Of Noble Birth (5 page)

Richard shrugged and pointed. “I’ll go this
way, you go that way. We’ll meet back at the tavern, where Trenton
is waiting for us.” Then he dashed away, leaving Nathaniel to
charge ahead in the direction specified and to pray they could both
escape.

Tree branches clawed at
Nathaniel’s face and clothing as he goaded his horse through the
thickest part of the forest. Whoever he had heard back at the lake
sounded as though they were on foot, but there was no way to know
for sure. God willing, even if they had mounts, he could
outdistance them.

After climbing a rocky
hill and descending an embankment on the other side, Nathaniel came
to a stream. He couldn’t hear anyone behind him, but he wasn’t
about to wait to see if he was being followed. Nudging his horse
with his heels, he spurred it into the stream, then gasped as the
icy water soaked him almost to his thighs.

Heading up a small dale
and around the outskirts of the village, Nathaniel hoped to find
Richard as he circled back to the east. But except for a few
rambling carriages heading home from some dinner party or play, the
road remained empty. Perhaps Richard was ahead of him.

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.”