The Affectionate Adversary (17 page)

“It was his blue eyes,” Prudence told Mary. “Wait until you see them. They are the color of sapphires. No, that is too dark, for they have a sort of glow. Like that ribbon on your gown. But brighter. The butterfly in Sarah’s hair is the exact shade. Turn your head, Sarah. Look, Mary. Can you imagine? No woman could resist him if he gazed at her the way he gazes at Sarah.”

“I fear I cannot see what such a man finds to like in your appearance, my dear sister,” Mary observed. “You looked as ordinary as a pumpkin when you came back from your journey. And despite all my efforts, you are no better today. That shawl is hideous! Is it not appalling, Mr. Heathhill?”

“I imagine Mr. Locke gives little attention to Lady Delacroix’s shawls, my dear Mrs. Heathhill,” her husband replied. “No doubt he is enthralled by her elevated position and awed by the rumors of her vast wealth. You must give my wife little heed, madam, for she is convinced that appearance is everything—no matter how I try to teach her to look beyond it to the real worth of a person.”

“Are my elevated position and vast wealth the sum total of my real worth, Mr. Heathhill?” Sarah asked. “If so, I shall soon have no value to you whatever.”

“Then you mean to carry on with your charity?” Delacroix asked her. “I had hoped Locke might have talked you out of that as well.”

“No, sir. I am unchanged in my resolve.”

“I am sorry to hear it. No one who really knows you can fail to value your keen wit, your kindness, and of course, your beauty. But certainly your advantages in life add greatly to their effect.”

Sarah smiled. “Wealth then, must be the greatest cosmetic of all, for until my father’s death, I was considered no beauty at all. Now I find I am the ornament of my society.”

“You are that, madam,” Delacroix said, “though I assure you that you have always been among the loveliest women of my acquaintance.”

“How happy for me,” Sarah informed him brightly, “for I shall take great comfort in that knowledge when I am poor. No, I have not altered my aim of reducing myself to indigence. Nor have I changed in any way other than deciding that I might stay in England until next summer. But if my sisters can talk of nothing beyond Mr. Locke’s fine eyes, I may be forced to go sooner than that after all.”

“Oh, dear, let us plan our country outing, then,” Prudence spoke up quickly. “We must go away tomorrow, for it promises to be a fine day.”

“Tomorrow?” Mary cried. “Upon my word, Pru, I cannot leave town on such short notice.”

“Too many dinner parties,” her husband muttered.

“We must simply wait until next week. Shutting down a house is not an easy matter, as you will learn when you are married. I should think next Tuesday will be soon enough. And, Delacroix, what would you say to adding several others to the party? We have only three men now, and that is not enough to play at whist.”

“Three?” he said.

“You, my husband, and Mr. Locke, of course. You cannot fail to invite the man, for I insist upon judging his eyes for myself. And take care to ask one or two ladies who can sing. I cannot fault my sisters’ skills at the pianoforte, but oh! Prudence cannot hold a high note, and Sarah’s range is far too low for all the best songs. I should think the Dalrymples would add nicely to our company. He is so clever at charades, and she is tolerable at whist. Now, the Boroughtons are a lovely couple. She sings like a bird. He drinks too much, true, but she quite makes up for it with her voice.”

“Mary, before you invite any or all of these people,” Sarah said, “perhaps you ought to seek out the opinions of others already included in the party. I prefer a quiet gathering, and I imagine Pru will wish to spend her time out-of-doors rather than singing and playing cards. As for Mr. Locke, I prefer that he not come at all. You would gawk at him, Mary, and Prudence would flirt, and I should not be in the least comfortable in his presence.”

“Because you adore him,” Prudence teased. “And he adores you still. Sarah, you really ought to write to Miss Pickworth in
The Tattler
. I know she would give you good advice, for everyone admires her wit. In yesterday’s column, she counseled a poor woman who had written in about her husband—a ‘dastardly duke’ and his ‘moneygrubbing, malevolent mistress,’ as Miss Pickworth called them. Sadly, the duchess believes herself in love with the man, though he clearly wants little to do with her. What do you suppose Miss Pickworth suggested?”

“No one cares, Prudence,” Mary retorted. “Except that she does have the most unnerving way of revealing the foibles and flaws of the
ton
. I consider her nothing but a malicious gossip.”

“Of course Miss Pickworth is a gossip! And the very best sort, for no one who is truly silly can escape her censure. She advised the despondent duchess to remember that mistresses are temporary, but wives are permanent. The duchess is to do all in her power to expose the mistress for what she is, and then she is to go away with her husband on a tour of the Continent in order to rekindle their lost passion.”

Mary snorted. “Lost passion indeed. What sort of duke would marry for love in the first place? Miss Pickworth—whoever she is—had better lay down her pen and cease her inane ramblings at once.”

“You fear she may expose you to ridicule, Mary. One of your brilliant parties may become a hot pot of scandal.”

“I never invite scandalous people to my parties,” her sister snapped back.

“Nevertheless, we should all take heed of Miss Pickworth’s prose. Sarah ought to write to her about Mr. Locke. Admit it, sister. You are both violently in love, and nothing but the greatest restraint can keep you apart.”

“Nonsense!” Sarah scoffed. “Mr. Locke and I are as different in every way as two people possibly can be. He has dreams of a tea-shipping enterprise that will afford him a grand house and a full complement of attendants. I mean to shed all such trappings.”

“He is a tradesman,” Delacroix added. “She is a lady. His father was a steward. Her husband was a peer. He resides in Threadneedle Street. She makes her home in Belgravia. They have little in common. Miss Watson, you ought to encourage your sister toward a man more suitable.”

“And whom would you suggest, sir?” Prudence asked. “You are a rover, as everyone knows, and your friends are cads. I have been out in society all season, and though I find plenty of men handsome enough to wear on my arm, yet none are worthy of Sarah. She is religious, as you well know, and she means to give away her money if we cannot prevent it. Who could ever desire such a creature but Mr. Locke, who loved her before he knew her as Lady Delacroix? He is the only gentleman fit to have her, and I mean to see that he gets her as soon as may be.”

“Prudence!” Sarah exclaimed. “You speak as though I am a prize to be won—and an unwelcome prize at that. On the contrary, I believe I am moving toward the sort of perfection that God requires in each of us. He will be pleased with me, and that is what matters.”

“But Mr. Locke—”

“Mr. Locke and I are completely unfit for each other. I shall have you know that I intend
never
to marry, Pru, so you may put such nonsense out of your head at once. As you rightly say, no one would want me, or could want me, in the condition in which I mean to place myself.”

“Some impoverished minister might,” Mary suggested. “Honestly, Sarah, you are too pious, as I have told you many times. Keep your money, and find your happiness where you can. If you are deceived in marriage, what of it? Let your husband have his little amusements, while you make your own pleasures. Surely you would not be the first or the last wealthy woman to manage it.”

“Thank you for your kind advice, sisters.” Sarah stood. “I prefer to live single all my life rather than marry a man who cannot love me as I am. And as you now all know, not even poor Mr. Locke from Threadneedle Street can do that.”

Taking up the embroidery with which she had begun the afternoon, Sarah excused herself and made for the garden. Let them sort it all out for themselves, she thought as she stepped onto the stone portico. They found her ridiculous and infuriating and unfathomable. But she knew her heart.

As Charles descended the steps at Lincoln’s Inn in the Borough of Camden the following Monday, he reflected with satisfaction—though not with total joy—upon the situation in which he now found himself.

Since boyhood, he had cherished the dream of establishing a profitable enterprise. As he matured, he liked to picture himself as a sort of benevolent conqueror, one who would dominate in his chosen field—yet bring benefit and comfort to those beneath him. While still in school, Charles had learned of the Parliament act abolishing the East India Company monopoly and opening trade to the Orient. He had conceived the idea of building a trade based upon tea, and he had increased his vision from a simple London street shop to include warehouses, ships, and plantations in China.

Upon hearing his son’s plan, James Locke had embraced it at once, for it meshed beautifully with his own aims of promoting Charles to the wealth and prestige that neither he nor his ancestors had enjoyed. James endorsed the entire idea, admired it in every way, and saw to it that his son was given the education such an endeavor would require. At Cambridge, Charles had pursued every course of study that could advance his goals. Finance and accounting interested him greatly, but he also attended lectures in literature, philosophy, science, and civic law. The allowance settled upon James Locke at his retirement had provided the final building block for the platform from which to launch the tea plan into reality.

Charles had sailed for China with every high hope in the world. And then the pirates attacked. The gold was stolen. He was injured. The journey to the Orient was disrupted. All but his life was lost.

At last accepting the harsh truth that his original plans must be set aside, Charles had made use of his convalescence to reexamine his education and interests. Determined to overcome his recent setbacks, he elected to plot a different course in life. The tea company must be forgotten, at least for the time being. His father refused to believe that banking would elevate Charles to the financial and social stature deemed essential to success. Thus, Charles decided to become a barrister-at-law.

The Friday after calling on Sarah Carlyle, Lady Delacroix, at Trenton House, he had taken a carriage to Lincoln’s Inn to make his application. One of the four Inns of Court in London from which barristers were called to the bar, the law school was situated advantageously just across the road from the Royal Courts of Justice. Based upon his previous excellent marks at Cambridge and a recommendation from Laurent Chouteau, the duke of Marston, Charles was interviewed and accepted into the law school forthwith. He understood that this new venture would put him into debt and must certainly bring hardship to his father. Yet he became wholly resolved upon it.

He could not have the woman he loved. His chosen career was closed to him. His physical health remained compromised. But, lest he begin to wish he had gone down with the
Tintagel
, Charles chose to attack doubt and despair with all the courage he had displayed against the pirates. He would learn to live without Sarah’s sweet smile to uplift him, without her unwavering faith to bolster him. He would set aside—but not utterly abandon—his dream of a successful trade. And he would rise to a position of rank and privilege that would bring pride to his father and honor upon his lineage.

As Charles attended his first lectures at Lincoln’s Inn on this bright Monday in midsummer, any uncertainties that might have remained were erased. He had chosen wisely. Within the year, he would be admitted to the faculty of advocates. For a circuit or two, he would hold briefs in the Court of Session, where he would either defend or prosecute the accused. Not long thereafter, he would serve as junior counsel in making appeals to the House of Lords. Five years from now, he would be called to the English bar.

In the meantime, Charles would continue his friendship with Alexander Chouteau, younger son of the duke of Marston. If, as all supposed, the older son, Ruel, truly had been killed in America, Sir Alexander would one day assume the duchy from his father. Acquainting himself with politicians, Charles would make every effort to be seen in society, and he would bolster his reputation by writing and publishing scholarly works. He would familiarize himself with international law and gain experience in the prize courts. This course of action must lead successful merchants to retain him as legal counsel. With all this, it could not be long before his influential friends in society, politics, and the trades would secure him a seat in Parliament.