Marrying the Mistress (11 page)

‘He needs brothers and sisters, too,' he said, watching my eyes turn away, my lips part for the sigh that followed.

That was the last weapon left to me, after marriage, the one thing I could hold on to longest in my quest for retribution, though which of us would feel most pain was open to question. How long could I hold out against him? How long would his patience last? He was right about Jamie needing siblings, but one could not ignore the element of self-seeking that went with it. His kisses were telling me that.

He read my expression correctly. ‘No, you're right,' he said. ‘One thing at a time. We've made some progress, and I have to be content with that.' He lifted
a fistful of my hair and held it on top of my head, with strands wandering into my eyes. ‘Beautiful black witch,' he murmured. ‘I lie. I'm not content, but it will have to do. As for your family and business, let me deal with that. Trust me?'

‘I may not always agree with you, my lord, but I cannot fault
your
reliability.'

‘
That
was taken out of context. One day, I'll explain it to you. The day after tomorrow is the ball and my parents will be over here for the weekend. Will you bring Jamie to see them on Sunday? For a family lunch?'

‘Yes, we'll come. Thank you.'

‘Good. Then I'll send a carriage for you.' Taking my hand from his chest, he touched my knuckles with his lips. ‘Go to bed early and don't lose any more sleep over it. We had to come to an understanding sooner or later, did we not, Miss Follet?'

‘For all our sakes,' I said.

But too much had happened for my thoughts to quit the future and lie quiet in the present, and sleep came nowhere near till the town-crier had called out the hour for the third time and Debbie had brought some warm milk to calm me. One thing that gave me some peace of mind, however, was that I had not shared his beautiful body with the Slatterly woman.

* * *

Next morning, with Winterson's caution still uppermost in my mind, I went straight to the shop to remove the incriminating notice from the window. Quite what had possessed me to put it there in the first place I will never understand—it was what we had always done
without thinking of the possible consequences. Prue was not there, though she had been in.

‘She's left a message for you, ma'am,' said Betty, the senior seamstress.

Propped up against a pile of calicoes was a hastily written note, very much to the point.
Mother v. ill.
Father in a state. Dare not leave them. Sorry. Prue
.

It was bad timing. Perhaps the cold had affected them. Her unscheduled absence, however, made it easier for me to take some positive action in advance of any snooping visits from the Customs and Excise Men, a fear that had stayed with me since Winterson's call. With Prue out of the way I would do as I pleased and remove the damning evidence while there was still time, and none of the sewing-women making the least objection when I explained what we would do.

The unused cellar was ankle-deep in flood water from the street outside, but as each package was placed in the niches set into the darkest wall, this proved to be the safest of all places, the only one too uninviting to be investigated fully.

* * *

As if some supernatural clockwork had been set in motion, we were visited that same afternoon by two dour gentlemen who asked with the greatest courtesy if they might inspect our property in the name of His Brittanic Majesty King George III. As if we had any choice.

Well acquainted with Customs Officers, I found little that was unfamiliar about these two, and nothing that ought to have caused the alarm I felt, or the fear, the appalling guilt, the sickly terror of being just in time, and
the dread that something relevant had been missed out. I could only pray that the women would answer any questions calmly, for I'd had little time to brief them. ‘Do you seek anything in particular, gentlemen?' I said. ‘Where would you like to begin?'

Their eyes darted, missing nothing, but they were uncommunicative. They fingered the fabrics, lifted rolls, drapes and boxes, but we could all see they didn't know a poplin from a kerseymere. One lifted a length of heavy Argentan lace attached to the dress Betty was stitching. ‘Where's this from?' he said, rubbing it between finger and thumb.

Betty hardly paused. ‘Nottingham,' she said. ‘And Maudie's sewing Bedford, and over there is the Limerick, and that pile you've been looking at is Devon, and that bobbin lace is from Buckinghamshire. It's known as…Bucks…point…' But with a lift of his eyebrows, the man had moved on.

‘You have a loft, ma'am?' said the other man.

‘Yes, indeed we do. The ladder is over there in the corner.'

He clambered up, but came down again immediately. ‘There's nothing there but chairs,' he said, pained.

‘No, that's very true.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because we can't get up there, can we?' I replied with a hint of impatience. ‘Everything we sell is on show to our customers, not in a loft.'

The pulling out of drawers, hampers and baskets went on, bolts of fabrics were toppled to expose walls that had to be tapped, with ears pressed against them. ‘You have cellars?' the man said, frowning at the floor.

‘Yes, the trapdoor is in the kitchen, but we don't keep anything down there. It's too damp.'

Nevertheless, they took one look down into the murky hole, saw their lamps reflected on the water and closed the lid with a grunt of acceptance. ‘What's through there, ma'am?' said the man, indicating the fitting rooms.

‘My customers, sir. By all means take a look, but please don't go into the fitting rooms without a warning, or I might never see them again.'

‘So where do
these
fabrics come from, exactly?'

From the drawer of my desk I brought out a sheaf of receipts and pointed out to him the recent dates. ‘Mostly from Manchester, but some from Sampson and Snape's warehouses in London, some from Paisley near Glasgow. Shawls, see? Some from Norwich, too, stockings from Leicester and Derby, gloves from Worcester…' I spread the receipts out before him ‘…and silks and muslins from…'

‘Yes…yes, thank you, ma'am.'

‘…Blackburn, and cottons from…'

‘Thank you, yes. What about the bonnets?'

‘The millinery is made to order, sir. To match an outfit. The Lord Nelson turban is very
à la mode
, at the moment.' I took one off the wooden stand and passed it to him.

Gingerly, he took it off me, pulled a face and passed it to his colleague. ‘Nothing much Frenchified about that, Horace,' he muttered.

‘Nah, c'mon, we've seen enough.' Horace passed the turban back, like a bucket. ‘But you had a notice in your window saying something about these things being straight from Paris, didn't you?'

‘Yes.' I smiled. ‘Ladies always fall for that, sir. They
see the French modes in our fashion journals, so anything with a French name is bound to draw them in. A little deception, I know, but they understand.'

‘Bit of a wild goose chase, Horace.'

Horace looked at me with—I thought—a trace of sympathy. ‘I heard that Mr Linas Monkton passed on recently, ma'am. Very sad, that was. A lady such as yourself needs protection in these times. And a little lad, too, I believe. Pardon me, ma'am. No offence.'

‘None taken, sir,' I said, indulging in a moment of relief that the dreaded inspection had passed without incident. ‘But I
do
have some protection. Mr Monkton's family are very supportive. Lord Winterson is my son's guardian, and he keeps a very close eye on my business affairs.' It was a boast I never expected to make. I felt them both stiffen, heard them gulp, saw their eyes blink and widen with concern.

‘Lor…ahem!…Lord Winterson?'

‘Aye. He's a J.P., Horace, is Lord Winterson. Better be going, eh?'

‘Thank you, gentlemen. I shall tell him you did your job thoroughly and with courtesy. Good day to you both.'

The light outside was fading and a fine rain was beginning to spatter against the glass as I closed the door and leaned my forehead on the cool wall. A dizziness passed over me, reminding me that I had eaten no lunch that day. The danger was gone, the goods were safe, and I had used Winterson's name to protect myself from further investigation, which, to be honest, I ought not to have done. But the blissful feeling of security I had experienced as I spoke the name out loud seemed to outweigh all other considerations.

Coming along the passage to meet me, Betty took me into her arms to quell my shaking. ‘We all knew, ma'am,' she said. ‘None of us ever said nowt, but we knew. Come and have a nice cup o' tea.'

There was a slightly hysterical edge to our giggles as we nibbled our biscuits, the tea being just as likely to be smuggled by the tea merchant as our fabrics were by us. And the sugar by the grocer, for that matter.

Underlying that light-heartedness, though, ran another thread of concern about how we should all manage without the goods that had kept us in business for so long. It was not a problem I could discuss in the workroom, yet our handling that morning of the consignment brought by Pierre had only strengthened my suspicions that he must be playing some secret game of his own that I was not being allowed to share. His appearance in York, ostensibly to purchase my mother's medication, was in itself unusual, for I had taken enough to last her a month on my last visit, some of which had been double-strength for emergencies.

And who was the furtive scruffy character he'd been with in the coffee house? And why, for the second occasion, had Pierre found no time to call on me at home? Was his excuse a genuine one? Recalling Winterson's decision to accompany me to Foss Beck to meet my family, I wondered whether that would solve any of the problems or simply create new ones, in the light of Pierre's attachment to me. Though the outcome was hardly in question, I was still unwilling to be the cause of any bitterness between them. Perhaps the best thing, I thought, would be for me to go there alone, despite Winterson's instructions.

T
he terrible floods that followed the thaw brought tragedy just as severe as the crippling cold, and now instead of freezing to death, people fell victim to diseases borne upon the waters that carried effluent from broken cesspits into even the most respectable houses. Tavern taprooms were awash, the Guildhall cellars were flooded and, on my Friday visit to Lop Lane to see how Prue was managing, I discovered that the rats escaping from the water had gnawed their way through her store cupboard, eating everything remotely toothsome. Both her father and mother had gone down with the sickness by the time I arrived, and Prue herself was at her wits' end with worry. It was not the time to tell her about the Customs and Excise Men.

The apothecary on Petergate was running low on the standard remedies for such a prevalent complaint and had quite sold out of mallow-root and seeds for a decoction that rarely failed, in my experience. All he could offer me was powdered bistort root, a syrup
of dried roses, and distilled mint-water which, although soothing, were not what I would call outstandingly effective. I purchased all three and took them back to Lop Lane, then I set off to scour the other apothecaries, returning an hour later with a quantity of Dr James's Fever Powders, Analeptic Pills, and a bottle of Dr Benjamin Godfrey's Cordial that I'd seen advertised in the
York Mercury
, hoping that one of them would ease the distressing symptoms. I also sent round some candles and firewood, bread and milk, cheese, soup, clean bed linen and blankets in return for the soiled ones that poor Prue had been forced to use, underlining once again the difference in our circumstances.

She had once been my employer, but now I was reminded of how hard she must be finding it to care for two ailing parents in their dilapidated town house while keeping up the appearance of a thriving business. In some ways, my responsibilities were similar, but in my accommodation I was far more fortunate than Prue, and I longed to help her out instead of giving her the bad news about the smuggled goods that only waited to be told. Nor did it help my conscience much when Debbie assisted me with a final fitting of the ballgown I'd been making all week. If Prue had not insisted that I show it off for the sake of the business, I doubt I would have spent my time so indulgently.

Nevertheless, when Saturday came I could hardly contain a
frisson
of excitement as Debbie clipped a pair of small pearls on to my earlobes and then, finding little else for her fingers to adjust, she twisted long
tendrils of my hair like corkscrews and arranged them in front of my ears. She had threaded ropes of seed pearls through my coiled hair, but I would wear no other jewellery except a small pearl and moonstone brooch to clasp the folds of my gown upon one shoulder.

I had made the dress of white crape, a sheer silk gauze with a crimped surface that produced a matte effect, underneath which the soft sheen of a white satin undergown showed through when I moved. Narrow black satin ribbons crossed over the short bodice to outline my breasts, tying at the back in a bunch, the same ribbons edging the skirt above a narrow hem of black lace. It was a plain easy-to-wear style to suit many shapes and sizes, its greatest extravagance being in the rich drape of silk over satin, like moonshine behind a film of clouds edged with the darkness of night. To add another touch of luxury, I carried a black lace fan edged with black feathers, one of two sent by Pierre in the latest consignment. White satin slippers with pearl-studded buckles, silk stockings, long white satin gloves and a reticule trimmed with black beads completed the ensemble.

Although I was more or less satisfied with my appearance, I was still apprehensive and unable to dismiss the memory of that time, years ago, when the enigmatic Burl Winterson had partnered me, living up to his reputation as a thief of women's hearts. We had met on subsequent occasions at the Assembly Rooms when I was with his brother, but never again had he stood up with me for more than one dance, which I thought more likely to be a duty than a pleasure.

* * *

He came at eight to collect me, waiting at the bottom of the staircase to watch me descend, his eyes showing the kind of appreciation he had never revealed previously, I suppose for Linas's sake. He held out a hand to support me down the last stair, not knowing how the steely strength of his arm imparted the kind of secure confidence I'd never drawn from his brother. Then, I had been the supporter. This time, he would be my protector.

‘St Valentine's Day,' he said, quietly.

‘Yes.'

‘Six years ago, was it?'

‘Yes, my lord. It's surprising how much can happen to people in that time, isn't it? We've both changed,' I said, hurriedly, in case he was about to suggest we might start again at the beginning.

But he agreed with me. ‘We have indeed,' he said, ‘in many respects, although six years may also confirm first impressions, Miss Follet. In your case, motherhood has made you even lovelier than you were before, to my mind.'

‘For which I should offer you my thanks, my lord?'

His reply was a shade too prompt for civility. ‘Yes, I think you should. What kind of thanks did you have in mind?'

He always took my sarcasm too literally. ‘I'll think of something suitably momentous, if you give me time,' I said, looking round me. ‘I have my pattens somewhere, to carry me over the mud.'

‘You won't need them. I have a chair waiting outside.' Taking the black velvet cape from Debbie, he
draped it over my shoulders, still smiling at my snappy retort, making my heart lurch at the closeness of his hands. If I had indeed been improved by motherhood, then fatherhood had brought him closer to physical perfection than ever, and the thought of walking into a ballroom beside such a handsome beast made me resolve to get the most out of the experience, not to spoil it with petty bickering.

I had seen him in evening dress many times before, always attracting attention by the perfect cut of his coat, skin-tight white knee-breeches and stockings, his neck swathed in a snow-white cravat that set off the healthy outdoor skin of his lean cheeks. His hair, I noticed, had been trimmed, though it still curled, thick and luxurious, over the white muslin. My fingers itched to sink into it. ‘Thank you,' I said. ‘That was thoughtful.'

‘I would have had them bring it inside, but they'd have covered your hall floor with mud. So this is what we'll do.' So saying, he bade me place an arm around his neck, swooped me up into his arms and carried me down the steps to the sedan chair where I was placed in the cushioned interior without a speck of mud reaching the hem of my gown. Then, with the lid lowered and the door closed, I was swayed and jogged along the cobbles to the steps of the Assembly Rooms where a sea of colour dotted with black seethed upwards between the massive pillars into the portico, to the distant sound of a country dance in progress.

Chattering and squeals, shouts and giggles, wavings and trippings-up all contributed to the excitement of seeing and being seen, the promise of liaisons, the af
firmation of connections, comparisons, flirtations. It rubbed off on me too, as my eyes singled out the most interesting fashions and a few I had personally designed, sometimes sadly disfigured by fussy accessories, others improved by slender bodies and graceful steps to give them life. Aventurine and crimson, claret and cherry, geranium, azure, citrus and cinnamon, rose, violet mingled with black and white, hairstyles
à la
Grecque
, braided and wreathed
à la peruvienne
with ears of corn and feathers, turbans, lace caps and knots of hair like steeples. Sashes and shawls, sleeves of puckered net, necklines only a finger-width away from decency, bare shoulders and arms, looped trains and glimpses of silk-stockinged ankles all taken in by one sweeping glance as we followed the tide and waited to deposit our cloaks.

‘Lady Osmotherly, lovely to see you looking so much recovered. Lady Percival, so delighted to see you again. Mrs Knopp, I hoped you'd be here.' I curtsied to the exact degree, endorsing their patronage of Follet and Sanders. They trusted me with their most intimate secrets and I was accepted by them as a friend. Here in York, as in many other provincial towns, the social structure was less rigid than in London, barriers between the great northern families with centuries of inherited wealth and the
nouveau riche
having often been breached in the unsettled years of war with our neighbouring France. I knew their daughters, had been on the receiving end of their ambitions and disappointments, and had been asked for advice along with hints on fashion, which, as often as not, placed me in the role of confidant. Shy smiles were exchanged across the
jostling anteroom, smiles which then settled upon my well-known escort and back to me, approving or envying my choice. Little did they know what lay behind that choice.

After so many years of being held at a distance, it still came as something of a surprise to me that, when he wished it, Winterson could make me feel cherished and so necessary to his enjoyment. It was not what I was used to, nor was it what I'd seen of his offhand manner with other women and, although that never appeared to dampen their interest in him, it would certainly have inhibited mine if I'd been looking for a successor to Linas. What I had found acceptable in a lover six years ago and what I would accept now were two different things, small indefinable things like taking my cloak, offering me his arm, greeting my acquaintances and introducing me to his, none of which Linas had bothered with unless I prompted him.

Mr Medworth Monkton had been correct when he assured me that no one would remark on a show of solidarity in our ranks, he and Cynthia having arrived just ahead of us, already chatting animatedly to a group of friends who apparently saw nothing out of the ordinary in my being there with Linas's two brothers. Cynthia, wearing undiluted black from head to toe, was complimentary about my evening gown. ‘I might have known,' she said, ‘you'd create something out of the top drawer, Helene dear. That's a simply
glorious
gown. Do you not agree, my lord?'

‘I always agree with you, dear sister-in-law,' he replied, gazing abstractedly over my shoulder into the assembly. ‘Miss Follet is indeed a glorious creature.'
The last remark was made quietly as if half to himself and half to anyone who could catch the words and, as Cynthia's berry-eyes twinkled and widened, her husband drew her away with a hand on her elbow and a look of sheer mischief.

‘A game of faro, m'dear, and perhaps a glass of iced water after the shock of hearing Burl wax lyrical, eh? Come, my love. It may be catching.' He winked at me, in parting.

‘Shall we see you at supper?' I said.

‘Of course. I'm already starving.' Cynthia laughed, moving off.

‘I think you should be careful,' I murmured to Winterson.

‘Of what?'

‘Of where you direct your dry wit, my lord. Your sister-in-law is a dear lady and quite likely to take you seriously.'

‘And you do not, Miss Follet?'

‘I'm learning how to tell when you're talking moonshine.'

‘Then keep learning. I was not talking moonshine, and that was not an example of what you choose to call my dry wit. And you had better refrain from talking cant while you're wearing that dress. The two don't mix. Come over here and watch the dancing for a while.' Squeezing my arm with his, he led me through the throng, nodding and smiling at friends till we stood behind the dancers. At the far end of the ballroom, the orchestra swayed and gently perspired, flanked by marbled pillars, the gold-topped Corinthian capitals of which clung to each side of the creamy-green room, lit
by sparkling chandeliers that hung in crystal tiers above the moving pattern of figures.

Several times I moved away from him, but always found that he had come to rejoin me, and for an hour or so we were engaged in conversation with friends who accepted that neither of us intended to dance. But the talk returned again and again to the severe flooding that had devastated acres of good arable land, drowned many animals, ruined stores of hay and cut off entire villages for the second time in a month. The Vale of York with its wide river was now a disaster area, leaving few families untouched by its broken banks.

Prue, I was sure, would be happy to hear the compliments about the dress for, although it was not quite the done thing to comment, northern folk have fewer scruples about making known their likes and dislikes or issuing praise where they think it due. I didn't mind, sure we'd be seeing some new customers within the next week or two.

There was one, of course, whose compliments were less than direct. Lady Veronique Slatterly, looking like an overblown peony in a bright pink frilly creation and too much jewellery, wished to know more about the black lace fan. ‘Now where on
earth
did you find that?' she said, looking me over as if I'd got it all wrong. ‘It looks Parisian to me.'

‘I didn't find it,' I said. ‘It was given to me by my cousin Pierre. And it
is
Parisian.'