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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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The Accident
CHELSEA, LONDON
 
THE
flat was in the East End, one of the dozens built “back to back” for the neighborhood’s working class. Made of thin, flat bricks, the roof shingled, it had three rooms: a single, windowless bedroom; a front parlor, which also served as a front hall; and a small kitchen. The privy was outside and shared by the row’s tenants.
Violette knew that she should be grateful that she had a roof over her head but she was not grateful, not at all. She was dazed and frightened.
She had not yet recovered from losing Sir Thomas. It had been one blow after another. Violette was well aware of the horrid rumors spread by Lady Joanna, yet how could anyone think her a murderess? Sir Thomas had not just been her husband, he had been a godsend and her friend.
And did the entire village also think her an adulteress?
Had both vicious rumors reached Harding Hall?
Violette despised London; she had so loved the countryside. She had loved Goodwin Manor, and she had loved Tamrah, in spite of the way most of the villagers had treated her. In spite of the rumors, she had not wanted to leave York.
But with the arrival of the solicitor of the estate she had not had any choice. Ralph had insisted they flee, and immediately. There had been no reason to remain in Tamrah, especially because of Lady Feldstone’s nasty rumors. Ralph had saved most of his salary, and with the savings from her pin money, they had decided to return to London, where at least they both knew how to survive. They had rented the cheapest but cleanest flat they could find in a respectable but hard-working neighborhood.
They told the landlady that they were brother and sister which, in Violette’s mind, they were.
Most of the women living in the rows worked in one factory or another, sewing or shoemaking. Most of the men worked in and around the docks of St. Katherine’s as coopers, carpenters, and stevedores. Ralph was also working at the docks in an iron foundry, which he despised.
Violette and Ralph had returned to town over a week ago, but she was still in shock. At night she dreamed about the evening Sir Thomas had died. She would be dining at Harding Hall, seated opposite Blake, sated and smiling and content, so very content, and then she would be shaking Sir Thomas, who lay as still as a corpse in his bed. And suddenly Violette was not standing over her dead husband in her pale blue satin evening gown. Suddenly she was nine or ten years old again, clad in holey trousers and a dirty shirt, her hair chopped off to her ears. The sights and sounds of St. Giles surrounded her, the wailing of a hungry baby, the shouts of a drunken man, the sobs of the woman he was beating. A rat stared at her with beady red eyes. And Violette would awaken with a scream.
Her scream awoke Ralph every night, who slept in the other room on the floor.
It was the final blow, finding herself once again in London town, nearly penniless, where only the rich lived well.
But they weren’t beggars and they weren’t thieves. They weren’t homeless and they weren’t starving, not yet. They were, just barely, respectable.
Violette had tried to get her old job as a Bloomsbury shopgirl back, but she had been replaced by her employer many months ago. The past two days she had been canvassing Fleet Street, Regent Street, and Oxford Street, hoping to get a job selling custom apparel to the ladies and gentlewomen of London’s West End. She had yet to succeed.
But she was determined. She was Lady Goodwin now, a respectable widow, and whereas before no hoighty-toity custom shop would even consider her as an employee, now there was a chance that someone would hire her. Violette couldn’t help but imagine working in one of the fancy West End shops, selling beautiful gowns and gloves and hats to ladies like Catherine Dearfield and the countess of Harding. And what if, one day, Blake happened to walk in? Perhaps to buy a gift for his sister or mother? Violette couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing him again.
Violette had always prided herself on her common sense. She knew that her thoughts were dangerous. It was far more likely that she would never see Blake again. And that one day she would hear gossip about his marriage to a lady like Catherine Dearfield.
She wondered if he thought about her, even in passing. Had he heard the ugly rumors about her? She desperately hoped not.
Violette was preparing supper, immersed in her thoughts, when Ralph returned. She had boiled up a small piece of beef with some carrots and onions and had purchased a fresh loaf of bread earlier that day. It was such a meager meal. Violette was starving, even though she had bought a meat pie from a vendor that afternoon with their scarce, rapidly dwindling coins. Violette recalled how she had always been full at Goodwin Manor, where Cook had delighted in feeding her. She hated being hungry. Being hungry was the same as being afraid. She was starting to feel ten years old again.
Ralph entered their dark, airless apartment, which, outside of the table and chairs in the kitchen, remained unfurnished except for one small mattress in the bedroom and the pallet he slept on in the parlor. He was blackened with dirt and sweat and grime. He gave her a dark look and threw his cap straight across the kitchen at the far wall. It crashed there and landed on the floor.
“An’ wot does that mean?” Violette asked calmly.
“It means we ’ad a good life, an’ we ain’t goin’ to stay like this fer long.” He was carrying a mug of ale. There was a gin mill two blocks from the flat. He sat down on one of the kitchen’s two rickety chairs and slugged it down. “I ’ate me job.”
Violette already knew that. “Supper’ll be done soon.” She turned to the stove, grim. Working in a foundry was as bad as begging and stealing on the streets—except that it was honest. They had had such a good life with Sir Thomas. How she missed the York countryside. The fresh air, the blue skies, the flowers and trees. How could they ever recapture that kind of life? Even if Violette did land a job in one of the city’s finer shops, unless she remarried and well, they would spend the rest of their lives struggling to afford a simple flat like this one, with Ralph working himself to death. Blake had advised her to catch a second husband with means.
Her heart tightened. Her memories of that day were bittersweet.
“Yer late t’day,” Violette said, spooning the stew into two chipped bowls.
“I’m late ’cause I stopped at the mill with two new buddies o’ mine.”
Violette carried the two bowls of stew to the small, square kitchen table. She sat down facing Ralph. “I ain’t found a job yet, but I’m sure I will.”
“Yew were down t’ the guvnor’s end again?” Ralph asked, ignoring the food.
Violette nodded and said hesitantly, “Ralph, mebbe Blake was right. Mebbe I got no choice. If I was a fancy shopgirl, mebbe I’d find me some rich chap to marry.”
Ralph had been sipping the ale; he choked. He slammed the mug down. “Yew think everythin’ ’Is Lordship says is right? ’is Lordship didn’t want nuthin’ t’ do with yew, ’cept to lift yer skirts, an’ no fancy gent will think otherwise.”
Violette was stricken. “That’s not fair. Sir Thomas married me. We ’ad such a good life with ’im.”
“Those days are gone. Wake up. Yew ain’t gonna remarry.” He stared.
Violette stared back. “Why are yew bein’ so mean to me?”
“Because I don’t want some old lech usin’ yew. Yew was lucky with Sir Thomas. Yew want to have some fat old gent in yer bed every night?”
“I wouldn’t marry someone old,” Violette heard herself say. She couldn’t help thinking about Blake, picturing him as clear as day in her mind. And the thought crept unbidden into her mind,
I don’t want someone just like him—I still want him.
And Ralph knew. “Get ’im right out o’ yor mind. ’E ain’t fer yew. No young lord is gonna marry one of us, Violette. Where’s yer smarts gone?”
Violette stabbed her stew with a spoon. She had lost her appetite, filled with anxiety over the future. Ralph was right. Blake didn’t want her—and she did not want someone else. And she had little faith in what lay in store for her and Ralph.
“Don’t be sad,” Ralph said suddenly, surprising her. “That’s not yew, Violette.”
Violette inhaled. “I don’t know wot I’m thinkin’. I’m so confused,” she confessed. “Everythin’ was fine, until a few days ago.”
“Everything was fine until Sir Thomas died an’ that fat bitch started those rumors about yew an’ me,” Ralph agreed. He kicked his chair, then sat back down to eat.
Violette did not quite agree. Things had been turned upside-down even before Sir Thomas died. Everything had changed the moment Blake had so suddenly strolled into her life.
 
The hansom turned the broad, tree-lined corner in the quiet residential neighborhood. Violette’s heart stopped. Harding House loomed ahead, at the end of the street.
Violette almost knocked on the roof to order her driver to stop, turn around, go back. But her muscles failed to obey her panic-filled mind. She could not lift her arm, although her fist was clenched.
She swallowed, her heart trying to wing its way out of her chest. What was she doing? Was she mad? To seek Blake out now, to ask for his help, even though he had offered it to her two weeks ago?
Violette had pride, and her pride warred with a very real fear. She had not been able to gain any kind of respectable employment. Door after door had been slammed in her face. And Ralph had started going to his job late—or not at all. He was running the streets again with his new “buddies,” at times not even bothering to come home. Violette was terrified. Their money was dwindling, as was their attempt to cling to respectability. Ralph’s behavior was far too reminiscent of a past that Violette only wished to forget.
It had become clear to her that she, at least, must find employment, and immediately. It would not just replenish their coffers, but it would boost her fragile self-esteem and failing hope.
Violette inhaled, reminding herself that she was not a ragged urchin now even if she felt like one. She was Lady Goodwin, and she had a legitimate reason for seeking Blake out. He had offered to advise her in her financial affairs. She needed far more than his advice now, she needed his help in finding her a job.
And, of course, in spite of all common sense, she couldn’t help wanting to see him again.
The hansom rolled closer. Violette was perspiring when it finally came to a halt. She alighted without help from the driver, who was slower than she in climbing down to the street. Violette dug into her blue velvet, beaded reticule. It was a dark shade of blue, unlike the violently royal color of her fur-trimmed dress. Violette handed him the required fare, watching
as one and a half precious pounds disappeared into his trouser pocket.
“M’lady,” he said, his accent almost identical to hers. “Fer another pound ’n a ’alf I’ll wait fer yew to do yer busyness.” He smiled at her, missing numerous teeth in his round, jowled face.
Violette shook her head, ribbons and cherries dangling in her eyes, incapable of speech at that moment. The hansom moved away. Violette swiped at her bonnet in annoyance, then turned, sucking up her courage. Two liveried footmen, at once resplendent and intimidating in their blue and silver uniforms, stood sentinel outside of the two oversized front doors of the Harding mansion.
Violette lifted her skirts with one gloved hand, clutched her reticule with the other, and started up the wide stone staircase. When she reached the door it was immediately opened by one of the footmen, who ushered her inside with a blank expression. Violette blinked, gaping.
She stood in a rotunda of sorts, one whose ceiling was as high as a cathedral. Far above her head, the ceiling was trimmed in gold sworls, and painted with clouds, blue sky, trumpets and angels. She glanced quickly down. She stood on an amazingly pristine white marble floor. From where she stood she could see past closed doors on her right, where she suspected the ballroom was, and down the marble-floored corridor. A wide, elegant staircase with an iron banister and red runners swept upwards into the house. On her left were a pair of open doors, through which Violette glimpsed a huge, elegant salon. Works of art covered every available wall.
Harding Hall, their country home, was huge. But this mansion was every bit as large, and somehow far more spectacular, far more palatial.
The footman was staring at her, his gloved hand extended, palm up.
Violette looked at his face, than at his palm. How did he keep his gloves so white? Hers were already dusty just from the hansom ride through town.
“Your card, my lady?”
Violette clutched her reticule with both hands. She did not have any cards. There had been no need for cards in the country. In fact, she had never used a calling card in her life, and she was singularly unprepared for this request.
I need
cards,
she managed to think, dazed. Her knees were knocking together.
“Is Lord Blake ’ome?” she whispered, hoarse.
He blinked, briefly registering his surprise. “I beg your pardon. Lord Blake does not reside at Harding House.”
Violette turned white. “’E doesn’t? I … I didn’t realize.” At this point another manservant appeared, this one clad from head to toe in black. “Joshua, is there a problem?” he asked with authority.

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