This Duchess of Mine (12 page)

There were two women, one a hard-mouthed matron whom she assumed must be Mrs. Nibble, as she looked precisely like someone who wielded a mean saucepan.

The other must be Miss Sophisba. She was younger, and while not exactly pretty, she had the air of someone who made an effort. Most of that effort involved lip rouge and improbably golden hair. It appeared to be directed toward attracting male attention, which seemed odd, given that no one could see her except Mrs. Nibble. And Mrs. Nibble was definitely not the sort to enjoy crimson lips and yellow hair.

One of the half-naked men stood up. “Get up, ye flea-bitten knabblesquabbers,” he bellowed suddenly. “The duke's here. You should be on yer feet and doing the pretty! It's my birthday and I'll have everything in—in—”

He sat down suddenly. Knabby was definitely right. Cully had been in the drink, and never mind the fact that it was morning.

“And the duchess is with me,” Elijah said easily. The
frown had dropped from his face and he looked as genial as if he had entered a tea party in Kensington. “I've brought along my wife, the prettiest duchess in all the kingdom.”

“I wish we could see that,” the bearded man said, staring into space. “I've never seen a real duchess. Though I did see the queen once. She had a fearsome wig, the queen did.” He elbowed Mrs. Nibble. “Is there a wig, one of those tall ones?”

“She's wearing a velvet dress,” the older woman told him. She had risen and given a quick bob of a curtsy and then sat back down directly. “She doesn't have one of those wigs on her head. I think she has her own hair, but with some powder on it, like nobs wear.”

Elijah had strolled over to wish happy returns of the day to Cully. Then he stopped at the next chair and started a conversation about the riots. Jemma felt she had to do something. She couldn't just stand about like a fool. So she moved toward the two women. Miss Sophisba promptly jumped to her feet, looking terrified.

“Are these your children?” Jemma asked. “They're delightful.” Which was not the truth. They were too dirty to give anyone a sensation of delight. But they looked cheerful and well-fed.

The older woman had lumbered to her feet again. “
She
don't have any children.” She jerked her head derisively.

Miss Sophisba ignored her. “They belong to Knabby's sister. Or perhaps his niece. At any rate, she's a cloth-dyer, which is prodigious hard work, and so the children spend the days here. Usually Waxy's grandchildren come along later in the day, too. His daughter works in the mews, and so she drops them here.”

“Don't they go to school?” Jemma asked.

“Not most of the time,” Miss Sophisba said with a shy smile. “It's not something most people hold with, here in Spitalfields.”

“I don't think there is a school in Spitalfields,” Mrs. Nibble said. “Not in my time, anyhow.”

“Oh dear,” Jemma said.

“Those are loverly gloves,” Miss Sophisba said. “I've never seen anything like them.”

“Would you like to try them on?” Jemma asked readily. She ignored Mrs. Nibble's snort and pulled them off.

“I couldn't,” Miss Sophisba gasped. But they slid over her small dirty hands as if they'd been made for her.

“You may have them,” Jemma said, smiling at her.

Miss Sophisba paled. “I couldn't!”

“No, she couldn't,” Mrs. Nibble said grimly. “Her husband'd have 'em off her in no more time than it takes to dock a whore.” Suddenly she looked self-conscious. “If you'll excuse the expression, milady.”

“I could hide them,” Sophisba said. “An' just look at them now and then, when I was here, like.”

“Aren't you here all the time?” Jemma asked.

“Only when her husband is thrown in the Clink,” Mrs. Nibble said. “Then she doesn't have to be on her back, you see, and his dukeship is nice enough to let her stay here.”

“You keep them for her, Mrs. Nibble,” Jemma said. She let just enough of a duchess tone creep into her voice so that Mrs. Nibble blinked. “Whenever Miss Sophisba is in residence at Cow Cross, she can wear them.”

Miss Sophisba was stroking the gloves as if they were
alive. “I'd be that thankful,” she breathed. “They're the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life.”

“And you shall have this handkerchief for your trouble, Mrs. Nibble,” Jemma said.

Mrs. Nibble frowned. “I don't need no bribe to keep them gloves for her. I'm not a person to cast her aside, just 'cause of what she does.”

Jemma's handkerchief was woven of Belgian lace and embroidered in the middle with a very elaborate white B, for the Duchy of Beaumont.

“That's a B,” Mrs. Nibble said, turning the handkerchief this way and that. “My name is Bertha.”

“It's not a bribe,” Jemma said. “It's a gift.”

“This place is a gift,” Miss Sophisba said, clutching the gloves. “Does you know that, Miss Duchess?”

“You don't call her that,” Mrs. Nibble said. “Mrs. Duchess maybe, or ‘my lady.'”

A boy ran by, shrieking like a teakettle in a way that signified he wanted to be noticed. And just to make sure he was, he dropped a handful of smallish wooden balls at Jemma's feet.

Mrs. Nibble took after him with an enraged howl. Jemma bent down to pick up the boy's balls, since he was currently being rapped on the head by Mrs. Nibble, though thankfully not with a saucepan.

“How clever!” she exclaimed, turning it over. There was a human face carved into the ball, a face with a laughing, stubby nose and eyes that seemed to twinkle with amusement. She picked up another, which turned out to have the face of a wicked little demon with pointed ears and sharp chin. A third was a round-faced woman.

“Pie makes 'em,” Miss Sophisba said. “See, he's always carving.” She gestured toward a man in the
circle. Pie was holding a tiny sharp knife and flicking at a piece of wood. A steady stream of shavings flew out to his left and right.

“But he can't see!”

“He sees with his fingers, he says,” Miss Sophisba explained.

Jemma walked over to Pie. “These are absolutely wonderful,” she said, dropping one of the balls in his hand so he knew what she meant.

He grinned. “The wood tells me, that's all. The wood tells me what's inside.”

Elijah appeared at her side. “Pie was a master glassblower.”

“We all were,” Knobby said cheerfully. “Only the best for the Cacky Street glassblowers. There's quite a wait list,” he told Jemma.

“To work in the factory?” she asked.

“His Grace here won't take any apprentices, 'cause he says they're too young to decide about whether to give up their eyesight. But those of us that has already got the skills, well, there's nowhere else anyone would want to work 'cept for Cacky Street.”

“Because of this?” she said, looking around.

“'Course. All paid for, see, and nice to boot. Food we have, and enough to spare over and share about. Wives if we want 'em with us, and if they want to come. It's always warm, even in the coldest months.”

Elijah was rocking back and forth slightly on his heels. “It's the least we could do,” he said, his voice harsh. “We're responsible for taking your sight.”

“Oh no ye ain't,” Pie said unexpectedly. “'Twas the glass that took my sight. All that lovely, beautiful glass, and I wouldn't have had it another way. See, when you blow, the glass tells you what's inside,” he said, moving
his face in the general direction of Jemma and Elijah. “That's what the duke here never understands, for all he feels to blame and such. It's glass that's our mistress. I thought I'd go mad at first, when I had to stop blowing. Then someone gave me a knife and some wood and I was away. Thought I'd go mad,” he repeated.

“We have one of Pie's glass bowls,” Elijah said. “In the drawing room.”

“Not the green one with the fluted edge? Mr. Pie, that is an exquisite bowl,” Jemma said.

He beamed. “She called to me and I just brought her out, that's all. And now she lives in a duke's home.” His hands kept moving over the block of wood he held in his lap and then he started flicking away at it again with his knife. “Can't do better than that.”

“Happy birthday again, Cully,” Elijah said.

Cully genially waved a bottle in their direction and hiccupped.

“I gave him a bit of the best today,” Knobby said.

“Seeing as it's his birthday. That's the best gin.”

Elijah took Jemma's ungloved hand. “Goodbye, everyone.”

The men all turned their heads and chorused goodbye; the children ran by screaming. Miss Sophisba waved her gloves shyly, and Mrs. Nibble glared from her chair next to Nibble.

“They're blind because of the Cacky Street glassblowing factory,” Jemma said as soon as they were back in the carriage. “Which we own.”

“There's something in the glass that ruins the eye,” Elijah said. “The doctor thinks it's in the smoke. It's not good for their lungs either. They don't live very long. We've lost two in the last six months.”

She was silent.

“You likely think I should close the factory,” Elijah said.

“No—”

“If I close the factory,” he interrupted, “it won't stop people from buying glass. And if I sell the factory, there won't be anywhere for the workers to go once they're blinded. The run of them from the other factories end up in the poorhouses.”

“Elijah…”

“I thought I might move the house to the country, where there would be air and cleanliness, and I could get a decent woman to live in and cook for them. But they hated that idea. They like living in Spitalfields, with all their old friends dropping by for gossip and a chunk of bread. We feed half the neighborhood.”

“Elijah…” she repeated.

“Knabby has a cook shop deliver meals. I probably shouldn't allow Sophisba there but she keeps the men happy—”

“Elijah!” She touched his cheek and he finally focused on her.

“Yes?”

“I think it's a wonderful house. I think you've done exactly the right thing. I have just two suggestions.”

“You do?” His eyes lightened. “You don't think I should—”

“I don't think you should change anything,” she said firmly. “But perhaps you could hire a young woman to play with the children and even teach them to read.”

“We could do that easily enough,” he said, looking surprised.

“And you should fix up some sort of head…piece, with glass in the front, so the blowers don't get smoke in their eyes.”

“What?”

“Pie could carve a sort of helmet, like a soldier's helmet. And there could be something in front, oh I don't know what, something. And then some glass, so they could see the glass to blow it, but their eyes would be protected.”

He stared at her.

“You could try,” she suggested.

“Damn,” he said.

“Elijah! I've never heard you swear.” She started laughing.

“Damn and double damn.” But he said it slowly, thinking.

“I have a question. What do you mean that Sophisba keeps the men—happy? How exactly does she…”

Elijah wasn't listening. “I can see what you're suggesting. It would need light wood. Or leather. It'll take thinking.” He looked up. “Sophisba is there only when her husband's in the Clink. When he's out, he makes her work the streets. She's Mrs. Nibble's daughter, you know.”

“No!”

“She has her own room. I don't believe she actually performs personal services for the men. But she makes them happy.”

“Because she's a young woman.”

“She flirts with them.” He reached out and picked up her hand. “I like your hands without gloves, Jemma. And I love your idea about the helmet. I think we can make that work.”

“You can figure it out, and then make sure that all the glassblowing factories start using them,” she said, beaming at him.

“What I want to do is flirt with the most beautiful
duchess in London,” he said, turning her hand over and placing a kiss in the middle of her palm.

“I flirt best over a chessboard.”

“Then chess it shall be,” he said. “Do you ever play out of doors, Jemma?”

“Chess? And a picnic, you mean? That sounds lovely.”

“I must be at my chambers in the morning. But I could arrange a picnic for the afternoon.” There was a world of meaning in his voice.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. The carriage came to a halt. “I have an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, though you're more than welcome to join me. Parsloe's is holding an open session of the Chess Club and I intend to become one of the members.”

“They allow women? How marvelously forward-thinking of them.” A footman opened the carriage door.

“Not at all,” Jemma said. “I believe that it was entirely in error. They simply never thought that a woman could possibly play chess. Until the redoubtable Mrs. Patton came along. You do remember her from our Twelfth Night party, don't you?”

“Eccentric and thoroughly intelligent,” Elijah observed. “With a sharp edge to her. Mrs. Patton told me that the House should be ashamed of itself for ignoring a Quaker bill outlawing the slave trade, and she was right.”

“Mrs. Patton realized that there was nothing barring a woman from going to an open session and simply playing everyone there until she won a spot.”

“Which she did,” Elijah said, laughing.

“She took herself there for a visit last year. No one can join until they win all offered games at an open
session. I shall do so tomorrow,” Jemma said serenely. “And you are welcome to try for a spot as well.”

“I assume the open session is to replace a deceased member? As I understand it, Parsloe's ruthlessly maintains its members at one hundred precisely. In that case, we cannot both successfully join the Chess Club tomorrow.”