Candice Hern (17 page)

She gazed at him for a long, quiet moment, then said, “If you will not take my money, will you allow me to give you some advice?”

He shot her a skeptical look. “What sort of advice?”

“Investment strategy.”

He smiled. “Your father told me you managed your own investments. You have discovered a strategy for success, have you?”

“I have increased my capital.”

“How?”

And she proceeded to tell him, in great detail, how she had used government securities and five-percents to slowly build her nest egg. It was all very impressive, and he admired her research and determination. But as far as he was concerned, it was all “spinster and widow funds.” Much too moderate for his needs.

“But, Pru, it can take years to make enough profit with such conservative methods. I don’t have years. I need capital now.”

“What are you currently invested in, if you don’t mind telling me?”

He told her of the cargo shares and canal projects and industrial patents. He even admitted to the serious losses in cargo shares because of the huge storms in February that had swallowed up ships whole. Not to mention the failed investment in Irish linen imports last year, after trade expanded when the Union was created. Unfortunately, linen turned out not to be at all profitable.

“Cargo shares and imports are rather risky investments,” she said.

“But the returns can be tremendous.”

“Not if the ships are lost or the trade declines.”

He shrugged. No amount of dissuasion would convince him to give up his cargo shares. There was simply too much money to be made.

“Nor if the canal is never built,” she continued.

“Some aren’t, of course. But projects like canals can bring so much prosperity to a region.”

“But too many canal projects have failed. May I suggest an alternative.”

“Of course.”

“If you prefer building projects, you might look into some of the dock expansion enterprises. The dock in Hull, for example. I have purchased shares in the London Dock Company. As the new dock at Wapping nears completion, the premiums have been significant.”

“Really? You impress me, Pru. I had no idea you were so knowledgeable about financial investments.”

She offered a shy little smile, obviously pleased with his praise. “I’ve done a great deal of research since I came into my inheritance.”

“Have you simply been trying to secure your future? Or have you some other purpose for increasing your capital?”

“You mean, do I have a project, too?”

He smiled. “Do you?”

She colored up. “As a matter of fact, I have had a sort of dream. Not a real project. Just a…dream.”

“Pru! You are full of surprises. Tell me.”

“You will think it silly.”

“No, I won’t. If it is something you want, that you dream of having, it cannot be silly. What is it? Tell me.”

“It is…a school.”

“But that is wonderful. What sort of school?”

“For poor children, here in London. Children who have no opportunities, who will otherwise make their way on the streets.”

“But that is a wonderful idea. Why have you not done it? Surely your inheritance would be enough to fund a school.”

“Not the kind of school I have in mind. I will still need a great deal more capital if I am to do what I want.”

“And what is that? What sort of school?”

She chewed on her lower lip, as though afraid to answer.

“Pru? What is it?”

“You will think I am foolish.”

He rocked the chair forward, reached across the desk, and placed a hand on her arm. “Never. Tell me, Pru.”

She was becoming more accustomed to his touch and did not stiffen or tremble, thank God. She looked into his eyes a long moment before she answered, as though weighing what she should say.

“I want to open a music school,” she said, and lifted her chin a notch as though daring him to find fault.

He sat back and studied her. It was not quite what he expected, although it ought not to have been a complete surprise. “You wish to share your love for music with children?”

“Yes. Poor children. Children of the streets who have no future. But it would not be a school only for music. It would provide a full education, but with an emphasis on music. The goal would be to train them to find employment in orchestras or as music teachers or copyists.”

“It’s a lovely idea, Pru, but—if I may be so bold—do you not think music is one of the last things an impoverished child needs? It is almost more of a luxury than a necessity.”

“Of course it is not a necessity. But music is more than a luxury. It is a door—to creativity and expression and self-discovery. It can enrich lives of children who have known nothing but want and emptiness and despair. It can change their lives forever, lifting them out of the gutter through their own talent—talent that would otherwise remain undiscovered and untrained.”

Her eyes had brightened with the zeal of her cause. She was animated and without a glimmer of self-consciousness. This was what music—even talking of music—did to her. It was a mesmerizing transformation.

“Music is a great equalizer,” she continued. “A poor little street urchin can be taught to make the same beautiful music as the highest-born nobleman. They can even make music together, with no
thought to rank. It makes us all the same, don’t you see? Imagine how that notion could change a child’s life?”

“I do see,” he said. He was so caught up in her enthusiasm, he was ready to believe her. It all sounded very admirable. There was even something almost republican about the concept.

It was an intriguing and perfectly commendable idea. Then why did he have this niggling, traitorous little notion that it was a frivolous plan? Was he so selfish that he thought his own project more worthy? Was he so envious of the fortune she had for her dream when he had none for his? He really did respect what Pru wanted to do. He really did. But she might be able to change the lives of only a few dozen children, while his factory scheme could change the lives of hundreds, even thousands. He hated such disloyal thoughts, but damn it all, he couldn’t help it. The factory project had been the focus of all his energies for too long. He really did think it was the more important project of the two, deep in his heart. He hated that he thought so, but there it was.

He would, of course, cut out his tongue before he would say such a thing to Pru.

“Have you done anything yet,” he asked, “to put your plan in action?”

“Not really. I have located a building in Clerkenwell that I think would be perfect. But it would have to be completely rebuilt inside to accommodate studios and classrooms and dormitories and kitchens and such. Then there are
instruments and furniture and sheet music and teachers. Oh, and one more foolish little notion of mine. I do not even know yet if it makes any sense. But I thought it would be lovely if each child, upon completion of his or her studies, were presented with an instrument. Something, besides an education, with which to begin a new life.”

She gave a sheepish smile. “Do you think me horribly silly?”

“Not in the least. I think it’s a wonderful idea. I have come to know how important music is to you.”

“It has fed my soul and brightened my days. It gave my life meaning when I felt lost among my larger-than-life family. I would like to be the instrument, if you will forgive the pun, through which other children might find a similar happiness.”

“And so you shall be. It is a splendid plan, my dear.” And it really was. It was so quintessentially Pru. So perfect. He could not begrudge her using the inheritance for such a school. He really could not.

The little bell on the front door jangled as someone entered. “Hullo in there. Yer comin’ or not? Can’t wait all day.”

Good Lord, he’d forgotten all about the hackney. “Come along, Pru. We’d better hurry. You can tell me more about the school on the drive home.”

He waited while she collected her shawl and bonnet, and locked up the offices, then led her outside to the waiting hackney. After lifting her
inside, he had an idea. “You said the building you were interested in is in Clerkenwell?”

“Yes, in St. John’s Square. It’s a nice enough area without being too far removed from the parts of town where the students—the potential students—would have grown up. It did not seem appropriate to locate such a school in Mayfair. Clerkenwell, I thought, was a good compromise.”

“An excellent plan. Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Her eyes widened with anticipation. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course. Give me the direction and I’ll tell the jarvey.”

Twenty minutes later, Nick stood on the pavement with Pru, looking up at a sturdy old brick building of three stories. It was in very good repair, with all its sash windows intact, and an intricate Gothic-influenced fanlight above the entrance. It was also quite obviously empty.

“You have met with the owner?” Nick asked.

“Yes. And I have walked through with him on two occasions. But it is still a bit beyond my reach. There is no sense buying a building if I can only afford to leave it empty. I shall wait until some of my investments grow, and will hope that it will still be available. If not, there are other buildings. But I do like this one, don’t you?”

“It is a fine building. Quite perfect for a music school.”

Pru chuckled, and Nick noticed a touch of self-mockery in it. “I confess,” she said, “that I have dreamed of one day seeing a discreet little brass
sign beside the door: The Prudence Armitage School of Music. Oh!” She blushed. “I should say The Prudence Parrish School of Music, should I not?”

He smiled. “You should indeed, Mrs. Parrish.”

“Nicholas, tell me truthfully. Do you think it is a foolish scheme?”

“No, I think it is a perfect project for you, my dear.”

She began to tell him of all she would like to do to make the building into a proper school. As she talked, she grew almost giddy with excitement and looked ready to shout out loud and twirl in joyous circles. Pru would never do such a thing, of course. He rather wished she would. It was something he would have liked to see. In fact, he heard little of what she said, thinking of how much he wished she would look at him someday with such ardor, how he would like to be able to put that shine in her eyes and that glow in her cheeks himself.

On their way back to Golden Square, he questioned her more about the school, for the pure pleasure of hearing her chatter and watching her face glow with enthusiasm. All shyness was gone, for the moment. Nick hoped he could keep awkwardness at bay, and so he let her ramble.

When he thought back to a few weeks earlier, when he’d seen Pru only as a mousy little colleague, he could hardly believe the change in his perception of her. It was true what they said about not judging a book by its cover. Pru was a slim lit
tle volume packed full of intriguing information. And the cover was not so plain on closer inspection. This music school idea really was admirable. With her enthusiasm it was bound to be a success.

He could not, however, shake the selfish notion that his own project was so much more worthwhile. It was disloyal, but he could not help it. He simply could not accept the idea that poor children would benefit much from a musical education. Better to train them in a trade so they could earn a living as skilled laborers. Or better to spend the money on a utopian factory in Derbyshire.

It suddenly occurred to him that Pru had offered to forgo her dream to fund his own. In that, she was infinitely more noble than he.

Yet he could not allow himself to dwell on such selflessness, such undeserved loyalty, or he would be shamed into doing something rash. He supposed that made him a bad person. Certainly unworthy of Pru’s regard. But if he did not maintain a singular focus on his project in Derby, he would never reach his goal, and young children would continue to work themselves to death in unregulated factories.

Perhaps one day, if they were lucky, both their dreams would come true.

“Y
ou’re joking.”

Flora lifted her chin and said, “I am quite serious, I assure you.”

“You want to print a list of the worst-dressed women in London?”

“Yes.”

“And name them outright? Not just hint at their identities?”

“That’s correct. Isn’t it delicious? We will follow it the next month with the best-dressed list. By then, women will be clamoring to see who’s on it.”

“I don’t know, Flora.” Pru stood on the small dais in the center of Madame Lanchester’s ?tting room as she was pinned into a new ball dress. “It sounds potentially libelous.”

“Nonsense,” Flora said. She stood beside the
dais with arms crossed, scrutinizing every adjustment made to the dress. “I guarantee you, if we make it an annual feature, it will become a badge of honor to be named on the worst-dressed list. Worst or best, both lists will give notoriety to a chosen few. Everyone will want to see their names on one of the lists. It hardly matters which.”

“Mrs. Gallagher is correct,” Madame said. “A woman whose taste in fashion is not merely uninspired but truly frightful—and I could name a few, if you like—is asking to be noticed. She will secretly gloat at being singled out for dressing badly. And naturally, you could suggest she come to me for a complete renovation.”

“The plates of your designs will speak for themselves, Madame,” Flora said. “This one, especially.”

“Yes, it will be a stunning creation, once we have all the rosettes in place. See how lovely this lavender crepe flows against the body. You will be the belle of the ball, Mrs. Parrish. Now, don’t move. I’ll be right back. Annette, come with me.”

Madame and her assistant disappeared through a curtain, leaving Pru and Flora alone.

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this, Flora.”

“What? Modeling for a fashion plate in your own magazine? What could be more appropriate?”

“A taller woman, for one thing. I do not remotely resemble the Amazonian creatures in most of the prints.”

“Raisbeck’s drawing will make you look like a queen, I promise you. Remember, it is the dress on
display, not the model. He will adjust the model as necessary to make the dress look best. Even if that means stretching your legs a bit to give a more dramatic line to the dress.”

“But why me, for heaven’s sake?”

“Madame was quite taken with how your dress came out and wanted to feature it. Just think, the dress you will wear to the duchess’s ball will be immortalized the next month in the
Cabinet
. It’s a beautiful dress, my girl.”

Pru lifted an edge of the crepe tunic, marveling at its gossamer softness. The white lace trim was subtle and delicate. The tunic was cut at knee-level in the front, revealing a white muslin underdress edged at the hem with lavender ribbon, and sloped into a long train in the back. When she moved, the crepe floated about her like a cloud. It made her feel like a fairy queen.

“It is pretty, is it not?” she said. “I want to look my very best at the ball.”

“For Nicholas? Or so you can flirt with other men and make him jealous?”

Pru frowned. “I will
not
be flirting with anyone, I promise you. Never again. But I would like to look nice. I know I’ll never be as beautiful as Edwina, or most of my female cousins. Heavens, I will never be as beautiful as Nicholas. But I
would
like to look pretty for him.”

“Merely pretty?”

“Well…I suppose I’d like him to look at me and sort of gasp. Not with horror, but with—”

“Desire?”

Pru felt her color rise. “Yes.”

“Let the dress work for you, then. It has a very sensual movement about it. You will not need to flirt at all. Just move gracefully, as I know you can do, and let him gaze in wonder.”

“I hope you are right, Flora. And besides, it is important to look my best for my aunt’s ball. It is our most important family event of the season.”

“My dear girl, the Duchess of Norwich’s ball is
the
most important event of the season. I was quite stunned to receive an invitation. I won’t ask how you did it, but I am terribly grateful, Pru. It will be a perfect occasion for spotting those who will go on the best-dressed list.”

“That is true. Everyone will be looking quite fine, I am sure.”

“And as for the worst-dressed list, I shall get a good start this evening. I am attending the opera. It is an important production, and everyone will be there. I have high expectations of a few perfectly horrid dresses.”

“Oh, Flora, are you really going to do this?”

“Of course. With your approval, of course. You
are
the editor, after all.”

Pru sighed. “I hope Edwina will not have my head for this, but all right. It might help increase our numbers. We go to press in two days. Can you have it ready by then?”

“I have no doubt I can find a wealth of fashion disasters at the opera tonight. I will write it up tomorrow. It will be a great success, I promise you.”

“Here we are,” Madame Lanchester said as she swept back into the room, with her assistant trailing behind. “The lace rosettes. The final touch, and then we will be ready for the impatient Mr. Raisbeck. Now, stand up straight Mrs. Parrish.”

The two women began to pin tiny lace rosettes at intervals along the lavender ribbon at the hem of the underdress. Then the sleeves of the tunic were gathered at the shoulders and pinned with rosettes, revealing the lace-edged and ever-so-slightly puffed sleeves of the bodice. Finally, Madame grasped the front of the tunic and pulled it down to a deep, plunging V, pinning it in place with a slightly larger rosette at the high waistline.

Pru let out an involuntary squeal. “No, please. That is much too low.”

“Au contraire, Mrs. Parrish. It is very fashionable, I assure you.”

Pru groaned. “But it seems indecent.”

Madame shook her head. “Not at all. In France, it would be even lower, deep enough to show the nipples. This simply shows off your lovely bosom. Be sure to lace your stays tight so there is a nice swell of cleavage.”

“Oh dear.”

“We are ready for Mr. Raisbeck, I think. Mrs. Parrish, follow me into the showroom, if you please.”

Pru did not please, but saw no way out. She put a hand to her exposed flesh, but Flora batted it away.

“Remember what you told me,” she said,
“about wanting Nicholas to look at you and gasp? This, my girl, will make him choke. Now, don’t be a ninny. You look stunning.”

Pru spent the next half hour standing still as a statue while the famous academician, Lionel Raisbeck, drew her picture. Madame Lanchester hovered nearby, making sure his drawing would highlight the best features of her creation. He posed Pru standing at a slight angle, with her head turned to look over her shoulder. She was painfully aware of the expanse of her bosom on display for all to see. But as she stood there, she tried to imagine she was posing for Nicholas and that he found her beautiful.

“Perfect,” the artist said. “Don’t move a muscle.”

Later that afternoon, back at the magazine offices, Pru and Flora pored over the drawings made at Madame Lanchester’s, as well as a few made earlier that week at a different showroom. They were all quite lovely, as always. Mr. Raisbeck was one of the reasons the
Cabinet
had become so successful. The engravings made of his drawings, hand-colored by the Crimson Ladies, were finer than the prints of any of their competitors.

“This is an excellent likeness,” Flora said, holding up the drawing of Pru in the lavender tunic. “He has captured you perfectly. I hope the engraver will do it justice.”

Pru rather hoped the engraver would muddy the features so it did not look quite so much like her. She was not at all sure she liked the idea of her face being displayed in the magazine. And her bosom. Though she had to admit, Mr. Raisbeck had made
her look almost beautiful. Of course, as a portrait artist, that was his job. Here, though, it was the dress that was of most importance. Perhaps no one would notice the face of the model. Most readers probably did not even realize that real models were used, that the fashion prints were drawn from life.

There was no sense worrying about it now, though. It was done, and she had other work to do.

“Mr. Jarvis will be by later to pick up the drawings to be engraved,” she said. “Have you decided on these two?”

“Yes, these will do nicely.”

Naturally, one of them was Pru’s. “All right, then. I need to finish editing some of the essays, so I must get to work. I have wasted altogether too much time today.”

Pru spent the next several hours reading through all the submitted essays, determining which would be printed and which rejected, then editing the ones chosen to accommodate the required length. She became lost in her work until she noticed the sound of church bells ringing the hour. It was dark outside.

She looked at the clock on the shelf and saw it was seven o’clock. Nicholas always came to fetch her at six, unless she arranged for a different time. She had not done so today, and yet he was not there.

He must have been detained. It really was not fair to ask him to plan his days around her schedule. It was not at all necessary. But he had so far been very conscientious about bringing around a hackney to take her home.

Pru wondered if she should wait. He was already an hour late, though, so perhaps he wasn’t coming at all. And Mrs. Gibb, accommodating their late schedule, always had supper ready at eight. If Pru waited much longer, supper would be ruined. Or simply cold. Since it was to be only she and Nicholas—Bartholomew had mentioned he would be attending the opera tonight—it would not be so horrible to have a cold dinner. Mrs. Gibb would be upset, but such things happened.

How long should she wait?

She went to the reception area and opened the door, hoping she might see a hackney pulling up with Nicholas inside. But the streets were empty.

It seemed foolish to wait. He had told her not to go out alone after dark, but surely he was being overly cautious. After all, St. Paul’s loomed just outside. How dangerous could it be in the shadow of London’s largest church?

She went back to her office and collected her bonnet and shawl. It occurred to her that she should leave a note, just in case Nicholas did show up. She scribbled a few lines on a scrap of paper and blew the ink dry. She took a quick look at the schedule she kept tucked under the inkwell on her desk, reviewing what needed to be done tomorrow. Satisfied that the next issue was under control, she snuffed the candles, grabbed her reticule, and headed out the door.

After locking up and tucking the note inside the doorframe, she looked about for a hackney, but the street was deserted. She walked around to the
great pillared portico at the front of the church. It was less deserted as people milled about here and there, but no hackney was in sight.

She began the walk up Ludgate Hill, the broad and busy street that terminated at the church, certain she would find a hackney eventually. There were several dark, narrow streets leading off Ludgate Hill, filled with ominous shadows, and Pru began to get a bit nervous. When one of the shadows moved, and a man stepped out of Creed Lane, she gasped aloud.

“Well now, what ’ave we ’ere?”

Nick could not believe he had been so stupid. He supposed he wasn’t yet accustomed to having a wife to worry about. But that was no excuse for being so late. Poor Pru must be beside herself, wondering what had become of him.

He had simply lost track of time.

There had been a meeting of the Scottish Martyrs Club at a tavern in Shoreditch, and the discussion had gone on longer than he’d realized. He had been so involved in the plans to lobby various MPs for support of the factory bill, he had quite forgotten about Pru.

How he could have done such a thing, when she had been so much on his mind, was a mystery.

Just before leaving for the meeting, he’d received a letter from Edwina. He knew Pru had also had a letter, but it must have been private, for she had not shared it with him. And here was his private letter, which he could not share.

His sister was surprisingly pleased about his marriage. Or perhaps not so surprising when he considered how close a friend she was to Pru. What unsettled him, though, was Edwina’s repeated caution not to break Pru’s heart.

Why did everyone seem to think Pru’s heart was involved in this marriage? It was not as though she had wanted it any more than he had. Despite the pretense of a love match he maintained for her family, his own close friends and family must know there was never anything between them. Neither of their hearts was involved, beyond the general affection of friendship. And that affection had deepened since their marriage, at least on his part, as he grew to know her.

It galled him to think people worried that he would break Pru’s heart. Did they think him such a cad? Hadn’t he done his honorable duty and married her when it was the very last thing he’d wanted to do?

Nick had cogitated on Edwina’s warning all afternoon, before meeting with his business agent and arranging to buy shares in the Hull Dock Company. He had thought about what Pru had said regarding the value of her own dock shares, and he figured it was worth a try. He would not tell her, though. He would wait and see how profitable an investment it was before he admitted anything to her.

And so he still had Pru on his mind when he went to the Scottish Martyrs Club meeting. Yet he
managed to become so involved, he forgot about her and left her waiting for more than an hour. What an idiot he was.

The hackney turned from Cheapside into St. Paul’s Churchyard, and slowed to a stop in front of the
Cabinet
offices. How strange. It looked completely dark inside.

A prickle of anxiety ran down his spine.

He jumped down from the carriage, hoping to discover a glimmer of candlelight somewhere deep inside, but instead he found a scrap of paper slipped into the doorframe. His name was scrawled on the outside. He ripped it out and unfolded it.

Damn! She had already gone. He’d been so late, she had left without waiting. But she said she had waited until seven, and it was now only ten minutes after. He’d just missed her.