Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (28 page)

“Strange? Indeed it does, but there is truth in it. And there is truth in the deed, as well. I suspect that your adventures were not carried out in cream and pale green.”

Elf shifted uneasily, thinking about her scarlet outfit and her lacy stockings, and the moods she’d been in when she’d bought them. “But what does that mean? It would mortify my friends and family if I were to go about in gaudy clothes.”

“Yes, we have to balance our needs with those of the people we love. What outfit would you want now, today?”

Elf pondered it, then laughed. “I don’t seem to care. I’ve just gone through four silk warehouses with Amanda. She wanted to buy up the entire stock and I hardly felt any interest at all. Certainly none in the purples and scarlets.”

“Perhaps you are different inside, then?”

Elf tested it. “Perhaps I am.” She was not content, for Fort was a nugget of frustration deep within, but she recognized a new steadiness in herself, a degree of calm.

“But still,” said Sappho, “what outfit would you choose today?”

Elf raised her skirt to study it. It was a corded green poplin with a gray stripe so narrow as to be hardly visible and tiny leaves worked between. “I’m tired of these little motifs,” she said. “They’re . . . timid. They’re also girlish, and I’m no longer a girl.”

Sappho just nodded, encouraging her to continue.

Elf leaned back and closed her eyes. “I suppose I’ve become afraid to choose boldly, and my maid feels it safest to be—well—safe.” She tried to let her mind summon a gown that would please her but after a while she opened her eyes and shrugged. “Perhaps I just don’t have the talent for it.”

“And yet your brother says you choose materials for the houses with great skill and judgment.”

She must mean Rothgar. Elf felt a strong temptation to ask Sappho about Rothgar and his place in her life, but she managed to restrain herself. “That doesn’t seem so set with pitfalls.”

“It proves, however, that you can choose wisely in the right circumstances.”

“I suppose it does. I shall just have to think of myself as a tester bed and decide what hanging will do best!”

Laughing, both women rose, and Elf turned to Sappho. “I do thank you, for everything.”

“I help women,” the poet said simply. “But you are more like a sister to me.”

Now Elf felt compelled to ask. “Because of Rothgar?”

“Of course.”

It seemed as if Sappho was inviting the question, so she asked it. “What is he to you?”

“Certainly not my protector,” said Sappho with a smile. “What we have is not easily named, but very precious. We are close friends. Sometimes we are lovers, but it is an extension of friendship, not the force that ties you and Walgrave together.”

“Ties us together!” Elf exclaimed with a bitter laugh. “Pushes us apart, more likely.”

“No, that is another force. But this is beginning to sound like a lecture at the Royal Society.”

Elf chuckled and pulled on her gloves, a final question niggling at her. In the end, she asked it. “You will not marry him?”

“It bothers you?”

“No,” said Elf, though it wasn’t entirely true.

“We will not marry,” said Sappho, leading her downstairs. “Our bond is strong, but not the bond that would make a good marriage.”

Elf paused at the door, for the question of good marriages interested her greatly. “Why not?”

“Think, Elf.” Sappho gestured around her home with one of those strangely beringed hands. “I am content in my place, as he is in his. Neither of us would be happy
in the other’s. What we have, we can have without marriage and without loss.”

“Does marriage involve loss, then?”

“Oh yes, and should only be undertaken if the gain is equal to or exceeds the loss.” Then she laughed. “I am sounding scientific again, and love does not blend with science. Please call again, Elf, whenever you wish.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Elf returned to her carriage, head full of yet more new and challenging thoughts. Perhaps she’d be put out of her misery by her head simply exploding.

As soon as she arrived home, she summoned Chantal and conducted a thorough review of her wardrobe. Yes, definitely. The garments were pretty, but dull and safe except for the few odd outfits purchased in one of her fits of rebellion.

And “odd” certainly described them.

She fingered a gown in a vivid print of tigers. As a fabric it was rather splendid, but both the mantua maker and Chantal had been right to protest that it wouldn’t make a good gown. Perhaps, she thought, she’d just been in a mood to snarl at the world.

She came across a gown of sulfur yellow and winced. Heaven knows what inner turmoil had prompted that. She’d certainly never worn it.

There weren’t actually many disasters left, because last year when Chastity had turned up in rags, Chantal had taken the opportunity to get rid of most of Elf’s nightmares. Elf still pined a little for the raspberry silk, but Chastity looked magnificent in it and it didn’t suit her own coloring at all.

She gave Chantal permission to dispose of anything she wished and the maid almost wept with joy. Perhaps soon she would find the courage to order new gowns entirely to her taste and see just what resulted.

It would be something else to distract her mind and pass the days until Fort was well enough for her to assault him yet again.

Patience was definitely not one of Elf’s virtues, and despite regular reports from Chastity, she had to fight every day not to invade Fort’s house and force herself into his presence. Even if he cursed and threw things or glared at her with icy disdain, she still would see him. She would be able to reassure herself about his health with her own eyes.

And they had been able to talk once, when she was just Lisette. Why could they not talk now and find a way out of their situation?

Sometimes she felt it would be easy if they were only face-to-face, but then she would note that Chastity did not encourage her. That gave her strength to stay away. If their next meeting would be conducted with the noise and smoke of open warfare, she must surely wait until he could face her on his feet.

Some days she weakened and wrote letters to him. Thus far, she had found the resolution to destroy them unsent.

Every night, however, lonely in her bed, she was tormented by a thought. Could she have found the one man she would love intensely and forever, only to be barred from him by family history?

Romeo and Juliet seemed truly to be the story, and it was depressingly likely that the end be sad.

She’d fight, though. She’d fight for happiness. But not, unfortunately, until he was on his feet.

To keep her sanity, she flung herself into work, new
and old. Running Rothgar’s various households took some of the day, as did her work for the business.

In addition, she pursued her idea about self-defense. Soon she and Chastity were quite skilled with a pistol. Rothgar had made no objection, and had even commissioned a gunsmith to design weapons suited to their smaller hands, including tiny ones able to be safely carried in a pocket.

He’d dissuaded them from learning swordplay, however.

“It’s a dying art, Elf, only of use in duello. You are unlikely to be challenged to a duel.”

“Perhaps I’d like to challenge someone.”

The look in his eye told her that he knew whom she had in mind. “In that case, choose pistols. It evens out strength and reach. For general use, however, you may want to consider a knife, since you seem to favor them as evening ornament.”

So another adviser appeared, this time Hunot, a taciturn black man who taught interesting ways to kill and maim with a short blade. Cyn took an interest in these lessons, and soon they were all developing a good eye for a throwing knife.

One day, having sent her knife quivering into the heart of the man-sized target set up in a spare bedroom, Elf heard applause and turned to see Rothgar clapping, smiling slightly.

“Do you want to try?” she asked.

He held out a hand, and she placed a knife in it. In moments, it
thunked
beside hers. “How do you think I knew about Hunot, my dear? I like to be as well-armed as possible without unsightly bulges. Cyn has only missed these skills by taking himself off into the crude military world.”

Cyn laughed. “I’ll take you on. Cannons at twenty paces.”

Rothgar bowed slightly. “I regret that I must decline. Elf, papers have arrived from Lyons.”

So Elf hurried off to the other matter that kept her days crowded—her part in the Malloren affairs.

She was beginning to understand the excitement Bryght found in business affairs. Cyn considered it dull stuff. He needed open air and physical activity. Rothgar, she thought, saw trade and finance as a means to an end—power and security for his family. But Bryght, and now she, saw it as a challenge, as a great game.

Bryght had been a gamester in his day, and found the same thrill in business. Elf had never been much enthralled by the roll of a die or the turn of a card, but placing money on a likely invention or sending out ships in search of profit—that could excite her.

And knowledge.

Knowledge in itself was a delight.

Now she knew the way silk varied according to country of origin and the way it was processed. She knew about throwing and doubling, and the full meaning of denier. She had visited the silk weavers in Spitalfields and watched and listened, learning about different qualities and finishes.

In one of these discussions, she had picked up the name of a certain Jacques de Vaucanson in France. He, apparently, had already developed the improved method of weaving used in Spitalfields. He was said to be working on other projects.

A servant of the Mallorens was already in France investigating Monsieur Vaucanson and the potential for investment.

She listened, too, as Rothgar talked about legal and Parliamentary situations. Plans were afoot for Britain to ban the import of finished silk. If that came to pass, silk weaving would boom. If it didn’t, expanded production facilities could lie idle.

After fretful consideration, she made her first significant decision, and recommended that money be spent to set up a small workshop in Norwich for some of the Spitalfields silk weavers who wished to leave London.

She found it rather alarming when Rothgar didn’t hesitate to authorize the funds, and wished Bryght were still in town to give a second opinion.

“Don’t furrow your brow,” said Rothgar. “I think you’ve neglected one lesson. In this game, no one expects to win every time. Some of your decisions will be disastrous. You must take the long view.”

“I find that hard. It’s my nature to tread cautiously.”

They were in the office, though he was dressed in courtly magnificence, ready to attend a royal levee. “I don’t think so, my dear. You have learned to be careful so as not to endanger others. Shall I admit that perhaps I overreacted to young Scottsdale?”

He must have spent time going over the past, seeking flaws in his management of the family. She took his beringed hand. “Bey, you are not responsible for everything that happens to us. Some of our problems we create for ourselves.”

A smile twitched his lips. “And some of my decisions will be disastrous. I should take my own advice, yes?”

“Yes,” she said, returning the smile. Then she released his hand and sobered. “Speaking of disasters, Chastity says Fort will soon be out of his bed.”

“A disaster, is it?”

“You know what I mean.” She turned to pick up the papers relating to Norwich, nervously tidying them into a pile. “I am not going to let him slip away without effort.”

“I would be disappointed if you did.”

She turned to look at him. “You won’t mind?”

“You dragging him into the family by the hair? I will survive. Now, I must off to St. James or George will grow anxious. Really, nurturing kingship is far more exhausting than dealing with troublesome twins.”

The door closed gently behind him, and Elf smiled, counting her blessings, as she did every day.

Thought of blessings suddenly reminded her of the old woman down near the docks. She’d never come for help, but now it occurred to Elf that perhaps she was afraid to. Or it could be a daunting journey to cross London without chair or carriage.

Elf went to give the documents to Grainger, who was
still rather distant with her, then ordered her coach. When she encountered Chastity, she invited her along on the trip down to Wapping. Soon they were on their way, escorted by two armed footmen in addition to the coachman. Elf was past being foolish about these things.

The area had not changed, and the grand coach brought out a small army of gawkers, but again no one begged, and the people looked reasonably fed and clothed. Elf, however, was in search of the less fortunate.

She halted the carriage on the edge of the charred wasteland. Scavengers still picked over it, but today they seemed to be children searching more in play than desperation. Elf called for the door to be opened and descended, skirts raised clear of the rubble. She made her way toward one of the children, who looked up, startled and wary.

“Don’t be afraid,” Elf said. “I’m just looking for an old woman I met here. Dibby Cutlow, she said her name was. Do you know her?”

The girl, who must have been about eight, nodded.

“Do you know where she lives?”

Again, the girl nodded.

“If you bring her here, I’ll give you a penny.”

Eyes suddenly narrowed in suspicion. “Show me.”

Elf dug through the slit in her outer skirt to find a penny in her pocket, then showed it to the child.

“Right then.” The girl flew off over the uneven ground like a nimble sheep.

Elf watched her go—young, strong, and healthy—and wondered just who had decided that females were frail. As children, boys and girls were as active and strong as they were allowed to be. Women surely could be trained for many more jobs than were currently thought suitable, and thus be less likely to fall into poverty or prostitution.

She must add that to her inquiries and revolutions.

To think that a few weeks ago she had been restless and bored. Now there weren’t enough hours in the day for all she wanted to accomplish. She threaded her way back to the coach and ordered it moved in the direction
the child had taken, hoping to shorten the old woman’s walk.

Chastity was studying the broken-down tavern. “Is that where you were held?”

“Yes. In the cellar. Isn’t it strange how one can think fondly of such a decrepit location.”

“I have fond memories of a dusty attic, myself.”

They shared a smile, and Elf said, “Does the feeling dull with time?”

“Which feeling are you referring to?”

“The need to be-with, I suppose.”

“I think it must, or we’d all live as if shackled together. But I think part of the easing comes from security. If I wasn’t sure Cyn would be there for me, I would be more inclined to cling.”

“Oh, for the chance to cling!” Elf smiled at her desperate state. “I spend time, you know, wondering if I could have done anything differently. Better. I was wild and foolish to create Lisette Belhardi. But without her, I would never have met the real Fort.”

“Are you sure you know the real Fort?” Chastity turned to study her.

“Are you, too, going to try to warn me off?”

“No, not that. But it’s easy to see our beloved through a veil of illusion. I remember you laughing when I described Cyn as sensitive.”

“It was a startling concept. But I suppose he is, for a man.”

“Indeed. But he is also ruthlessly practical, and tough as boiled leather, which I should have known a soldier has to be.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not now, but it takes time to learn all dimensions of a person. Fort is his father’s son.”

“Fort is not at all like the old earl!”

“Yes, he is. And he knows it, which is one of the things that galls him. He’s proud to a fault, hates to admit to any error, and believes in his divine right to do as he pleases.”

“You can’t expect a Malloren to quibble at the latter.”

Chastity shrugged. “I’m just warning you to plan your assault on the real man, not on a memory that lingers from here. Is that your old woman?”

Elf turned to see Dibby Cutlow hobbling down a rutted lane.

She seemed in slightly better form, and Elf realized she wore new boots and a fresh, untorn apron. Could sixpence buy all that?

Elf went to meet her. “Mrs. Cutlow. I wanted to be sure you were all right.”

The old woman’s eyes shifted around, still anxious and wary. “Doing fairish, ma’am.”

“I thought perhaps it might be a bit far for you to visit me in Marlborough Square if you were in need.”

“ ’Twould be a fair way, ma’am, yes. But I’m fair set. ’Is lordship saw to that.”

“His lordship?” Had Rothgar had taken over this matter for her?

“Lord Woolgive, or somin’,” said Dibby. “Seems ’e was with you that day, and ’e sent a crown. Said as there’d be another every week, and there has been, Gawd bless ’im.”

Fort! Well really, what business did he have stealing her charity case? Just because she’d let the matter slip from her mind for a week or two . . .

Elf determined to take her cause back.

“And do you have a good place to live, Mrs. Cutlow?”

“I ’as a room.”

“Would you like a place in the country? Far away from here.”

The old woman stepped back. “Don’t take me away, ma’am. I don’t want to leave ’ere!” Her gnarled fingers clutched her apron and it looked terribly as if she were going to cry.

“No, no. Of course not! No one will do anything you don’t want . . .” Elf felt like crying herself. She just wanted to help this poor woman, and yet everything was going wrong.

As it had with Fort.

Was she really just a clumsy meddler?

She looked around, and the germ of an idea came to her. She touched one of Dibby’s clenched hands. “I’m pleased Lord Walgrave is seeing to your welfare. Don’t worry about anything else. But my offer remains. If you have a problem or are in need, just send someone with a message to Malloren House in Marlborough Square, and I will do what I can.”

With that, she gave the impatient girl her penny, and returned to the coach.

As the coach lurched its way back to the road, Chastity asked, “She is not in need, then?”

“She doesn’t seem to think so. Probably because your brother has made her his pensioner at a crown a week.”

“You sound rather aggrieved.”

“I think he did it just to contest me!”

“Perhaps a little. But he is genuinely kind, you know. He’s made many improvements since becoming earl. The servants are better treated and paid. I gather he’s visited all the estates, and dealt with long-standing grievances of the tenants. Our father was
not
kind, and from being blackmailed, he’d become a veritable clutch-fist.”

“I’m pleased he’s being responsible.” Elf meant it. She loved to hear of Fort’s virtues. She was still aggrieved, however, by his interference in her business. “I have a plan . . .”

Chastity pulled a face at her. “What now?”

Elf chuckled. “Oh, nothing wicked, I assure you.”

“Are you sure?”

Alerted by something in Chastity’s voice, Elf asked, “Yes. Why?”

“Because I visited Fort this morning and found him finally out of his bed and on a chaise. He’d been refusing to make the change of scene if it involved being carried, but apparently he managed to hobble across the room with the aid of a crutch. You did say that when he was vertical, you would feel free to assault him.”