Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) (34 page)

“Look, you can see the smoke.” Frederick fidgeted next to his uncle and pointed out the coach window. “It stinks, but you get used to it.”

“It is smoky.” Bettina stared out the now filthy window at the chimney pots that spewed forth clouds of dense black smoke, adding to a haze that floated over the rooftops.

“Unfortunately, it’s from the sea-coal burning, the lime kilns and brickworks,” Everett said. “London is a grossly overpopulated city. The buildings are crowded and the haphazard construction never ends.”

“It certainly does not look like Paris.” To Bettina, it looked squalid, with piles of refuse littering the shoulders of the road leading in. The scarred buildings soon pressed around them, a maze of streets and dark alleys snaking off. Dirty children played in the rubbish. A few ran after the coach, shouting and throwing rocks. If such squalor existed in Paris, she’d been oblivious to it. Her parents must have shielded her from this ugly aspect of life.

Coaches, carriages and horses jammed the streets—clattering wheels, clopping hooves and voices raised—in a tumult of activity. Smelling the smoke, Bettina’s nose tickled and her eyes smarted. She began to miss the fresh sea air of Sidwell.

The village girl gawped out as well, quivering like a frightened sparrow.

Farther into the city, the scenery transformed into pretty parks, squares with stately homes, and Palladian stone mansions. The huge dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral dominated the skyline.

“London surpasses Paris here, with these wide streets.” Bettina absorbed the sights, London’s frenetic energy, and her excitement grew.

The coach rumbled down stone-paved roads. Bettina held onto her hat as they lurched over raised foot crossings. Gigs, curricles and landaus crowded the area. Their coach slowed as the driver tried to squeeze it through swarms of pedestrians.

When they dropped the girl off at her new place of employment, Bettina pressed some coins into her hand. “This house looks decent. Good luck to you.”

Rambling east over the Strand to Fleet Street, they turned south toward the river Thames where Everett said the shipping company was located. The coach passed through streets that narrowed again, ill paved and dark, flanked by deteriorating buildings.

“My offices are adjacent to the Custom House and the Billingsgate Fish Market,” Everett said as they bumped over rutted roads to Lower Thames Street. He pointed to a bridge over the river. “I usually come by way of Southwark and over the London Bridge. But I thought a ride through London proper would be more interesting for you.”

“Yes, merci.” She appreciated his thoughtfulness.

They pulled up in front of a square gray building facing the river. The area was jumbled with dilapidated sheds, crates and ropes. Sledges piled high with sails, pulled by burly men, rattled over the cobbles. The silt and fishy smell of the water and greasy caulking tar combined for a pungent stench.

Ships bobbed in the river, their masts clustered like the prongs of a giant comb.

“A terrible confusion here,” Everett said when they alighted. “Our so-called Pool has become so overcrowded, ships have to unload in midstream because they can’t get near the wharves.”

The large glass window of the building they entered had Camborne and Hobart, Shipping, Ltd painted in an arc across it. Inside the stark foyer, the shipping offices were located to the right. A narrow bare stairway thrust up directly in front of Bettina.

“My London apartment is on the next floor,” Everett said with no enthusiasm as Frederick bolted up the steps.

As they hauled their baggage upstairs, the gloominess of the place disappointed her. But when Everett unlocked a door, she was pleasantly surprised. A comfortable abode with tasteful, masculine furnishings greeted her.

“The apartment has a long parlor separating two bedchambers. I’m afraid my father was a stickler for staying ‘on top of things’. He refused to waste money on a more refined address in the city. So the place has remained in the family in this most unfashionable district.” Everett watched Bettina with an apologetic air. “And I never bothered to change it.”

“No, it is very nice, and so convenient to your business.” She walked to the bowed window in the parlor, which overlooked the waterfront.

“In the summer the fish market smells pretty bad, but we should be all right now. You can take the bedroom on the right, Frederick and I will share the other.” Everett opened the door for her, handing in her valise.

Bettina inspected her assigned room. The few toys in an open cupboard affirmed this was Frederick’s when he came to London. The chamber’s window looked onto an alley. If she leaned out far enough, she could see the river to her right. She came away from the sill with coal dust on her fingers.

Frederick stood at the bow window, watching the barges and hoys on the river. “I’m glad to be back in London. But I’m not so certain about staying at a school.”

“You may find it very interesting.” Bettina hoped he would. She put her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off and walked into the bedroom.

After they settled in, Everett invited his business partner up for introductions. Willard Hobart looked to be in his early thirties and stood nearly as tall as Everett. Broad in build with sandy brown hair, he had small, merry eyes—like blueberries.

“As soon as I can arrange for my divorce,” Everett put his hand on Bettina’s arm, “I hope Miss Laurant will consent to be my wife.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Laurant.” Hobart flashed a bright smile crowded with teeth above his long jaw. His glance at Everett told her he approved. “I hope you enjoy our busy city.”

“I believe I will, thank you.” Bettina warmed at Everett’s statement and his touch. He’d made it official by speaking in front of a witness.

* * * *

Bettina cleaned and straightened the apartment. The coal dust seemed impossible to tame. Frederick stuck his nose in a book and said little. Everett had spent the first two nights down in his offices. What did he do all night? In many ways she was sorry that they had to remain apart. He’d spoken with various associates about finding a suitable maid and had left an hour ago in the coach to fetch someone who was recommended.

The door opened and Everett walked in. She approached to greet him, then swallowed hard and stared at the tall, cocoa-skinned young woman beside him.

“Miss Laurant, this is Miss Oleba Refused. I’m considering her, with your approval, for your personal maid.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Laurant.” The young woman smiled, slow and sweet on full lips, and bowed her head in a graceful gesture. Her dark hair, gathered in a knot at the back of her neck, looked like wool.

Taken aback, Bettina had seen a few Negroes. They were usually footmen employed by the aristocrats for conversation pieces and the prestige of owning such an exotic person. Bettina invited her to sit on the settee before the warming fire. “What are your qualifications?” she asked when Everett left them alone.

“Allow me to tell you about myself, Miss Laurant.” Oleba sat in one fluid motion. “My mother was a plantation slave in the colony of Virginia. When the war broke out, our owner returned to England with his family and brought my mother and me with them. My father had already passed. My mother died and the planter and his wife raised me. His wife died in childbed and he remarried. I worked as a personal under
-maid to the new mistress and also watched the planter’s new young children. I am now four and twenty and very capable.”

“We do have that in common, our lives disrupted by a revolution.” Bettina enjoyed her soothing voice and was impressed by her intelligence. “And your last name is Refused?”

Oleba smiled, a sparkle in her dark face. “My mother told me that my father absolutely refused to accept any name forced on him by the white masters. So they called him Refused. My former owner freed me at sixteen and paid me wages to continue working for him. His children have gone away to school and now he’d like to see me settled in a good position. I have a letter of reference.” She held this out.

Bettina read the glowing recommendation. “I think you will do just fine for this position.”

Everett arranged to have Oleba’s trunk fetched. She would sleep in a small attic room above the apartment.

Bettina hid her happiness at once more having her own maid, now unsure if she needed such assistance after her years of self-reliance. But she had to think of the proprieties again. The fact Everett would now sleep close by unsettled her in a way that kept sleep elusive when she remembered the pleasure of his kisses.

* * * *

“This is our shopping district, Fleet Street and into Mayfair. Also, Charing Cross to Whitechapel and along the Strand.” Everett handed Bettina from the coach. Frederick followed, his expression sullen. Oleba joined them on the bustling street. The numerous shops had decorative signs: clothiers, drapers, millinery and haberdashery; glovers, goldsmiths and furriers.

“Frederick, are you not feeling well?” Bettina reached out to touch him. He moved away, fists shoved in his coat pockets.

“Young man, we’ll buy you a few needed items for school.” Everett patted him on top of his hat. The boy frowned, but nodded.

“Do not worry about attending, you will learn so much.” Bettina stepped close to him again, but Frederick kicked a pebble and hurried ahead. She worried about his behavior.

They walked the cool streets, the air thick with October dampness and the smell of coal. Men in cocked hats, hair often unpowdered, shoved by them. An older man carried in a chair sported a periwig. Women in sweeping skirts, clutching packages, chattered to one another. The brick shops with their bow windows loomed up on both sides.

Bettina hesitated in front of a draper’s shop—Bonner & Allenby on Fleet Street—to peer in the window. A man rushed out, his wares trailing over his arm. “I have Geneva velvet, Italian silk, Norwich crapes. You’ll find the best prices here, Madam, Sir. Come in, come in. Have a cup of chocolate in the back while I show you.”

Several more performed the same ritual. With their aggressive manners, bowing and compliments, it was difficult to maneuver past them.

Everett clasped Bettina’s elbow. “Buy whatever you wish.”

“But it is so expensive.” She remembered shopping with her mother in Paris, when money was never an issue. Bettina touched the slick silks and lush velvets, so reminiscent of her
youth. Now she hated to impose on Everett’s generosity. But every time she demurred from spending too much, he urged her on.

“What do you think of this material for a jacket, Frederick?” Everett held up the green wool. Frederick barely glanced at it. He kicked debris around the already filthy street.

After shopping, Everett directed the coach through an area of attractive homes with pretty facades of stucco ornamentation on St. James Square, Piccadilly and Oxford streets. “Rich bankers and aristocrats live in these townhomes. Many places are only occupied, as now, during the London season or when Parliament is in session from autumn to spring. I planned, someday, to purchase a place near here … for my family.” He smiled and Bettina smiled back.

“When will you marry Mademoiselle Bettina?” Frederick asked, arms crossed, eyeing them both. “What about Aunt Miriam?”

Bettina stared out the coach window, wondering the same. She hoped the child didn’t resent her becoming his aunt.

* * * *

Bettina unwrapped the purchases in her chamber as Frederick wandered about restlessly. She couldn’t wait for her new open robe dresses with three-quarter sleeves to be ready after being measured in a draper’s backroom and choosing the desired fabric. “Fashion has certainly changed, has it not?” she said to Oleba, who helped her organize items. “It is more simple, a definite improvement. There are less heavy silks, more cotton and Indian prints.”

“Women like clothes too much.” Frederick snapped his new riding crop on her footboard.

Bettina gazed at his morose expression—in a week he’d start school—and wanted to make him laugh. “You think women are silly now. My mother told me that the Parisian women used to wear great hoops in their skirts, pushing the gowns out so far they barely fit through the doorways. They powdered their hair white and wore huge wigs on their heads, adding decorations of flowers, feathers, jewels, even ships. These grand dames had to ride on their knees in the coaches, or put their heads out the windows. They refused to wash these styles for weeks just to protect them. So vermin collected in the dirty hair and women carried long hooks to scratch their scalps without disturbing anything
… disgusting.”

Frederick did laugh when she strutted around the chamber, nose in the air, digging at her scalp. Oleba put a hand to her mouth as if to hide a grin.

“And the men too poofed up their hair, wore jewels on shoe buckles, and flowered sleeves.” Bettina mimicked adjusting a lace cuff and waved her arm in the air.

“London society dressed quite similar a short time ago.” Everett stood in her doorway. He held Frederick’s new bicorn hat. He set it on the boy’s head, making him look like a little soldier. Frederick re-adjusted it and made a face at his reflection in the room’s window.

Bettina swept her hands behind her back. “And they still do at Court in Paris when they don their grand habits.” Then she remembered there was no longer a royal court in France. The thought stabbed at her. She turned from Everett and hastily folded up a lace-trimmed petticoat laid across the bed. “I am glad to see most people have given up wearing wigs. But I noticed that many still powder their natural hair. I hope they have eliminated wigs in France, too.”