The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (6 page)

“Madam?” He raised his hat politely.

“Don’t you ‘madam’ me, you randy rake!” snapped the barrel.

Freddy blinked.

“And don’t you come sniffin’ around Damaris no more, if you know what’s good for you.”

“I am not sniffing—” he began indignantly, but the woman stormed on.

“She’s a respectable girl, is Damaris—a good girl, and she don’t want nuffin’ to do wiv fancy gents who ain’t got a moral to their name!”

“My good woman—” Freddy began.

“And I ain’t your good woman, neither!” she retorted, planting her hands on her considerable hips in a belligerent stance that made Freddy quite glad the gates between them were firmly shut. He didn’t mind brawling with men, but women were another matter altogether. And this one barely reached his waist.

“I assure you, mad—er, missus—that—”

She swept on. “I dunno what the world’s coming to, rakes an’ reprobates sniffin’ around the skirts of hardworkin’ respectable girls in broad daylight!—oh, yes, you can poker up all you like and look down your nose at me like I’m dirt under your boots, but I know all about rakes and what you do to innocent girls!—and our Damaris is not for the likes of you—understand?”

“I am standing in place of her guardian,” Freddy said coldly. He’d never corrupted an innocent girl in his life! “And I did
not
look at you as if you were dir—”

The woman made a rude noise. “
Guardian? Pfft!
Is that what they’re callin’ it these days?” She snorted. “I saw the way you looked at her. I know a lust-sodden lecher when I see one! Now go on, get out o’ here, and if I see you hanging around her again, my lads’ll give you the thrashing you deserve, gentleman or not!”

There was clearly no reasoning with the woman. Freddy shrugged. “You are mistaken as to my motives, but clearly you have no interest in the truth, so I will bid good day to you, madam.” He turned to leave the scene with dignity, ignoring the extremely vulgar noise the woman made to his back.

Then a thought occurred to him. Damaris should not be walking these streets unescorted at any time of the day. He turned back. “What time does Damaris finish work?”

The woman swelled with visible indignation. “The cheek of you! I just told you to stay away from her. Asking for a beating, you are.”

“No,” Freddy said coolly. “Simply asking what time she finishes work. I shall escort her home.”

“Down the Road to Roon is the only place you’d likely escort her,” the woman declared. “My lads will walk Damaris home, right to ’er very door. So how d’you like that, Sir Rake?” she said with an air of triumph.

“Damn. That’s foiled me,” Freddy said with what he hoped was a convincingly frustrated air. Having satisfactorily arranged the matter of Miss Damaris’s safe escort home, he took himself off to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

No trouble?
Max had a great deal to answer for.

 • • • 

I
nside the pottery, Damaris hung up her cloak—Abby’s old cloak, really—on the nail on the back of the door, collected her brushes and sat down at her usual bench. On a stand to the left of her, Mrs. Jenkins had laid out all the pieces to be painted. They’d already been fired with a white overglaze. Each piece would be perfect; anything with even the slightest imperfection would be put aside and painted by one of the other girls. Damaris’s work fetched the best prices.

The stand on her right would hold the finished pieces, left to dry, then be taken for a final firing. She picked up a brush and frowned. Her hands were shaking. Why? Surely not from that mild little exchange with Mr. Monkton-Coombes.

She’d managed to appear calm and undisturbed while talking to him—she was used to keeping calm when men raged, and Mr. Monkton-Coombes could hardly be said to have raged. Papa in a rage had been far more frightening. She hadn’t been at all fearful of Mr. Monkton-Coombes. More . . . annoyed.

So why this reaction? It was almost as though she could still feel his leather-gloved fingers holding her wrist. But he hadn’t hurt, or even threatened to hurt, her. He hadn’t shouted or menaced her in any way. He just wanted to know what she was doing. Because Max had made him responsible.

It was inconvenient, but not outrageous. And he’d been perfectly gentlemanly about it. So why, now she was inside, had her hands started trembling?

Cold, perhaps? Whatever the reason, she couldn’t paint with shaking hands. She rose and went to stand beside the small iron stove—the pottery works were always warm from the kiln, but even so, a fire was always kept going in the workroom stove, for mixing glazes, for making tea and, on mornings like this, to thaw out the cold hands of the girls who painted the china. It had been an exceptionally cold summer, and the winter was expected to be even worse.

She was holding out her hands, rubbing them next to the stove, when Mrs. Jenkins bustled in from outside.

“I sent ’im off with a flea in his ear,” she said, dusting down her skirt with a satisfied air. She snorted. “Tomcat in gen’leman’s clothing, that’s what ’e is—a rake through and through.”

“Rake? You thought—”

Mrs. Jenkins snorted. “I knew what he was the instant I clapped eyes on him! Dressed like that in his fancy duds at this hour of the mornin’. The cheek of ’im, thinking he could seduce away one o’ my girls in broad daylight.”

“But he wasn’t—”

“Bless you, my dove, you’re too young to recognize a Wicked Seducer when you see one, and I grant you that one is an ’andsome devil, and charmin’ as an oiled snake, I have no doubt!” She fixed Damaris with a gimlet eye. “But it don’t do for a girl like you to catch the eye of a gentleman, take it from me. He’ll soften you up with sweet words and little gifts and . . . and
poetry
, and you’ll think ’e’s
ever
such a nice fellow, then in the twinklin’ of an eye, he’ll ’ave your skirts over your ’ead, and there you’ll be, rooned forever!”

“But Mrs. Jenkins—”

“Rooned forever!” Mrs. Jenkins repeated firmly. “And we don’t want that, do we? Now, I’ve given him a piece of me mind—blistered ’is ear’oles good and proper, I did—and if ’e knows what’s good for ’im, he won’t be back to bother you again, so let’s get to work.”

Damaris nodded and resumed her seat at the bench. Her hands had stopped shaking but she had to press her lips together to hide the smile that kept threatening to break out. She could just imagine Mr. Monkton-Coombes’s face when he was confronted with Mrs. Jenkins, four foot eight of Righteous Indignation. “Are there any special requests?”

“No, we’ll keep going with the blue and white designs—they’re flyin’ off the shelves, can’t make ’em fast enough, so off you go, me dear, as many as you can. Leaving at two again, are you?”

Damaris nodded. If she left at two, she’d just be able to make it home in time to change and be ready for Lady Beatrice’s literary society. She picked up the brush. She was lucky to be able to set her own hours. The other girls who worked here had no such option. Damaris’s unique skills gave her choices they did not have.

Once again she thanked God for giving Papa the impulse to send her to Master Cheng for lessons. And for Master Cheng, the gentle, elderly scholar and artist who’d treated a mere girl-child—a foreign girl-child at that—with a generosity of spirit that still humbled her.

It had been forbidden for Chinese to teach foreigners their language, on pain of death, but as a child, Damaris had picked up the spoken language quickly. Papa’s great dream was to translate the Bible into Chinese, but he had no ear for the language and struggled to be understood in even the most simple transactions. Almost from the start, he’d relied on her to interpret for him. And after her mother died, he sent Damaris to Master Cheng to learn to write the language she spoke so well.

It was risky for Master Cheng too, but the old man had told her knowledge was a gift to be shared, and that he was too old to worry about being beheaded, that such a death would be clean and quick. Still, it was wise to be careful, so painting became the ostensible reason for her lessons, and because he was a man of his word, he incorporated painting with reading and writing lessons; calligraphy was an art, as well as a discipline, he said.

Had it not been for Master Cheng, Damaris would never have discovered she had a gift for painting.

She lined up a dozen bowls in front of her, then closed her eyes for a moment, visualizing exactly what she would paint. A bamboo theme today, she thought; her bamboo designs were always popular.

In her mind’s eye she pictured the bamboo grove that Master Cheng cultivated in his small enclosed garden, the long graceful canes of black-stemmed bamboo, the precise angle of the elegant green leaves. She sat quietly, breathing deeply, until she could almost smell the garden. How many times had he made her paint that bamboo, over and over in black ink, until in just a few strokes she could make it come alive.

With a deep breath, she opened her eyes, dipped her brush in the mix that would become a brilliant blue after firing, and started to paint in sure, confident strokes. A slender stem of bamboo sprang to life on the pristine white glaze, the leaves almost quivering from a sudden summer shower.

Damaris smiled. It would be a good day’s painting, she could feel it. She loved this work, really loved it. Even if she didn’t need the money so desperately, she would still want to paint. This way she could do both.

After half a dozen bowls, with her rhythm established and her brush moving as if of its own accord, her thoughts returned to the confrontation with Mr. Monkton-Coombes.

He was bound to tell Lady Bea. Damaris had always known her secret would come out eventually, but this was too soon; she didn’t have nearly enough money yet.

Lady Bea wouldn’t be at all happy about her having a job. Perhaps she could talk to Mr. Monkton-Coombes at this afternoon’s literary society meeting, convince him to keep quiet. What she was doing was harmless, surely.

Damaris painted on, her mind a whirl of possibilities, her brushstrokes sure and swift.

“Books—Oh! no.—I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings.”

“I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions.”

—
JANE AUSTEN,
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE

L
ady Beatrice’s literary society met three times a week in the afternoon. At this time of year, with the majority of the
ton
in the country, sophisticated London entertainments were few and far between, so those members of the
ton
who remained in town during the hunting season were delighted to be offered something a little different from the general round of morning calls.

Lady Beatrice’s was not the usual kind of literary society; it was, as Lady Beatrice herself informed any new members, just for fun, and not for dreary intellectual posing and prosing on about—there were plenty of other literary groups for that kind of thing. Lady Beatrice simply offered a good story, read aloud by her nieces, and accompanied by tea and cakes. The tea served was often sherry or wine.

It was particularly popular with older people whose eyesight was fading and who found the small print in a book difficult to read. And anyone who so much as mentioned alliteration, allegories or anything else Lady Beatrice called “clever-clogs show-offery” wasn’t invited back.

Damaris returned from the pottery with barely fifteen minutes to spare. On their mother’s instructions Amos and Henry had insisted on escorting her almost all the way. Damaris had convinced them to leave her a short distance from Mayfair by telling them she’d be in trouble if she was seen with them, that her home was just a step away and she’d be perfectly safe now, thank you.

Ridiculous that they were protecting her from the wiles of Freddy Monkton-Coombes. Almost as ridiculous as imagining Mr. Monkton-Coombes was interested in seducing her.

A line of carriages had formed at the front of the house already. She entered through the kitchen door and hurried up the servants’ stairway.

She slipped into her bedchamber. Daisy was there to meet her. “Gawd, I thought you weren’t never goin’ to get here,” she said. “Quick now, let’s get you presentable.” She helped Damaris out of her outer clothes then handed her a washcloth. “No time for a proper wash today, just a lick and a promise.”

“Daisy, you’re a saint. Thank you.” Damaris dipped the washcloth into the waiting warm water and washed herself quickly.

“Jane’s already in there. She’ll start. Right, let’s get this gown on you.”

“Has Lady Beatrice said anything?”

Daisy shook her head. “Nah, but you’re gonna have to tell ’er soon. Turn ’round and I’ll do you up.”

“I know.” Damaris glanced at Daisy over her shoulder. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes knows.”

“He what? How come? You didn’t tell ’im, did you?”

“Of course not. It was just by chance—he saw me going to work and followed me. He even talked to Mrs. Jenkins, the owner.”

“Bloody ’ell,” Daisy muttered. She tugged the dress to straighten it. “Right, that’s done. Now we’ll just tidy your hair.” She undid the simple knot Damaris always wore for work, brushed her hair out, then twisted it into an elegant plaited coil high on her head. “No time for anything fancy today. So, you reckon Mr. Monkton-Coombes will tell on you to Lady Bea?”

“I don’t know. I hope not.” Damaris glanced at herself in the looking glass. “Daisy, you’re a wonder and a marvel. If you ever decided not to be a mantua maker, you could always find work as a lady’s maid.”

Daisy snorted. “Nah, I been at other women’s beck and call all me life—now I want to do something for meself.”

Damaris glanced at her, a little dismayed. “I hope you don’t think I was treating you like a maid just now, Daisy.”

“Nah, ’course not. This”—she waved her hand at Damaris’s hair and gown—“this is what sisters do for each other. Now, get movin’, or we’ll be late. I don’t want to miss nothing of this story.”

Damaris gave her a swift hug, then the two girls hurried downstairs to the large drawing room. A babble of conversation wafted down the hall toward them. William, the footman, was bringing in some extra chairs; the society was proving more popular each week.

As they entered the room, Lady Beatrice caught their eye and smiled. The room was crowded—there were forty people at least. The old lady gave a signal and Featherby, the butler, rang a little bell. The din started to fade as people ended their conversations and found their seats.

As one by one the audience members were seated, only one man remained standing, a tall, elegant gentleman dressed in a dozen shades of gray: the Honorable Frederick Monkton-Coombes. He stood at the rear of the room, leaning against the mantelpiece, his arms folded, watching her. He made no move to find a chair.

Damaris pretended not to notice him. Threading her way through the crowd, she joined Jane at the front of the room. Now that Abby was on her honeymoon, the reading was left to Jane and Damaris; Daisy had learned to read in the last few months, but she wasn’t up to performing in front of strangers.

Jane smiled as Damaris slipped into the waiting seat. “Just in time,” she murmured. “I’ll go first, shall I? Give you time to gather your thoughts.” She lifted the current book they were reading and a hush fell.

Jane began,
“Though now the middle of December, there had yet been no weather to prevent the young ladies from tolerably regular exercise; and on the morrow, Emma had a charitable visit to pay to a poor sick family, who lived a little way out of Highbury. . . .”

Damaris let the words wash over her, unhearing. Had Mr. Monkton-Coombes told Lady Beatrice about their encounter in the street? What would the old lady say about Damaris working in a menial position? Would she be upset? She glanced at Lady Beatrice, who was listening to the story with her eyes closed. Of course she’d be upset—in Lady Bea’s world ladies simply didn’t work. The menial nature of the job would appall her, and besides, she wanted Damaris to have a life of carefree fun.

Once she learned, she’d probably forbid Damaris to return to the pottery. She’d probably want to buy Damaris a cottage, but Damaris couldn’t accept that, not on top of all Lady Beatrice had already done for her, and was planning to do. A London season just for fun.

As the daughter of a missionary, Damaris knew only too well that while charity was a blessing, it could also be a burden. It always came with some kind of obligation, explicit or implicit. She’d spent her whole life either giving or receiving charity, mostly at the same time; living on other people’s charity so that she and her father could help the children at the mission. Her mother’s money had run out by the time Damaris turned fifteen.

For once in her life she wanted to be free to make her own choices. To be answerable to no one.

She had to stop Mr. Monkton-Coombes from telling Lady Bea.

Damaris glanced across the room to where he still lounged against the wall, the only person in the room still standing. She had a clear view of him. And he of her. He was frowning, but he wasn’t looking at her. She followed his gaze but couldn’t work out who or what had disturbed him. Everyone in the audience seemed to be listening attentively to Jane.

Perhaps he was just staring blankly; people often did that when they were listening to a story, lost in the world of the book. Or lost in thought. She hoped he wasn’t thinking about whether to tell Lady Beatrice about her.

“‘. . . she could not but flatter herself that it had been the occasion of much present enjoyment to both, and must be leading them forward to the great event.’”
A short silence fell. Jane, having finished the chapter, passed the book to Damaris, and a buzz of conversation rose.

Damaris hesitated. Should she approach Mr. Monkton-Coombes now and speak to him? There would be a short break now for everyone’s refreshments to be replenished—people liked to listen while they sipped tea or sherry or nibbled pensively on a cake or an almond wafer—and then it would be Damaris’s turn to read.

But what if he argued? It would only draw attention to them, and she didn’t wish that. London society was hungry for gossip of even the mildest sort.

He straightened and stepped away from the wall he’d been lounging against. Damaris rose from her seat, clutching the book to her chest. If he tried to approach Lady Beatrice, she would intercept him, distract him somehow. She had no choice.

 • • • 

F
reddy was intrigued. Damaris had kept glancing at him on and off throughout the reading session. Clearly she wanted to talk to him. He headed toward her, but he’d taken a mere half dozen steps when—“Mr. Monkton-Coombes, the very man I wanted to talk to.” An elderly female claw hooked him from the crowd. “You know my great-niece Hermione, don’t you? Hermione Fullerton-Smith?”

Freddy did, much to his regret. One of the Lincolnshire Fullerton-Smiths and a muffin of the highest order. “How d’ye do, Miss Fullerton-Smith?” he muttered, casting a frustrated glance across the room to where Blenkinsop, a fellow he’d been to school with, was oozing flowery compliments over Damaris.

Dammit, Blenkinsop was exactly the sort of fellow Max would expect Freddy to protect the girls from.

She turned her head, caught his eye and gave him an unreadable look.

At his elbow, the dowager tightened her grip.

“What a lovely surprise,” Miss Fullerton-Smith murmured with a coy smile. “I didn’t expect to see you until the house party. I’m so looking forward to it. And”—she walked her fingers playfully up his arm—“to getting better acquainted with you.” It left him cold. Colder than cold.

He stepped back, ostensibly to let a footman bearing a tray through. “I’m afraid I don’t know which house party you mean. And I doubt very much if I’ll be there.”

She gave a tinkling laugh. “Well, of course you do, and you’re being very naughty. Mama and I have been assured by your dear mama you’ll be there.”

Freddy almost snorted. His mother knew nothing of his social engagements. And wherever this house party was, if the Armthwaite muffins, Miss Blee and now the Fullerton-Smiths were attending, he planned to be as far away from it as possible. Somewhere like France. Or Russia.

A silvery bell rang out. Immediately people began to resume their seats. Freddy took his leave of Miss Fullerton-Smith and her great-aunt and retreated to the opposite side of the room.

Damaris raised her book, preparing to read. The room fell silent. Freddy found another wall to lean against and retired to glower at Blenkinsop and listen to Damaris’s beautiful voice reading.

The wretched story continued. These girls seemed to have an endless supply of stories about women whose sole aim in life was to find rich husbands. Ghastly stuff. Who’d write a book about muffins?

 • • • 

“A
nother chilly morning, Miss Chance.”

Damaris, who’d just let herself out of the back gate, jumped as the deep voice came out of the swirling fog. “Mr. Monkton-Coombes?” She didn’t even try to hide her surprise. It wasn’t quite dawn. He was clearly waiting for her. “What on earth are you doing here?” Again.

“Escorting you to work.”

“I don’t need an escort, thank you. I’m perfectly all right by myself.”

“I’m not going to argue. I made a promise to Max I’d look after you girls and I mean to keep it. It’s to stop Abby worrying,” he added, hoping it would mollify her. He presented his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it.

“You don’t need to worry,” she said as they turned a corner. “I know this area. I used to work at the pottery before . . . before we came to live with Lady Beatrice.”

“You worked here before?” It was the first he’d heard of anything she’d done before she came to live with Lady Beatrice. Her background—all the girls’ backgrounds—was shrouded in mystery. He knew there was something shady about them, that they weren’t really Lady Beatrice’s nieces, but Max had been pretty closemouthed about it all, and as far as most people knew they were the offspring of a Venetian marchese called Chancealotto. Who had been made up by Lady Beatrice.

“Yes, and I’m working here again.”

He wondered what had made a gently raised girl seek work in a pottery in the first place but he could see from the set of her chin that she wasn’t going to explain.

“You’re sure you’re not in trouble from gambling or some such thing?”

“No. I told you before, I don’t gamble.”

“But there must be some urgency,” he persisted. “After all, in a few months you’ll be having your season and next thing you know, you’ll be married and your future will be secure.”

He felt her shiver. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

He glanced at her gray cloak. It was thin and rather threadbare. “You shivered.”

“I’m not cold.”

She didn’t look cold. Her cheeks were quite rosy.

“And I won’t be getting married.”

“Nonsense, of course—”

“I should have said, I don’t
want
to get married.”

“You don’t want to get married?” He swung around to stare at her, then shook his head. “Nonsense. All girls want to get married.”

“Not all girls.” They moved on.

“Every girl I ever met did. And does.”

“Some girls marry because they want to, because they’ve found the man they want to go through life with, but most marry because they have no other choice. A single woman has very few options in this world, so for many women it’s a compromise. They marry for security, for wealth or position, and the chance of children—the man is almost immaterial.”

Freddy’s mouth tightened. Didn’t he know it? The muffins his mother kept hurling at him wanted him for exactly those reasons—and the fortune, lands and title that would come to him after his father’s death. Freddy himself was immaterial; a means to an end.

She continued, “A few girls are lucky enough to be given the choice, to marry if they want or to remain single: They’re the women with money of their own.”

They walked on a few blocks in silence. A small boy swept some horse dung out of their way as they crossed the street. Damaris nodded at the child and gave Freddy an expectant look. He fished for a coin and flicked threepence to the urchin, who caught it in a grubby fist, saying, “Fanks, pretty lady,” with a gap-toothed grin. She gave him a warm smile.