.” She frowned and her eyes moved over Emily’s faded muslin morning gown. “Really, you must let us clothe you.”

Alex appeared in the doorway.

“Alex, please. I don’t need any more new clothes.”

His boots echoed on the marble floor as he approached her. When he stopped in front of her, she dropped her voice. “Your aunt is correct—it would cause too much talk.”

He took her arm and led her away from the others, closer to the door, then spoke to her in low tones. “I offered your young man the job. He says he must think about it.”

“He’s not
my
young man.”

His expression grew thoughtful and he studied her for a moment.

“I really don’t need any new clothes, Alex.”

He frowned. ”This is part of our agreement—to do what is needed to play your role promoting this book. If you don’t go with my aunt, I shall have to take time out of my day and cart you around to the dressmaker and the milliner and all of that.”

“Goodness… You couldn’t—you wouldn’t, surely… I would die of shame.”

“Well, I certainly would rather not. I would rather spend my time today arranging for the woodcuts for your book.”

Pleased surprise jolted every other thought from her mind. “The woodcuts,” she repeated, mindless with joy.

“Yes.” He tightened his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards the door while giving her a little push. “So, on you go.”

“But I wanted to be there when you select the craftsmen.”

“It would be better if you were not.”

That took her aback. “Why, because I am a woman?”

“No, because you are young, inexperienced. You will be swayed by their stories, your sympathy will be moved and you will pay no attention to their skills. Let me choose these men. I have had my maps printed and I understand what is needed for a quality result. Go on with my aunt and let her equip you with a decent wardrobe.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “You are saying I will make a distraction? I won’t. I’ll be quiet.”

He grinned down at her. “I am saying you’ll be too much of a distraction to me.”

Flattery. He was attempting to charm her into obeying. Coldness settled upon her like a blanket of snow. She squared her shoulders and schooled her voice to be firm. “It’s my art, not yours. I want to be there.”

His grin faded and his expression hardened. “It’s my decision to make. I know more about etching and woodcuts than you do. I say your time this afternoon will be better spent acquiring a decent wardrobe.”

“And if I absolutely refuse?”

“Then I’d consider it a breach of our contract.”

Hurt swelled in her chest and she had to blink hard against the sting in her eyes. He would really use that contract to bully her to his will like this? Their lovemaking had not been the deep experience of sharing it had seemed. It couldn’t have been. Or else he couldn’t have treated her like this now. It had been a product of too much wine and her deep sympathy for his pain. She should never have given herself.

She was a girlish fool.

She turned away from him and walked over to where Rachel waited.

* * * *

Emily spent the entire carriage ride fighting angry tears. Somehow she had lost all say over her art, over her actions. All in the name of getting her book printed, yes, but it was hard to accept gracefully. Would it even remain her message, once it was printed and given into the hands of men who wanted to use it to further their own cause? She had to maintain her faith that her stamp upon the work was so strong and heartfelt that it would shine through. Because she couldn’t wait any longer. Too much time had passed already. The nation needed to see her work. She had to take this opportunity to get her book printed and presented to the people.

When the carriage stopped, she numbly followed Rachel into the mantua maker’s.

Once in the shop, Rachel warmed, throwing herself into the role of benefactress and spending Alex’s money with an abandon that only increased the young woman’s nervousness. Emily counted orders for at least a fortnight’s worth of garments in brilliant jewel tones of wool, silk and India muslin.

“But I’ll only need one or two frocks,” Emily protested. “And I can sleep in my shift.”

Frowning, Rachel waved her off and continued to order garments.

Looking at all the patterns, at the beautiful fabrics that would be transformed into real items just like the pictures, Emily realised that the dressmaker was an artist, just like herself. Why, beautiful gowns were works of art. How lucky the woman was to be able to get paid so well for her craft and to live so independently.

But Emily didn’t dwell on that aspect. Instead, she began to look forward to seeing the wardrobe completed, to wearing the gowns. To feeling those sensual fabrics against her skin.

Temptation held so many different faces. This was all just a distraction, threatening to pull Emily off her mission. But she couldn’t resist the pleasure of anticipation.

After they’d left the dressmaker’s, Rachel pulled Emily along to the cobbler’s and the milliner’s. Emily’s head span—she was losing track of all that Rachel had ordered for her.

“Gillyflower! Do you have it?” Rachel demanded at their last stop, a perfumery.

“Of course, madam,” the man replied with a pleasant smile. “What products?”

“Everything! We’ll need shampoo, soaps, talcum powder, French facial cream, bath oils, sachets—all scented with gillyflowers.” Rachel picked up a white ceramic jar, opening it and holding it to Emily’s face. “And the barest shade of rouge. But this is too bright.” She replaced the jar.

“I have this, fresh from London. ‘Spring Primrose’. Very demure.” The shopkeeper brought forth another ceramic jar.

Rachel opened it and nodded her approval, then made to apply some to Emily’s cheek.

Emily backed away quickly. “Rogue!” she gasped, aghast to think of suffocating her skin with cosmetics.

“Yes, of course. Just a touch, but you must be fashionable. Alex has demanded it.” Rachel waved her hand. “Here, child, be still, sit here in this chair.”

Emily found herself propelled towards a wingchair and into a seated position. Rachel took a brush to Emily’s face, applying a coat of cosmetics from several jars.

Eventually the shopkeeper procured a mirror and held it up to her.

She expected to see her face caked and gaudy. But she couldn’t tell they had applied anything false. What she saw was a version of herself with smooth, velvet, flawless skin and radiantly glowing. Just like the other ladies she’d seen walking about Philadelphia.

She reached her fingertips to her cheek, holding her breath, barely daring to touch.

She’d thought those ladies’ special glow had come from breeding and was something she could never attain.

Suddenly, against all her own reasoning, she wished, quite desperately, that Alex might see her like this. That he might think she was fashionable. Beautiful.

She wanted to be a part of his world. A part of his life. She wanted it so desperately, her hands began to shake and her mouth went dry. She was losing herself, covering herself in fashionable clothes and cosmetics. Losing herself in sensual pleasures and idleness. Letting Alex mould her into something she never wanted to be. Just as he wanted to use her art for something it was never intended for.

She started and turned back to Rachel.

“Child, whatever is wrong?”

“Can we get something to drink, some claret perhaps?”

* * * *

A few nights later, in his study, Alex watched Emily yawn with a slight twinge of guilt. He should not keep her up, but he needed to speak with her and for days his afternoon and evening hours had been taken up with meetings and important dinner parties. Every day for the foreseeable future promised the same. He tossed a pile of linen strips onto her lap and held out his hand. “Wrap my hand for me—no one else does as good a job.”

She took his hand and examined it, tracing a fingertip over the healing cuts there. There was an impersonal, practical manner to her ministrations that unsettled him. Left him feeling cold inside.

“Darling?”

“Huh?” she asked, now deeply engrossed in wrapping his hand.

“Did you get my gift?”

He had arranged for a box of dried apricots to be sent on her dinner tray.

“Yes, thank you.” Her expression remained neutral, telling him nothing of her mood or disposition towards him.

“How did you and your grandmother come to be living in a boarding house in such desperate straits?”

She glanced up. “So now we’re sharing the secrets of our pasts?”

“You’re going to tell me everything and you’re going to tell me truthfully.”

“And if I don’t?”

He sighed. “I have already sent a man around to ask questions. I know a lot about your background. I wish to hear—”

Her gaze sparked. She stopped wrapping his hand and let it drop to her lap. “You did what? You had a man go around poking into my past? What right did you have to do that?”

“I had every right. I am responsible for you. And I found out that your father has a cousin here in the city. Now you tell me why you cannot go and live with this relation, or I shall take you there today.”

Watching her bite her full lower lip, he didn’t think she would answer. Then she began, her voice soft. “Grandmother had a hard time adjusting to our change in circumstances when Grandfather died. Two years ago, the creditors took our house in Easton and most of the furnishings. All of my grandfather’s books.”

Her tone made the loss of books sound like the worst of the tragedy.

“What did your grandfather do for a living?”

“He taught Latin.” Her face softened as she said this, her eyes shining with unmistakable affection.

“But didn’t you have any relatives who could help you?”

“Grandmother came from Virginia. Her father was a planter but she had been estranged from her family for years—I don’t know the details. And Grandfather’s people live in Boston. I never knew them. My father had a sister here in Philadelphia. And though Grandmother was my mother’s mother, we came here to stay with her. However, she and Grandmother did not get on well.”