Beyond Innocence (2 page)
For her part,
Florence
took careful note of the classical, columned bulk of the
Elgin
marbles.
The cab continued to the
Strand
.
Florence
found the business district crowded and dirty, but strangely exciting nonetheless. Tiny shivers prickled over her scalp as she looked around. Everyone here had an
air of purpose. They seemed not to see
St. Paul
's golden dome, rising behind the sooty haze like a fairy apparition. They were intent on their business, she supposed, and accustomed to the city's marvels. Perhaps someday she would be, too.
At that singular thought, they clopped onto a cobbled side street and stopped before a narrow building with a soot-stained brick face.
"Here you
be
, miss," said the cabbie.
Florence
's heart, which had settled during the ride, resumed its former gallop. She pressed one dampened glove to her stays. This was the moment that would decide her future, the place at which her dreams would be met or dashed. Blowing out a careful breath, she counted a shocking number of coins from her reticule, and helped her supposed mistress to alight.
A small plaque declared the building that of "Mr. Mowbry, Solicitor," so
Florence
squared her shoulders and tugged the bell. The door was opened by a solid-looking man of middle years who stroked his beard and squinted. His brown tweed frock coat hung open around his belly. From the thick gold fob mat gleamed on his matching waistcoat,
Florence
judged he must be Mr. Mowbry.
"Miss Fairleigh?" he said, peering dubiously from one woman to the other.
Florence
flushed, knowing by his expression that they must look quite disreputable.
"I am Miss Fairleigh," she said and offered her hand. The solicitor took it with an air of bemusement. "Please forgive our appearance. We come to you straight from the train. I know such haste is irregular, but we wish to conclude our business quickly."
Her consciousness of the need to obtain a favorable outcome was so great her voice cracked on the final word. At the telltale sound, Mr. Mowbry flashed a kindly smile.
"Of course," he said, ushering her gently before him. "I'm sure I would be pleased to do anything I may for the daughter of my old friend."
Once inside,
Florence
looked about with interest. Mr. Mowbry's office was small but well kept. The paneling shone with a recent polish, the shelves were filled with heavy vellum tomes, and the dark Turkish carpet showed not the slightest sign of wear—all of which boded well for
Florence
's hopes.
The tightness in her shoulders eased as tea was brought and condolences offered. Lizzie being settled
with the charwoman in a little room
off
the hall, and knowing she should delay no longer,
Florence
came to the point of her visit.
"As my father's solicitor," she began, "you know he left me a small independence."
Mr. Mowbry nodded. "Indeed. I have been impressed by the conservative manner in which you have drawn upon it. Many young ladies would not have been so sensible."
"Yes," said
Florence
, and twisted her gloves in her lap. She feared when he heard her plan he would not think her sensible at all. With difficulty, she continued. "I have been careful in the six months since my father's death, but have come to realize the money will not keep me very long. I do not blame my father. He was a genial man and his position as vicar obliged him to entertain. Indeed, not realizing the expense of this little luxury or that, he believed I was able to set something aside from my housekeeping monies.
I allowed him to continue in this belief because he was kind and loving and I did not wish him to worry. But now I have forgone everything I can forgo, except for Lizzie, who I dare not discharge even if I would because she is an orphan like
myself
and I don't know what would become of her!"
"I see," said Mr. Mowbry. The smile that hovered on his lips belied his serious tone. Spreading his arms, he tapped the corners of his desk. "Forgive me for being so bold, Miss Fairleigh, but you are a handsome young woman. Don't you think you might marry before the money runs out?"
"That is my intent," she said, struggling to steady her voice. "Only I should like ... Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I should like to marry decently. There is only one gentleman at home who could be considered
an appropriate suitor, and he wishes me to give Papa's money to a Society and join him on a ministry to
Africa
. I'm sure this is a worthy occupation and if it were any other man I might consider it, but he is—
he is—"
"A sanctimonious prig?" suggested Mr. Mowbry.
"Quite," she agreed, blushing furiously at his frankness but unwilling to contradict him.
"So you have come to
London
where the gentlemen are many and various."
"Yes," she said and leaned earnestly forward in her chair. "I have heard there are ladies here who, for
a fee, will sponsor an unconnected young woman for a Season, who will see she is chaperoned and introduced to respectable men. I would be willing, if you could recommend such an individual, to
venture fully half my inheritance upon the enterprise."
Mr. Mowbry opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time in her adult life,
Florence
cut a gentleman off. This was the crux of the matter and Mr. Mowbry must understand what she wished, before he entered into the scheme. "I
am not aiming high," she assured him. "A younger son will do.
Even a tradesman.
I know I am not particularly accomplished. A little music and a bit of French is all I claim. But
I am, as you say, attractive, and no one has ever complained about my manners. I do not hope for love but only to be treated kindly. Most of all, I wish not to be afraid, to know I shall always have a roof over my head and that it shall be my roof, not that of an indifferent employer or a pitying friend.
"I wish," she concluded, hiding her shaking hands among her skirts, "for a bit of security."
To all this, Mr. Mowbry had listened with an expression of intense concentration. Indeed, it had been
so intense
Florence
had been hard-pressed to hold his gaze.
"Hm," he said now, tapping his lips with folded hands. "I think, Miss Fairleigh, that you underestimate your charms. Of course, your modesty does you credit, as much credit as your looks." Standing, he
began to pace back and forth before the glass-fronted bookcase.
His vigor impressed her, as did his obvious seriousness of thought. He was muttering under his breath, saying things like "yes," and "she'd do," and "most delicate, but if it were brought forward in the proper way..." Watching him,
Florence
knew her father had been right to call him Clever Mr. Mowbry. If any man could launch
Florence
's future, it was this one.
Finally, he stopped in the center of his path and turned to face her.
"I believe I have hit upon a solution." He lifted his hands forestall a question she had not the nerve to pose. "I make no promises, Miss Fairleigh, but if I am able to pull this off—ah, if!—it could make both our fortunes."
"Oh, no, Mr. Mowbry."
Florence
shook her head emphatically. "I've no need of fortunes, only a small—"
"Hush," ordered the solicitor. "If I am correct in my surmise, you shall have precisely what you wish:
an impeccable sponsor, an amiable husband, and the best possible roof above your head. First, however, we must see to your wardrobe. You cannot call upon anyone in that gown."
Though
Florence
had known this would be necessary, she could not
forbear
an inward groan. Ladies' dresses were very dear, and her little account could scarcely bear the drain. But she knew she must be brave. She must risk all in order to gain any. If the worst came to pass and her money was wasted, she would find a new position for Lizzie, and herself become a governess. Other women had done it, women gentler bred than she. Surely some had faced fears as great as hers.
Florence
could do no less. She might be shy but she was not, in the end, a coward.
Thus resolved, her hands were almost steady by the time she accepted a hastily scribbled letter from
Mr. Mowbry. The red wax seal was warm beneath her thumb. These days most people used envelopes, but perhaps the old gentlemanly habit was one that appealed to a lawyer. Like vicars' daughters, most were neither here nor there in the eyes of society.
"This is an introduction to a friend of mine," he said. "A talented
dressmaker,
newly arrived from Paris, who is building her clientele. I have instructed her to put what you need on my account. No." He pressed a quieting finger to his lips. "Do not protest. Your father was good to me at
Oxford
and stood me many dinners when I had not two shillings to rub together. You must consider this repayment of the debt."
"With interest,"
Florence
said, tears springing to her eyes at his kindness.
"With interest," Mr. Mowbry agreed, and called his clerk to hail a cab.
* * *
Mr. Mowbry's friend,
Madame Victoire, worked out of a pretty little house near the fancy shops of
one of which revealed the slumbering form of an orange cat.
Florence
, who had been known to have difficulties with cats, hoped its nap would be a long one.
A parlormaid in black dress and white apron ushered them into the parlor. Though small, the room was lofty, its ceilings molded in the graceful Georgian style. Such light as there was poured through the casement windows. The furniture was old-fashioned and delicate, a medley of gold and cream—a more pleasant room by far than any
Florence
had lived in, despite her father's love of comfort. The only sign that the parlor figured in its owner's business was the bare dressmaker's form that stood in a pool of
pallid sun, and the ell of purple velvet that lay folded in a chair.
On joining them, Madame Victoire bubbled with excitement. Like many of her countrywomen, she was slender and dark, with twinkling gestures and a wide red mouth.
"Oh, la la," she exclaimed, taking
Florence
's hands to pull her into the silvery light. "Who have we here come to visit my humble shop?"
Florence
had no chance to reply for Madame Victoire immediately turned her around and began clucking over her dress.
"Quelle horreur,"
she said, touching the lumpish bustle.
"And black!
Mademoiselle, you must never wear black. She is not for you, this color."
"B-but I'm in mourning,"
Florence
stammered. "I take you out of it," Madame Victoire pronounced.
"Immediatement.
It is a crime to put such a beautiful woman in such an ugly dress." She gestured to
the watching parlormaid.
"Regardez
her bosoms, Marie.
Look at her glowing cheeks!" With a gasp of excitement, she removed
Florence
's worn kid gloves. "Her hands are as small as a child's. They are
white and—"
Abruptly, Madame Victoire fixed
Florence
with a deadly glare. Her fingertips had found the calluses
on her palms.
