An Honest Heart (22 page)

“Of course you may see us home.” Mother wedged between Caddy and Oliver and hooked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I would be ever so grateful for the support of your arm on the way. This is the first time in months I have felt well enough to walk to church. I am afraid I might tire out.”

Caddy wanted to press her fingertips to her temples to try to alleviate the pounding caused by her mother’s simpering expression as she gazed at Mr. Carmichael. But that would have meant drawing more attention than necessary to the bandage. Caddy had spent extra time this morning arranging her hair and morning cap to provide as much concealment as she could achieve.

As they left the church, to the shocked and delighted gasps of Mother’s friends, Caddy could not keep her mind off Neal. Why did he need to go to London . . . and why so suddenly?

Her obsessive thoughts of the doctor made Carmichael’s presence not quite so odious. She tightened the ribbon bow of her poke bonnet under her chin and stepped out into the uncertain blue-gray spring day behind her mother and Mr. Carmichael.

Mother kept Mr. Carmichael occupied with talk of her gardens from when she’d lived in the country as a girl and then at Father’s parish houses. Caddy followed a few feet behind, allowing her mind to wander—creating scenarios of what Neal might do in London that he could not do in Oxford.

Perhaps Birchip and Macquarie were representatives of one of the lords of parliament who had heard of Neal’s skill as a doctor—possibly a new treatment for gout or some other ailment of the aristocracy Neal had discovered—and had sent them to bring him to London to provide treatment. Unlikely. Maybe one of the royal children needed Neal’s ministrations—or Prince Albert or Queen Victoria herself. There were always rumors floating about that one or more of them were in fragile health.

But as much as she respected his medical skills and knowledge, she doubted it was that which called him to London. Besides, he would not keep something like that secret. And he would not be living in rented rooms in North Parade or working in Jericho if he were providing medical services for aristocracy or royalty.

He could be performing some task for the government he could not talk about to anyone.

Caddy halted, gloved fingers pressed to her mouth. What if he were a spy? The secretiveness. The unwillingness to reveal much personal information. His reaction at seeing Birchip and Macquarie. It all fit.

What if Neal Stradbroke wasn’t even his real name?

Mother glanced over her shoulder with a frown of reproach, and Caddy hurried to catch up with them. She fell into step beside Mother, on the opposite side from Mr. Carmichael.

A spy. It made sense. Only something like that would make him secretive and be of enough importance to draw him away from Thomas Longrieve’s trial.

Or maybe—

“Miss Bainbridge, was that Neal Stradbroke I saw you speaking with at the church?” Oliver looked around Mother at her.

Caddy stopped herself from sighing. “Yes, it was.”

“I heard that the two men who came into your shop looking for him last time I was there returned yesterday. I hope they did not inconvenience you in any way.”

The discomfiture in Neal Stradbroke’s expression upon seeing the two men had haunted Caddy since they’d parted company yesterday. She wanted—no, she
needed
to know what was going on. “They did not stay for long.”

“I suppose Stradbroke told you this morning why those men came looking for him.”

Caddy turned her head toward Oliver at the sound of knowledge in his tone. “No. Only that he must leave for London this afternoon and will be gone for several days.”

Oliver pressed his lips into a frown, nodding. “That’s understandable. I can imagine he would not want you to know who those men are and why they were here.”

The tiny hairs along Caddy’s arms raised, and her skin tingled. “But you have found out?”

“Yes. I have heard they are strongmen who work for a notorious gaming house in Manchester—or was it York?—and they were sent to collect what Dr. Stradbroke owes.”

Caddy thought she might be ill. Not Neal. She would not believe it of him. Yet why would Oliver Carmichael tell her this unless it were so?

Mother put Caddy’s roiling disbelief in words. “I cannot believe that is true. I am not impugning your honesty, Mr. Carmichael. But I believe you may have received false information.”

He shook his head. “I have checked and rechecked my sources, Mrs. Bainbridge. I am sad to say it looks like the good doctor is an irresolute gambler. And a very unlucky one at that.”

“No.” Caddy’s throat almost choked on the word. “That is not possible.”

Oliver’s brows arched up into the fall of curly hair over his forehead. “And you are able to rise to his defense because he has told you everything about himself? Are you certain he has held nothing back?”

Caddy tripped on an uneven cobblestone and pressed her hand to the wall of the tea shop for stability. No. Neal had not told her everything about himself. Just the opposite, in fact. She knew almost nothing about him. Not in specific terms. But he did not seem like the kind of man who gambled to excess. Or at all.

Of course, Alastair Hambleton hadn’t seemed like the kind of man he turned out to be either.

Caddy fumbled with her reticule to fish out the key to her shop door. “Thank you for escorting us home, Mr. Carmichael. I wish you a good day.” She all but pulled Mother through the door, which she closed almost before he’d said his farewell.

“Cadence Bainbridge, that was unconscionably rude. I would not blame Mr. Carmichael if he never calls on you again.” Mother swept past, her full skirt pushing against Caddy’s and throwing her off balance again. Caddy blamed her imbalance on the aisle’s being too narrow for two wide skirts.

“Call on me? Is that what you think he’s been doing?” Caddy pressed the heel of her hand to her side, wishing she could disrobe and spend the day in her dressing gown and slippers. She needed time to think, time to rest, time to clear her head.

“Why else would a gentleman of his rank come not just to North Parade, but to a dressmaker’s shop?” Mother paused at the door to the stairwell and turned back to look at Caddy, her expression expectant of an answer.

“He . . . I do not know. But he has not made his intentions clear to me.”

“He extended an invitation to you for the servants’ ball at Chawley Abbey.”

“Yes, Mother, the
servants’
ball. He did not invite me to tea with his mother or to a ball at which anyone of
his
station would be present. His invitation merely reminds me of my place in the world. I am welcome to socialize with servants, but not with those above stairs.”

Caddy swallowed past tightness in her throat. “I have long since given up on the idea that a wealthy man of high social standing is going to swoop in and rescue me from my life of labor.”

With a huff, Mother threw open the stairwell door and disappeared.

Mother had no one to blame but herself. She had been the one to indulge in reading fairy tales to Caddy about poor young girls being rescued by princes and dukes. Even as a child, Caddy suspected that Mother wished her life had turned out more like one of those stories. Not that Caddy doubted her parents’ love for each other. But she knew how her mother hated the difficult life a clergyman brought to his family. And just when Father was about to move into a prime position in Oxford, which would have elevated not only his income but also the family’s social status, he died. Caddy was fairly certain Mother still had not forgiven him for that. Her dream of living inside the city walls of Oxford, of participating in social calls and events among the elite of the academic and religious community there, was torn away from her. She had been relegated to living the remainder of her life on the outside, wishing to get in and knowing she never would.

Apparently, Mother believed Oliver Carmichael’s sudden, inexplicable attention signaled the rebirth of her dream. But as affable as he’d always seemed, something inside Caddy warned her to keep her distance from him.

After a noon meal of bread, cheeses, and cold meat—and silence from Mother—Caddy changed into an old day dress and went down to the workroom. It needed a thorough cleaning and reorganizing, and she was in just the mood to do it, even if it did mean breaking the Sabbath with hard labor.

Hours later, with lamps burning and sweat rolling down her spine, Caddy stood with hands on hips and surveyed the room. Everything was back in its proper bin, container, drawer, or shelf. She’d found six silver needles, eight buttons, and too many pins to count amongst the dust, threads, and scraps caught under the armoires and chests of drawers. As much as she prided herself on keeping a clean workspace, the layer of dust and grime now covering her belied her efforts.

But now it was so clean Neal could perform surgery here.

Caddy closed her eyes and shook her head. She’d already expended too much mental energy on him today—after church and during the hours in which she’d been cleaning. She needed to move on, to think about something, about someone, else.

She doused the lamps and made her aching feet and legs carry her upstairs. Mother still sat in her armchair beside the fireplace embroidering a shawl, as she had done all afternoon. Caddy crossed the room to stoke the fire.

When Mother said nary a word and did not look up from her needlework, Caddy retreated to the kitchen, where she set the largest pot on the stove to heat water and pulled out the hip bath.

She’d once caught sight of an enormous porcelain bathing tub in a small room attached to Lady Carmichael’s suite. Not only did it have its own permanent place, the maids did not have to pump water for it at the sink. A tap attached to the tub could be turned and hot water flowed freely to fill the bath.

Her own sigh caught her by surprise. She’d always been content with her life. Indeed, it was the only one she’d known. But her sojourns into the homes of her wealthy clients had given her a glimpse into what life could be like if one had the money to afford such luxuries as lady’s maids and porcelain bathtubs.

She poured the boiling water into the small metal tub, refilled the pot, and heaved it back onto the stove. By the time she retrieved her toiletries and dressing gown from her room, the second pot of water was steaming.

The additional hot water filled the small tub halfway. Caddy filled the pot yet again and set it on the back of the stove to warm, to be ready to wash her hair in a little while.

Her bath did not take long, uncomfortable as the hip bath was. Oh, to have a tub like Lady Carmichael’s, in which she could submerge fully—legs and feet included.

“Stop it. Be grateful you have this.” Caddy spoke her reprimand aloud. “Think of those women at the castle with no tubs for bathing at all.”

“Yes, those women do have a harder life than we do.”

Caddy nearly jumped from the tub at her mother’s soft voice. Even though only she and Mother were home on Sunday nights, she’d set up a screen for modesty’s sake. Which was why she hadn’t noticed Mother’s entrance to the kitchen.

“Did you want to take a bath tonight, Mother?”

“No, I will wait for Mary’s help tomorrow. I came in to see if you’d like some help washing your hair.”

Frowning, Caddy reached for her towel. “You haven’t had to help me with that since I was a young child.”

“I know. I just thought . . . I thought it would be a way to apologize to you without actually needing to say I’m sorry.”

Caddy finished drying and wrapped her dressing gown around her before moving the screen out of the way.

Mother sat at the table, hands folded, looking for all the world like a reprimanded child. “I never meant to push you toward Mr. Carmichael if you do not like him. I know what it is to have a mother whose idea of a good marriage is finding the wealthiest man whose attention could be captured.”

“But Father—”

“Was not the man my mother wanted me to marry. She grew up a farmer’s daughter and became a farmer’s wife. When the son of the local magistrate—the man who owned the largest estate in the county—showed interest in me, my mother did everything she could to encourage the match. She cared not that he was boorish and rude, always making cutting remarks about people who were supposedly his good friends and wanting to pursue nothing more than sport and pleasure.” Mother looked up. “I do not know if Mr. Carmichael is the same or not, but I will not do to you what my mother did to me.”

Caddy sank into the chair across the corner of the table from Mother. She had never heard much about her grandparents. “What did she do?”

“When I refused to place myself in a compromising position so that he would be forced to marry me, Mama locked me in my room and withheld food, trying to get me to agree. She didn’t know that I had already met and been secretly courted by your father and that I was already in love with him.” A vague smile of reminiscence overtook Mother’s face. “She also did not know that I was just as stubborn as she. And that Papa was sneaking food to me.”

“How long did you stay locked in your room?” Caddy leaned forward, horrified at the story, but fascinated at the rare peek into her mother’s past.

“Three days. Father finally convinced her that if I died of starvation, it would raise too many questions. And I realized I could use that against her. I refused to eat until she agreed that I could marry whomever I wished.” Mother wiped at the moisture welling in her eyes. “If only Mama had lived to see you born, my darling daughter. She would have forgiven me for not marrying the magistrate’s son.”

Caddy gasped. “She never forgave you for marrying Father?”

Mother patted Caddy’s hands. “She did. But whenever we had a row—which was quite often, given how stubborn we both were—she would accuse me of marrying your dear father just to spite her. She did grow to love him, though, in the end.”

Shoulders slumped, Caddy sighed. “I shall never have that kind of love, I fear.”

“I pray every day it will come to you. I had hoped . . . but, alas, I will not push my hopes and dreams onto you. You already try too hard to please me—you are so like your father in that. I am afraid that I might become my mother and you would give in rather than displease me.”