Chapter Eighteen

V anessa Wardrip was reaccumulating things. It had started with books. First a few, then a few more. It was silly since she was not even much of a reader. A variety of tutors had soured her on the activity when she was young. Nevertheless, the adventure novels she purchased to reignite Charlotte’s enthusiasm for learning thrilled her as well. They read them together over tea. Then Charlotte recounted the stories at night to her boys. Vanessa looked forward to the day when she might lend Charlotte the books to read to them. But for now…

She tried to wiggle her latest purchases onto the shelf Tam had built.

In addition to books, she bought herself a tea set. It wasn’t an extravagance; she’d dropped her clay pot and it cracked. The replacement she bought over in Paxton Downs, which included four matching teacups, was not Wedgewood but rather an inexpensive imitation that was just as pretty. She christened the set by inviting the two women from church who were always together. They were sisters, she learned, wedded to brothers who were fishermen. They both had sons who were now old enough to go out with their fathers. And Mary and Myrtle had wanted to make her acquaintance for oh-so-long, but were shy.

Vanessa had also bought herself a straw bonnet to keep the sun from her face. Little by little, she was beginning to feel settled. Things were not important, but perhaps what one did with them was.

And now, she must go claim her boots. When she’d tried two days earlier, they were not yet ready, and Bitter had been so apologetic he seemed almost fretful. He’d promised they would be done today. She worried if she didn’t go claim them, he would search for a way to bring them to her.

She tied on her bonnet and set out. Down the street, she saw Charlotte spreading laundry in her yard to dry in the sun. Mostly Sweet Kate’s nappies. Vanessa waved, but kept on, reminded that she had her own laundry to wash when she returned. Mostly underthings. She would not spread them outside. They were lacy and delicate and would not belong to the woman she pretended to be.

The day was hot which made the walk seem longer, which returned her thoughts to where they had been. Her slowly accumulating things. She let word slip out that she’d received a small inheritance from a great uncle in case anyone noticed.

Another purchase she’d recently made was writing paper. She wrote letters to Effie Andini and Rose Posonby, short notes, just to say she was settled into a comfortable cottage near a friend of hers from the Peninsula. She could not tell them where, but if they were so inclined, they might write to her care of Mr. Will Collingswood.

She didn’t post the letters. Will had told her he would not serve as her go-between. He’d meant, of course, between her and Jasper, but he might think she was writing to her friends seeking information about him. She was not. Not really. She missed her London life. But she’d decided she must ask Will first if he would mind being a conduit. Unfortunately, she was finding that letter too difficult to compose.

She wrote also to Crispin. She thanked him for his kindness in thinking of her and sharing his news. She told him, too, that she was settling in, making friends, and that Lydia and Corporal Compton were also well. She didn’t bother asking him how he had located her. He wouldn’t explain. But she tore up that letter rather than send it. It would take weeks to find him if it found him at all. He might or might not reply. And she didn’t want to spend the next few months…waiting. Nor did she think she should strike up a correspondence with Jasper’s brother.

She also composed letter after letter to her one-time lover. Telling him little details about her life here. Asking about his. Sometimes telling him how desperately she missed him—his conversation, his smiles, his touch. Oh, his touch.

She wrote those letters only in her head. Never committing words to paper.

Her forehead was damp with perspiration and her clothes felt heavier and dustier, but there, ahead, finally, was the Comptons’ cottage. Tidily constructed, it was smaller than her own. The front door stood open inviting a breeze and, of course, customers. Six bootmakers were working there now, including Lydia, her husband, Jon, Bitter, and two other injured soldiers. All Vanessa could think was that it must be unbearably cramped.

As she understood it, Lydia and the corporal slept in the loft. Brother Jon slept downstairs in the corner of the workshop. Another corner now housed Bitter and Nan. The lack of privacy made Vanessa cringe. Of course, on the Peninsula, it had been worse. She and Henry had never been truly alone. But life with Jasper had spoiled her. Or returned her to the expectations of the comfort of her coddled youth. Expectations of unlimited resources. What a skewed vision of life she had had.

She approached the door and heard voices. Raised voices.

“If we increase the price to cover the tax, we will lose the few customers we have.”

That was Jon speaking. Although it was wrong of her, Vanessa paused outside the door.

“But if you don’t, you’ll lose money on every pair you sell,” said the corporal. “It’s not as if we can compete on price with the likes of Brunel and his factory.”

“Even Brunel may have trouble selling boots once the war ends.”

“The difficulty is your labor,” Bitter put in. Vanessa barely recognized the voice as his. It held none of Bitter’s usual sunniness. “You cannot keep us all. It was good of you, Jon, to take me on, but I understand…”

“No talk of that,” Jon said gruffly.

Just then, Lydia tapped Vanessa on the arm, and she jumped. Lydia carried a basket draped with a large napkin. She’d been to Cartmel’s market. Or perhaps to one of the neighbors to barter. She frowned. Vanessa expected to be scolded for listening to what was none of her business. Instead, Lydia said, “Are they arguing again? Come in.” She took Vanessa by the elbow and dragged her inside.

“A customer come for her boots,” she announced.

The small front room was dimly sunlit and felt blessedly cool. The Compton brothers stood along the back wall, beside the door leading into their workshop-living space. Vanessa could not help looking at Bitter, seated behind a narrow table with a battered ledger in front of him. He hadn’t had time to mask his anguish.

“Ah, Mrs. Wardrip,” Jon said. “Your boots are ready. I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what took so long. They’re in the back. I’ll fetch them.”

“Oh, it’s no matter.” They all looked so dejected, she could not bear it. If the boot mill closed, what would they do? She glanced again at Bitter, who looked the most agitated. Of course, he had Nan to worry about. And that went both ways. From the times she’d spoken with Nan, Vanessa thought her a more than capable woman despite her impediments, yet Nan must have her hands full caring for Bitter.

Jon returned with a canvas satchel.

“Try them on,” he urged, handing it to her. “If they don’t fit, we’ll make it right.”

“If she doesn’t like them,” Bitter said, shooting an anxious look not at her, but at Jon, “I’ll make it right.”

It made her self-conscious, all those eyes upon her. She sat on an empty stool and slipped the first boot from the satchel. Her jaw dropped.

The leather had been tooled, and decorated with roses on a trellis. The workmanship was superb. She shook the other boot from its bag. It was a mirror image of its mate.

“What is that now?” Jon said, stepping closer.

“Oh, but they’re beautiful!”

She heard Bitter’s little sigh of relief. She kicked off her worn slippers and pulled on the left boot. It was tight, but not uncomfortably so and she knew the leather would give.

“Perfect! I’ll try the other.”

She had never seen boots this sturdy look so lovely. Nevertheless, she was aware of the eyes in the room. Lydia looked stunned. Bitter, pleased. The corporal, confused. And Jon looked wary and annoyed.

“Did Bitter have your permission to attempt this?”

Nan says I’m daft for wanting to make pretty shoes to scuff about in the dust.

“He certainly would have, but I would have offered to pay more. I should pay more. Jon, anyone would.” The words soured in her mouth. Not anyone. They made boots for men who could barely afford the ten shillings and two pence.

Jon sniffed. “You pay what you agreed upon, Mrs. Wardrip. We should refund your payment, seeing as they weren’t what you ordered.”

“Refund?”

“I didn’t take her money,” Bitter said weakly. “I thought…”

“I brought payment with me,” Vanessa said, fishing the coins from her reticule. She thought again of offering more, but feared that would add fuel to the fire. The Comptons’ boots were not meant for ladies who could have the bills sent to moneyed protectors or indulgent husbands. But they could be.

She stood, marveling again at the snugness of the boots after her thin, worn slippers. She put the coin in Jon’s hand. “These are perfect, Jon, truly, I couldn’t be happier. They would fetch thrice the price in London.” Thrice? Five times. She mused aloud. “If they were placed in the right shops, it would be ten times.”

Jon blew a raspberry through his lips. “Ladies don’t want boots like these. They want flimsy things.”

Vanessa thought of Lady Posonby. She would buy them. And the six young ladies, her disciples, would copy her. But a small cadre of bluestockings wearing decorative Hessians would not set a fashion.

The corporal was more disparaging. “Even with Lieutenant Taverston’s good word, we couldn’t sell boots to the army. London ladies’ shops will not be knocking down our door.”

Vanessa blushed, as much from hearing the Taverston name as from fear of giving away her own secrets.

“Well,” she said, a little ashamed of her own mercantile instincts, “not London shops but perhaps you could place a sample in Brideley’s in Paxton Downs.” It was the nondescript little shop where she’d purchased her bonnet. Then she had another thought. “Or there are shops over in Binnings.”

She’d been planning to hire a conveyance in Paxton Downs to take her to Binnings. She had never been there but heard it was a quaint village with shops frequented by a wealthier clientele than Paxton Downs. Some Society people—no one she knew— owned properties there. There were no large country estates, just small playgrounds and hunting copses for aristocrats. Her father, who would have hated the isolation but loved the cachet, had once attempted to purchase a Binnings cottage, but no one had anything they were willing to sell.

She hadn’t been intending to buy much in the shops, only to walk through them and imagine a connection to a life she no longer lived. Moreover, she’d thought she might find a place where she could sell a piece of jewelry when it came to that so that she wouldn’t have to involve Will again. Now she had an urge to visit their shoe shops.

“Shops won’t take a risk on something so outlandish,” Jon said. “They suit you, Mrs. Wardrip, but you know the value of strongly made shoes. And I daresay Lydia wouldn’t mind a pair so pretty. But most women—”

“Most women don’t have a choice,” Lydia said. “They wear what men make for them to wear. And I’d wager most men like their girls a bit hobbled.”

“Be that as it may,” Jon said, “we’re fortunate Mrs. Wardrip likes her boots. Bitter, you idiot, you should have asked first.”

“Yes,” Lydia said. “She might have preferred bluebells.”

Oh, she would love bluebells. But she couldn’t order a second pair of boots. Rather she could, but she mustn’t. Not yet.

*

Vanessa traveled with company: Mary and Myrtle. She hired a coach and driver and rented a small room for two nights, a room over a tea shop in Binnings proper. She convinced the sisters to accompany her by saying she could not go alone. They understood her timidity or thought they did. In truth, the only thing that frightened Vanessa was talk . Traveling with the sisters lent her respectability.

She enjoyed the women’s company, to a point. However, they told so many stories about their sons, who were now nearly men, that Vanessa was pleased when, after two hours of aimless shopping and a half hour of fortifying tea drinking, Mary begged a chance to retire to their rented room upstairs to rest. Myrtle added her plea.

“Of course!” Vanessa said. “I didn’t mean to run you ragged.” It must be fatiguing to look at pretty things one could never afford. “There are a couple more shops I would like to visit, but I’m comfortable going alone. We can meet for dinner.”

So it was agreed. Vanessa took herself to a dressmaker. She was tired of turning hems and attempting to discreetly mend tears, and a little annoyed she’d sold so many of her clothes before leaving home. Before leaving London , she amended. It would not hurt to order two simple day dresses to be sent to her in Cartmel. They would not be finished here, of course, because she could not return for multiple fittings. But she could do the finishing herself.

She stepped into the shop and a small bell tinkled. A good-looking, dark-haired young man, who was sitting patiently with a large book in his lap, glanced up. Vanessa gasped.

The man jumped to his feet. “Van—Mrs. Wardrip. Good Lord!” He came toward her. She had nowhere to run.

She nodded. “Mr. Taverston. This is a surprise.”

To her horror, a very beautiful woman—strawberry-golden hair, flawless skin, a dainty nose, no wonder Jasper had courted her—stepped out from behind the rolls of fabrics. She had a question on her face. “Reginald?” She turned a smile upon Vanessa.

“Georgiana, this is Mrs. Wardrip. She was Jasper’s—” He froze, and his face contorted as he realized what he was about to say. In a choked tone, he finished, “Friend.”

“Well, how delightful!” The woman moved forward, graceful as a goddess. “You must, then, be our friend as well. Will you have tea with us? Reginald has been complaining he is parched.”

“I think…” Vanessa risked a glance at Reginald, who looked as though he wished he could drop through the floor. What a disastrous encounter. Vanessa decided honesty would put the quickest end to it. “I fear that would be unfitting. Iversley and I are no longer ‘friends,’ as Mr. Taverston so generously puts it.” She raised one eyebrow archly. A defense. “We severed our friendship when he began to court you.”

Lady Georgiana looked confused for a moment, but no more than a moment. Her eyes went wide, then she said, “Oh. Oh, I see.” Then she turned to her husband. “And you were all acquainted?” It sounded more like curiosity than accusation.

Mr. Taverston’s eyes closed, and his throat worked. Then he opened them and said, “Yes. But not well acquainted?” He offered the apology like the weak excuse he knew it to be. Vanessa felt a pang. These two were such innocents. She didn’t wish to be the source of any discord.

The next moment, Georgiana laughed. “This is awkward. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wardrip.”

“You are?” Vanessa felt bewildered. She’d expected a cut. She’d invited it. “For-for what?”

Georgiana laughed again, then turned up her palms. “I don’t know. For my naivete, perhaps.” She elbowed her husband. “And Reginald’s. I suppose he should not have approached you. But now that he has, and the air is cleared, would you have tea with us?”

She’d just had tea. And she could not imagine what they would talk about. But she was struck by a sudden, overwhelming desire to spend time with Jasper’s people. With ton people. Lord, she was as bad as her father, wanting in where she didn’t belong.

She nodded. “I would like that.”

“Let’s go to Mundy’s,” Georgiana suggested. A different tea shop, thank goodness, but several blocks away. “All day, I’ve been craving their cardamon cakes.” She laid her hand on her abdomen in an absent way that spoke volumes. Vanessa felt an almost unbearable pang, amplified when Reginald placed a fond, protective hand on the small of his wife’s back.

“Mundy’s it is.”

They left the shop and walked down the street. Reginald kept his hand on his wife’s elbow, but there was room to walk three abreast, so Vanessa did not feel too much like a third wheel.

“So,” Reginald said, “you’ve been in Binnings all along?”

“No.”

He looked embarrassed again. “I beg your pardon.” He shook his head. “I won’t say anything to Jasper.”

“Won’t you?”

“No. Crispin wrote that you might contact me should a need arise.” Reginald grinned. She could see, then, the family resemblance. Although Reginald did not possess the fair aristocratic features of his brothers, he had Jasper’s mouth and humor-filled blue eyes. “He threatened me with some unspecified retribution if I revealed your whereabouts.”

“Then I suppose I must trust your word.”

Georgiana smiled wryly. “Reginald is not afraid of Crispin. But he is a man of his word.”

Vanessa said, “I’m not living in Binnings. I live a fair distance away. I wouldn’t have come if I thought I’d run into anyone who might know me.” And now, she would never come back. “You have property here?”

“We don’t,” Reginald said. “Crispin has a cottage that he has let us use. We returned to check on some work being done.”

Good Lord. She couldn’t believe Crispin, of all people, had a hideaway in Binnings.

“We came to steal away for a second honeymoon,” Georgiana corrected him. “Even though it is rather too soon after our first.”

Vanessa almost rolled her eyes at the deep blush that stole over Reginald’s face.

Georgiana went on. “We have a house in Cambridge. Reginald is working for Frederick Bastion on a translation of several Greek manuscripts.” She beamed proudly and Vanessa understood the work must be impressive, even if she didn’t understand why. But Jasper had always spoken so highly of his youngest brother’s intelligence, that it made sense he’d be involved with something scholarly.

They reached the curb in front of Mundy’s. Vanessa raised her skirts a couple of inches and stepped as best she could around a large puddle. Georgiana attempted to follow her, but Reginald put his hands on her waist and swooped her over it. He possessed the Taverston strength, despite being a few inches shorter than his elder brothers.

They entered the tea shop and chose a table. Reginald asked a server to bring tea and cardamon cakes. Just as they were about to sit, Georgiana touched Vanessa’s arm.

“May I see your shoes?”

“My-my shoes?”

When Georgiana nodded, Vanessa raised her hem again.

“Oh! How splendid! How lovely! Reginald, look!” Georgiana raised her eyes to Vanessa’s. “They are boots like Hessians, are they not? Are they comfortable?”

“Yes, very.”

“I do a lot of walking, you see. Around Cambridge. The streets are just as bad as London’s. Oh, and boots like that would be perfect for traipsing about Crispin’s cottage. Did you buy them here?”

Vanessa could not have envisioned it could be so easy. “Not here. But if you are truly interested…” She waited for Georgiana’s enthusiastic head bob. “I can take a tracing of your foot and a string to measure around your calf and have the boots sent to you. It may take a month or so.”

“Would you?” She reached over and clasped Reginald’s arm, turning to look at him. “Do you think I might?”

His expression was melting. “Of course, you may have shoes.” He laughed a little, reddening, then explained. “We have been playing at budgeting and failing miserably. Jasper gave us a landau and two horses, for pity’s sake.”

She flushed also. Hadn’t she been playing at budgeting while sitting on a small fortune gifted to her by the same man?

“Well,” she said, thinking of Bitter and Nan and inflating the price as high as she dared, “these will cost three guineas.”

Reginald waved his hand in the same way Jasper would have done. However, Georgiana leveled a shrewder glance at her.

“That is steep. Considerably more than my riding boots.”

Vanessa nodded. And took another leap. “The craftsmen are injured British soldiers.”

“I see.” The suspicion fell from Georgiana’s face. “A fair price.”

“In advance.”

It was Reginald’s turn to look leery, but Georgiana said, “Yes, of course.”

A server brought their tea and a plate of cakes. The cakes sat on a small square of brown baker’s paper. Reginald glanced at the plate and then said, “Could you bring us a piece of that paper?” He indicated a size by squaring his hands. “About so big?”

“Paper?” The server looked at him as though he were daft.

“Yes, the paper. And a length of string.” He smiled. “I have my own pen.”

The server scuttled off.

“How is…” Vanessa squeezed her hands into fists and asked, “Crispin?”

“He was near to giddy in July,” Reginald said. “His latest letter was more somber. He says we will win. Boney overplayed his hand in Russia. But we have not yet won. We’d hoped he might be back in London for the recent celebrations, but of course, it’s too soon for him to return.”

Vanessa looked quickly at Georgiana, trying to gauge how well she knew Crispin. Then she asked Reginald, as if off-handedly, “His health is good?”

Reginald bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “As far as anyone knows.” He added, “It was quite good a few months ago when he was home.”

Georgiana dipped her eyes to the table, as though recognizing they were having a veiled conversation they were not supposed to have. Then she asked, “You know Crispin very well then?”—the same question Vanessa had wanted to ask of her. Georgiana sounded hurt. Well, Jasper had been courting her and they had all kept Vanessa’s existence a secret. Vanessa felt a bit hurt as well. She stepped back—they were family, and she was not.

“Lieutenant Taverston was my husband’s commanding officer. Mr. Wardrip died during the retreat to Corunna. Lieutenant Taverston arranged for my passage back to London.”

She thought that was explanation enough. But something twisted across Georgiana’s face, and Vanessa realized she was not as na?ve as she seemed.

Georgiana said, “Crispin introduced you to Jasper?” Vanessa heard the words “procured you for him” and her whole body tensed. Georgiana looked disbelieving, yet horrified.

“It was not like that. You can’t possibly think such a thing of Crispin.” Then she thought of how desperately Jasper needed his brothers’ respect, and suspected that extended to his sister-in- law too. “Or of Jasper. You may believe whatever you wish of me; it doesn’t matter.”

Reginald cleared his throat and said, thin voiced, “Jasper is well also.”

Georgiana had the good grace to look mortified for her suspicions.

“You see him often?” Vanessa murmured, wanting whatever Reginald might give her.

“Not since July. Just before Parliament closed. He has been devoting himself to politics, if you can believe it. I think, in a few weeks, he will retire to Chaumbers. Is there…is there anything you would like us to tell him?”

“No. No, nothing. Please don’t mention that you’ve seen me.”

“All right.” Reginald sighed. He sounded frustrated and perhaps sad. “Though I think it would do him good.”

The server appeared with a large square of baker’s paper, a piece of string, and a questioning look. “Is this what you wanted, sir?”

“Yes, thank you.” He dropped it on the floor by Georgiana’s feet. Then he pulled an implement and a tiny capped inkwell from inside his jacket and knelt beside her chair. Rather tenderly, he traced around her shoes, then wrapped the string about her calf and made two knots to indicate the circumference. He rolled up the paper before handing it to Vanessa. Then he opened his purse and took out a few coins to put in her hand. “Our direction is Crumbley House in Cambridge.”

Vanessa looked to Georgiana, who appeared to have recovered from her embarrassment. “Do you want roses also?”

“Do you mean I have a choice? Oh, how splendid! Do you think lilies?”

Vanessa smiled. “I suspect he can do lilies.” At that point, she stood. “Thank you both for treating me so kindly. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” She squared her shoulders. “But I must take my leave. Should our paths cross again in the next day or so, it would be best to pretend we are not acquainted.”

Reginald started to sputter a protest, but Georgiana put her hand on his and dipped her chin, acknowledging what Vanessa had said.

“We won’t unmask you,” the lady promised. “But if a time comes when you would like to have our friendship, we would not hesitate to welcome yours.”