Historical Romance Boxed Set (5 page)

Known for its hot wells and the medicinal spring rising out of Saint Vincent’s Rocks, Bristol drew tourists by the droves, and Nathaniel encountered more carriages as he came into the city. He passed Queen’s Square, then turned left, heading to Farley’s Tavern.

Trenton was waiting there, as planned, when he arrived.

“Where’s Richard?” Nathaniel asked, still breathless with excitement.

Trenton looked up from the table in surprise. “What do you mean? He was with you.”

Nathaniel glanced around, still wary, then slipped into the booth. “Someone surprised us, and we had to split up.”

“Then he’ll come.” Trenton stared at Nathaniel for a few moments, his fingers drumming agitatedly on the table, then added, “Maybe you should head back to the ship and get ready to sail. With that arm of yours, you’ll hardly go unnoticed. I’ll wait for Richard.”

Trenton’s logic made sense. Nathaniel’s arm would only increase the chances of getting them all caught if he stayed. Nodding, he stood and tried to imbue his next words with a conviction he didn’t feel. “If he hasn’t come by three o’clock, we’ll have to sail without him.”

“God willing, he’ll be here by then.”

“God willing,” Nathaniel repeated, and headed out.

* * *

Nathaniel encountered nothing more exciting than a drunk beggar lying amid the garbage in the gutters as he wound through the back alleys of the city toward the wharf.

The ships waiting at the docks tugged and swayed against their ropes, groaning loudly, as if protesting their captivity, while the familiar scents of salt, guano, and rotting wood rose to Nathaniel’s nostrils. He easily spotted the
Vengeance
and hurried aboard, but the wait proved agonizing.

When Trenton finally arrived at the ship, it was after four in the morning. Unfortunately, he was alone.

“What happened?” Nathaniel asked as soon as his first mate climbed aboard.

“Let’s get out of here. Mary sent a note to the tavern. The duke’s got Richard.”

Nathaniel groaned and dropped his head in his hand. “Did they catch her, too?” he asked, looking up.

“Evidently not. With over fifty servants in the house and on the grounds, it could be some time before your father figures out who you were there to meet. With any luck, he never will.”

“We can’t leave Richard,” Nathaniel said, watching Richard’s brother John make his way over to them. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“Well change it back. There’s nothing we can do for him now,” Trenton argued. “The duke has hired some men, and they’re scouring the city looking for us.”

Nathaniel glanced back at the lights of Bristol and cursed. What now? He hadn’t known Richard long, but the man had already proven himself a loyal friend. Still, getting them all caught served no purpose. “Raise anchor,” he said at last.

“Wait! We have to go back,” John exclaimed.

“No, Trenton’s right,” Nathaniel told him. “No doubt my father hopes we’ll do just that. We’ve got to outsmart him somehow, get Richard back another way.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” John asked incredulously.

“By using our heads.” Nathaniel pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping some brilliant idea would occur to him. “Anything is possible with a little bit of leverage,” he said at last. “What if we took something the duke wanted badly enough that he’d be willing, even eager, to trade—”

“Yes!” Trenton slammed a fist into his hand and looked excitedly at Nathaniel. “That could work. What about the cargo from his last ship?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “He’s too rich and too angry to give Richard up for money. It has to be something else… something he simply can’t refuse.”

“Wait.” A gleam entered Trenton’s eye. “Your father has a daughter, doesn’t he?”

“Aye.” Nathaniel watched Trenton’s face split into a smile as his friend’s thoughts became obvious. Then a grin tempted the corners of his own mouth. “Aye,” he repeated softly, “that he does.”

* * *

Manchester was famous for its spinning mills. More than seventy sprawled off its wide streets, kingpins amid the pubs, pawnbrokers, rambling warehouses, and surrounding slums. Some were four or even five stories high and housed as many as a thousand workers. All were ugly, irregularly shaped giants that hummed and whirred and belched soot into the air through long snouts that turned everything a dismal gray.

Alexandra hardly noticed. She was too accustomed to the factories and the soot they produced to condemn their existence. And she could think of little besides her goal. Would Fobart’s manager give her the money? What could she say to convince him?

She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. Willy had been deeply asleep on the couch when she left, his stubble-covered jaw slack, snores and grunts resounding. But her fear of her stepfather was strong enough to make her believe he would catch her no matter what, and only by taking a firm hold of such emotion was she able to remain committed to her plan.

Readjusting the small bundle of belongings she had quickly gathered and hidden beneath her skirts, she swung Madame Fobart’s skirts over her shoulder and strode from the muddy little court where she lived and worked past Piccadilly Street and into the heart of the city. As she entered the crush of the noon hour, mill workers elbowed past, eager to use the brief respite from work to meet a comrade or get a bite to eat. Merchants hustled about as well, soliciting what business they could. Even a few masters, those who owned or ran the factories, could be seen on the street that day. Their carriages rumbled through town, pulled by fine horses and driven by liveried servants.

Hurrying west, Alexandra forced a smile at the many tired faces she passed as grimy buildings and crowded streets finally gave way to patches of green grass here and there. Small, neatly manicured gardens lay beneath patches of snow, adorning houses that grew steadily larger until Alexandra spotted Madame Fobart’s.

The dressmaker’s was painted in shades of pink and green and trimmed in white. A rosebush, devoid of blooms, scaled the turned posts of a wide verandah. Stairs led to a massive oak door with a heavy brass knocker. Nothing indicated that the building was anything more than the mansion of an aristocrat or merchant, except for a lace vest hanging on a brass rod outside one of its three plate-glass windows. Anything more obvious would seem vulgar to the genteel class. Madame Fobart’s catered to Manchester’s elite. The women of the ton came to her for their most exquisite gowns of rich silk or velvet.

And the bonnets! Madame’s milliners were some of the most skilled Alexandra had ever seen.

Though Madame Fobart employed a veritable army of seamstresses, skirts were hired out. Alexandra highly doubted Madame’s patrons ever faced the fact that impoverished hands stitched part of their gowns. The rich certainly paid enough for their apparel. Alexandra guessed that many of that noble class would faint if they acknowledged the truth, and she cringed at the memory of the tales that had recently circulated. One story told of the death of a great lady made ill by some poor needlewoman who had used the garments she sewed as coverings for her sick child.

Considering the circumstances of many in her profession, Alexandra believed the report. Yet she was so anxious for work, as most were, that she guiltily hoped such stories would not affect her livelihood. Especially now that she would be on her own. It was likely they would not. Hiring out was an excellent way to garner big profits and was by no means exclusive to Madame Fobart’s. Skirts could be made without fitting and were easy to sew, with primarily straight seams. Production was the key to success, after all, and spring, the busiest of all seasons, was well on its way.

Alexandra knew better than to call at the front door. She hefted the heavy skirts to her other shoulder and headed to the servants’ entrance in back, but today it took several knocks to rouse anyone from inside.

Finally the door opened and a willowy servant stuck her head out. “Yes?”

“I’ve come to make a delivery,” Alexandra said, her voice sounding abnormally loud in the quiet of the afternoon. No doubt Willy would be eager to collect such a large amount once she’d delivered the skirts.

She only hoped she would be well on her way by then. “I hope I’m not too late.”

The girl dried dripping hands on her apron. She appeared to be one of the kitchen help, possibly a scullery maid.

“Time doesn’t matter much today,” she replied. “Almost everybody’s at a picnic in the country with Madame ‘erself. Even most of the servants, except those of us who ‘ad to stay an’ prepare the evenin’ meal.”

“Oh.” Alexandra’s spirits fell as she realized that her plans to meet Aunt Pauline might be foiled from the onset. “Is there no one here to receive the order, then? I’ve come all this way.”

The girl looked doubtful. “Mr. Calvert is ‘ere, but I don’t think ‘e’ll see you. Busy with a client, ‘e is.”

“But he told me to come today,” she said, keeping her voice level. She dared not complain too loudly. Madame Fobart’s manager was difficult to deal with on a good day.

“I’m sorry—”

“I’ll come tomorrow.” Alexandra could hardly stifle her disappointment as she started back through the yard. She would never have enough for the train to London now.

“Wait.” Eyeing her heavy load again, the servant called her back. “I could ask ‘im, but if ‘e sends me packin’ for interruptin’ ‘im, I guess we’ll both know it wasn’t such a good idea.” She flashed an impish smile before retreating into the house.

Alexandra waited on the step for several minutes, tapping her foot. What could be taking so long? The train to London departed at three o’clock, and she knew, time constraints being what they were, she should be on it.

Just when she was about to knock again, the door opened, but it wasn’t the willowy maid who poked a head out. It was Mr. Calvert, wearing his usual tight-fitting broadcloth waistcoat and dark, tapered trousers. Surprisingly, his face creased into a smile. “Miss Cobwell, isn’t it? Please, do come inside.”

He held the door as she passed into a large room just off the kitchen where pegs, normally draped with shawls, lined the walls.

“It’s Cogsworth. Alexandra Cogsworth,” she corrected, dipping into a brief curtsey.

“Of course.” He lifted the skirts from her aching arms and set them on a table.

“I’m sorry to disturb you today, Mr. Calvert—”

“Don’t apologize.” He waved her words away, baffling her with his uncharacteristic kindness. Madame’s manager was always curt, and frugal beyond belief. Alexandra didn’t like him. He cared not at all that his hammer-tough negotiations resulted in human beings slaving all day for next to nothing.

“Actually, my dear, your visit is timely,” he exclaimed, dabbing at the perspiration on his hairless brow. “Would you believe the daughter of the Duke of Greystone is standing in the drawing room this very minute with a nasty tear in her skirts? And alas! I have no seamstresses. They have all taken the day off. I’d almost forgotten that the skirts were due back until Sonya persisted in making me aware. Then I thought to myself, God has not left me bereft after all. Certainly any needlewoman with half a”—he cleared his throat—”I mean, after all the work we’ve given to your shop, certainly you could assist me rather than disappoint Lady Anne. Of course, you won’t mention that you haven’t formerly worked among the finer establishments.”

Alexandra hesitated. She was certainly capable of fixing the gown, but time was short. And being invited into the same room as a titled lady was incredible enough, without pretending to be one of Madame Fobart’s own girls. Why, every one of them paid a hefty price to apprentice, and for a good number of years before they made a salary as seamstress. Only the best ever became show women, taking measurements, helping to select fabrics and accoutrements, then passing the orders on to others who worked behind the scenes.

Still, Mr. Calvert had presented her with an opportunity. Perhaps it was the opportunity she’d been looking for.

“Actually, my stepfather asked me to collect for the skirts,” she said, holding her breath as she looked into Mr. Calvert’s watery eyes. “Once I’ve received payment, I’m sure it would be a small matter to fix the lady’s dress.”

His eyes narrowed, evidence that he understood her suggestion to be the demand that it was. “Willy usually takes care of such business.”

“I know, but he’s not well today, and we… I mean he… he needs the money, you see.”

Calvert glanced over his shoulder. “I haven’t time to deal with such issues now. After—”

“It shouldn’t take but a moment.”

He scowled. “Fine. Here.” Reaching into his pocket, he shoved several notes toward Alexandra, obviously more worried about the noblewoman awaiting his return than anything else. “Here’s at least half, but you’ll receive no more until you’ve finished with my client. You are competent, are you not?”

“Of course.” Alexandra’s heart pounded as she took the money from Calvert’s outstretched hand.

“I’ve sewed since I was small. But what about my clothes?” She was sure her dress constituted nothing better than a rag by Mr. Calvert’s standards.

“Sonya will fetch something that’s appropriate. We’ve a girl who looks to be about your size, though you’re quite thin. Come, we mustn’t keep Lady Anne waiting.”

Alexandra felt gratified by her small victory over Calvert, but still she hesitated. She had never served the rich, her mother’s world. The very thought made her jumpy. What if her fingers shook?

Reminded of her hands, Alexandra groaned inwardly. Her mother had been a lady, and she could act the part easily enough. But her hands were working hands. Callused and pinpricked, they were the most obvious sign of her low station.

Before Alexandra could voice her concern, Calvert moved away, obviously eager to return to his influential client. She stared at his broad back as he disappeared down the hall toward the front of the house, then swallowed hard.

Money or not, it was too late to refuse.

* * *

Spouting directions in a high, spirited voice, Sonya dropped a silk dress over Alexandra’s head. As Mr. Calvert had predicted, it was a bit large. “Do ye know ‘ow ter carry yerself?” she asked.