Chapter Thirteen
Mel woke up in a warm cocoon of blankets, but when she ventured to get up, the cold beating in from the narrow windows hit her like a blow.
The other rooms would be no warmer. There was no closed stove to warm any of the three lower levels, and Kemble had decreed they could not light any fires because the smoke would give away that someone was living in the tower.
She shrank back into the blankets, but it wouldn’t do.
Like it or not, she needed to get up. They had promised Madam Hera two more nights at the Golden Adonis, rather than leave her short staffed.
Kemble would be handing over his responsibilities to his assistant.
Rosina had already done the same with her manager duties, but Mel had promised to support the new Madam Thalia until after tomorrow night’s New Year’s Eve celebrations.
Mel grabbed her underthings and retreated back under the blankets until she was clad in at least her warmest stockings, her stays, and two layers of petticoats.
As quickly as possible in the icy room, she put on her gown and walking boots, and wrapped herself in a shawl before venturing out into this level’s sitting room.
It was not any warmer than the bedchamber, but her temperature went up just seeing Kemble.
The atmosphere between them was very different when the two of them were the only ones in the tower.
Or perhaps it was just that she had decided to act on the attraction she had always felt for him.
Perhaps it was that she had previously seen him as a possible enemy and then as an ally, and now she was viewing him as a potential lover.
She smiled at him, wondering how he would react if she put her cup down and asked him to take her to bed. Was she imagining the hint of wickedness in Kemble’s return smile?
How did one seduce a man? She had spent her entire adult life—not excluding the three years of her marriage—trying to discourage male attention. She had no idea how to reverse course.
A series of rhythmic thumping sounds came from overhead.
“What is that noise?” she asked.
“I believe the marquess has heard that we have escaped, and his men are attempting to break into the tower.” Kemble sounded very calm about it.
“I heard the bell, and then shouting. I think they have given up and are taking an axe to the door. It is double layered, with the inner planks at right angles to the outer ones, so it is going to take them a while to chop through.”
The pair of them had slept on the same level of the tower. Kemble had chosen a bedchamber on the same side as the bridge from the mansion, whereas Mel’s room was on the other side, with several thick stone walls and a stone floor between her and the antechamber from which the sound came.
“I should like to have been a fly on the wall when the marquess was told about our performance in the Burlington Arcade,” said Kemble.
“The plan is that none of us will fall into his hands until we have enough attention on us that touching us will be dangerous,” Mel reminded him.
“I am well aware. At least Isaac and Jerome are now out of his reach. They must be down the Thames and out into the North Sea by now, heading for the open Atlantic.”
“Tonight, I intend to hint that your youngest brothers are on their way to Liverpool, to take ship for the Americas,” said Mel.
“Mrs. Blackmore,” said Kemble, grinning, “I love how your mind works.”
At least he loved something about her. In the recesses of her mind, she heard her parents’ voices, her governess’s, her husband’s. “Melody, I do not understand. How can anyone think the way you do? The way your brain twists and turns. It is unnatural.”
“Misdirection will be useful in this case, Lord Kemble,” she explained.
“Yes, I agree, and call me Allan,” he invited, and then bent to pleading. “Would you? When it is only you and me?”
“Call me Mel, then,” she said, suddenly shy. Which she had never been in her life. “Allan,” she added.
“Not Melody? Such a pretty name.”
“My sister is Harmony,” Mel confided. “Her name suits her. She is a person who makes life easier for those around her. I have never felt that my name fitted at all. I am not musical, and I am more inclined to chaos than to sweet music.”
“Have people told you that?” Allan asked. “If so, they are idiots. From what I understand, you have spent the past few years of your life solving problems and serving justice. Melodies are not always simple or sweet. But they are satisfying to the soul.”
Is Allan flirting with me? If so, Mel liked it. “Thank you. I think.”
He changed the subject. “Melody, let’s put on our warmest coats and go out for a bite of dinner at the nearest cook shop.”
*
Mrs. Blackmore—Melody—was different today. Warmer. Softer somehow. Allan could swear that the expression in her eyes earlier had been at least interest, if not attraction, and she’d told him something personal about herself, and invited him to use her Christian name.
“Muffle up,” he said, wrapping his own scarf around his neck and pulling it up around his chin. “We’ll take the short tunnel out to the streets near the mansion, and it wouldn’t do for either of us to be recognized.”
“There’s a nice place just north of the abbey,” Melody suggested. “Do you know it?”
Allan shook his head. “Show me,” he suggested.
He offered her his arm. After days of drizzle and sleet, this evening was fine—or as fine as London got in the winter, when smoke from an uncounted number of chimneys clung to the rooftops and drifted through the streets.
Coal smoke, too, most of it, scratching the throat and the lungs.
The muffler at least filtered out some of the worst of the coal detritus.
The sun had set, but enough light lingered that their way was clear even before they reached the streets that had gas lamps. Other people were just muffled-up shapes in the dim light, so Allan had little doubt that he and Melody were as anonymous.
It was a ten-minute walk to the cook shop, which was on a narrow lane in a warren of modest homes and small shops. The contrast between the cold air outside and the warmth of the cook shop was remarkable.
“They keep a couple of tables with chairs for those who want to eat here rather than take their meal home,” Melody told him. “Mrs. Pratchett, what is on the menu tonight? I’ve brought my friend Mr. Allan to sample your cooking.”
The proprietress welcomed Melody with enthusiasm, and escorted them both to a table near the fire, chatting all the time.
“I’ve a roast of lamb and a pie with steak and kidney, ducky,” said the woman.
“Take your coats and scarves off, Mrs. Black, Mr. Allan. You’ll not get the benefit of them when you go outside if you don’t take them off now. ”
She indicated a coat rack in a nearby corner, and bustled off to the other room, from which appetizing odors drifted.
“I’ve eaten in taverns and restaurants,” Allan said, “but this is my first time in a cook shop. She doesn’t seem very busy.”
“She will be busier once the factories, offices, and shops close,” Melody explained. “Most people bring containers, put the meal they buy into it, and take it home. And here is our meal.”
The proprietress carried out a tray with two plates and two tankards, and offloaded it on to their table.
As promised, each plate contained a portion of roast lamb and a slice of pie bursting with meat and gravy, the crust golden and flaky.
The meal also included a mash of root vegetables and a spoonful of mushy peas. ”
“I’ve brought you a mug each of my mulled cider, Mrs. Black,” said Mrs. Pratchett. “And I’ll have a nice baked apple and custard for you for after.”
“My treat,” Allan said. “How much, Mrs. Pratchett?”
“Seven pence apiece, Mr. Allan, if you please. Four pence for the main, a penny for the apple and custard and tuppence for the cider.”
Allan handed her a shilling and a six pence piece. “Thank you. It all smells delicious. Please keep the change.”
“Thank you, Mr. Allan.” She gave Melody a light punch on the arm. “You’ve got a right one here, ducky. Handsome, too.”
Someone else entered the shop, and Mrs. Pratchett sailed away to serve this new customer.
“I am a right one, and handsome,” Allan informed Melody.
“Eat your dinner while it is hot,” she told him, but her eyes laughed into his.
The meal was delicious, the company more so, and Melody was obviously a favorite of the proprietress. “Do you come here often?” Allan said, only then realizing it sounded like the villain’s line from one of those comic pieces that theatres put on to entertain early attendees before the main play.
Melody didn’t see anything amiss with it, though, or was polite enough not to react.
“My sister and her husband used to have rooms just around the corner. She moved after Mr. White died. It is not a safe street for a widow and a growing girl, and I could not always be there to protect them. While they were here, Harmony only had a fireplace for cooking on, but did wonders with a dutch oven and hot bricks. Still, whenever I had the money, I used to treat her and the children to a meal that Harmony did not have to cook or clean after.”
“Not her husband, though,” Allan noted.
Melody’s lovely mouth twisted in a commentary of its own, but all she said was, “Mr. White was seldom at home.” Her eyes darkened with memory, but the smile she pasted on was deliberately cheerful.
“Without his incursions into the housekeeping, we were able to afford a whole floor in a safer area to the west of Mayfair, and a maid-of-all-work to do the heavy lifting.”
“My brother-in-law also lives west of Mayfair. I pay for the house and the food, for he looks after my daughter. I owe him more than I can say.” Phineas and his older brother had been horrified, not just at poor Alberta’s ultimate fate, but her scandalous relationship with her father-in-law.
When Allan had gone to them, seeking a haven for Lydia, it had been Phineas who had given up his life at Oxford as a scholar of Greek to go into hiding with her. The older brother had the earldom of Nottwick to care for, but had secretly kept in touch with both Phineas and Allan over the years.
In fact, if Nottwick was in town, he’d be a good ally in the current campaign.
Allan set the thought to one side. “Thanks to Phineas,” he told Melody, “Lydia has been given a loving home, safely away from the marquess. I cannot see her as often as I would wish, but at least she knows me, and she loves her Uncle Phineas.”
“Lydia?” Melody asked. “My daughter’s dearest friend has the same name. They live in the same house, and share lessons, my Harriet, my sister’s son, Benjamin, and Lydia Eastwood.”
“Did you say Eastwood?” Allan said. It was too much of a coincidence, surely. “Does your sister live at 16 Jasmine Close?”
“16A,” said Melody. “How did you know?”
He leaned close to keep his voice from carrying to any of the customers at the counter. “Because my Lydia and her Uncle Phineas live at 16B, downstairs from your family, and Eastwood is the surname they are using.”
Her eyes widened. “Goodness me! Our daughters are best friends!” She laughed, then. “And, if I do not mistake the matter, your brother-in-law is courting my sister. When we win this war, Allan, we shall be seeing more of one another.”
Allan took her hand, which was resting on the table, and lifted it to place a kiss on her palm. “So I hope,” he said.
Melody blushed, looking down at her plate. “I, also.”
“Here are your apples,” said the proprietress, plunking them down on the table, while glaring at Allan. “Eat them while they’re hot. A person can depend on apples. Men? Not so much.”
Allan picked up his spoon with the hand that was not still holding Melody’s. “Some of us are not so bad,” he said. “And you said yourself that I was handsome. This apple smells wonderful, Mrs. Pratchett.”
Mrs. Pratchett snorted, dismissively. “Handsome is as handsome does, Mr. Allan. Many a woman has mistaken glitter for gold, and ended up deserted or worse.”
“But Mrs. Black is too smart to be tricked by fool’s gold, Mrs. Pratchett,” Allan pointed out. He smiled at the lady who was fast becoming essential to him. “If I am false, she will no doubt discover me, beat me to a pulp, and hang me out to dry.”
That startled a chuckle out of the proprietress, and Melody, too, was smiling. “You have that right, handsome,” said Mrs. Pratchett. “Perhaps you are not too bad after all.”
“I am sorry about that,” said Melody, when the woman had gone back to her cooking and her customers.
“There are men who think widows and neglected wives must submit to their advances. Some tried to cozen us, some used force. If it had not been for Mrs. Pratchett and her friends, we could not have survived. She is still protective of me.”
Then I owe Mrs. Pratchett my grateful thanks. “I am glad of it. That you were subject to such persecution makes me want to punch someone.”
“I learned to defend myself,” said Melody. She shrugged. “Men are vulnerable, if they are on their own and a person knows where to hit. But I always prefer to talk my way out of trouble, if I can.”
Allan’s admiration for the lady kicked up another notch. And his heart was hopeful. She had not snatched back her hand, though she now carefully disentangled her fingers from his so she could pick up her spoon. Still, he had a chance. She liked him. She was attracted to him.
Now all he had to do was convince her to give up her entire life, her independence, and every asset she had been able to accumulate to marry him.
And look what he had to offer her in return for such a sacrifice?
A lonely man, permanently twisted by his experiences, with a tyrannical father and next to no personal wealth.
His heart sank again. She’d be a fool to take him on as a husband. And Melody Blackmore was no fool.