The Dowry of Miss Lydia Clark (17 page)

“Leave London? But—”

“Just until August or so. Or until Averyl discovers that she has no liking for the social life here. And we certainly can’t afford to be seen together while she’s here. People will turn blind eyes to certain things when the wife is away, but if she discovers evidence to divorce me on grounds of adultery, I’ll lose everything.”

Noelle knew next to nothing of the law, even after spending three years as a lawmaker’s courtesan, but that sounded likely. Especially considering that Quetin was bankrupt at the time he married his much-older wife.

“When? And where?”

“You’ll be out in the country where no one knows either of us. It’s a charming little village, Mr. Radley tells me.”

“Who?”

He sighed. “My solicitor, Noelle. You’ve met him several times. You know, it’s an irritating habit you have, forgetting names.”

Her little memory lapses had nothing to do with the devastating news he had just dropped into her lap, so why did he feel compelled to deliver another lecture at this moment? But in the interest of harmony, she merely replied, “I never forget the name of anyone who’s important, Quetin.”

“But you never know when someone might turn out to be important.”

“I’ll try to do better,” she promised, not for the first time.

“Good.” He glanced away for a fraction of a second. “And you’ll leave Wednesday.”

Noelle’s breath caught in her throat. “In two days? But I can’t possibly be packed by—”

“I’ll have a trunk sent around. Just pack what you can. Four months isn’t forever, you know.”

“My furniture?” She had just refurbished the flat only six months ago, filling the four rooms with elegant Louis XIII reproductions.

“You’ll have no need of it in the lodging house where I’ve made arrangements for you to board. I’m keeping the flat, so it’ll be here waiting for you.” His brow furrowed thoughtfully. “But perhaps you should give me your jewelry to store in my safe. You’ll have scant need for it in a country village, and you don’t want to concern yourself about some chambermaid rummaging through it when you aren’t in your room.”

Noelle lovingly touched the emerald bracelet on her wrist, a birthday gift from Quetin just three months ago. The gold metal felt lustrous against her skin. Give up her jewelry, even for four months? “I could bring a box and key…”

“Too risky. Just keep out the costume pieces, if you wish. That’s all you’ll need.” He narrowed his eyes with mock severity. “Unless you plan to bedeck yourself with jewels and flirt with other men while you’re there.”

“I just may,” she murmured coyly, wishing she felt as lighthearted as the tone of her words. She could tell by his expression that he was growing weary of having to reassure her. He would leave if she became too taxing.
You have to be brave
, she told herself. Well, she could do that. She managed to give him a smile. “I’m sure it will work out just fine, Quetin.”

Cocking an eyebrow again, he said, “You mean that?”

Would it do any good if I didn’t?
“Yes. I suppose one can endure almost anything for four months.” But a little sigh escaped her. “Did Mr. Radley tell you the name of this…this village?”

Quetin nodded. “I believe it’s called Gresham.”

“Well, I think it’s ludicrous,” Valerie Bradburn, tall, pale and lithe, said as her red-tipped fingers snapped and shuffled the playing cards that evening. “So she expects to waltz into town and become a grand dame of society? I’ve seen the woman before—she’s a cow!”

Gathered at Noelle’s dining table for a game of
Speculation
were her only female friends, each who had arrangements with other members of Parliament. Of the three, only Valerie had once been married. Titian-haired Geneva Hunt, who sometimes drank too much wine and then wept over her mistreatment by the aunt who raised her, actually kept company with a member of the House of Commons, but Noelle thought no less of her for that. In fact, the only one of the three she had less than amiable feelings for was Meara Desmond, seated across from her. Dark and full-figured, with the amber-spoked eyes of a cat, the Irishwoman now wore the infuriating expression of someone who is harboring an amusing secret and not inclined to share it.

One would have assumed that Meara wouldn’t feel so smug, since her benefactor, Lord Ogden, was stricken with palsy and had to leave London for Norwich. No doubt he still provided for her financially, but the word was that his health was failing rapidly, and Noelle couldn’t imagine his widow continuing Meara’s support.

Just the notion of Lady Ogden writing out monthly cheques for her husband’s former mistress made Noelle smile to herself. But then considering the fact that Lord Ogden was a repulsive-looking man with foul breath and a ridiculous powdered wig, perhaps Lady Ogden would feel beholden to Meara after all.

“Noelle, what’s the name of that town?” Geneva asked while peering thoughtfully at the three playing cards fanned covertly in the palm of her hand. Her words were already beginning to slur. Another half hour and she would be relating how she was forced to scrub chamber pots or polish floors because her aunt considered her no more than an unpaid servant.

Not tonight
, Noelle pleaded silently, in spite of her fondness for Geneva. There was enough misery in the present to be mulling over the pain of the past. In reply to her friend’s question she said, “Gresham.”

“Gresham.” Valerie shook her head and snapped a card, facedown, upon the table. “How far away is it?”

“About eight hours I suppose, taking into account stops at every little depot along the way.” She sighed. “Quetin has promised to visit as often as he can get away, but it’s going to be at least August before I see any of you again. I’ll be so lonesome!”

Over the rim of her wine glass, Meara’s cat-eyes gave her a genuinely sympathetic look. In her soft Irish brogue she said, “There, there, Noelle. You’ll have your fellow lodgers to keep you company.”

“Well, the very thought of it makes me want to weep,” Valerie declared loyally. “I wish we had more time to spend with you before you leave. But Lord Paxton will want you all to himself tomorrow, no doubt.”

Noelle, in fact, did have doubts about that, for he had not mentioned doing so. But she could not admit those doubts, even to Valerie and Geneva. They were friends, yes, but still practiced a good deal of one-upmanship over who was pampered the most. How could she now admit to them her fears of late that he was growing bored with her?
It’ll be good, my being away
, she tried to reassure herself while staring blankly at the trio of cards in her hand. In her absence he would see just how tightly their lives were connected and how much he needed her.

Chapter 11

As Noelle had feared, Quetin did not come the next morning when the trunk he sent for her arrived. She had little opportunity to brood over it though, as she had to keep a constant eye on Nelda to see that she folded her clothes correctly. Only a half dozen times did she peer out the window and try to catch sight of Quetin through a drizzling rain.

By midafternoon she knew with all certainty that she would not see him until tomorrow. She dismissed Nelda for the day—not out of consideration, but because she feared the girl would attempt to lift something from the trunk if left alone. Exiting the apartment building, Noelle scanned both directions for a passing hansom. Finally she gave up and walked a quarter of a block to a hansom stand. “Cheapside,” she told the driver. “The cigar store across from the Bow Church.”

The horse worked its way methodically down the cobbled streets in a tedious file of carriages, cabs, omnibuses, and carts. It seemed that everyone in London but her had some purpose to attend of his own choosing. She, on the other hand, felt like a leaf at the mercy of a capricious wind. She had no more control over the events that were now propelling her toward an unknown future than did the horse in harness over which direction he would take. It was an unsettling and frightening place to be.

As the hansom carried her past Sir Robert Peel’s statue where Newgate flowed into Cheapside, she could see the steeple of Saint Marylebow’s off to her right, soaring above the rows of houses huddled against it on either side. The driver reined the horse in front of
Wetherly’s Imported Cigars
, as instructed, and hopped down from his precarious perch behind the passenger seat to assist her to the walkway. For that courtesy Noelle added threepence to the two-shilling fare and then walked over to stand under the awning of the cigar shop. Better to stay in the shadows, even though the street traffic constantly interfered with her view of the narrow, three-story brick building to the right of the church. The vicarage looked the same with its wrought-iron fence separating the walkway from a tiny garden. The shutters were new, yet still the same olive green as before. It seemed to Noelle that if a person were to have to replace shutters, one would want to try a different color. But then, there was the risk that some of her father’s parishioners would disapprove of the change.

To say that the church was important to her family would have been an understatement. Just as it towered over their home physically, it overshadowed every waking moment and activity. Plans were made with the unsaid understanding that her father may or may not be present. Countless times his place at the dinner table had been empty because he was off ministering to some other family. Usually it was to provide solace during time of illness or bereavement, for the parish of Marylebow was an old one, with many elderly parishioners. Noelle spent her childhood envying the members of her father’s congregation for their access to him—she was twelve or thirteen when it occurred to her that she also was a member. That revelation had only intensified the abandonment she felt.

Fat, sparse raindrops began pelting the canvas above her. She was glad for the rain, for that lessened the chance that someone would leave the house and spot her. Of course it would take a blizzard to stop her father from his missions of mercy. She had heard that Aaron, her older brother, married last year. And Oswald married three years ago. That left only two sisters and a brother at home. Young or old, they were cut from the same cloth. Pious and industrious, content with their Sunday leg-of-lamb and Wednesday roast beef, piano lessons and choral practices, latest issues of
Sunday at Home
and, for the younger ones,
Sunday Scholar’s Reward
.

The cobbler’s children have no shoes
, Noelle thought, for most activities even bearing the name “Christian” had not provided the spiritual nurturing she had thirsted for after coming to a personal faith at the age of eleven.
Be a good example
was the only catechism she absorbed. So when she found that harder and harder to do, it became easier and easier to push God to the back of her mind.

She had never felt she fit in her family anyway. And especially not after she left home three years ago—only weeks after she had met Quetin in a millinery shop, where he was purchasing a hat for a woman who would soon become his former mistress.

The notion that one of their daughters was a
kept woman
was too much for Noelle’s parents. When her father stoically informed her that she was no longer welcome beyond the threshold, the reason he gave was that she would be a bad influence upon her younger sisters. But Noelle suspected the chief reason was fear that his parishioners would find out and perhaps demand of the diocese a less tainted-byscandal minister.

“Do you require assistance, miss?”

Noelle turned to the man standing in the doorway behind her.
Mr. Wetherly
, she recognized, the proprietor of the cigar shop. “No, thank you.”

Instead of returning to his business as she hoped he would, he raised his balding head to peer at her through the spectacles perched upon the tip of his nose. “Miss Somerville? Is that you?”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Noelle turned her attention again to the building across the street. She heard the door close behind her. The thickening rain blended outlines of the passing vehicles with the gray of the street. Still, her eye caught movement at a second-story window. The drapes were parted, a shadowy figure lowered the glass and then disappeared as the curtains fell back into place. A lump welled in her throat. It could have been anyone—a housemaid, her mother, or one of her siblings. Whoever it was, Noelle had the feeling this person was the last tenuous link she would ever have with her family.

A hackney cab approached. The mackintosh-clad driver spotted the handkerchief she waved, reined his horse to a stop, and held an umbrella over her as he assisted her from the walkway to the carriage.