Chapter Seven #3
“But the persons present are wearing undergarments,” Nico pointed out. “These natives, you tell me, are not. Surely that is the more indelicate.”
“Exactly!” Lady Mary said. “Indelicate and unchristian. Mr. Pilcrow, I beseech you, as a man with the means to help. The Fund—”
“I hesitate to interrupt you,” Nico said over her, loudly. “Monsieur Pilcrow, allons-y.”
“Yes, quite right,” Pilcrow agreed. “Lady Mary, I really must go. I’m very sorry.” He attempted to detach his hand from her grip.
She hung on doggedly. “But you will first make a donation. A monthly sum, so little to you but so much to the poor and naked.”
Pilcrow cast Nico a look, to which Nico gave a tiny shake of the head. “I don’t think—I will give it some consideration—”
“If you are unpersuaded, we shall return,” Lady Mary said. “When you understand our cause—”
“Merde alors,” Nico said, significantly less under his breath than he might have. “Monsieur Pilcrow has heard enough of your cause, and if he has not, I shall be glad to tell him how the money you raise is spent on Monsieur Ormskirk’s behalf.”
“What does that mean?” Ralph Ormskirk demanded.
“That I shall speak for you, monsieur, what else should it mean? Forgive my English, so maladroit. Allow me to escort you to the door.” He sketched a bow at Ralph Ormskirk, and motioned firmly with his hand for Pilcrow to get up.
He probably wouldn’t dislodge Lady Mary’s grip by any means other than dragging her along.
Thorpe was waiting for them. The Ormskirks were urged out and the door shut, and Pilcrow sagged against the wall. “Good heavens. Good Lord. Mr. Thorpe, if they come back, please don’t let them in. Can I do that? I suppose she must be important?”
“Widow of a third son,” Nico said dismissively.
“If you give them money, the only poor man you will be clothing is Ralph Ormskirk. I do not myself believe in these Africans who long for woollen undergarments and cannot provide their own, but if they do exist, the Charitable Fund will not help them.”
“The Comte is right, sir,” Thorpe said. “Miss Whitecross always had Mr. Carnaby look into matters when people came asking, and a sorry business it often was. She wouldn’t have Lady Mary in the house.
Not that her ladyship tried to come back after the second time,” he added reminiscently.
“The mistress spoke her mind about undergarments.”
Nico could imagine. So, from his expression, could Pilcrow. “In that case, we needn’t let them in again. But what about the rest? Because there are so many letters, and people calling all the time—”
“You have a lawyer and a most capable butler,” Nico said. “It is their role to protect you from leeches. Let them do it.”
“But I don’t want to think people are leeches!” Pilcrow burst out. “I don’t want to assume people are dishonest, and I didn’t earn this money anyway! I can’t hoard it all to myself when I don’t need it and other people do!”
Nico couldn’t help a glance at Thorpe, who returned it. It seemed they were in firm agreement about not letting Pilcrow be cozened by greedy rogues, with just the one small exception on Nico’s part.
“There’s many good causes, sir,” Thorpe said. “And enough need in the world to bankrupt you a dozen times over, come to that. Best to be sure your money will be well used.”
“It helps nobody if you give money to Ralph Ormskirk,” Nico added. “It merely permits him to continue existing in Society.”
“I wish he wouldn’t. He kept prodding my leg.”
“He has developed his technique to a great art. People pay them to go away.”
“I probably would have done if you hadn’t come in then. Thank you, Comte. That is the second time you’ve rescued me from an unwanted caller.” Pilcrow offered Nico a shy, rueful, slightly wobbly smile, and Nico thought, When you are dressed, my friend, you will be something special.
“Thank the guardian of your gates,” he said with a graceful gesture to Thorpe. Giving credit where it was due made you a surprising number of friends. “And come, mon ami. We have boots to consider.”
Hoby’s proved to be just the entertainment both of them needed.
Mr. Hoby appeared in person, with great affability.
The news that London’s latest golden purse was going shopping was spreading like the clap, and Nico could feel payment of his own fifty-guinea bill receding into the indefinite future.
He therefore threw himself into the delightful business of footwear, finding spiritual solace in measurements, fits, styles and preferences and leathers and tassels, watching Pilcrow’s absorbed face and noting what he liked. Colour, always colour.
Exhausted, they retreated to Allen’s Ham and Beef shop for a late luncheon. “Mock turtle soup,” Pilcrow said, contemplating his bowl. “I used to wonder, as a boy, if it was imitating turtles, or actually mocking them.”
“Mocking?”
“You know: Because it’s calf’s head soup.”
“Ah, I see! An insult to the intelligence of the turtle. I have never felt compelled to mock a turtle, myself, but then I have never attempted to imitate one either.”
“Although it doesn’t really imitate turtle, does it, if we all know it’s calf’s head.”
“Me, I am glad to know this is not from a turtle.” Nico lifted a forcemeat ball on his spoon. “Or I should ask what part it was.”
Pilcrow spluttered soup. Nico passed him a napkin, grinning.
They went on from there up Old Bond Street to Mr. Lloyd’s, who sold the finest chicken-skin gloves. He recoiled from Pilcrow’s peculiarly discoloured hands with a look of dismay, and brought out a fine selection, mostly in white, York tan, and bright yellow.
“I trust that is not your arsenic gold,” Nico remarked. He was rapidly developing a wariness towards bright colours.
“Orpiment is not used as a dye,” Pilcrow said reassuringly. “Oh, I like these.” He picked up a pair in a sort of dingy yellow-white parchment shade.
“Those look a little used, my friend,” Nico observed to the glover. If he thought he was going to palm off his grubby stock on Pilcrow in Nico’s company, he would discover his mistake.
Mr. Lloyd started a protest, but Pilcrow said, “No, indeed, it’s isabella.”
“Who is?”
“The colour. It’s named isabella.”
That seemed an elegant name for an uninspiring hue. “Vraiment. And what is isabella? Hemlock? Prussic acid?”
“I promise you, it is quite harmless. Although the name…” Pilcrow shot him a look in which amusement lurked.
“The story is that the King of Spain besieged a city, and his wife, Queen Isabella, believed he would succeed so easily that she vowed not to bathe or change her shift until he was victorious. Unfortunately, it took three years. The colour isabella is named for the final shade of her undergarments.” He lifted the yellowed gloves with an unexpectedly wicked grin.
Nico caught the glover’s outraged eye, put his elbows on the counter, and laughed like a fool.
It all made for a highly enjoyable day, such that Nico forgot Jacky Gaskin entirely for half-hour stretches at a time in Pilcrow’s company.
He was appreciative, undemanding, unexpectedly amusing, and Nico was becoming quite feverish with anticipation of how he would look when he was properly turned out.
Things would change then, of course. Pilcrow would get his new finery and start attending parties where he would be endlessly courted by indiscriminate parents of daughters, by gamblers in need of people to win money from, by all the people who thought they should have some of his wealth for themselves.
They’d flatter him relentlessly, and he would start to see himself as a superior being, develop airs, look down on people who hadn’t chanced on wealth, behave as though he merited his fortune.
In fact, he’d make a fool of himself while other people made a fool of him, and perhaps one of them would be Nico.
He wasn’t looking forward to that part at all.