An Honest Heart (2 page)

The lady’s maid disappeared. Caddy took a deep breath—then held it.

The baroness swept into the dressing room, her emerald-green taffeta afternoon dress whispering across the expensive Oriental carpet. Caddy assumed Lady Carmichael had chosen to wear the gown, her most recent London purchase, on purpose, to put Caddy in her place—as simply a good-enough local dressmaker, but one unable to compete with the couturiers in London.

Not a blonde hair ever out of place. Her lips and cheeks rouged. Her mouth pulled into a constant bow of petulance. The world lived to serve Lady Carmichael—and Caddy was part of that world.

The baroness’s expression did not change as she examined each gown, her forefinger pressed to her puckered lips, forehead crinkling in concentration. The lady’s maid, who’d returned with her mistress, eyed the gowns with equal disdain.

She gave each of the four gowns the same level of scrutiny, then turned toward Caddy. “The blue first.”

“Yes, my lady.” Caddy nodded at the maid and motioned Letty forward. Between the three of them, they had Lady Carmichael out of the green taffeta and into the blue silk-satin dress with the eight ruffled flounces around the full skirt in short measure.

Before allowing Caddy to start pinning for alterations, Lady Carmichael turned to look at herself in the full-length cheval mirror. “No. Too many ruffles. I’m a baroness, not an unfledged debutante.”

Caddy chose not to remind the baroness of the fashion plate she’d given Caddy showing a similar design, then asking for additional flounces to be added. “Perhaps if we removed every other one?”

“I still will not like it. The color is hideous.” She turned from the mirror as if it pained her to look at herself in the gown.

The color had been “simply divine” when Lady Carmichael picked out the most expensive satin in the shop. Caddy helped Letty and the maid remove the dress from the baroness.

As Caddy expected, Lady Carmichael found fault with each of the remaining three dresses, but she reluctantly agreed that the green-and-ivory-striped ball gown brought out her green eyes, and the pointed Basque bodice flattered her already narrow waist, especially once Caddy pinned it tighter than she wanted to. She would leave a bit of an allowance, just so the baroness could breathe, and so the seams wouldn’t split when she moved her arms—or any other part of her upper body.

The maid assisted Lady Carmichael back into her London dress while Caddy and Letty carefully bundled the ball gowns in the linen again.

“I expect the gown to be ready by Friday.” With a terse nod, the baroness stalked from the room.

Two days to finish a dress that wasn’t needed for almost two more months. Why would Caddy have expected anything else?

Letty opened her mouth to speak, but Caddy shook her head. Thankfully, unlike Alice—who seemed to have no ability to curb her curiosity from erupting into questions loudly asked and overheard by inopportune people—Letty held her silence until they sat in the carriage as it rolled down the drive, back toward Oxford.

“Did Lady Carmichael not choose all of those designs and fabrics herself?” Letty absently fingered a cluster of ribbon rosettes sewn onto the sash at her waist.

“Don’t do that—you’ll ruin your work.”

The apprentice looked confused, so Caddy touched the back of Letty’s hand. The girl clasped her restless hands together.

“Yes, Lady Carmichael chose the fabrics, colors, and styles. But as a customer, it is her prerogative to change her mind once she sees them fully realized. What looks wonderful in a fashion plate is almost never as flattering in reality.”

“But what will happen to the three gowns she didn’t want?”

Caddy glanced at the girl in surprise. “Leticia Jones, you have worked with me for over five years now. What
always
happens to the garments customers decide they don’t want?”

“They are put in the shop as ready-made to be sold to someone who cannot afford something custom, or someone who does not have the time to have a gown made. But these fabrics—they are so very expensive. Who of our customers other than Lady Carmichael can afford these?”

“Perhaps the American niece of Sir Anthony Buchanan is in need of another ball gown.”

“Do you think she would be charitable enough to take the yellow one with all the red silk roses on it?”

Caddy had to laugh. She agreed—that particular gown would be hard to sell to anyone. “I think Miss Edith Buchanan would love to see Miss Dearing in something so . . . overwrought. Perhaps I should take it tomorrow when I go to Wakesdown to see Miss Buchanan.”

Caddy regaled her apprentice with stories and descriptions of some of the worst garments she had ever been commissioned to make, and both were laughing when Thomas stopped the cab in front of the store.

“I couldn’t hear what you two were talking about.” Thomas handed Caddy down from the cab. “But it does my heart good to hear you laughing so, Miss Bainbridge.”

“It did my heart good to be laughing, Thomas.” She handed him a folded bank note, enough to cover his fee with a little left over for good measure to show her appreciation for his consistent and continual service to her. “I had almost forgotten what it felt like. But Mother seems to be feeling much stronger, and I am blessed with work, so why shouldn’t I be light of heart?”

Letty handed Caddy the bundle before climbing out of the coach. They both thanked Thomas again, then ducked into the warm shop. Phyllis, a former apprentice who’d shown no aptitude for sewing but had quickly proven she had a head for numbers, stood at the ribbon rack with two young misses. Beyond her, Alice pulled out a bolt of burgundy wool for a middle-aged woman who would most likely be taking the fabric home to sew her own dress. Which was exactly why Caddy had expanded into a shopkeeper in addition to being a dressmaker. Women who could not afford to pay someone else to do their sewing still required fabrics and notions. So Caddy kept a wide assortment, from muslins strong and inexpensive enough for a farmer’s wife or a factory worker to the Siamese silk waiting in the workroom to be made into a fine evening dress for the Bishop of Oxford’s wife. It was her first commission for a courtier—as Bishop Wilberforce also served as Prince Albert’s chaplain, and they spent more time in London than Oxford—and she prayed she would not mess it up.

The front door rattled, and the bell hanging from it chimed. Caddy turned to help the customer.

And she lost the ability to breathe.

The largest man she’d ever seen trundled into the shop, a bundle in his arms not unlike the one she’d just handed Letty. Thick, muscular arms. Arms bare from the elbows down, covered only in white muslin above. His hair was a cross between golden and brown, and his chiseled features reminded her of the statues of the angels in the Christ Church Cathedral.

Heat flooded her face when she realized she’d been staring. “How can I help you, Mr.—?”

The bundle in his arms moaned.

Caddy’s stomach knotted. She rushed forward and pulled back a hood to reveal—“Mother!”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

N
eal followed the brown-haired woman up the steep steps to the living quarters above the shop. The enclosed stairs were narrow enough that he had to turn sideways so that he did not risk further injury to the one in his arms. Although, after carrying the barely conscious woman down the street from the Howells’ store, he wasn’t certain it was injury that had felled her. She weighed next to nothing, and her gaunt face and grayish-yellow pallor indicated a protracted illness.

The younger woman, obviously the proprietress of the shop below, opened a door that led to another narrow staircase. Starting to feel winded, Neal followed, again turning sideways. In the cramped hallway above, the woman opened one of the doors and stepped back, motioning Neal inside.

A wooden bedstead almost filled the small bedroom, a nightstand wedged between it and the wall on the far side, an armoire blocking the door from fully opening. Neal edged cautiously between the wardrobe and bed and laid his moaning bundle down in the plush quilts.

“Here.”

He turned and accepted a thick woolen blanket. A scent of lavender and lemon wafted up when he unfolded it to lay over the woman on the bed. He pressed his hand to her forehead. Cool and dry. No fever. He lifted her hand and pressed his fingertips to the inside of her wrist. Hmmm. Faint and slow heartbeat. No wonder she’d collapsed upon standing.

“Sir, thank you for bringing my mother home, but—”

“How long has she been ill?” Neal leaned over and pulled the older woman’s eyelids up, then looked at the insides of her lips and at her gums. Pale. Too pale. Probably a weak heart.

“Pardon me, but who are you?”

Straightening, Neal turned toward the door. For the first time, he really looked at the woman standing there. Not tall, but not petite, with a healthy build. Well dressed, but not ostentatious. Modest but fashionable hairstyle. Her wide blue eyes bespoke her concern and fear for her mother. Neal’s heart ached for her—the mother’s prognosis wasn’t good.

“I do apologize.” He edged toward her and extended his right hand. “Dr. Neal Stradbroke.”

Her hand paused halfway to his. “Doctor? Was she so bad they had to call for a doctor?”

“No. I happened to be in the Howells’ shop when your mother collapsed, and I offered to bring her home, Miss . . . ?”

The woman shook his hand with a firm grasp. “Bainbridge. Miss Cadence Bainbridge.” She nodded toward the woman on the bed. “My mother, Mrs. Bainbridge.”

Neal pulled his tingling hand away from Miss Bainbridge’s and returned to her mother’s side. “How long has she suffered from a weakened heart?”

“She has never been strong, but she has been in decline for four years . . . since my father died.” Miss Bainbridge slipped into the room and wedged herself between the footboard and the wall. “Is she . . . will she recover?”

“I would need to do a complete examination before I could make a diagnosis.” Neal smoothed the silvery-blonde hair back from Mrs. Bainbridge’s papery forehead. “But if your mother has been ill for so long, I imagine she is already under a physician’s care.”

“Yes. But . . .”

When Miss Bainbridge did not continue, Neal looked at her over his shoulder. “But?”

“As you can see, she is not getting better. I am certain her current doctor is highly capable, but . . .” She shrugged.

“But you wonder if having another doctor examine her might lead to a different diagnosis, a different treatment?”

She nodded.

He crossed his arms. “I would consent to examining her and rendering a diagnosis only if your mother decides it is what she wants—and so long as her current doctor is informed. And I will need her nurse present. I must be able to ask questions of the person who knows her symptoms best.”

“I could—”

He held up his hand. “’Tis better if family members are not present during such an examination. Patients often try to hide their true condition if they think it will worry their loved ones.” A number of emotions crossed Miss Bainbridge’s face—the kind of face he imagined could grace one of the queen’s famous china dolls.

“Her nurse has Wednesday afternoons off. When might you be able to come back and do the examination? If Mother agrees, of course.”

“I am in North Parade every day. Or, rather, I will be from now on. I’ve taken lodgings above the apothecary opposite Howell’s Greengrocer.” He looked down at himself, and embarrassment heated his skin at the realization he’d stood here in a lady’s presence without his coat—his sleeves rolled up, his waistcoat rumpled, his collar unbuttoned, and no tie. His own dear grandmamma, God rest her soul, would have dragged him out by the ear and tanned him for such atrocious manners. No matter that she’d been more than a foot shorter and a good seven to eight stones lighter. He would have let her do it, because he deserved it for betraying his upbringing in such a manner.

“Good. Once Mother awakens, I will speak to her. If she agrees I shall send you a request for a formal examination.” Miss Bainbridge pursed her lips into a perfectly kissable bow.

Perfectly kissable? What was wrong with him? He inclined his head toward her and edged toward the door. “If you will excuse me, Miss Bainbridge, my crates await unpacking.” No hat to tip, he inclined his head again, then fled the small bedroom.

No entanglements. No involvements. No getting close to anyone. At least not until October. Not until it ended. Not until he had no further risk of anyone learning the truth about him.

“I agree.”

Caddy turned at her mother’s weak voice. She scooted around the bed to the spot vacated by Dr. Stradbroke moments before. “Mother? How are you feeling?”

“I am feeling like I need another doctor to examine me and see if he can determine a different diagnosis and treatment for my malady.” Mother pushed herself up into a sitting position, and Caddy helped her arrange the pillows behind her to prop her up.

“What happened at the Howells’?”

“I believe the walk was too much for me. I was so tired by the time I arrived, I was grateful to sit down in the office, for I could not have climbed the stairs on my own. Nellie Howell was kind enough to come down and visit with me there. We had a nice long talk; it has been far too long since I saw her last.”