20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

F oolish, foolish girl , Beatrice berated herself silently as the hunting trap rattled over the cobblestone streets of York. She kept her left hand wrapped tightly about the little bar on the side of the seat, and her right hand clenched in her lap. Her eyes remained fixed straight ahead, refusing to even glance in Gregory's direction.

She didn't understand it; she had never been so susceptible to a man before. It was not as if he were even the sort of man that she would ordinarily be interested in! Though obviously not a poor man by any stretch of the imagination, he was not one of the sickeningly wealthy rakes that she usually found herself entangled with, piles of money to burn. He was stiff and cold, humourless at times even...

And yet, with very little provocation, he had shown flashes of the man he must have been once, a younger self that lay buried beneath layers of grief. She suspected that there was quite the reserve of passion beneath his stony exterior. Why, all that she had to do was—

No, NO, you stop that this instant , she snapped to her runaway imagination.

But it was not only her overactive imagination that had her sitting in statuesque silence. Today had been the second time when someone had come upon them in a position that could easily be interpreted as compromising. Now, here in York, there were dozens, hundreds of eyes on her at any given moment. It was doubtful that anyone would recognise her as she was, in her modest and drab governess' guise, but she did not wish to take that chance. Moreover, she refused to allow her reputation to be tainted so thoroughly again.

They pulled to a stop at last in front of a draper's shop, the windows stuffed full of bolts of fabric. Despite her trepidation, the sight gladdened Beatrice a little; she was a consummate shopper, generally considering it to be her other great talent in life besides dancing.

Muslin would be a good choice for Florence, particularly that lovely sprigged one—ah, and direct from Dhaka, too! Beatrice thought gleefully. Oh, and the printed cottons! Perhaps we might dig a little into our wages and—

"Miss Heart?" the colonel asked.

Startled, Beatrice blinked down at him. He had exited the trap, having tied Jolly securely to a hitching post, and was now standing on the street looking up at her expectantly. Quickly, she gathered her skirt in one hand, pulling it discreetly to the side and angling her feet so that she could slide out of the trap.

She hesitated, however, peering down dubiously at the street. It was paved stone, and slick with cold rain, and sloped upward to meet the shop doors. Ever since she had injured her ankle over a year ago, she was somewhat wary of placing herself in harm's way again in such a way that could limit her ability to earn. She sincerely doubted her ability to climb down with any skill, too.

"If I may?" the colonel asked, lifting his hands up to offer her assistance.

Beatrice stared at him for a moment as if his hands were some kind of hunting trap, ready to spring closed around her. It wasn't as if she had a lot of options, really; she glanced about quickly, ascertaining that the street was not overly crowded. Quickly, she nodded, and rose, bracing herself with her hands on either side of the trap.

With surprising gentleness, the colonel took Beatrice by the waist, hoisting her down as if she weighed no more than a hatbox. Her hands automatically went to his shoulders, and the way that they fit so naturally there did nothing to put Beatrice's mind at ease. She knew that she ought not to look at him—looking directly at any man in public would be enough to be considered provoking—but she could not help herself.

Slowly, perhaps more slowly than necessary, the colonel settled her gently on the ground. As the street was uneven, she clung to him briefly for a moment as she righted herself, taking a moment to ensure that her pelisse had not gotten caught up on the trap.

When she turned back to look up at the colonel, she found that he was still staring down at her. Reflexively, feeling a little unsettled, Beatrice bit her lower lip, and his eyes flicked down to her mouth, following the motion. Quickly, Beatrice darted her eyes around again. There was no one really paying them much mind, but she could not help but feel that there were dozens of unseen eyes on her.

"Are you alright?" the colonel asked, still studying her.

"Yes, thank you, I believe I can stand upright just fine now," she replied brusquely, releasing his arms. The colonel nodded, stepping back as much as the strangely sloped street would allow. Beatrice busied herself with ensuring that her dress wasn't horribly creased, brushing it down so that she would not have to meet the colonel's eyes.

"I understand that this is the best draper in the city," he said, nodding toward the shop in question when she had stood back upright.

"Yes, good," she said, nodding. "I think perhaps it would be best if we conducted our business separately," she continued quietly. She glanced significantly up and down the street again, her eyes tilting upward to take in the dozens of windows of the apartments set over shops. "I would not want any unkind gossip to follow us—you—home."

The colonel frowned a little, but followed the direction of her gaze. He nodded after a moment, then touched the brim of his hat. "Very well, then; I am sure that I might occupy myself for a while. Shall I meet you back here in an hour?"

"I will need to visit the dressmaker when done at the draper's," Beatrice reminded him.

"True, but I can't have you wandering the streets of York on your own," he countered. "At the least, you will not wish to carry bolts of fabric that far."

Beatrice hesitated, considering. At last, she nodded. Looking satisfied but not content, the colonel touched the brim of his hat and turned on his heel to stroll down the street. Despite her insistence that they not appear to be overly familiar, she still could not help but watch him go, feeling his absence very keenly. Without him there, she was very aware that she was without any real protection, no connections or friends that she could call upon this far north.

But it was more than this; she found that she had grown rather used to his company, enjoyed it even. Oh, he was an infuriating man, but she found that she liked teasing him and riling him far more than she had any other man. Of course, it could have been as simple as he would not just agree with whatever she said out of hand in the hopes that she would bestow favour upon him.

It did not help her feelings in the least that the moment she stepped out into the street, Beatrice had the strangest feeling, as if there really was someone watching her keenly. Quickly, she darted across the street, ducking into the draper's shop.

Once within, she forgot her troubles in a hurry. Though small, the little draper's shop clearly specialised in quality over quantity. At every turn, Beatrice was delighted to find muslins, velvets, silks, brocades, and printed cottons that would have satisfied even the haughtiest of customers. The draper himself, a little man with wisps of white hair sticking out all over his head, approached Beatrice with deference, his hands folded together. He was impeccably dressed, with neat little silver buckles on his shoes, his wardrobe completely at odds with his wild hair.

"Good day, Madame," he said, speaking softly and dipping his head accordingly. "Might I be of service?"

"Perhaps," Beatrice said, lifting her chin a little as they took each other's measure. "I require muslin, and a decent quantity of it. No," she said, stopping the draper as he turned to consider a collection of muslins in a far corner. "Finer than that, something a young lady would be proud to wear."

The draper gave Beatrice a small smile. "I can assure you that any young lady would be proud to wear my wares, but I commend you for having a fine eye at such a distance."

Beatrice arched an eyebrow at "wear my wares," but otherwise did not comment. Like a great lady, she settled herself into one of the padded chairs reserved for genteel customers, and looked at the draper expectantly. The draper hesitated, taking in Beatrice again.

She knew exactly what he was thinking, that she was dressed awfully plainly to be requesting such finery. She stared right back at him, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes slightly, but refusing to lower her chin from its regal bearing. The draper inclined his own head, nodding. She had clearly passed whatever judgement he was attempting to make.

"If I might know more about the young lady in question?" he asked gently. This was a diplomatic way of ascertaining the age of the customer, and indicated to Beatrice that he was willing to take her seriously.

She rewarded his prudence with a smile. "She is a young lady of means, who will soon be entering society," she explained. "She is quite a comely little thing, and her father is anxious that she be arrayed in a manner befitting her station."

The draper absorbed this, his eyes darting to look out the large front window to the street, and then back to Beatrice. "Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, his face stretching into a wide smile. "I thought that was Colonel Hillmot I saw, but I was half-convinced my eyes were playing tricks on me. We've not seen him in our shop since—well, since poor Mrs Hillmot," he said, his face growing a little wistful.

"You knew her, then?" Beatrice asked, intrigued despite herself. The chance to learn anything about the mysterious late Mrs Hillmot, and the colonel of the past, was an opportunity not to be passed up.

"Oh yes, Madame," the draper said, pausing as he was in the midst of sorting through some bolts of muslin. "A loyal customer, she was—I was called out to the manor many times to display my wares. She had a real taste for curtains, I can tell you that much for certain," he mused.

"What was she like ?" Beatrice pressed.

"A bright, lively thing to be sure," he answered, pulling out a bolt of muslin, considering, and then replacing it. "When she died, it was like she took the sunshine from the county with her."

Beatrice said nothing, but wondered silently at how a man as stoic as the colonel had managed to find himself with such a woman. The only logical conclusion was that he was much altered by the death of Mrs Hillmot. It was a true pity for the girls, then, that they had not only lost their mother, but had also lost their father in a sense.

"This one, I think," the draper announced, interrupting Beatrice's thoughts. Gently, he unspooled some exceedingly fine muslin, and laid it across Beatrice's lap for her to examine. Gingerly, she lifted the snowy fabric, holding it up to the light. It was so light it almost floated aloft, sprigged with delicate blossoms.

Secretly, Beatrice was thrilled, but she frowned as she considered it; it would not do to let the draper know how much she liked it. "This is Dhaka muslin, yes?"

"Oh yes, Madame, only the finest in my shop," the draper replied proudly.

"Very well," Beatrice relented. "We shall require ten yards."

"Very good, Madame," the draper said, whisking the fabric away. "I shall be but a moment—muslin this fine requires thread pulling, not simply blind cutting."

Beatrice nodded her assent; it would take longer, but would guarantee a perfectly straight cut. Satisfied, she rose and began to browse again, idly letting her hands brush over silks and velvets. It was impossible to keep a tiny sigh from escaping her lips as she felt their smooth textures and saw the myriad colours available. It felt as if it had been an age since she had worn something other than plain linen or wool.

What beauties you are, she thought wistfully, and I shall never know you better.

Her melancholy was interrupted as her hand brushed over a short-pile silk velvet. Dark, dark red, so dark that it was almost impossible to tell that it was red in the dim light of the shop. It was clearly superior to all the others it was nestled with, resembling nothing so much as garnets or rubies burnished to a shine.

Beatrice could feel her eyes widen as she beheld the fabric. Unable to help herself, she lifted the bolt and allowed a small length of it to drape over her arm. It fell beautifully, like a vermilion waterfall. It was begging to be made into a fine gown, a robing at the least that would cascade down the back and pleated into—

"You've quite an eye for quality, if I may say so, Madame," the draper said. He was behind his cutting table, delicately picking up a single thread with a pin across the entire width of the fabric. He had evidently spotted Beatrice admiring the velvet. "That velvet's direct from the master's loom in Italy," he continued, bent over his task. "That workshop was commissioned to weave tapestries in velvet and silk for the Doge's palace in Venice."

"I believe it," Beatrice murmured, running a hand fondly across the velvet one last time before sighing and replacing it.

The bell above the door tinkled then, and Beatrice did not need to turn around to know that it was the colonel. Though the smell from the street was undeniable, there was no mistaking the faint whiff of tobacco and patchouli that seemed to constantly follow him.

"Ah, Colonel Hillmot," the draper said, smiling up at the colonel. "I can't tell you how it gladdens my heart to see you again. And Miss Hillmot, ready to enter society! I can't countenance it, such a little sprite of a girl fully grown. Every year, the ladies coming into my shop get younger."

"Whereas you are quite unchanged, I'm sure," the colonel replied dryly, which wrested a raspy, coughing laugh from the draper, like leaves scuttling down the street. "Have you had success then?"

"I believe so, sir," Beatrice replied, casting a last, longing glance at the velvet.

Curiosity on his face, the colonel stepped closer to Beatrice, dropping his voice lower. "I hesitate to ask exactly what you have had success with, if the expression on your face when I walked in was any indication."

Beatrice, unimpressed, gave him a dour look, which only made one side of his mouth lift in a grin. "Nothing terribly exciting," she answered, consciously taking a step back; though the draper appeared busy, she had little doubt that he saw everything that went on in his shop. "I was simply admiring the fine quality fabrics this good man has in stock," she said a little louder, prompting a proud smile from the draper.

"Oh?" the colonel asked, tilting his head, catching sight of the velvet in question. "Ah, I see."

"What can I say, it's my favourite colour," Beatrice said, smiling a little wistfully. "But not particularly practical for a governess."

At that last word, a wall seemed to come down over the colonel's face. He appeared to remember himself, and he stepped back even farther from Beatrice. His arms folded behind his back in his customary posture, his spine as rigid as his expression.

Beatrice was sorry to see this transformation, and mentally kicked herself for tarnishing their outing in such a way. This feeling persisted as they made their way to the dressmaker's; the colonel kept his distance from Beatrice, allowing her to do all the negotiating with the dressmaker. A fitting was arranged once a toile was prepared for Florence to try on later in the week.

This lent itself to the already disturbed sensation that had haunted Beatrice for much of her time in York that day. Though it had not been all that long that she had been out of the public view, she had grown unaccustomed to the feeling of eyes upon her. Yet, every moment that she stepped out onto the street, it felt as if some unseen predator was watching her, biding its time.

Don't be silly , she snapped harshly at herself. You've far more important things to worry about than some unseen phantom.

It was easy enough to chalk up her unease to reading scary books late at night. Surely, that's all that it was.