Chapter Eight
V iv stared at the stone steps leading down from the water gate to a cluster of open skiffs bobbing on the dull sage surface of the river. The wooden hulls knocked together with the restless movement of wavelets lapping the shingle. Gulls cried overhead. Memories stirred fixing her in place on the first stair. As she reached out a hand to keep her balance, Mr. Larkin called up to her.
“Don’t touch that wall, Viv. Mind your skirts don’t brush it either.”
She glanced at the vivid reeking band of green along the boards beside her and pulled her skirts close. She’d not been on the river since she’d come to London, but the stink was familiar. She was trying to place where she’d smelled it when Mr. Larkin gripped her elbow, steadying her as she descended.
At the river’s edge pebbles crunched under her sturdy half-boots, and a rough young waterman, red-bearded and muscled, a billowing white shirt rolled up over his strong arms, offered a hand to lift her into his skiff. She stepped in and stiffened against the rocking under her feet, an instant reminder of being on one of her stepfather’s unsettling sailing expeditions.
Captain Frank Pennington had a side business of helping gentlemen move their pleasure boats from Weymouth to other harbors along the southern coast. Occasionally he’d borrow one of those boats to take his girls out for a sail, usually after a quarrel with their mother. Where’s my navy? he’d yell. They were expected to leave their work unfinished over their mother’s objections, don jackets and caps, and line up for his inspection. He’d be his most charming self, leading them from their lodgings along the Strand past the statue of the old king to the long inlet lined with masts and gleaming decks. There he’d pick out some gentleman’s grand pleasure boat. Who’s for the Indies? he’d cry. Who’s for the Americas?
They’d head out to sea until the shore was a faint distant line, and she and her sisters were wet and shivering, their gloved hands frozen to lines or winch handles. In time, Viv realized that her unease on these adventures sprang not from the roughness of the waves or the darkness of the waters, but from the theft and the threat that her stepfather would not turn back, as if he were saying to their mother that he could charm her daughters away from her. Viv’s relief was always profound when he’d order them to come about. Is it tea time? he’d ask.
“Viv?” Mr. Larkin called her back to the present. “Bend your knees, or you’ll topple over.”
She did as he said. She didn’t want to think about her stepfather or what it meant that her sisters were still subject to his whims and that until the guide was published, she had so little to send them. Then she remembered the smell. The pickpocket had smelled like the river. She would add that detail to her notes later .
Mr. Larkin lifted their picnic basket and a rug into the little boat and stepped in beside her. She had agreed to his river expedition in order to get a story, two stories—his and the one about the great fire. She had to admit he’d made her curious, and the writer in her knew the value of a firsthand account of such an event.
“You owe me a story,” she said, sitting down on the forward bench.
“First, the ruins.” He settled beside her, leaning close, speaking into the gap between her bonnet and her cheek, a warm puff of breath that made her shiver. “Then, the picnic.”
The waterman pushed them off the shore and leapt in, taking his position in the stern of the little boat, and sliding his oars into locks. With a few pulls he turned the sharp nose of the skiff westward up the river, and with a few more dips of the oars, the incoming tide took them. The river boiled along, swift and swirling, its somber surface broken into jagged points of slate flashing in the sun. A breeze rushed over them, and the great city all but disappeared behind a fringe of shabby, sagging buildings along the water’s edge. It was a new perspective. Viv reached for her notebook and pencil, but the chop on the water made notetaking impossible.
Dozens of vessels rode the current, from low, heavy barges strung together to single-masted boats with slanting sails, crisscrossing the river against the tide, and steam packets crammed with passengers, their paddlewheels churning and their tall stacks belching smoke.
Their waterman hailed the crew of a long string of barges rippling through the water. A conversation followed of which Viv understood hardly a word, but in a minute a competition had begun as their skiff raced the line of barges bearing down on one of the great round arches of Westminster Bridge. The bridge loomed over them as the boats converged on the narrow opening. They were nearly neck and neck with the heavy barge so close that Viv thought their near oar must touch the barge’s side. The bridge opening was clearly too narrow for both the fat barges and their skiff. They were doomed unless their waterman backed off. Instead, he gave a great pull on the port oar. The wooden skiff would be crushed against the stones.
Mr. Larkin wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “Hang on,” he said.
Abruptly, the nose of the skiff dipped and the river sucked them down until they glided into the blackness under the bridge and shot through the other side into the flash of ripples well ahead of the barge. Viv sat stunned, clinging to Mr. Larkin, which was madness.
“You knew that would happen, didn’t you?”
“It’s a trick the watermen have,” he said. “Where the river’s flow narrows, the water speeds up and gives a lighter vessel the advantage over the heavier one.”
A trick. Viv’s heart returned to its regular beat. She shook off Mr. Larkin’s hold. It was the very thing she and Lady Melforth wanted to warn their unsuspecting readers of, whether writing of boatmen or hackney drivers, or any of the dozens of men who offered to help the unsuspecting female traveler navigate the great city.
The waterman turned their skiff toward the river’s north bank. At once the ruins of the burned palace appeared. The waters below the ruins made a calm pool beyond the reach of the current and the chop of the main channel. Viv took up her pencil and put it down at once. It was necessary simply to look at the ruined palace.
She had not anticipated the melancholy of the scene. Blue and gold streaks alternated on the water’s smooth surface reflecting both sky and ruins. Though it was six months since the fire, a smell of damp ash filled the air. Roofless and backless, the saffron stone walls faced the river with light streaming through the ancient tracery of the central arch. Other windows stared, empty black holes. The trees along the bank, as tall as the buildings themselves, stood blasted and withered like mourners, as if no spring would ever come to them again.
“You saw the fire?” she asked.
“From the bridge,” he said. Like her he seemed sobered by the scene.
“Tell me what you saw.” She bent her head to the little notebook.
Next to her on the bench, Mr. Larkin began to speak. “Black smoke was billowing when I arrived a little after sunset. Flames had burst some of the windows, streaming out in great orange tongues.”
“Where was the fire brigade?”
“Not on the river, the tide was low, so fire boats could not get near, nor could they fill their hoses. There was a great crowd on the bridge, but you couldn’t hear anyone speak over the roar of the fire.” He gestured to the span behind them. “You could feel the heat. Ash blew over the crowd, and showers of embers lit the sky. The flames turned the river orange. The moon was full and—”
Viv stopped her notetaking to give Mr. Larkin a glance. “And?”
“Red…like a…a wound in the sky.”
The words surprised her. His face in profile revealed little, but she thought the fire had affected him, changed him in some way. It was loss he described.
He recovered his usual easy manner and went on. “Not long after I arrived, there was a tremendous blast. The roof collapsed, and the fire exploded heavenward in a great ball. There was no stopping it after that. Everyone knew the palace was gone.”
“What was the mood of the crowd?”
“Some were glad of it, but most were sobered. London is stone and brick. It’s solid and real.” He paused. “A man’s city is not supposed to go up in flame and smoke.”
She closed up her notebook and simply watched him. It was plain that the ruins held some personal meaning for him. “What happened next?” she asked.
He turned back to her with a rueful laugh, as if he’d been the object of a joke.
“What?”
“With the palace gone, the call came to save the hall next door. I answered. I joined a crew manning pumps on a fire engine. We were at it for hours, but we did save the hall.” He pointed.
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say about an epic battle with flames?”
“I ruined a good set of clothes. ”
They were more alike than she’d thought. Though he was not telling her what amused him about manning a fire engine pump, it was plain that London was his place, his home, and that he had been shaken in some way by the destruction of a major institution.
“Do you think Parliament will rebuild?” She tucked her notebook away.
“Grander than ever,” he said. He turned to their waterman with instructions.
*
They went up the river a little way and crossed to the south bank where a grassy knoll rose above the marshy shore. Their waterman beached the boat and handed Viv out onto a wooden plank that stretched across the mud to drier ground. Lark followed carrying their rug and picnic basket. They climbed the knoll and found a spot to spread the rug. Lark stretched out on his good side and let Viv unpack their basket. Her mood had been sobered by the ruins or the boat ride. He couldn’t decide which, but he hoped the picnic would restore her spirit.
“You wanted my story,” he said. Best to tell her while she was distracted by the items in their basket.
“Yes.” She removed a green lacquer tray from the top of the basket and began setting items on it.
“It’s easy to tell. I was orphaned young. Wenlocke, who takes an interest in orphans, saw to my education, and kept my one relative, an aunt on my mother’s side, apprised of my progress. From time to time, she generously supplies my needs.”
Her hands paused in setting out a covered dish. “Really, that’s your story?”
“You see. No wonder you fell asleep the first time I told it.” He reached out a hand to lift the lid on the dish, but she stopped him with a hand over his.
“You said your story was thrilling and full of pathos .”
“Are you not moved that I was orphaned young?” He pressed a hand over his heart.
She pulled a jar of lemonade and two glasses from the basket. “Where does this aunt of yours live?”
“Somerton.” It was a question he’d prepared for.
“Where are your parents buried?”
“They were lost at sea, so I’ve no grave to visit.”
“You were an only child?”
“I was.”
“And did you go to school somewhere? Where the masters beat you and denied you enough to eat?” She arched a brow.
“Not at all. I was privately tutored in Wenlocke’s house with other boys like me.” That, at least, was not a fiction. He should have anticipated that she would keep probing. Now he’d have to remember the answers he gave. “Are you going to let me see what’s in that dish?”
“Cold meats,” she said. “This aunt from Somerton did not take you into her household?”
“She’s elderly,” he said. “What elderly maiden takes on a boy?”
“You do know that your story is not going to help much tonight when Lady Melforth asks questions over tea. ”
“Tea?”
“Lady Melforth insists that she get to know you.”
As long as she did not ask the obvious question, the one for which he had not yet formulated an answer, the question of how a random orphan came to the notice of a duke. “I shall regard too many questions as impertinent. Shall we eat?”
“Hah,” she said. “Great ladies feel quite entitled to know the business of the young gentlemen betrothed to members of their household.”
“Then I shall have to charm her.”
Her expression sobered at once. He pushed himself into an upright sitting position. “What? You don’t want me to charm her? You don’t trust charm?”
“I don’t.” She lifted the lid on the covered dish. “Chicken?”
*
At the fashionable hour of nine, Haxton showed Lark into the upper drawing room where Lady Melforth held court. She had left her couch and cushions for a high-backed gold velvet armchair with a crown of elaborate gilt woodwork. The chair’s gold filigree gleamed in the light of a dozen wax candles in tall silver candelabra above the stone mantel.
Her ladyship’s red hair was piled high above her imperious countenance, and one thick curl coiled artfully down over her right shoulder. Heavy black lace on a moss-colored silk gown spilled over her wrists on the arms of the chair. Her injured foot lay on a small padded velvet stool. Her posture was erect, her alert eye poised to detect a visitor’s every misstep. Lark noted the bit of vanity in that one curl. He did not see any tremor in her ladyship’s hand.
He made his bow as Haxton announced him. He had dressed in black dinner wear, as if he’d just left his club or perhaps the duke’s house and not his modest bachelor’s quarters. Straightening, he risked a brief glance at Viv, stiffly upright and obviously uneasy in a low chair to her ladyship’s right. He nodded. She looked at her hands clasped in her lap. He had not thought his remark about charming Lady Melforth would offend Viv so deeply.
She wore a wool gown the color of ripe plums, her hair up, no jewelry except for pearl bobs in her ears. The low chair, the dark gown, the occasion, he didn’t know what had subdued her spirits. If he could get close to her, he would lean into that exposed curve between her shoulder and the pearl-studded tip of one ear and whisper a challenge to make her eyes flash.
He gathered that he was to face Lady Melforth’s inquisition on his own.
“Mr. Larkin.” Lady Melforth tapped the arm of her chair. “I must take you to task for this engagement you’ve entered into. You really should have sought my permission to pay your addresses to a lady of Miss Bradish’s standing.”
“Forgive me, ma’am. Necessity prompted me to act in haste.” Lark crossed the rich carpet, stopping only when he stood where her ladyship was obliged to look up at him.
“Necessity?”
“Your relations, ma’am, the Strydes, were at hand, and from what Miss Bradish has told me, I feared that they might mistake my intentions toward her.”
Lady Melforth cast him a reproachful glance. “I don’t like this going behind my back. I should have been warned, you know, that an engagement was imminent.”
“Again, ma’am, I beg your pardon. Miss Bradish and I could hardly be more open with the Strydes so often here.”
“Yes, well. Do sit down, Mr. Larkin. I cannot be looking up at you like this.” She waved a lace-draped hand toward a shield-backed chair in the opposite corner.
Lark concealed a smile and drew the chair into a position where Lady Melforth could look down her nose at him.
“You do know Miss Bradish has no fortune of her own,” her ladyship continued.
“I do.”
“And you must not be misled by her position in my house. You must not rely on anything from me.”
Lark looked at Viv again, at the low chair and the plum dress, and returned his gaze to Lady Melforth. His jaw tightened. There was no mistaking Viv’s position. She might not be Jenny or one of the footmen, but she was subject to her ladyship’s whims. His position as her false fiancé gave him no right to protest that she deserved better.
“I do not, ma’am. If anything, I prize Miss Bradish the more for her independence from borrowed prospects.” It was a daring thing to say, and he wondered if he’d gone too far. He waited in silence while the coals on the fire hissed and a clock on the mantel made the faintest of ticks.
“You’re very sure of yourself, young man. Who are your people? ”
“Miss Bradish hasn’t told you?”
“Only that you were orphaned about the time of my father’s death at Waterloo ,” Viv said.
Lark caught the warning. “You mustn’t blame Viv, ma’am. There’s little to tell. I’ve an aunt in Somerton, and no other relations that I’m aware of.”
“A very inadequate account, young man, but you are an only son.”
“I am.”
“So, what property is there?”
“Investments. Through Hammersley’s Bank. My aunt’s Somerton property will come to me in time, I suppose.” Lark was warming to his convenient fictional aunt.
“You are very sanguine about your prospects. Do you expect anything from the duke?”
“No, ma’am.”
“He has not offered to buy you a commission or to give you a living in his gift?”
“Nothing of the sort would suit me, ma’am.”
“Well, Miss Bradish cannot live on nothing.”
“Nor will she have to.” Again, Lark’s jaw tightened.
“Still this engagement remains most inconvenient. There must be no delay in the publication of our guidebook.”
“There won’t be, ma’am. What may I do to assist Miss Bradish?”
“Viv, what do you do tomorrow?”
The door opened, admitting Haxton followed by a young footman in green velvet livery burdened with a particularly large silver tea tray, and Dr. Newberry. As the footman set his tray on the table next to Viv, Newberry, in a brown coat and careless black silk tie, strode toward Lady Melforth, perfectly at ease.
Lark saw that he had erred in dressing formally.
“Newberry.” Her ladyship stretched out a hand. “What brings you to us tonight?”
Newberry took the offered hand and held it in his. “I hope I’m not intruding, ma’am. My rounds brought me into the neighborhood, and I thought I’d look in to see how you all were doing.”
“You see we are well and entertaining Viv’s…Mr. Larkin. Have you met?”
“We have.” Newberry gave Lark an amused scrutiny. “What’s the occasion, man? A state dinner? Dining with your duke?”
“Just dinner with school friends at their club.” Lark’s club was a cook shop on Baker Street where they were quite surprised to see him in evening wear.
Newberry returned his gaze to Lady Melforth, turning her hand palm up in his and feeling her wrist.
“Newberry, I tell you I’m well,” she protested, withdrawing her hand. “Tell me about your other cases.”
He laughed, and began telling her about an evening call on a gouty retired admiral.
Lark rose and crossed to Viv as she arranged the cups and saucers on the silver tray. With his back to the others, he said, “You seem quiet tonight. Worried?”
“I should be, shouldn’t I? You like flirting with danger.” She held a slotted spoon over a blue-and-white porcelain cup and began pouring.
“We’re well-matched, then. You like courting risk. ”
“I like writing a book with Lady Melforth.” She gave him a measuring glance. “This charade will never work. I don’t even know how you take your tea.”
“We won’t be exposed over tea,” he said. “Where do you go tomorrow?”
She stirred sugar into the cup she had poured. “No need for you to accompany me. I can manage on my own, thank you. Will you take this to her ladyship?”
He nodded, accepting the cup. “Should I worry about the safety of other unsuspecting gentlemen you might shoot?”
Her eyes flashed, and he lost himself briefly. From behind him came Lady Melforth’s voice. “How is her grace?”
He tore his gaze away from Viv.
“Why, well, ma’am.” Lark really had no idea, but he could not imagine that anything had befallen the Duchess of Wenlocke with Dav, that is the duke, at her side. “Your tea.”
Lady Melforth took the cup. Her voice turned wistful. “She was just a young girl when I met her, pretty spoken, fond of her ponies. Her family often called upon her to speak with English visitors, before the French came, of course.”
“You met her on your travels then?” Lark meant to turn the conversation away from dangerous territory.
“Yes. I was writing my first guide, my Letters from Florence, Rome, and Naples .”
“It’s your practice, then, ma’am, to write your guides about cities?”
“What else! The English traveler seeks the best elements of a culture—its art and history, its markets, and its architectural glories. All these things are to be found in the great cities.”
“And this is the method you’ve taught Miss Bradish?”
Lady Melforth glanced at Viv, as if she’d remembered her protégé’s presence. “Well, they are my methods, of course, but I’m sure in time Miss Bradish will…profit from my tutelage.”
“No doubt of it,” Newberry chimed in. He took a cup of tea and set it on the mantel, leaning casually against the stone and grinning at Viv.
“Why London?” Lark persisted. “Surely every Englishman of means knows London, and there are dozens of pocket guides to the city.”
“Ah, but my— this —book is for women, for the new woman of this new age.”
“The woman who is free to go anywhere in London? Without a companion?” Lark pressed. “That’s where Viv comes into it?”
The teacup rattled in Lady Melforth’s hands.
“Your tea, Mr. Larkin,” Viv said, calling his attention to her. He turned and took the cup she offered him.
Lady Melforth continued. “We women should be able to choose our companions, and not be saddled with nursemaids or chaperones. It’s absurd that a woman of sense must have a ninny at her side to be considered respectable.” Lady Melforth put down her cup and crossed her hands in her lap, burying the offending hand under the steadier one.
Newberry straightened away from the mantel. “We mustn’t tire her ladyship, Larkin.”
Lark returned his untouched cup to Viv, turned, and bowed to Lady Melforth. “Good evening, ma’am.” He followed Newberry to the door.
“Wait, Mr. Larkin,” Lady Melforth called, “one more thing. Have you placed an announcement in the papers?”
Lark glanced at Viv. “We agreed to tell our news to Viv’s family first.”
“Hmph.” Lady Melforth waved a dismissive hand. “They, of course, can do nothing for her. Much wiser to introduce her to your duke.”
“A good thought, ma’am.”
“And soon. The Strydes will wonder at it when they see no announcement in the papers. Trust me, young man, charm of manner will have no effect upon Mrs. Stryde.”
Lark bowed again. The footman opened the door, and Lark and Newberry descended the stairs in silence, accepted their coats and hats from Haxton, and stepped out into the night. Lark took a deep breath. The evening was not a complete disaster. He’d gained ground with Lady Melforth, but seemed to have lost it with Viv.
“How are those stitches?” Newberry asked.
“I hardly notice them. You did your work well.”
“Where did you say you had dinner?” Newberry asked.
“With school friends.”
“And what school was that?”
“In my aunt’s part of the country, Newberry, it’s common for boys to be schooled together by a local grinder. I regard those boys as my school friends.”
“You always have an answer, don’t you? One day, I suspect, you won’t. Good night.” Newberry strode off.