Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
He’d heard of the shop, but never visited. Before he had time to read the title of the books stacked in the window—The Letters of the Late Ignatius Sancho—Lucasta strolled inside.
Ignatius Sancho was the man whom all London had known as the noble African. He’d overcome being kidnapped and sold into enslavement to become a prominent property owner and voting citizen. Even a vicar’s daughter lately of Bath must know his story.
And she must know what she was about, choosing to patronize the family’s store. Nonetheless Jem walked with a cautious step into the store behind her. He’d been enjoying their stolen time together and would have, by his own lights, delayed this crucial test.
She’d been kind at the Foundling Hospital to children of every possible hue, but that was a fashionable charity.
In his unfortunate stroll through Lady Clara’s lemon trees, he’d overheard her disparage him for being no better than a draper’s son, which was what all of England thought.
Then she’d abused the conductor at the opera for possibly being blind.
So far he’d seen nothing to suggest she was above the usual prejudices of her class.
He could shut his eyes to it as a business owner—he had to, if he wanted any custom in this town. But if Miss Lithwick behaved rudely in the shop of the late and much-admired Sancho, Jem would leave her to take a chair or walk alone, possibly in the rain, his reputation as a gentleman be damned.
The air smelled of tea and chocolate, spices and herbs. Lucasta strode through the neat shelves and bins to the broad wooden counter at the back of the store and greeted the woman behind it.
“Mrs. Sancho! Have you no help in the store today? What happened to the apprentice who was here last time?”
“Running an errand, so I’m teaching my William to serve customers.
” Mrs. Sancho was dressed far more fashionably than Lucasta in a closed robe made of chintz with dainty buff stripes.
A sash tied about her waist bloomed against the skirts gathered in the back, and her sleeves were decorated with buttons as well as lace at the cuffs. Jem approved.
“What wish you today, Miss Lithwick?” Mrs. Sancho gave Jem a curious look.
“The usual.” Lucasta set her muff on the counter. “Tobacco for the Baron. A pound of sugar at the least. Cici put the last of it in her tea this morning, and for that matter, we require more tea. Whatever blend my aunt commissioned is unpalatable. I suspect it is mostly ground beans and sawdust.”
“Shame.” Mrs. Sancho clicked her tongue. “Will, run fetch a sugar loaf for Miss Lithwick. The good loaves, my sweet.”
A young boy, wearing a smart blue suit with his black curly hair pulled into a queue, ran off to attend this task with all the loose-limbed, noisy energy a young boy possessed.
“The girls are well?” Lucasta inquired. “Miss Frances? Ann? Elizabeth?”
“Well as can be,” Mrs. Sancho reported as she measured tea from the tins behind the counter. “I wish they were here. They would love to tell you how they are progressing with their music.”
“I wish to hear it.” Lucasta smiled as William returned with a sugar loaf wrapped in paper. “And what instrument will you take up, Master William?”
“I’m going to be a printer,” the young boy declared. “And print books like Papa’s.”
“A noble profession,” Lucasta agreed. She selected one of the books from a display on the counter and laid it next to the sugar loaf. “In that case I shall come to you for all my printed music. Your father’s Theory of Music is quite fine, you know. I refer to it often with my students.”
William beamed and ran off, content that he had discharged his duty.
Mrs. Sancho rewrapped the sugar loaf and measured out the tobacco.
“Now remember to tell the girls,” Lucasta said as she counted coins, “they are always welcome at Miss Gregoire’s.
I am not sure we’ve ever had three sisters at one time! They would make quite a sensation.”
Mrs. Sancho shook her head, smiling. “You and Miss Gregoire. I do feel she would take care of my girls. I can’t say that for every school, I’m afraid.” Her eyes drifted to Jem, and Lucasta turned as if recalling his presence.
“Oh! Mrs. Sancho. May I present to you the Viscount Rudyard, grandson to the Marquess of Arendale. Rudyard, this is Mrs. Sancho, widow of the extremely gifted Mr. Ignatius Sancho.”
The widow’s eyes narrowed slightly as she assessed Jem. “Rudyard,” she said softly. “And your father is now Earl Payne. Governor of the Isle of Barbados, if I am not mistaken?”
Jem inclined his head, ashamed to admit to this woman that his father governed a colony which drew its economic profits from enslavement and exploitation. He sensed that Mrs. Sancho knew of the earl’s reputation—all of it. “I’m afraid that is correct.”
“Is it.” She turned away. “Have you talked to your aunt about giving my girls music lessons, Miss Lithwick?”
Lucasta pulled on her muff, her face falling.
“Aunt has said I will be too busy to give lessons for the foreseeable future. To anyone.” She tried to rearrange her features into a brisk smile.
“All the more reason to send them to Miss Gregoire’s, for I shall be at liberty there, and they should be my favorite pupils.
Good day, Master William, Mrs. Sancho. Please give my regards to the girls.
” She gathered her packages and was out the door before Jem could recall that, as a gentleman, it was his place to offer to hold them for her.
In the carriage, Lucasta seemed to be struggling to compose herself.
Jem felt such a roil of his own emotions that he didn’t know where to begin.
He urged the horses around Chesterfield House and toward Hyde Park.
It was not yet the fashionable hour, but there was a chance they would be seen.
For reasons he could not satisfactorily explain to himself, he very much wanted to be seen with Miss Lucasta Lithwick.
“You frequent Sancho’s,” he began, keeping his eye on the team, who kicked up their heels and their spirits at Hyde Park Corner and the sight of grass beyond. “You do not mind that they are—” He searched for the word. “Africans.”
She drew her brows together. “I should think they have lived here long enough to be called British,” she answered.
“Mr. Sancho voted in the last election, if you didn’t know.
But yes, I agree with Mr. Sancho’s opinion that if African people are enslaved to produce our luxuries, then the family of a former slave should at the least see some of the profits of that terrible institution. ”
She was an abolitionist. That laid to rest one fear, but another tightened Jem’s throat. She would have the same opinion of his father that Mrs. Sancho did.
“But you aren’t—” For some reason words were deserting the man whose pronouncements were hung upon in polite circles. He nodded at the occupants of a passing landau, two ladies craning their necks to get a glimpse of his companion under the deep brim of her bonnet. “You didn’t,” he managed finally.
“Didn’t what?” She tensed. “Treat them differently because of the color of their skin? As if they are less human, as the enslavers would have us believe?”
Jem’s tongue felt enormous in his mouth. He had never discussed this issue with anyone, not his friends, not his family. They tiptoed around it as if circling a pit of viperous snakes.
There were thousands of Africans in England, more in the coastal towns than inland, employed at all levels of society. Too many were enslaved and denied their freedom. Others earned a salary but were denied their full humanity nonetheless.
“Not everyone believes as you do,” he said hollowly.
Every line of her body went taut. “You’d best let me down here, Lord Rudyard.”
They were near the reservoir. Not the greatest cad would abandon her here, leaving her and her maid to walk the miles back to Bedford Square. “You misunderstand me, Miss Lithwick. I am not—”
He was not his father, who chose to bestow his affections upon an enslaved woman, but not do her or her children the courtesy of granting their freedom. “I am not of that mind,” he attempted.
“I perceive your mind, Lord Rudyard, and it makes it impossible that I can continue in your company. Mary!” she snapped at her maid, holding tight in the folding seat behind them. “We shall walk from here.”
Jem denied her by the simple ploy of refusing to pause the horses. Though they went no faster than a brisk walk, she could hardly throw herself from a moving vehicle.
“I shall see you home, Miss Lithwick,” he said, his tone equally sharp, “and you will do me the honor of illuminating me as to what precisely you understand my mind to be.”
She refused to look at him. “I don’t wish to discuss it,” she said, her jaw set with anger.
His own anger sparked. “If you are accusing me of something, I’d damned well like to know what it is.”
He never lost his temper. He never swore at anyone, especially not a woman. But Lucasta Lithwick burrowed under his skin in a way no one ever had.
“Your comment about Selina!” she burst out. “That said everything about your mind, didn’t it?”
Jem raked his memory for the conversation in question. “Miss Humby? I haven’t said a dozen words to her this season. I don’t think our paths have crossed before the theater last night.” Once, perhaps, maybe twice.
“It took less than a dozen words.” She held her chin high. “You called her a zebra. No one had the least concern that her mother is Bengali until you made her out to be some circus freak. Now no one will speak to her.”
Horror turned Jem’s blood to ice. “I never said—”
But he had. The remark rose to his mind instantly, with the memory of those awful glaring stripes. “I meant the print of the fabric. It looked exactly like a zebra. I never thought…” He trailed off, stricken.
“You didn’t mean to remind everyone that her mother has dark skin?” she challenged him. “To suggest that she is a creature half one thing, half another? Because everyone presumes that is what you meant. Everyone,” she repeated.
The bitterness in her tone shook him as much as the appalling implication of her words.
The style of Miss Humby’s gown and the stripes, though a fashionable print, had not at all done her justice.
He was sensitive to colors and prints. His taste was the basis of his success as a draper.
But he had never meant to insult her heritage.
He was the last person in any position to judge.
Thoughtlessness did not excuse him. He should have thought of it. He’d become so caught up in the role he was expected to play as Smart Jeremy, like a circus tiger himself, that he’d behaved like any driven creature, lashing back without consideration.
Lucasta had accused him of not understanding the impact of his words. She’d seen what he was doing.
He hadn’t.
“I am distressed to hear that my comments should be taken in such a light.” Jem managed to keep his voice calm, though his heart was dark and seething. “Please convey my most sincere apologies to Miss Humby.”
“I will not,” Lucasta said, hugging her muff to her middle. “It is your place to discuss any regrets you have over your remarks with her.”
He would. He could not let it be assumed he despised dark skin, and for more reasons than custom for his shop. But he did not see how he could convince Lucasta Lithwick of this.
They were in Caroline Street and she had exited the calash in high dudgeon before Jem realized the only way he could make her understand. He would have to tell her everything, more than he wanted to reveal, more than anyone else in London knew. It was the only way he could redeem himself.
And yet, letting Lucasta Lithwick into his secret would risk everything he had guarded for so long, bringing the truth about himself into the cold light of her judgment.
He couldn’t let her or anyone go on believing the conclusion that had been drawn from his unconsidered remarks. He might detest being Smart Jeremy, but he needed that fop. If his business suffered, Jem had no way to protect his family.
But he couldn’t risk exposing that family, not even to change Miss Lucasta Lithwick’s damning opinion of him. He couldn’t give up his last tenuous shred of secrecy when the loss would harm far more people than just him.