An Honest Heart (18 page)

“Very good. Please wait outside at the carriage for your payment.”

“Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” Miss Bainbridge called after the carpenter, who had obeyed Oliver with a quickness he hadn’t realized the man possessed.

Outside, the workman turned and doffed the cap he’d just returned to his head, bowing to Caddy through the newly repaired window.

“How much do I owe you for his time and the supplies?” Caddy crossed to the end of the room and reached under the counter for the strongbox Oliver knew had been returned there.

“Nothing. It is my pleasure to be able to offer you this small token of service. I am aware of what my mother pays for her gowns in London, and how much she paid you, and you do not charge nearly enough.” He leaned toward her with a grin. “Especially since I know how difficult my mother can be.”

“But I must—”

He straightened and held up a hand as if to defend himself from her words. “No. I will not accept payment. And if I discover you undercharging my mother for her next commission, I will be very unhappy.”

Pink tinged Miss Bainbridge’s cheeks. Finally, he’d evoked some kind of emotional response from her.

“Now, when you come to Chawley Abbey for the servants’ ball next week—”

The chime on the door sounded, and Oliver turned to chide Harrison for returning without permission. But his voice caught in his throat at the sight of the two men who entered the shop.

Both had the physical build of dockworkers, though they wore clothes that indicated higher social strata than that. Each had curly dark hair—though not styled curls like his own—and seemed in need of a barber’s services. One had thick muttonchop side-whiskers; the other had a goatee sprinkled with silver here and there, making Oliver guess them to both be a good ten years older than himself.

“We’re looking for a Miss Bainbridge.” The taller of the two men, the one with blue eyes, spoke. Oliver frowned, trying to place the accent.

“I am Miss Cadence Bainbridge. How may I help you?” She stepped around the counter and toward the two men. Oliver wanted to interpose himself between them, to put up a show of protecting her from the rough-looking men. But the shorter of the two still had almost a head in height and several stones in weight advantage over him. No need to provoke them.

“We’ve been told,” said the stockier, dark-eyed one, “that a Dr. Neal Stradbroke has been seen coming and going from your shop.”

Caddy’s heart pounded in her chest. These men were looking for Dr. Stradbroke? Why? They looked dangerous, despite their fine suits. “And who are you?”

“My apologies, miss.” The taller man with light eyes and a goatee stepped forward. “I am Hugh Macquarie and this is Russell Birchip. We . . . uh . . .” Mr. Macquarie gave his companion a sidelong glance. “We have business with Dr. Stradbroke, and we were told you knew him and where he might be staying.”

Caddy crossed to the cutting table and resumed measuring the denim to give herself time to formulate an answer. Mr. Carmichael seemed a little too interested in what these two strangers might have to say about Neal Stradbroke. And these two strangers were a little too interested in finding Neal Stradbroke.

The need to protect him from whatever they might want struck with an almost physical force. She marked it down to the fact that he’d been so kind to Mother and generous with his time and services.

But the way her heart raced whenever she saw him had nothing whatsoever to do with Mother.

“I . . . have not seen him since early this morning.” She straightened the bi-folded fabric and withdrew the heavy shears from the pocket of her apron. “I believe he calls on patients in Jericho during the day.”

She didn’t miss the smirk on Oliver Carmichael’s face at the name of the lower-class suburb. She cut through the heavy fabric, secured the shears in her pocket again, then started folding the four yards of cloth.

The light-eyed man regarded her with narrowed eyes a moment, then reached into his interior coat pocket and withdrew a card. “When you see him next, please let him know that we stopped in and asked for him.”

Caddy took the card and tucked it into another pocket in the utilitarian sewing apron without looking at it. “If I see him, I will be certain to mention it. But I do not know when that will be.”

Both of the strangers inclined their heads before exiting the shop.

“Well . . . that was interesting.” Oliver Carmichael propped his elbow on the cutting table and slouched toward her, watching the two men pass up the sidewalk through the front windows. “What do you suppose they wanted?”

“I suppose they will tell Dr. Stradbroke when they find him.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and ran her finger along the smooth edge of the calling card. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Carmichael?”

He straightened as if reminded why he was in her store in the first place. “Thank you for allowing me to be of assistance to you.” He took his hat up from the main counter, tipped it to her, and crossed to the door. “Good day, Miss Bainbridge.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Carmichael.”

He opened the door, but backed up several paces before exiting, sweeping his hat hurriedly off his head.

Miss Edith Buchanan marched into the shop, chin raised, eyes piercing, nostrils flaring. “Why, Mr. Carmichael! What a surprise to find you here—in a seamstress’s store in North Parade. When you left today, you told me you were going to your club.”

“I . . . er . . . I heard of Miss Bainbridge’s misfortune. I offered her the services of Chawley’s carpenter. And when she accepted, I came to supervise the work.”

Caddy straightened the fabric remaining on the bolt, keeping her eyes pinioned to the drama unfolding near the door. Oliver Carmichael and Edith Buchanan? She supposed, given what she knew of each of them, they were fairly well matched.

“Oh, I see.” Miss Buchanan’s voice squeaked.

Caddy lifted the heavy bolt and returned it to the shelf, turning her back on the spectacle the two were making of themselves.

She took her time finding the bolt of unbleached muslin she wanted next.

“So you knew you were coming to Bainbridge’s shop when you left Wakesdown, but felt you could not tell me?” The shrill edge of Miss Buchanan’s voice grew sharper.

Caddy set the thick bolt onto the table softly, not wanting to draw attention to herself by thumping it down the way she usually did.

Oliver leaned closer to the black-haired beauty, lowering his voice. But Caddy still heard him. “I considered it of no consequence. If I had told you of my duty here, you would have wanted to know what happened, and I thought the story might be too upsetting for you.”

Caddy held her breath to keep from snorting in derision. She had been around far too many wealthy men over the past ten years not to recognize his scheme. He obviously planned to court Miss Buchanan—and with her beauty and purported wealth, what man wouldn’t? But he thought he could sow some of his wild oats with Caddy while he waited for the courtship to end and the marriage to begin.

She would not be party to his game, though. No man would use her like that. Not again.

“I appreciate your concern, Oliver, but I am made of stronger stuff than you think.”

At Miss Buchanan’s use of his Christian name, Caddy looked over just in time to see her reach up and pat his cheek.

“Now, please be so kind as to wait for me outside. I have business with Bainbridge, then I will be riding back to Wakesdown with you, since it is now too late for you to join Radclyffe and Doncroft at the club, and I told Dorcas to go on home without me.”

Caddy raised her brows in astonishment—not over Miss Buchanan’s high-handed speech, but at Mr. Carmichael’s immediate compliance.

The door had barely closed behind him when Miss Buchanan strode over to the cutting table.

“How may I assist—?”

“The gown I ordered last week? Cancel that. I, too, heard of your misfortune and”—she stared unabashedly at Caddy’s bandage—“I am convinced that your health is too uncertain for me to rely on you to get the garment finished in time for it to be fitted to me properly before we leave for London. I will simply go to my dressmaker there and have her make it.”

Before Caddy could protest, provide assurances that she could finish and fit the dress on time, or mention that she’d already cut the fabric and started piecing the gown, Edith Buchanan turned on her heel. Her flaring skirts knocked over a rack of ribbons. But she didn’t appear to notice as she strode through the door, chin once again in the air.

Caddy’s knees buckled and she grabbed the edge of the table. While losing one commission for a gown was not devastating, she’d been counting on Edith wearing it in London and having women there admire it enough to ask after the dressmaker.

If only she had a ball to attend on her visit to London. The pieces she’d cut could be altered for her taller, larger frame.

A ball . . . Caddy straightened and began pulling the muslin from the bolt. She had agreed to attend the servants’ ball at Chawley Abbey next week. She’d assumed she’d wear the same gown she’d worn to the last dance she had attended—one to celebrate a schoolmate’s wedding three years ago.

But if she could finish the gown, so long as nothing happened to ruin it at the servants’ ball, she could sell it afterward—as secondhand, of course—and not have to take a complete loss on the expensive fabric.

And she never knew—if it turned out as well as she imagined, she might take it with her to London and wear it to the Exhibition and see what kind of interest it drew.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

T
he men who’d been injured in the accident at the ironworks seemed to be healing well after three days. Neal packed the tincture of silver nitrate back into his bag and accepted the basket of baked goods pressed into his arms by his last patient’s wife.

With the men unable to work until the burns and lacerations on their hands and arms healed, most of them had been reluctant to accept Neal’s ministrations—until he worked out trade arrangements with each.

And once he made sure the wives knew he was a bachelor and living alone, the offers to provide him with baked and canned goods—and even a few to come to his flat and cook full meals for him—had been gratefully accepted.

He juggled his kit and the basket until he felt convinced he was in danger of dropping neither, then let himself out of the tiny, dark front parlor.

The gray glare outside made his eyes water—either that or the smell of the fishmonger next door. He paused a moment, letting his eyes adjust, before heading back toward the Longrieves’ home.

He supposed the families of the ironworkers knew he would be sharing the food with Mrs. Longrieve, Johnny, and the baby, which was why they were overly generous with the quantity. He loved that about small, working-class communities like Jericho—and like the village in which Grandmamma had lived. They looked out for one another.
“When you cannot afford meat to fill your crying children’s bellies, you cannot afford to judge others,”
she’d said.

Something he’d found true while she was alive. But after she died, when the truth of Neal and his parents had become known, the judgment had come swiftly and fiercely.

He shook the bad memories off like a dog who’d fallen into a mud pit, the physical action bringing him back into the present. In Jericho, no one knew anything about him other than what he shared with them—and they did not bother to pry.

At the Longrieves’ home, the baby was sleeping—now looking much brighter and more robust since Mrs. Longrieve’s diet had improved—and Johnny was out running messages for the solicitor Neal had retained to represent the injured workers in their suit against the ironworks.

After pressing the basket of baked goods on her—her weak protest falling easily to the aroma of the yeasty goodness inside—Neal exited the small house and secured his kit to his horse’s saddle.

“Doctor!”

He turned at the familiar voice. “Constable.” He glanced over his shoulder at the shabby house, then crossed the street to meet the constable so their voices would not carry to Mrs. Longrieve. “What news?”

“The trial begins Monday morning, nine o’clock.” He ran his hand over the bushy mustache. “I still believe it is a waste of time for you and Miss Bainbridge to attend.”

Neal crossed his arms. “I will not allow this to be a show trial. I will do what I can to make certain he receives a fair hearing.”

The constable shrugged. “Do as you wish. But be prepared that the sentence will be harsh and swiftly arrived at.”

Neal shook hands with the man, then mounted the horse and headed back to North Parade.

After stabling the horse, instead of going straight home, he walked down to the seamstress shop. Miss Bainbridge would want to know about the trial date being set, and he had promised he would tell her.

Phyllis looked up from the cutting table and graced him with a crooked-tooth smile before turning her attention back to the shears she used to cut through what looked like expensive silk fabric.

Nan came through the door from the workroom, and a broad smile spread across her freckled face. “Good afternoon, Dr. Stradbroke.” She slurred the
s
in his name as a much younger child might, and her cheeks brightened.