Chapter Eleven
T
he smile was still mirrored in her eyes and curved her lips two hours later as she peeled off a kid glove to test the ripeness of a piece of fruit. She wrinkled her nose, treated the barrow man to a sideways glance, and began to haggle for the best price.
Brandied fruit would make a delicious dessert for Thanksgiving. Already in her mind’s eye, Sophy was cleaning and pitting the fruit, carefully measuring the sugar, packing a combination of fruit and specially blended spices into prepared jars, and topping the container with the finest French cognac.
The colors, odors and sounds of the Orchard Street markets swept over her like an invigorating tide. It was all frenetic activity. The outdoor stalls were jammed with wares and milling customers.
Everywhere there were people. Fruit vendors briskly pushed their laden carts through the traffic. Shawled women hawked yesterday’s violets at passersby. Nursemaids hurried their infant charges home in basketlike prams.
There was a biting nip in the late-autumn air. The cries of vendors filled the air like the calls of strange forest birds, carrying their strident staccato messages.
Along the side streets she could see the endless lines of roofs, pitch-black against the zinc-colored sky. From the river to the east came the hooted calls of ferryboats. Horse trams were jammed with all types of persons. The traffic had slowed to a sluggish crawl.
Sophy was watching the barrow man adjust the brass measure up another notch on his hand-held balancing scales when Agnes Weston rebuked, “Those cherries are overripe, Sophy. They’d give a horse colic.”
“They’re not for a horse, Mrs. Weston,” Bernard broke in cheerfully. “Cousin Sophy’s promised me a bottle of cherry conserve. The fruit has to be ripe, y’know, to have enough sugar to set the jam. Ain’t that right, Sophy?”
Sophy glanced at him sharply but for once in her life saw no signs that her cousin was being deliberately annoying. “Yes, Bernard, but you don’t have to be so loud about it.”
Bernard had the grace to bang his head. A smile warmed her face, and she handed him the package. “Please take all our purchases back to the carriage, and then you can accompany Mrs. Weston home. The wind is getting cold, and I have to go to Rivington Street.”
“You’re a considerate girl, Sophy.” Agnes Weston’s caustic voice softened marginally. “The truth is I am rather tired. However, since Bernard has been such a pleasant escort and carried our parcels for us—as though he were indeed a horse—I shall instruct the driver to go via Ludlow Street so he can see the police parade in front of the jail.”
“Gee, thanks, Mrs. Weston! You’re a ripper!”
Sophy put up a slim hand, touched Agnes Weston’s arm. Her voice was so soft it might have been the night wind taking away the shadows. “Don’t let him eat the cherries on the way home!”
Rivington Street. Richard Carlton. So far, so good. Now the crucial question. What would the agent’s reaction be on discovering the purpose of her visit? Suddenly Sophy felt all taut and alert, as if someone from within herself had leaped out and taken command.
Down the street, a cart was approaching, making its slow and creaking way. The cart trundled past her, moving as slowly as if it carried within its wooden framework all the world’s worries. Sophy’s brain was ticking over at full speed, assessing the situation.
Had she made a colossal mistake in believing that she was clever enough to help Seth? That a fresh method, a new approach, would make a difference to his own investigation? In believing that Seth would put the horrors and hatred of war behind him and find he still had the capacity to love? To give himself completely?
There was always the possibility she was deluding herself. Most of their conversations revolved around mundane domestic matters, but she was working to change that. On a more intimate level, he had never once told her he even cared.
She was making progress, but the truth was Seth was still very much a mystery to her in some ways. While he seemed to welcome her affectionate warmth and cheerfulness, he was still the unreadable, unknown man she had married six weeks ago.
On the whole things had worked out better than she had thought they would. She could only hope that, in the fullness of time, he would realize the depth of his feelings for her and admit them. In the meantime, she would have to be satisfied with half a loaf.
And what a half loaf it was!
The future, now that she had time to think about it, appeared bright and beckoning. A transient dimple showed at the corner of her mouth. There was a certain undeniable satisfaction to be derived from the level of passion that two people railroaded into a marriage of convenience could reach.
It was something most remarkable.
Sophy turned the corner into Rivington Street. She passed the orphanage, where small, pale faces pressed against the iron railings. The children were watching two well-dressed boys skipping around their nursemaid, clapping their hands in excitement.
At several points along the length of the busy road were small groups of people standing talking. Sophy was delighted to see a familiar figure come into her line of vision.
Richard Carlton was standing there on the curb, checking his pocket watch. The agent was impeccable as usual, white wing collar, red spotted necktie, his tailoring faultless over his solid girth. He swung round, saw her and bowed, smiling graciously.
“Mrs. Weston. What a pleasure.” His soft brown eyes were half-concealed behind lazily lowered lashes. “Are you alone?” He seemed surprised.
Sophy placed her hand on his tweed-covered forearm. “Seth had some business he couldn’t put off. He’s expecting a big consignment of cotton to arrive in the next day or so. He seems to think I can manage this errand on my own.”
Carlton shuddered. It could have been the cool of the wind. It blew constantly in this space between autumn and winter, and the wind was sharp against their faces.
“If you’d care to step into my office, Mrs. Weston, I’ll do what I can to help.”
His office was furnished with enough style to impress, but without the ostentation that might make a client wonder where his fees were going. A large oak desk, flanked by several high-backed carved chairs, dominated the room. On it there was a brown leather-bound journal, a pipe stand, a heavy crystal paperweight, a brass paper knife and two paper-filled metal trays.
Richard waited until she was seated before he indicated the letter Seth had dictated. “I’ve been expecting you.” He reached for his pipe. “You’ve been authorized to look at invoices, payments and receipts in matters pertaining to Weston’s Textiles. Is that correct?”
Richard’s voice was pleasant and urbane, but Sophy felt a jolt race through her as if she had been doused with ice water. She was studying his face. Unmistakably, it creased into an expression of contempt.
Men in Richard Carlton’s position were supposed to give a comprehensive service to their clients for a commission, not expect the client’s wife to want specific detail. He was probably horrified that Seth would condone this odd display of feminine curiosity.
A shy smile edged the corner of her mouth. “Being newly married, I wish to devise a system of keeping accounts that is simple, but that will circumvent any attempts at dishonest practice.”
Richard fumbled lighting his pipe.
Sophy looked down once before meeting the intense brown eyes. Her even white teeth became visible, and she turned to him with a small, confidential gesture. “Seth suggested I could learn something from your system.”
The pipe was defying ignition.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know much about household management. Seth says your method of keeping records is superior to my own.” Sophy spoke in a voice as matter-of-fact as if she were in a bakery.
Richard relaxed a little, and propped the pipe on its stand in front of him. “Only too glad to be of some assistance, Mrs. Weston. While you’re browsing, would you care to partake of a cup of tea?”
“Thank you, that would be most refreshing.”
Sophy’s heart hammered in her throat and she felt a knot in her stomach. The papers she was studying were the lists of manufacturing supplies that had been imported in the past six months. There were sixteen lists in all.
Of the sixteen, five had been tampered with.
She studied the last entry in the journal very closely. The figure had been altered cleverly, from $101,000 to $109,000.
Her heart raced. There might be others.
She had spent the past two hours checking payments against invoices, and found some other small mistakes, but all of those could be put down to error. There was no question of error with the last one.
There was also the evidence of the invoices themselves. Several appeared to be duplicate for the same goods. Sophy had found these after scrutinizing every entry that seemed even slightly suspect.
Charles Lethbridge had endorsed all of them.
A swirl of anxiety pulled at Sophy. Involving the designer had validated her worst fears. Something wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. There was no reason.
It simply felt all wrong.
The alarms in her head sounded louder now. Sophy frowned. Motive. Opportunity. It was a simple explanation, yet it ripped at her mind with a whip of fire. There was no way around the issue.
The timing was wrong.
The haze of preoccupation in her eyes cleared. “I don’t know that I’m much of a judge, but it seems one learns a lot about a person when they look at their record-keeping system.”
Richard was busy lighting his pipe from a spill ignited at the grate. He glanced up, surprised. “Really?” He looked genuinely intrigued. “What have you learned?”
“That you are very precise, meticulous in detail, don’t take a lot of senseless risks or do wild undisciplined things, that’s all.”
“You have a nice line in flattery, Mrs. Weston.”
She looked into Richard Carlton’s brown eyes. For a moment they stared at each other. His gaze was fixed on her with something that was either contempt or almost unbearable anguish.
“Tell me, Richard, do you deal only with importers and exporters in America, or is your client base more extensive?”
Dense clouds of gray smoke belched from the pipe. “Cast your net wide is my motto. I have clients on both sides of the Atlantic.”
Her head bobbed. “Good thinking. Business must be booming since the war?” It was a question rather than a statement.
Carlton’s heavy gold watch chain, almost as thick as a small cable, draped across his solid girth, rose and fell. “Real estate is set to spiral since the war, as are contracts with the government.”
She changed the subject abruptly. “How long have you known Seth?”
“For about ten years.”
“As long as that?” It startled Sophy. “You didn’t first meet him through Weston’s Textiles, then?”
“No. I was a friend of his father. When Seth joined the army, he wanted someone he could trust to handle his affairs.”
His answer seemed quite frank. Sophy let it go at that for the time being.
“I like your little stamp.”
Richard leaned forward in his chair. “Would you like it? I have several.” His voice was deep, amiable. He picked up the stamp and extended it to her.
Sophy looked at the offering lying across his palm and experienced an unexpected wave of uneasiness. The hand that held the small wooden block was a strong, square one, capable of far more than pencil pushing. The blunt fingers curved like talons, ready to snatch a prey.
Why did she feel so reluctant to accept it from him? Her mind was a tumult. It flew from one possibility to another. She wished her imagination weren’t quite so vivid. Stop it! Don’t start imagining terrors that don’t exist. She reached out quickly and took the small gift.
“You found the system helpful, then?” His voice was soft, almost expressionless.
A sick, sinking, heavy feeling grew in her stomach. Her face went rigid, and she turned to watch a lazy spiral of pipe smoke. The air hummed with purpose and power, or maybe just the twanging of her nerves. There was a moment’s pause, before Sophy answered.
“The information I discovered was most useful.” She prayed he wouldn’t ask her what she was going to do with it. She didn’t have an answer. Not yet.
A clock struck the hour. The chimes were light and clear, a friendly sound. Sophy stood up and began assembling the papers.
“I must be going. I have another appointment.”
“If I may say so, it’s deuced dangerous wandering around the city on your own, Mrs. Weston. I’ll hail a carriage.”
A smile curled her mouth. “That’s very kind, thank you.” She offered her hand. “If it’s convenient for you, I’ll visit again next week.”
“Yes, of course. I look forward to the occasion.” To her surprise, he lifted her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles.