Rushed to the Altar (18 page)

“Oh, they all says that,” Bertha said with a degree of scorn. “But soon enough it’s outta sight outta mind. You’ll be no different, mark my words.”

Clarissa felt as if she herself were being so categorized and had to fight down a surge of resentful anger. She took a deep breath. “Will you take it?”

“Aye, there’ll be room enough. ’Tis sixpence a week. You can do that?” Her gaze sharpened.

Clarissa nodded. “Just about. I ’ave some savings too. I wonder . . . d’you . . . d’you ever take children as well as babies? I’ve a friend who’s in need of a caregiver for ’er boy, ’e’s around ten. She’s ’ad a good offer from a good man, but ’e won’t take another man’s child.”

Bertha nodded. “Aye, I’ve a ten-year-old lad ’ere now. Nuthin’ but trouble ’e is.” She stood up and put the now quiescent baby into a basket by the hearth, muttering, “That’ll keep ’im fer an hour or so.”

“Where d’you keep the older ones?” Clarissa looked inquiringly around the kitchen.

“Oh, we puts ’em out as ’prentices soon enough,” Bertha said. “Soon as someone wants a likely lad or lass, most times we ’ave one t’ suit. Chimney sweeps fer the
most part wi’ the lads; lassies go fer scullery maids or down to the wash’ouses.”

Clarissa had a vivid memory of the child scrubbing the steps at King Street that morning, with a dozen fireplaces to clean before she’d be given breakfast. Rage filled her and she had to force herself to keep still, to nod as if what she was hearing was only to be expected.

“The boy you ’ave now . . . is ’e goin’ fer a ’prentice? Me friend would like ’er son to be ’prenticed to a good trade.” She offered an ingratiating smile, as if she didn’t know that such a trade condemned a child to a tortured existence and an early death, if he were lucky.

Bertha gave her a sharp look. “None o’ your business, mistress. His keep is paid, an’ there’s no ’urry to ’prentice ’im out. But if your friend wants the best fer ’er lad, then she’d best come and talk to me ’erself.”

“Yes, o’ course.” Clarissa offered another placatory smile. “I’ll be off then an’ tell me friend to come ’erself. I’ll bring the babe when ’tis born.”

Bertha nodded, then said casually, “There’s ways to stop that ’appening, you know.”

“Stop what?”

“Babbies bein’ born. I can put you in the way of a woman who knows ’ow t’do it. Safe as ’ouses, it is. It’ll cost you, mind.”

Clarissa felt an extraordinary attachment to the cushion. “I don’t ’ave that kind o’ coin, mistress.” She began to move to the door. “I’ll let meself out.” As she reached the door a loud shriek came from above followed by
the sound of a piece of furniture clattering to the floor.

Bertha got heavily to her feet. “Wretched tykes, always fightin’ over summat. I’ll larn ’em.” She grabbed a broomstick and pushed past Clarissa into the passage.

Clarissa followed her and when Bertha went up the stairs, hauling herself up against the rickety banister, she followed a few steps behind. The woman was so intent on her mission she didn’t seem to notice she had company.

Clarissa kept three steps from the top, but she still had a clear view of a narrow attic space scattered with cots and mattresses. It was a cacophony of infant bellowing and the shrill cadences of fighting toddlers.

She saw Francis. He was standing on a chest, his arms hugging his body, as if protecting himself from the chaos exploding around him. He was pale, peaky, thinner, but he was on his feet and his eyes were gauging the scene around him with the same swift intelligence he had always shown.

Clarissa stood motionless. She couldn’t take him out of there now. She had no way to combat the opposition of the fearsome Bertha and the gin-sodden man in the kitchen. But her heart swelled with relief at the sight of the boy. He was a long way from succumbing to the death trap that held him. And there was no immediate danger of his apprenticeship to a chimney sweep, not between now and Sunday, certainly. But she wanted him to see her. To know that she was there.

She made a tiny movement with her hand, willing
him to take his watchful eyes off the chaos around him for just a minute, just enough for a quick glance to the stairs. And it happened. He did. Francis, still in his protective stance, glanced across the room, over the scene where Bertha was wielding her broomstick to devastating effect, sending weeping children scattering to the corners of the attic, and he saw Clarissa.

He stared at her blankly for a moment, then a look of uncertainty crossed his face. His brow wrinkled, his mouth pursed. And she realized with a shock that he wasn’t recognizing her. She reached up and pulled the kerchief from her head, looking him straight in the eye, and then his face lit up.

Hastily she pressed a finger to her lips and his expression changed. The guarded awareness in his eyes made her want to weep for what had been done to him. He stared at her, still frowning, the hope that had sprung into his eyes now vanished. She tried to give him a reassuring smile even as she was terrified Bertha would suddenly turn and see her standing at the top of the attic stairs.

Francis’s expression cleared abruptly. He put a finger to his own lips, which moved in a tremulous smile. His sister nodded vigorously as if to answer an unspoken question and the child swallowed hard and nodded in response.

Clarissa forced herself to turn away, to descend the stairs as silently and swiftly as she could, tying the kerchief back over her head. Bertha was still wielding her
broomstick and bellowing as she restored a semblance of order to chaos when Clarissa let herself out of the house.

Without looking back, she hastened down the alley and back to the water stairs. She licked a finger and wiped the smudges of ash from beneath her eyes as she went. She couldn’t go into 32 King Street looking quite so haggard.

Francis had seen her; she hugged the thought to her. He knew now she would get him out of there. That knowledge would give him the strength to survive that hellhole for a couple of days. On Sunday she would have him safe.

Chapter Nine
 

Jasper adjusted the ruby pin in the snowy lace of his cravat while his valet hovered at his elbow. “Does that meet with your approval, Simmons?” the earl asked as he shook out the froth of lace at his wrists.

“Of course, my lord. Always, my lord.” The valet bowed and stepped back. “But may I suggest the black striped waistcoat with the red silk coat?”

“You may, Simmons.” Jasper stepped away from the mirror and allowed his valet to help him into the black and silver striped waistcoat and the full-skirted coat of dark red silk. The valet lovingly smoothed the silver lace that adorned the wide turn-back of the sleeves. He took his master’s appearance a great deal more seriously than did the earl himself.

Jasper’s appearance interested him for as long as it took him to dress in the morning; after that he gave it not a second thought. His thoughts this morning were on the next step in his wooing of the elusive Clarissa. He had met with the decorator before visiting Clarissa the previous
evening and work on Half Moon Street would begin this morning. He would stop by the house and see how the work was proceeding, after which he would visit Clarissa to discuss her morning’s appointment with the milliner.

He was at breakfast when his butler with an apologetic bow told him his coachman waited to speak with him on a matter of some urgency.

Jasper looked up from his deviled kidneys with a quick frown. It was already eleven o’clock and the coachman had a morning’s work that would take him until well past midday. “I’ll see him now.”

The coachman bowed in the doorway, his cocked hat held tight to his liveried chest. “Forgive the intrusion, m’lord, but the young lady wasn’t there.”
Jasper set down his knife and fork. “Mistress Ordway was not at King Street when you got there?”

“No, m’lord.”

“Where was she?” He took up his ale tankard.

“Well, no one seemed to know, sir.” The man looked as miserable as if Mistress Ordway’s absence could be laid at his door.

“No one?” Jasper set down the tankard and dabbed his lips with his napkin. “Mistress Griffiths was unaware of Mistress Ordway’s whereabouts?”

“Aye, m’lord. And, if I might speak so bold, she seemed mighty put out, sir, at the lady’s absence.”

“Yes, I imagine she might.” Jasper frowned into his tankard. “What time did you arrive at King Street?”

“Ten on the dot, m’lord.”

“And Mistress Ordway had left the house already?” It was a rhetorical question. “Thank you, Baker. I won’t need you again until this evening.”

“My lord.” The coachman bowed himself out.

Jasper finished his breakfast. He could see no point in rushing around to King Street until he was good and ready. Either Clarissa had reneged on the contract and disappeared, or there was some explanation for her failure to make the rendezvous with his coachman.

An hour later he ordered his curricle and drove to 32 King Street. Nan Griffiths greeted him with a flood of excuses and apologies. “I daresay Clarissa had some errands to run, Jasper. Let me offer you a glass of claret, a particularly fine claret.” Wreathed in smiles she ushered him into the parlor. “I believe she left the house very early . . . indeed, before anyone was up.” She laughed. “Such energy, such vitality. She even went to the kitchens for her own breakfast, would you believe?”

Jasper found he could believe it perfectly well. “Do we know where she went at that hour? Did she take a chair . . . a hackney?”

“Unfortunately, my lord, no one saw her leave.” Nan fanned herself vigorously. “But, there is good news. She left all her possessions behind.”

“So we can assume she’s not decided to renege on the contract?” Jasper leaned back in his chair, crossing his ankles. He frowned at his silver-buckled shoes. “Or maybe not. Is it possible she left nothing she needed to take with her?”

Nan’s fan worked harder. The Earl of Blackwater knew nothing of Clarissa’s arrival at 32 King Street, or of the accommodation arrangements that had been made. He had no idea that the girl had presented herself as a tenant of unimpeachable virtue in search of lodging, which she was able to pay for. It struck Nan as possible that Clarissa, still in possession of an independence of some kind, had decided she didn’t care for the arrangements she’d agreed to. It also occurred to Nan that perhaps Jasper, Earl of Blackwater, had done something the previous night when alone with his mistress that had so disgusted Clarissa she had left without a word.

“Was everything all right last night, Jasper?”

A quick frown crossed his eyes. “What do you mean, Nan?”

She snapped closed her fan. “Why, only that if something happened to . . . to dismay Clarissa, maybe she took fright.”

Jasper laughed. It struck him as inordinately amusing that Nan should imagine he had somehow abused the woman who had told him that in order to win her he had to court her with all the leisurely artistry he could muster.

“No, Nan. Nothing that occurred last night could have dismayed her. Nothing could have caused her to take fright.”

Nan looked curious. “You did not—?”

“Some things, Nan, are best not spoken of.” He was still chuckling as he got to his feet. “Well, let us wait and
see what happens when Mistress Ordway returns from wherever she is.”

Nan rose with him. “You are very forbearing, Jasper. I doubt she deserves the consideration.”

Jasper shook his head. “There’s a deal more to Mistress Clarissa Ordway than meets the eye, Nan.” He walked into the hall just as the front door opened and Clarissa came in on a blast of cold air, rubbing her gloved hands together, her cheeks pinched with cold.

“Ah, and here we have the truant.” He bowed to Clarissa with a flourish of his plumed hat. “Mistress Clarissa, we were missing you.”

Nan bustled forward, her cheeks pink with indignation. “Where’ve you been, Clarissa? You knew his lordship was sending his carriage for you. How dare you leave the house at dawn without a word to anyone?”

Clarissa withstood the tirade, holding herself slightly hunched, her arms crossed over her body as if trying to warm herself. She was trying to conceal the bulge of the cushion beneath her cloak, since she had no idea how she would explain that if challenged. Her gaze found Jasper’s and she read there curiosity but no anger. “Forgive me, my lord, but I confess I forgot our arrangement,” she said when Nan paused for breath.

“And what could possibly have caused you to forget such an important arrangement?” Nan demanded. “Such consideration on his lordship’s part, to furnish you with a wardrobe, and you disappear without a word to anyone?”

“I have my own wardrobe,” Clarissa snapped, momentarily pushed beyond caution. “I have no need of any other. And if I choose to leave this house, madam, at any time, I will do so.” She took a step to the stairs, wanting only to get rid of the cushion before it drew unwelcome attention.

Nan looked shocked. No one spoke to her in that fashion. Jasper stepped into the breach. “I believe there’s no need to say anything further, Nan. This lies between Clarissa and myself and I beg you to leave it there.” Smiling, he gestured to the stairs, where her own sanctum lay.