Chapter 51
Alfred
When Annabelle and I arrive home, it is announced that we have a visitor.
I flush cold. I worry it is my father.
But then Henry steps out of the drawing room.
“Married, you bastard!” he chuckles. “And you didn’t even tell me.”
Henry catches sight of Annabelle and he blanches—but only a little. More than anything, his handsome face, with its dark brown eyes and light brown complexion, appears perfectly friendly.
“My apologies, Mrs. de Lacey, for the coarse language,” Henry says. “But my friend has given me a shock. I am wishing you joy, I assure you, on your nuptials.”
I am, for a moment, unable to speak. I did not expect to receive a visit from anyone so soon. Despite our friendship, I thought Henry would keep his distance for longer.
When I meet Henry’s eyes again, however, I understand. The soft light of concern shines there. I appreciate it, even though it is unnecessary.
“And who are you?” Annabelle says icily. “I do not believe my husband has told me of you, sir.”
I can’t blame Annabelle for her reaction. She has reason to be skeptical of anyone, especially a man who has appeared out of nowhere and proclaims her husband a “bastard” for marrying.
“The Honourable Mr. Henry Bertram, madam,” Henry says, sweeping into a low bow. “Honourable twice over as a matter of fact. Once because my father was the Baron of Briscombe and once because I represent Briscombe in parliament. Of course, the latter is only relevant inside the House of Commons.”
“Oh, Mr. Bertram,” Annabelle says, her tone not at all friendlier. I suppose that she remembers Henry’s letter. “I am surprised you would descend to visit us at home.”
Henry has the grace to look bashful.
“I won’t pretend that I am not delicately situated as a public man. But I am a devoted friend. And Alfred is very dear to me.”
“And we are married now,” Annabelle says. “So it is safe for you to come.”
“I don’t know about safe,” Henry says. “Your reputation, Mrs. de Lacey, is singular.”
Annabelle’s face goes even harder.
“You are free to leave, Mr. Bertram.”
This time Henry truly blanches.
“You misunderstand me, madame. I merely meant that half the men in London are terrified of you and the other half covet what you have built. But while I have to be cautious in my actions, I have my position because I actually have principles—and I believe that women need more power in this country. That they deserve it. In short, I admire you, Mrs. de Lacey, and hope we can be friends.”
Annabelle doesn’t look particularly enticed by Henry’s offer. But, to my surprise, when she speaks, her voice is gentler.
“Your speeches in Parliament, Mr. Bertram, are some of the best.”
“Ah,” he says. “So you have heard of me.”
“Yes, anyone who cares about Radical politics in this country has, as you well know.”
Henry gives a smile that I would not classify as smug, but which definitely meets the grade for “self-satisfied.”
“I feel personal gratitude to you as well,” Henry says, “beyond making my friend the happiest of men, of course. A friend of my family, once my ayah and now my mother’s companion, has a daughter, a Mrs. Erickson, who works at your counting house.
As I understand it, your counting house offers an unparalleled place for a young lady of brains to find employ. ”
“I know Mrs. Erickson,” Annabelle says. “Although I am afraid to say not well. She is an excellent bookkeeper.”
I am shocked that such a connection would be shared by Henry and Annabelle. And that Annabelle would know his speeches. But, of course, it does not surprise me that Annabelle would support the Radicals. I certainly couldn’t see her throwing in with the Tories or the Liberals.
Just then, a knock sounds on the door.
We are still standing in the entryway.
“That must be Matilda,” Annabelle says, checking through the peephole. As she opens it, she exclaims, “And Evie.”
Through the door come two women who, even on a crowded London street, could not be easily ignored.
Mrs. Matilda Cunningham, the woman I wrote to on Annabelle’s behalf, is at first glance a singular personage.
She wears spectacles and has loose brown curls pinned up under a round hat.
Her complexion is a few shades darker than Henry’s and her dress is neat but quite worn.
She carries a weather-beaten leather reticule.
She has an air of abstraction to her, as if she is trying to figure out something in her head that has nothing to do with the situation at hand.
And in addition to all of that, she is very pretty—with a high forehead and cheekbones and unusual gray eyes.
And then there is the woman that Annabelle called Evie.
For one, she is bareheaded. She holds her drawn bonnet in her hand, and her hair, almost jet, floats down to her shoulders.
I have the distinct impression that she has let it out of its pins just for the pleasure of it—that alone makes her appearance scandalous.
Her face is not as pretty as her friend’s, but she is in her own way just as striking.
Her pale skin creates a contrast with her very dark brows and long hair.
She has an intensity to her, a sense of shrewd quickness in complete opposition to Mrs. Cunningham’s philosophical abstraction.
Her eyes alight on me and Henry as if she is calculating our worth from our pin-sticks to our shoes.
And where Mrs. Cunningham has a full, well-proportioned figure, Miss Colley is thin, at complete odds with the current fashionable physique.
“I’ll be hanged! Two gentlemen at once, Annabelle,” exclaims Miss Colley, winking at her friend. “Aren’t you greedy. I knew you could not have married a man who didn’t go in for a bit of fun.”
Her speech is coarse, there is no doubting it, and her accent isn’t much better.
“I hate to disappoint a lady,” retorts Henry before anyone else in the room can respond. “But I am merely a humble well-wisher to the connubial bliss before us.”
“I’m not a lady,” Miss Colley says with a quick, sly smile. Her accent is interesting—her speech has a soft cockney lilt as if a much rougher accent has been filed down from its original state. “And that is what a gentleman in your position would say caught in such a menage, wouldn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know, I am sure,” Henry says cooly, although I can see by the flare of his nostrils that he is vexed.
“Oh, but I do, Mr. Waistcoat,” Miss Colley says, flashing that dagger of a smile once more.
I stifle a laugh. Henry does fancy a flashy waistcoat—the brocade on the one he wears at present is very fine indeed.
“Evie,” chides Mrs. Cunningham. “You mustn’t be impolite. And you know he isn’t the lover of Annabelle and her new husband. For one, he is wearing all of his clothes.”
Apparently, Mrs. Cunningham is also quite plainspoken.
“Well, I wish he weren’t,” Miss Colley says. “But something tells me that he is too high for the likes of me.”
Henry’s eyes are riveted on Evie. And she is staring right back at him.
Then he looks away. It appears to cost him some effort.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. de Lacey,” Henry says, tipping his hat, now back on his head, at Annabelle.
I have to give him credit. I thought him discomposed—but his voice is its usual smooth silk.
“I will call again. And while I regret, Alfred, that you will no longer be part of our little club, I am glad to see that you are happy.”
He sweeps out, leaving only the ladies.
“You two scared away Mr. Bertram,” Annabelle says with a smile. Despite the détente she struck with Henry, she does not seem upset to see him go.
And neither am I, truth be told. Henry will come back, and I would rather meet Annabelle’s friends alone.
“Mr. Bertram? The MP? I didn’t realize you consorted with toffs, Annabelle,” Miss Colley says, turning to the hall mirror and running a hand through her hair.
She moves around the space soundlessly, as if she is deeply familiar with it—or casing it for a robbery. “Besides being one yourself of course.”
“I don’t unless I can help it. All the same, I won’t have you selling any tattle, Evie, about his presence here,” Annabelle says, her voice stern now.
Mrs. Cunningham gasps. “Evie wouldn’t do that, Annabelle! Not to you.”
Evie gives a wry laugh. “At least one of my friends values me as I deserve.”
“I know you would never expose me in that way, Evie. But you needn’t mention my name to do so to Mr. Bertram.”
She gives a huff. “Very well, I will protect his honor as if it were my own.”
“Stop, Evie,” Annabelle says. “I am being serious.”
Evie addresses me for the first time.
“She knows my honor is a threadbare little thing.”
“I do not,” Annabelle says. “But I know you think that of yourself.”
Evie throws up her arms. “I am tired of speaking of it. Rest assured, I will say nothing. If we may end the topic.”
For the first time I believe her—and Annabelle seems to as well, because she turns to Mrs. Cunningham.
“Did you bring your supplies? I do desperately need a remedy. I am fine now—but the mornings…”
“Yes, I have bought everything that I have,” Mrs. Cunningham says. “May we go into the drawing room?”
“Of course,” Annabelle says. “And I’ll call for tea—”
“Let me,” I say. “Go to the drawing room with your friends. I will join you in a moment.”
Annabelle looks surprised. “No, I couldn’t ask you—”
“To arrange for tea in my own house?” I say. “I can handle tea, I think. And you should rest. And reunite with your friends. I will see to it.”
Her face softens. And her hand finds my own.
“Thank you.”
I nod as she files out of the hall. Then I ring the bell and confer with the maid about what must be brought.
I enjoy doing these domestic tasks, in truth. I have a taste and an eye for such things. I always have. I like things to be arrayed with thought and care. The right flavor, the right object, the right treat at the right moment…I like how attention to such things can make people happy.
And when I rejoin the ladies in the drawing room I am pleased that Mrs. Cunningham and Miss Colley exclaim over the cake and tea. Annabelle smiles at the warm glances this attention earns me from her friends.
It is a small thing.
But it means quite a bit to me.
And it gives me an idea.