Alicia (5 page)

* * * *

Mr. Parker made the majority of his journey to Bridlington in a snit. Really, Stronbert was too high-handed by half. And his mother was crazy as a loon, Parker sniggered to himself. He remembered the occasion several years previously when the dowager marchioness was in London on a visit to the Stronbert town house. Parker had come round to settle a gambling debt with the marquis and had arrived just as the dowager was descending from her carriage. He had watched with fascinated horror as several eels started to wriggle out of her cloak pocket. She had purchased these on an impulse as she had passed a market and stuffed their inert forms carelessly into her pocket. But her body warmth had revived them and Parker watched in amazement as she discovered their attempted escape and casually thrust them in her reticule to be delivered forthwith to the cook.

There had also been the occasion at Ranelagh when the old woman had been pacing along the side of the colossal gilded amphitheater past the alcoves with their tables laid ready for those desiring coffee and tea when she had stopped abruptly and declared that the famous orchestra was playing out of tune. She had charged past the huge fireplace ornamented with lamps and descended on the musicians. One hapless viol de gamba player had been singled out as the offender and soundly berated by the dowager, to the astonishment of the assembled crowd. Parker remembered that the marquis, with his intolerable calm, had waited patiently while his mother completed her diatribe and then led her off to some friends, without the slightest sign of discomposure.

Parker had other memories of the dowager, however, which were not so soothing to his lacerated sensibilities. The old woman had taken a severe dislike to him and managed to put him to the blush whenever they met which, fortunately, was not often. He had not the least desire to spend the night at Stronbert Court.

Edward Westerly’s family home was located several miles west of Bridlington and Parker arrived there when the evening was well advanced. Mr. Westerly had not expected him until the next day and was in the process of entertaining Francis Tackar for the evening. They were seated in the library over a game of piquet when Parker was announced.

Westerly rose eagerly at his friend’s advent and his companion in a more leisurely manner. Westerly was a short, red-haired man approaching his twenty-fifth year, where Mr. Tackar had certainly reached his mid-thirties. Tackar wore a single-breasted bottle green coat cut square at the waist with a very high collar and large revers. The tight-fitting sleeves and the coattail to his calf set off his athletic figure. There were four buttons at the sides of his extremely tight breeches, which covered his knees, and his frilled shirt peeked out from beneath a striped waistcoat.

Parker betrayed his admiration of this outfit by inquiring of Tackar who his tailor was, but turned almost immediately to his host to explain his unexpected arrival. “I had thought to spend another night on the road, my dear fellow. There was a fair in Tetterton with the usual trappings,”
he explained, with a smirk. Remembering his grievance he frowned. “Stronbert invited me to spend the night at his seat but you know what his mother is! Had to give up my room at the inn to a widow and her daughter,”
he declared virtuously.

Westerly laughed. “Turned out, were you? I shall see the day you play the gallant when your own comfort is in question.”

Parker had accepted a glass of brandy and downed it quickly. His host refilled it. It had been an uncomfortable day for Parker, all told, and the brandy loosened his incorrigibly wayward tongue. “Indeed, I had no intention of giving up the room but my oaf of a valet allowed the landlord to forcefully eject him when I was out.”

Parker eyed his auditors belligerently, daring them to believe that it would have happened had
he
been there. When no comment was made, but he could detect the cynical gleam in Tackar’s eyes, he decided to change his tack. “You will hardly credit who the widow was,”
he offered provocatively.

“Someone we know?”
Westerly asked curiously.

“I dare say you have never met her, but you knew her husband!”
Parker asserted, his eyes straying to Tackar.

Francis Tackar found his boredom diminishing. He would not give Parker the satisfaction of asking, but he awaited, with hooded eyes, the name which he was sure would not long be withheld.

Westerly, too, began to have some idea of where the conversation was headed and he surreptitiously regarded Tackar’s blank face. It would perhaps be wise to make a turn in the conversation. After all, Tackar had dueled with Sir Frederick. Westerly ran his fingers inside his collar and asked hopefully, “Would you like me to order you some supper, Parker? You probably have not had time to bait.”

Parker refused to be turned aside from his purpose. He indicated his acceptance of the offered meal and proceeded to inform his audience, “It was Lady Coombs! Sir Frederick’s widow.”
He sipped at his brandy and smugly settled back in his chair. The reactions which his announcement produced did not live up to his expectations—Westerly eyed the cards on the game table and Tackar’s expression did not change. But Parker was not altogether disappointed; he could feel the suppressed excitement that exuded from Tackar in spite of the disinterested countenance and lounging attitude of the older man. Parker was well satisfied with his work, and he congratulated himself hazily that he had said nothing to which Lord Stronbert could take exception.

Far from being hazy himself, Tackar rubbed a finger caressingly back and forth over his brandy glass and took no part in the discussion that followed. He had spent the previous week on his estate, dull as that had been, in an effort to glean information on the whereabouts of the delectable Lady Coombs. That she had departed, bag and baggage, from Katterly Grange was a well-known fact in the neighborhood, but it had taken him several days to ascertain that she had gone to Lady Gorham. Tackar had no intention of laying siege to that stronghold! Although he had been acquainted with Lady Gorham for many years, there was no love lost between the two of them, and he did not doubt that he would be handled roughly if he tried to approach the fair Alicia at Peshre Abbey.

No, he had determined to wait until his quarry made a move, as he had been sure she would. Alicia, proud Alicia, would not quarter herself for long, even with her dear friend. And the stupid Parker had provided him with just the information he needed. There was the possibility, of course, that Lady Coombs and her daughter were merely passing through the market town, but even if that were the case, Tackar did not doubt his ability to track them from there. Alicia had become an obsession with him. After purchasing the Grange specifically to install her as his mistress, she had spurned his offer, and fired his desire. One would have thought a lady reduced to her circumstances would have welcomed such an opportunity.

Had he not seduced every wife, widow, and maiden who had previously caught his eye? Of course, he had the intelligence to hunt on the fringes of society, where his wealth and looks, coupled with his social position, carried more weight than they did with the
ton.
Only his wealth gained him admission to decent circles, and there were those, the starchiest of the matrons, who disparaged his acquaintance.

And who was Alicia to scorn him? A woman deserted by her husband, barely able to hold her head up in country society, and now a widow with so few resources that she could not even hold on to the Grange. Tackar would like to see that head bowed. Seldom did he make a gamble that served no purpose, and there was the Grange—an expensive toy, and her home for years—now empty and useless. Alicia could have stayed there in luxury, not the scraping, scrimping life she had known for more than a dozen years. Was he not ready to lavish baubles on her? There could be no thought of marrying her; his life would not be enhanced by the addition of a wife. And the girl. No, really, it would be too much to think of marrying Alicia, when she brought with her a child of Sir Frederick’s.

Tackar raised the brandy glass to sip meditatively at its contents. Besotted as he was with Alicia, he had not taken into consideration her natural concern for the child. It had been foolish of him to attempt to set her up in a neighborhood where she was known, where her daughter had a social position to maintain. At the time the idea had seemed logical—the Grange was near enough to his estate to necessitate little inconvenience for himself, and it was Alicia’s home, where he assumed she would wish to stay if it were possible. Given the strange position she had sustained for many years, it had not occurred to him that the subtle difference between a deserted wife and an acknowledged mistress would be enough to sway her decision. Tackar was willing to concede that he had erred in his judgment. No matter, he would profit by his mistake. The Grange could be sold again, if at something of a loss. Alicia could pay for that by services rendered, he thought with a cold smile.

Before leaving for the shop in the morning, Alicia discussed with the landlord the possibility of hiring a horse for Felicia’s use during the day. The landlord offered to introduce Felicia to the ostler, who would help her choose a suitable mount. Alicia left her daughter in high spirits discussing the points of the various hacks in the inn stables.

Alicia was greeted by Mr. Allerton and was informed that Mr. Dean would be along presently. She made a more thorough tour of the shop this time, turning over bolts of fabric and opening drawers to examine the skeins of thread in their blue paper. There was every kind of thread from that made of flax to the delicate lisle for darning muslin. Mr. Allerton, a serious young man with curly blond hair and intent brown eyes, proved to know the inventory exceedingly well. They had covered the larger room of the shop when Mr. Dean appeared.

“My solicitor has informed me that all the necessary papers are ready to sign, Lady Coombs. He will be by with them this afternoon, and has assured me that your solicitor has found everything in order. So the exchange may be made within the next few days.”

Alicia regarded his pallid skin with concern but merely said cheerfully, “That is good news indeed. I hope you will plan to leave as soon as you wish, then. If it will be convenient, I should like for you to explain your record-keeping to me. Since Mr. Allerton is well acquainted with the shop, I should like to spend my time bringing the records up to date while he handles the customers, if that would suit you.”

* * * *

Alicia’s head was awhirl with figures and manufacturers’
names and customers’
accounts when she left the shop to join her daughter at the inn for luncheon.

“Mama, it is the prettiest town! And there are forests and fields all about, and the most beautiful country lanes. Hodges, the ostler, put me on the sweetest little mare. She reminded me of Girandole. I saw gardens full of china asters and chrysanthemums. There are cottages dotted all over the neighborhood and another row of shops on either side of the green for a ways. I rode west of town and swung back toward the south. There is a huge estate there, though of course I did not go through the gates. The carriageway is so long that I could not even see the house. But there were two children riding there, a boy and a girl, having a race, I think,”
she laughed. “Did you bring the hats for me to work on?”

“No, indeed! There is no need for you to put your hand to that yet.”

“But, Mama, I have been looking forward to it. Could I not come back with you to the shop and bring some hats and ribbons and such here with me?”

“I suppose you could, but there is no
need
to do so as yet. I shall be working in the little office at the back most of the afternoon. Do you not wish to ride again this afternoon?”

“It’s coming on to mizzle and I would rather sit before the fire and try my hand at those hats, honestly.”

The two women arrived at the shop simultaneously with the old woman they had seen on their first inspection of the place. She wore her hair powdered and again wore the puce panniered gown with the orange stripes. She was attended on this occasion by a maid and two children. Alicia allowed the party to pass into the shop before them and Felicia whispered that she recognized the children from her morning’s ride. The boy was perhaps twelve and the girl slightly younger. Their faces wore the eager expressions of those being indulged in a treat, but Alicia saw them share a rather nervous grin as well.

Mr. Allerton and Mr. Dean both welcomed the old woman, addressing her as Lady Stronbert. She was unimpressed with their greeting and announced in stentorian tones that she had come for a bonnet for her granddaughter and some handkerchiefs for her grandson, not that she expected to find what she wanted in
this
shop, heaven knew. Felicia’s lips twitched, but the children shared a glance and they adopted the pretense of really not being with this crotchety old woman at all.

Mr. Dean assured her ladyship that they would indeed find just what they might require, and could not Mr. Allerton perhaps help Master Matthew while he looked to Miss Helen’s needs. Alicia mentally considered the bonnets the shop had to offer for a child and frankly admitted to herself that Lady Stronbert was probably correct in assuming she would not find what she wanted. She whispered to Felicia, “Go with them and see what you can do, love.”

Felicia awarded her mother a triumphant smile, which was ruefully acknowledged with a sigh. The young woman joined Mr. Dean and, catching his eye, was introduced to Lady Stronbert as the daughter of the woman who was taking over the shop soon. Felicia made a small curtsy to the old woman, who eyed her skeptically and nodded ungraciously. Miss Helen, however, recognized the young woman and piped up, “I saw you this morning when Matthew and I were riding.”

“Yes,”
Felicia agreed, “and I have been longing to know who won.”

Miss Helen smiled suddenly and giggled, “Well, I did, you know. But only because Matthew’s horse stumbled,”
she confided.

“Good for you,”
Felicia responded. “I have been thinking that this bonnet needs a very large red ribbon to do it justice. What do you think?”
she asked, as she lifted a child’s bonnet down from the shelf and exhibited it for the girl.