Chapter 4- Callum
Callum strode down the street, his fine wool overcoat billowing out behind him.
Though he didn’t care for the city, Callum couldn’t deny there were some perks—chief amongst them the quality of the clothing.
Ellis had advised him of the best places to shop and hadn’t steered him wrong yet.
He’d already visited the bootmakers and the tailors, outfitting himself for “hunting season,” as his cousin had jokingly called it.
Only, two weeks in London had convinced Callum that, unfortunately, his cousin was correct—Callum no longer knew who was the hunter and who was the prey in this scenario.
Even now, he was vaguely aware of a group of ladies sitting in the window of a fashionable tea room across the street.
Callum had glanced once in their general direction—he’d been taking note of his surroundings, nothing more—and they’d blatantly stared at him ever since.
They’d been watching as he entered the tailor’s, and they still watched half an hour later when he’d exited.
At the top of the street, he was glad to leave their stares behind.
Not that he’d be free of them for long. In the fortnight he’d spent so far in London, he’d learned to be quick about his shopping, especially in a store where ladies might be present.
Word had spread that the Duke of Ettrick had come to London, and it was but a puddle’s hop of a leap to deduce he’d come to select a bride.
When he’d expressed his dislike for being stared at on a ride through the park only just the other day, Ellis had mocked him for it.
“Oh yes,” he’d drawled. “What a pity to be handsome and wealthy and single.”
Callum rolled his eyes at the memory. He knew how it sounded—him complaining about his impressive height and build, his strong chin and dark features. But the truth of the matter was that his looks had been far more trouble than they were worth.
Down the street he spied his destination: Morton and Rolland, Fine Stationers.
He needed more parchment, a new ledger, and a small, pocket-sized book for jotting down names.
He was atrocious at remembering monikers; they flew out of his head nearly the moment they were spoken.
He’d found that the only thing that helped was ducking away at the first opportunity to write down names and descriptions.
The bell jangled overhead and he ducked inside, missing the tall doorways of his family manor. The shopkeeper nodded his direction, and Callum began to swiftly peruse the shelves.
Callum selected a ledger, several new pens, and some parchment.
He was looking at small, leather-bound notebooks when it happened.
He shifted a small book to the side and frowned.
Amongst the new journals was a worn one, whose leather cover was battered and scratched from what looked like years of use.
Callum picked it up, his curiosity piqued. Perhaps only the cover was used, and the interior unmarked like the others. But when he flipped it open to a page in the middle, the tightly written script nearly leapt off the page.
Dear Ruth,
Last night we didn’t have dinner again. It’s a wonder that I ever took food for granted.
Some nights, I lie awake, stomach grumbling, and wonder if this isn’t some sort of punishment for all the times I sent a plate away with food left upon it.
I wonder if any of our servants were hungry enough to snatch a morsel from those plates.
But then I remember that they were earning good wages at the time.
It’s ironic that in many ways, we are now far lower than our former servants, as we don’t have the opportunity to work and earn the way they did…
Callum frowned, flipped a few pages forward, and read:
Dear Ruth,
Today I saw someone I knew at the market.
It was just a maid who once served me tea, but I wonder if she recognized me, dressed as I was.
Sometimes, I can convince myself that my former life was nothing but a dream.
And then something will happen to remind me that it was real.
Only, the stark difference between my existence now makes the past feel like something I imagined.
The writer’s words called to him, entranced him.
Callum looked around, wondering if the authoress—for the penmanship clearly marked the writer as a woman—was nearby.
He half expected to see a middle-aged woman running toward him in a threadbare gown, trying to prevent him from reading further. But he was alone in the shop.
Perhaps he should return it to the counter? Certainly it was a mistake that had deposited the used journal upon the shelf. Yet as soon as the idea reared in his mind, he instinctively rejected it.
Callum flipped to another spot and read:
Dear Ruth,
Can I admit how guilty I feel for not selling you before you are all spent, while your pages might yet be of some value?
Still, I cannot help but think that you are far more valuable to me than you ever would be to someone else.
Today, the men came again. They took the breakfront that father bought mother so many years ago.
* watched them take it, but I couldn’t bear it.
Who was this woman? Callum couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so curious about anything. He flipped and skimmed, flipped and skimmed for many moments. In the background, he was dimly aware of the bell above the door ringing.
Dear Ruth,
It is far easier to be gracious when one has plenty than when one has little. It’s no damage to one’s pride to cheerfully give, but it dents my pride exceedingly to accept charity with a smile on my face.
When we had money to spare, I used to take supper to the children at the orphanage twice a week.
I never told you that before, did I? I suppose it was because I thought keeping it a secret—even from you—would keep the purity of the act intact.
Charity isn’t charity if one announces it from the rooftops—then it becomes something else, entirely.
“A lovely day, is it not?” a melodious voice said at his shoulder.
Callum jerked, reflexively clasping the journal to his chest as if someone were trying to snatch it from him. But it was just two ladies dressed in fine, frilly gowns, giving him unsubtle, sidelong glances as they staged a conversation for his benefit.
“To be sure, though I prefer sunshine,” the brunette said.
Dear heavens, they’d found him. Again.
Callum gave a brisk nod in their direction even as he frowned. Now that he’d lifted his head, he realized that the duo were not the only female presence in the shop. There were several such groupings.
It was well past time to go. Callum picked up the first blank journal he laid his hand on, then moved to the counter to pay his bill.
Thankfully, the shopkeeper had already wrapped the other items for him, giving him a meaningful, understanding raise of the eyebrow when Callum shoved the journals into his overcoat pockets instead of handing them over to be wrapped, and paid the entire bill.
For one moment, Callum felt bad that he was buying the used journal without informing the shopkeeper of what he’d found. Then again, it had been out in the shop as if it were for sale, and he was paying for it, so it could hardly be called stealing.
“I simply love perfumed paper,” someone crooned behind him, too loudly for a casual conversation.
Callum felt his eye begin to twitch. The Season hadn’t even started yet, and already the ladies were nipping at his heels like a bunch of dogs set on a fox.
The thought entered his mind again—he could pack and leave London before nightfall.
He might be able to make the inn at Edgeware before midnight.
Even that distance would put him well out of reach of these perfumed hounds.
“Thank you, my lord,” the shopkeeper said once Callum had paid. “And good luck to you.”
Callum would have frowned at him for his sheer impudence, but he didn’t dare risk the seconds it would take to do so. The bell over the door jangled merrily once more, and now there was a veritable herd of pastel-clad creatures blocking the doorway.
Callum gritted his teeth even as he hefted a smile onto his face and made his way to the door, careful that he didn’t allow his eyes to linger or his legs to brush anyone’s skirts.
If he’d come this far to find a wife, he wouldn’t risk anything that might see him entrapped by some harpy he barely even knew.
“You’re back,” his cousin called from the front parlor some time later. “I was about to send out the footman. Afraid you’d been abducted by some ambitious mother, you see.”
Callum frowned down at where his cousin lay sprawled on one of the tufted leather sofas. “Are you already in your cups? We haven’t even had dinner yet.”
“What else is there to do in this blasted city before the gun signalling the start of the races goes off?”
“The gun?” Callum frowned and sat across from him on the other sofa.
“The start of the Season. The first ball.”
“You might go to a museum or see something at the theatre. Or improve your mind with some reading. We have an excellent library.”
Ellis made a rude noise. “All of that sounds dreadfully boring.”
“So you’ve only come to town to peruse the female set, is that right?”
“On the contrary. I’ve come at your behest to protect you from the female set. I’m the third son of a baron. I wouldn’t want any lady who’d put the effort in to chase me.”
Callum laughed. “If you’ve come to protect me, you should have come shopping with me this afternoon.”
“Shopping sounds even worse than reading, forgive me for saying so.”
Callum thought of the mysterious journal tucked into his pocket and found he couldn’t agree with his cousin’s sentiment.