The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (4 page)

Tucking her reticule under her arm, she turned from the main road and stepped inside Mr. Kendal’s establishment. The shop assistant looked up at her entrance and his eyes narrowed. Without calling out a greeting, he slipped through a doorway and disappeared. She did her best to ignore the man’s behavior and went about her business, selecting several lengths of warm gray worsted for Joyce and Mrs. Wyatt, and some wool and cottons for Finn.

The bell over the door tinkled as it opened, and another shopper came into the store. After a cursory look around, Mrs. Gaffee cast a subjugating eye in Bethanne’s direction.

The assistant rushed back into the main room and straight to the side of the magistrate’s wife. “How can I assist you today, madam?” he asked. The man then proceeded to follow Mrs. Gaffee around the shop, carrying her purchases for her as made her selections.

Bethanne brushed the slight aside. Such behavior was hardly unexpected. She’d experienced that and worse over the last two years.

A new pattern of striped muslin in the corner caught her eye, blending rich blues and greens with gold threads. It would make a lovely dress for Aunt Rosaline, though the weather would be far too cold to wear something so frivolous for quite some time. Still, the bold colors might brighten Aunt Rosaline’s outlook someday. Besides, if Bethanne waited until spring, she could miss her opportunity to make the purchase.

Before she could change her mind, she picked up the fabric and added it to her other choices.

In the distance, Mrs. Gaffee had finished making her selections. The shop assistant situated her fabrics in a box. “And shall we charge this to your husband’s account today?” he asked.

Mrs. Gaffee nodded.

Mr. Kendal stepped in through the same doorway as his assistant had used. He sent a snooty look in Bethanne’s direction, staring through his spectacles down a long nose at the choices she’d made when she brought them to his counter. “And how will you be paying for your purchases today?” His words came out clipped and snide.

Bethanne looked questioningly at Mr. Kendal. What game was he playing? Her uncle, the Earl of Newcastle, had set up an account with the linen-draper more than eight years ago, and had never been delinquent with a payment to her knowledge. “Would you please add them to the account Lord Newcastle set up for my aunt’s household?”

“Afraid I can’t,” Mr. Kendal said. “We no longer extend credit to our customers.”

At Bethanne’s look of astonishment after glancing over her shoulder to see Mrs. Gaffee leaving with her purchases—acquired with the ostensibly no-longer-existent credit—he narrowed an eye at her, silently daring her to contradict him.

Causing a scene here, at her first stop, would only serve to draw out the torturous visit to town. Bethanne pulled her reticule open and sifted through it for her coin purse. She could use her pin money today. Perhaps she could find a way of informing Uncle Drake of this complication without him becoming suspicious as to the cause. Rousing his suspicions at the moment would not be very well done of her. For now, the Shelton family had been told that Finn was Joyce’s son…not that he was their kin.

Surely Jo and Tabitha could help her come up an excuse he’d believe. Her dearest cousins—the only ones who knew the truth of the situation, save those who lived at the cottage—were due to arrive for their visit in two days’ time.

In any case, it would be pin money well spent. “Very well. And how much does it come to today?”

The shopkeeper held out his hand, palm up. “Nine guineas, seven shillings, and sixpence.”

Her jaw nearly hit the counter between them. “Nine guineas?” Surely she had misheard him. She hadn’t expected the total to come to even half that amount. Bethanne glanced over the stack of fabrics, trying to determine the source of such a total.

“Yes. And seven shillings, sixpence.” Mr. Kendal continued holding his hand out, pulling his fingers back in a greedy, impatient gesture.

Bethanne counted out the coins and put them in his palm. It nearly emptied her purse. If another merchant refused to extend her uncle’s credit…but no, she couldn’t think that way. When she had paid him the full amount, he set a box out on the counter and stalked back through the doorway from which he’d come, leaving her to pack away her purchases on her own.

His assistant eyed her warily as she did so, his leering gaze following her every movement, almost as though he believed she would put something in her box she hadn’t paid for. For goodness’s sake, she was supposedly a fallen woman, not a thief.

Once she had it all situated, Bethanne hefted the box into her arms and left the shop as fast as she could. With her arms as full as they already were, making another stop right away would be madness. She headed back toward the stables to deposit it in the chaise.

Along the way, she passed by several gentlemen. Not one of them offered to help her carry her packages. Two of them, however, ogled her in a manner that insinuated they might be willing to offer her something else. She scurried away from them before they had the opportunity to make such an offer.

In the haberdashery, her reception was much the same as it had been at the linen-draper, though at least Mr. Roper allowed her to add her purchases to Uncle Drake’s account. After depositing the newest purchases in the chaise, Bethanne crossed the street to visit the butcher.

Mr. Drummond filled her order without speaking a word. With hardly a perfunctory glance in her direction, he loaded all of the meats into a massive box and placed it on the counter while she settled up the account. When they were finished, he started to leave the storefront.

“Do you have someone who can assist me with transferring it to my carriage?” Bethanne called out after him.

The butcher stopped and glared at her over his shoulder. “Why don’t you ask one of your swains for help?” Then he was gone.

Her
swains
, indeed. Bethanne looked at the crate. She’d purchased enough meats to feed the whole household for an entire fortnight. It had to weigh half as much as she did, if not more.

At least the grocer’s assistant, Mr. Byfield, usually assisted her with transporting the goods she bought there. He had never treated her as though she were a leper like half the town always did—nor had he ever treated her as a known lightskirt, like the other half of the town preferred to do.

He treated Bethanne like a lady.

But Mr. Byfield was not here, and no one who
was
here would lift a finger to assist her. Sliding the wooden box to the edge of the counter, Bethanne somehow slipped it off into her arms and made her way slowly to the door, which she pushed open with her hip. After a few steps along the street, she lost her footing and came crashing down to the ground, with the crate falling before her with a thud.

“Miss Shelton?”

Bethanne looked up, expecting to see Mr. Byfield coming to her rescue as he had done on countless other occasions. But it was not the grocer’s assistant who had dropped the reins of his horse and rushed to her side.

Lord Roman loomed over her, glowering down at her prone form.

Why in God’s name was the stubborn Miss Shelton attempting to carry such a massive burden on her own? Even more perplexing, why were none of the men standing about on the street aiding her?

Roman’s intentions of finding a quiet life, of leaving all the tumult and upheaval his life had been these last seventeen years behind and living a halcyon existence, were quickly becoming far-fetched dreams, thanks to this confounding woman.

He reached down and assisted Miss Shelton to her feet, ignoring the scandalized gasp she let out. “Are you injured?” He kept his hands at her waist, scouring her countenance for a grimace or a wince as he gradually loosened his grip and allowed her to hold her own weight. All he found there was fear.

Bit by bit, the expression of outraged disdain that had haunted his dreams last night—before they’d turned to the usual nightmares—started to peek through her frightened demeanor. “I am quite well, thank you.” Miss Shelton disentangled herself from his grasp and took two hurried steps back, brushing her hands over the skirt of her redingote as she turned away from him. Bent at the waist, she gave an immense tug to the crate of meats that had toppled her only moments before, to no avail.

If she hadn’t already sustained an injury, she would within moments. Roman couldn’t allow her to come to harm because of a streak of willful independence. Not that he wouldn’t like to do just that. Hadn’t he lost any remnants of honor he’d still had at Waterloo? Yet here it was, rearing its ugly head again. “Stand aside.”

“Good day to you, my lord,” Miss Shelton bit off, straining to lift the crate more than an inch off the ground. Just when she had it raised enough to get her hands beneath its weight, it crashed back to the ground again. She huffed, blowing the hair that had escaped her knot out of her eyes, and resumed her efforts. “I assure you, I can manage quite well on my own.”

Like hell she could. He’d seen how she
managed
things well enough yesterday at her cottage. “Rubbish,” he muttered. Roman picked her up—again—and moved her aside. He marveled that her waist was so trim. His hands could nearly span it entirely and meet in the middle.

She shook beneath his touch. “Unhand me.” Despite her obvious fear, her voice held steady. Was it him and him alone who scared her so? Or was she fearful of all men? Maybe she was just a timid little rabbit in general, frightened of anything and everything that crossed her path.

Uncanny as her behavior may be, Roman refused to exacerbate the situation. He dropped his hands and stepped away from her, ignoring the haste with which she backed away from him. “Where is your carriage?” he asked, easily hefting the box into his arms and settling it over one shoulder.

“Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear, my lord. I do not need your assistance.” Miss Shelton planted her hands on her hips, assuming a haughty posture, much as she’d done yesterday.

Roman didn’t have the patience for this. Standing around idly was akin to burning in hell in the world he’d known for much of his life. “Your carriage?” he asked again. When she still didn’t answer, he started across the street to the mews. He wasn’t such a dolt that he couldn’t find a carriage in this small town. She could either allow him to abscond with her purchases, or she could direct him to where she wanted them.

Moments later, the light crunching of her boots sounded over the snow-dusted pea-gravel behind him. Well, perhaps she had some sense. How much sense she possessed remained a mystery, but she did have
some
.

“Place it in the chaise there, please.” Miss Shelton pointed to a conveyance already filled to near the point of overload, situated alone by the road.

He frowned, but settled the crate where it would be secure before shifting her other boxes so they wouldn’t fall about when her driver took her home. Then he made room for her alongside them. And, thinking of the driver, where had the man run off to and why was he not handling such tasks?

Roman had half a mind to search him out and order a few lashings for shirking his duties, like he would have done for one of the soldiers serving beneath him for insubordination. But that wasn’t the way of things anywhere but in the military.

When all of her boxes and crates were situated to his satisfaction, he backed away and faced Miss Shelton.

“Have you finished manhandling both me and my purchases, then?”

Her impudence was galling, but Roman kept his tongue in check. He would never disrespect to a lady, no matter how ill-mannered the lady in question may be or how much she deserved a biting retort. “It is all secure now. You should be able to get home safely when your driver returns. Shall I fetch him for you?” Holding out a hand, he prepared to assist her into her seat.

She threw her hands up and stalked away from him, grumbling beneath her breath. Roman distinctly thought he heard something along the lines of “insufferable brute.” He was certain she called him a “bull-headed despot,” before he stepped in front of her.

She came to a stop just in time to avoid running headlong into him. “Do you mind?” Miss Shelton drawled. “I have more errands to complete before I return to the cottage.”

“Would these errands not be better handled by your driver? Surely a manservant would be better suited to carrying such goods.”

Miss Shelton frowned up at him in what could almost be termed a pout. “I don’t have a driver. Kindly move out of my way so I can finish with my errands and return home.”

Roman put out an arm to stop her when she tried to skirt around him. “What do you mean you don’t have a driver?” The pixie could hardly reach the steps to climb into the chaise by herself. She couldn’t possibly handle the team on her own. “Why has your manservant not come along to assist you?”

With a glare that could turn flame to ice, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Perhaps you were too busy ordering me about in my own home yesterday to notice, but I do not currently have a manservant in my employ. Not that it is any of your concern.”

It shouldn’t be. He ought to stay out of her affairs and let the perplexing little minx go on her way, to brush her out of his mind and return to his new duties. Miss Shelton could mean nothing but trouble, from every indication. He’d sworn to himself he’d leave chaos behind and lead a simple life—quiet, and away from anyone he could hurt.