“Shall I send her away, Mama? I’ll tell her you’ve gone out to buy thread.”
“Don’t you dare open that door unless I tell you to. You have no idea who might be on the other side.”
“Winifred,” a deep male voice whispered. “It’s only me.”
Elsie jumped up. How she moved so quickly without decimating her doll assembly Winifred never understood. “It’s Master Fenton,” she said in excitement as her mother intercepted her in the middle of the floor. “Can’t we let him in?”
Winifred pressed her ear to the door. “Who is it?” she whispered through the thick wood.
“Another bleeding idiot. Open up, Winnie. I’ve news you have to hear.”
She unlatched the door, barely allowing him to dip inside before she locked it again. She looked him over, sighing with the fond pride she would feel for a favorite brother or cousin. No one wore clothes as attractively as Kit. He was a tailor’s delight, and bless his wicked heart, he helped Winnie out with a few pounds here and there, even though he would never be wealthy in his profession.
“Come in. Mind you don’t get cat fur all over your coat. Elsie, put on tea, pet. I’ve read the paper, Kit. News indeed.”
“That isn’t all.”
He sat, arranging himself in an elegant way that detracted from the fact that the sofa legs wobbled under his slight weight. He waited to speak again until Elsie disappeared into the kitchen. “She’s here. Violet is in London. I saw her last night. It took only a moment before we recognized each other and . . .” He hesitated.
“Violet?” Winifred felt chills run down her arms.
“Violet Knowlton. She came to the performance in Park Lane. I opened the dance with her. We pretended to be strangers. She’s a lady, and even though last night I was rubbing shoulders with the marquess, I couldn’t acknowledge in public that she and I once were friends. God knows I could have ruined her life.”
“
You
danced with Violet?” Winnie lowered her pricked finger to her lap. “She came to London to see you perform at the ball?”
He shot her a rueful look. “Hardly. From what I gathered her aunt brought her here on a husband hunt, and to no one’s surprise, it was a success.”
Winifred looked from Kit’s face to the fire. She couldn’t guess by his expression how he felt, but something unguarded had slipped into his voice. Vulnerability. As for herself . . . Violet’s arrival was welcome news. “What did she look like? Who is she marrying? Did she speak of me at all?”
He laughed, reminding her of the unrestrained young rascal he had once been. He was still a rascal, but one who kept his wicked nature under a tight rein. “I don’t remember everything we spoke of. I don’t even remember whether she spoke to me first or I to her. She’s beautiful, Winnie. Her hair is dark, and her eyes are—” He broke off. “And her—”
“Her what?” she interrupted, too eager to care about his hesitation.
“Her fiancé is a merchant. Sir Godfrey Maitland.”
Winifred managed to hide her dismay. “Oh.” She had heard her sister mention the name, and not in a kind voice, either. “Fancy that. Good for her, eh?”
He shrugged, not answering.
“Is he a fine gentleman?”
He straightened his legs. “He’s been one of my pupils for a few months.”
“Then he must have good in him. Fenton’s does not train just any riffraff.”
“Only paying ones.” He made a face. “He’s all right. He’s no Angelo, but then, neither am I.”
Winifred sniffed. “No. You’re better. But tell me more about Violet. Is she happy?”
“I would imagine so,” he said after a pause that hinted to Winifred that
he
wasn’t. “Don’t all women look forward to their wedding day?”
“No,” she said without hesitation. “Some dread it. Some plot to escape. The Marchioness of Sedgecroft, whose ball you attended, sabotaged her own wedding to the marquess’s cousin. Well, that’s the gossip, anyway. I shouldn’t have repeated it. I know you’re giving the young lord lessons.”
“I don’t think Violet is plotting anything but her future husband’s social connections,” Kit said, obviously only half listening to her.
“Oh. He’s one of those.”
He shrugged. “You know what it takes to stay in business.”
Elsie bustled in, balancing two mugs of hot tea on a tray. “You are a good girl,” Winifred said, and thought, as she did countless times every day, that she did not deserve the obedient child she had borne out of wedlock as a result of a rash affair.
“Are you going to see Miss Knowlton again, Kit?” she asked him as she took her tea.
He shook his head. “That’s up to her. I won’t embarrass her in public. And I doubt she’ll want to see me in secret again.”
Winifred studied him with a worried frown. “I’m sure she wants nothing to do with me.”
“If I do see her again, it will probably be when she is with Sir Godfrey, and I will have to be careful what I say. It didn’t seem to me that she held anything but fond memories for our days in Monk’s Huntley.”
Winifred stared at his profile. He wasn’t quite a gentleman, but she knew of no finer young man in London.
And Violet was to marry a merchant. Sir Godfrey Maitland.
Goodness
. Winifred had assumed that Miss Knowlton, as beautiful and vivacious as she was, would have attracted a young nobleman, or at least a suitor who sounded a bit livelier. A suitor like—no, no. Master Fenton and Violet. Lady Ashfield would drop toes-up at that.
Anyway, who was Winifred to give advice to the lovesick? She had borne a wonderful child out of wedlock, and now Elsie would grow up in the shadow of her mother’s shame. The regret of it ate at Winifred’s conscience. So many doors closed to Elsie because of her mother’s sins. Baron Ashfield had been right to dismiss Winifred for being a negligent governess.
For months after her dismissal Winifred had refused to accept any responsibility for her situation. She didn’t connect her perpetual lies and disregard for duty to what had befallen her. She was unemployed because Baron Ashfield was a miserable old bugger. Violet was to blame for being a wicked girl and not an obedient charge. The bricklayer who seduced Winifred in the woods had never intended to marry her.
It was only after Winifred gave birth to his illegitimate daughter that she felt the first genuine pangs of conscience. As her guilt grew, her grudge against Baron Ashfield and his family began to recede. Soon Winifred wished for a chance to prove herself worthy of a young girl’s care.
“Mama. Look. I’ve made a wedding dress for the master’s lady.”
Winifred’s eyes misted as she stared at the drawing her daughter held before her. “This is lovely, dear. Did you copy it from one of Auntie May’s magazines?”
“I made it myself.”
“Do not lie to me, Elsie. I shall put you right to bed if you do.”
“I am
not
lying,” Elsie replied with conviction. “I drew it earlier. I would have shown you, but I was allowing you and Mr. Fenton your privacy.”
“Privacy? We were
only
talking, Elsie. You do understand that much?” God forbid that Elsie should think Winifred had taken to entertaining men in the afternoon. It was bad enough Winifred sewed gentlemen’s smalls to bring in a few shillings, or that Kit had a reputation as a rake when he resisted one pretty bint after another, a few of them titled, who threw themselves at him, to no avail. He and Winnie knew each other too well for any romance.
“You’ll have to see her again, Kit,” Winifred said. “Even if it’s only to give her my kindest wishes. You will do that, at least, for me?”
A smile tightened his lips. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“And?”
“And it’s hopeless. We’ve outgrown those times. Our games. She’s going to be married.”
“It isn’t hopeless. It had to be destiny that you met at a ball like that.”
“Destiny?” He put his tea on the side table.
“Yes,” Winifred said.
He stood, laughing, his coat falling in impeccable folds. “
Our
destiny, yours and mine, is to work hard and be grateful for what we have gained.”
“Where’s your spirit of swordsmanship, Kit?”
He took a coin from his pocket and tossed it to Elsie. “What kind of swordsman would I be if my intentions were obvious to the world?”
“Intentions? Oh, Elsie, give him back that coin. Kit, I will thank you not to train my daughter for street begging.”
“May I train with the sword, Mama?”
Kit cleared his throat. “It’s time for me to go. I’m standing guard at school today.”
“Be careful, then,” Winifred said, and when he was gone, she picked up the unmended shift and studied the tear with an expert eye. She might have made a mess of her own life, but she had developed certain virtues and talents along the way. No seamstress in London could mend a rent as expertly as Winifred. She had salvaged many a costly gown from disaster with her needle. She was good at putting things back together where they belonged. Patching up so that no one could tell there had been a separation in the first place.
“Mama.” Her daughter’s small hand on Winifred’s shoulder momentarily distracted her. “Do you need the pattern books and another candle?”
“No, pet. Search under my basket of buttons for the good pen and our best paper. Are you too tired to write two short letters? If you do, I promise I shall buy you the prettiest dress you’ve ever seen. I won’t make it, Elsie. I shall have you costumed like a model in one of the French magazines. And Mama will pay someone else to sew and design your dress.”
“Will you take me to Gunter’s for pastry the first time I wear it?” her daughter asked with the innocent ruthlessness of one who exploits a guilt she does not understand.
“Done,” Winifred said, and felt heady at a chance to redesign the past into redemptive grace. “But you will have to be on your best behavior, Elsie. And do not ever catch money in your skirt again. It looks ever so common.”
Chapter 11
T
he emporium was mobbed. Sir Godfrey had deigned to wait at the front counter himself, although he disliked putting himself in a servile position. He was rather perturbed that his shop had not been mentioned in the papers, his name in only one, and heaven knew one needed a magnifying glass to read the print in that. Still, orders for walking sticks and sword canes had increased, as he had anticipated.
There was a comfort in the bustle. Today, when he studied his customers, he realized that one of them could have dropped in at a recommendation of an aristocrat he had met at last night’s ball.
Nobility shopped here. He decided he would personally greet each new customer for the rest of the morning, just in case.
Perhaps the irate lady who complained of spending half a crown on the sarcenet hat trimming that had faded was the dowager who had complimented his fencing skill last night. Sometimes Sir Godfrey wanted to shove his clientele out the door and stick his shoe up—Well, if the Horse Guards happened to march the lot of them into the cobbles, he would not cry into his tray of linen cravats. The people he served treated him like horse droppings. One day, when he’d made enough money to retire, and the children Violet had given him rose to prominent positions in society, he would have his revenge. He would have earned the right to be rude, and he would never stand behind a counter again, haggling over a bit of twill.
The Marchioness of Sedgecroft had come to take Violet out for the day, but not shopping.
“I’m going to pay a visit to the charity school that my husband has endowed,” she explained to Francesca in the drawing room. “It is safe. I always travel with two competent footmen and an armed driver.”
“I would love to visit your school,” Violet said before her aunt could intervene.
Francesca smiled at Jane. “Then go. But if you don’t mind, I will stay home today and save my strength for our outing tomorrow in the park.”
A half hour later the stylish coach set off northeast to the charity school that had once been a church. There was only one room now, cold, badly lit, and damp, despite the coals heaped on the grate. Jane introduced Violet to the schoolmaster, and as she was about to identify the children huddled over their desks, Violet glanced out the back window and nearly dropped the basket of clothing Jane had brought for the schoolmistress to distribute.
“What is it?” Jane asked, coming up behind her.
Violet shook her head, but it was too late. Jane had spotted the tall figure at the window. “Oh, it’s Fenton. The children go into raptures when he’s here.”
“He teaches them sword fighting?” Violet asked, smiling at the thought.
“In a school founded by the church? I shouldn’t think so.”
“Then what on earth
is
he doing here?”
“He and his pupils often volunteer their services as bodyguards for the schoolmaster and schoolmistress.”
Violet contemplated the pale faces of the students sitting against the wall. One of them smiled at her, then ducked his head. He couldn’t have been eight.
“They don’t look violent,” she whispered.
“Fenton isn’t protecting the teachers from the class,” Jane whispered back with a laugh. “He’s protecting the school from the vandals who have smashed the windows and threatened to carry off the children. The fiends have gone after Mr. Dabney several times with shattered glass and bats.”
“Why? Who are they?”
“Street gangs who are intimidating their younger brothers or sisters into returning home to work.”
“I wouldn’t have believed you once,” Violet said. “I do now.”
“We’re hoping to move the school to a safer area soon. Well, let’s get to work.” Jane directed her to a side door. “That’s Mr. Dabney’s closet. Why don’t you put a few things away, while I sneak outside and give Fenton my regards? Unless you would like to do it for me.”
Violet shook her head. “No, no. I’m sure a word from you would be more meaningful. I do think it’s generous of him, however, to give his services away.”