Chapter Nine

But there was a dress to be delivered. Madeline enjoyed the walk to Tifton Manor even less than usual. She knocked on the servants’ entrance, hoping to see Livingston. To her disappointment, the housekeeper opened the door, and not the butler.

“What do you want?” the woman growled. Madeline could have sworn she smelled brandy on her breath.

“Ju…just to deliver Amel…Miss T…T…Tifton’s Christmas dress to her,” she stammered. “I…I know she wants me to make certain it needs no alterations.”

“Follow me. Be quick about it.”

They went up the back stairs of the grand house, the housekeeper silent. Madeline’s left shoe needed a new heel so it gave off a merry “click tap, click tap” down the corridor. Don’t say anything, Mrs. Bower , she thought.

No such luck. “Get your shoes mended,” the woman hissed at her, then knocked on Amelia’s door. There was a faint “Come in,” which made Madeline wonder if her cousin was as terrified of the housekeeper as she was.

“Do your business and don’t dawdle or you won’t be paid,” Mrs. Bower snapped and pushed her none too gently into the room.

“We’d better hurry,” Madeline told her cousin.

The dress slipped on easily and fit precisely as Madeline knew it would. The Tiftons hosted the shire’s best families for a holiday dinner and she knew there would be no prettier frock on any lady’s back than one of hers or her mother’s. She gave herself a mental shake, wondering why Amelia insisted on yellow, instead of the more flattering blue that Madeline suggested. The curtains in the Tifton formal dining room were a similar pale shade. Amelia would simply disappear. Perhaps that was the point. Maybe Mrs. Tifton was just mean enough not to want any competition, even from her own child.

“What do you think, Miss Tifton?” Madeline asked, wondering if this pale spinster about her own age had an opinion of her own.

“It’s well enough, I suppose,” Amelia said, sounding almost as listless as she appeared.

“I could add a blue sash that would really set it off,” Madeline suggested.

“Yes, that might….” Amelia brightened momentarily, looking almost animated, then reconsidered, probably out of fear for her mother’s opinion. “No. This will do.”

“Very well,” she said quietly. “I will leave the receipt with you.”

“You’re to leave it with the housekeeper.”

Madeline’s sighed inwardly. Something told her that Mrs. Bower would ignore it. She had done that several years ago. Usually the payments came after several attempts, and even then, it was never the full five shillings, never mind that a similar dress in London, or even Portsmouth would earn her twice that amount.

“I will leave it with you,” Madeline repeated firmly, even as her heart sank lower.

She let herself out of Amelia’s room and started for the back stairs.

“Stop!”

Startled, Madeline turned to see Mrs. Tifton bearing down on her. She felt her hands turn into fists. Does she think I’m stealing spoons? she asked herself.

She did something then that went against all her own recent personal admonitions to abandon daydreaming and wishful thinking. Just this once, she decided to pretend that she was married to a kind and capable man who would protect her from all the ills of society and the position in life where she found herself, through no fault of her own. She drew herself up, pretending that if she took a step back, Amos Foster’s comforting arms would be around her. Maybe just this once, she could fool herself into thinking she had someone on her side, besides her equally powerless mother.

“Yes, Mrs. Tifton?” she asked, keeping her voice steady. This was no time to stammer and look afraid. “Your daughter has approved of the Christmas dress. I left my bill with her. How may I help you?”

Her serenity must have thrown Mrs. Tifton off her usual vitriol. She stared and then her eyes narrowed. If Madeline could have dug her feet into the carpet to remain immovable, she would have. As it was, she clasped her hands together, not daring to look down to see how white her knuckles were. She decided not to give Mrs. Tifton that triumph.

Her aunt came closer and closer, but Madeline refused to back up. When they were nearly none to nose, it was Aunt Loisa who stepped back. Her words came out low and menacing.

“I demand to know what that uncouth sea captain is doing in my father’s house,” she said.

O h, that house you never visited, even though Mr. Ince was your father? Madeline wanted to say. She refrained, only because she knew that the invisible Amos Foster protecting her would have roared out a protest in his best command-in-a-gale voice. No. Wait. Something – a Christmas blessing? A gift better than waterfront property? This was telling her that she refrained because she knew she could manage this on her own.

“He is merely staying there, with permission from Mr. Clare, the solicitor,” she replied calmly. She felt Amos’s imaginary strength turning into her own, and it felt real.

“He’s not looking for money stashed here and there?” Mrs. Tifton asked. Her expression turned conniving. “Or did you and your foolish mother already steal that?”

Y ou are a dreadful excuse for a human , Madeline thought. Isn’t she, Amos? “We would never do such a thing. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do elsewhere.”

“Someday you will go too far!” On any other day, that would have struck terror into Madeline’s heart. Now it sounded like the bleating of a desperate woman. Perhaps someday she might feel pity for her aunt, but this was not the day.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and forced herself to walk to the backstairs, and not run down in a desperate attempt to get away from the evil in what could have been a lovely home.

She walked back to Ashfield, never once turning to look behind her. By the time she arrived in the High Street, she resolved to never again go to Tifton Manor to make a Christmas dress for Amelia. There would be some way to make up for the lost shillings. She would not be that desperate again, no matter what happened between now and next Christmas.

To her infinite relief, Amos Foster stood in the doorway of his grandfather’s house. Without caring if anyone saw her, she went directly up the steps and into his open arms, which was a good thing, because her legs suddenly failed her. She started to sag.

Without a word, he scooped her up and carried her inside, setting her on the sofa.

He sat beside her on the floor. “I asked your mother where you had gone,” he said. “When she told me, my blood started to run in chunks.”

As calmly as she could, Madeline told him what her aunt had asked. “She seems to think her father has squirreled away wealth here, and that either Mama and I through the years, or you now, have been using it for our own purposes. She is a pathetic woman.”

“You’re too kind,” he said drily. He stood up and held out his hand. “Let me walk you home.”

He helped her up, and there was no mistaking his concern. “I don’t know if you need a hug, but I do.”

It started out as a simple hug, but the idea of letting go of the man whose invisible presence she had called on during her encounter with Mrs. Tifton seemed silly. She clung to him, and with a sigh and the simple utterance, “Madeline,” he clung to her.

When she started to shake in the aftermath of her ordeal or maybe a lifetime of ordeals, he put his hand to the side of her face and pressed her even closer to his chest, shutting out the fear that threatened to overwhelm her. In another moment, she was calm. She stepped back, not because he was too close––she loved every moment of that––but because she knew that when he left, she would be on her own again. She gently shooed away wishful thinking, and sent it back to whatever corner of her mind it usually temporarily inhabited. In that moment, she grew up.

“I needed that,” she said softly. “Thank you, Amos. I think I will be all right now.”

Just like that, she was gone, staggering a little, but quick to take possession of that steely will he recognized in other ship captains, soldiers he had met during the war, his own father, even. Am I as strong as you, dear lady? he asked himself, knowing that when this bit of nonsense involving his grandfather’s will was read and certified, he had to return to London and the business of cargos and trade. A few good years might mean he could add onto his fleet of one. He saw nothing but a lifetime of hard work ahead; he had no choice. He toyed with the idea of asking Madeline if he could write to her, as he had written to his grandfather, but no. He knew what he was like when he was busy. There wouldn’t be time for letters. Again, no choice. He had to leave, and that was that.

Amos took himself to the inn for supper, needing to be with a noisy bunch. He could drink some ale, and maybe watch other men and their wives banter about and flirt with each other…and envy them. There. He had thought it.

He was halfway through a mound of shepherd’s pie when the solicitor approached. “Captain Foster, Mrs. Tifton said I might find you here.”

Amos flinched. Mr. Clare noticed and reassured him. “No, no, not that harpy on the hill. Mrs. Maude Tifton.”

“In that case, join me,” Amos said. “I can’t begin to eat all this. Lizzie? How about another plate.”

Lizzie brought a plate and Mr. Clare joined him in finishing the shepherd’s pie. The solicitor gave a sigh of contentment. “My cook at home isn’t nearly this good.”

He seemed to recall why he was here and not at home eating poor victuals, but Mr. Clare still didn’t speak. Amos took matters into his own hands, as he would aboard the Betty Bright . “Mr. Clare, do you have news for me? I hope it is that you’ve peeked at the will and I have nothing to do with the contents therein. I need to return to London.”

“That’s the funny thing, Captain,” the solicitor said. He burped politely––“Excuse that”–– then leaned forward. “I opened that second envelope to prepare myself, and there was this note. Took me a moment to decipher it. Poor old fellow’s handwriting was quite gone.”

“That’s why he had Mad…Miss Tifton write for him,” Amos said.

Mr. Clare pushed the scrap of paper across the table. From reading a few of his grandfather’s letters this afternoon, he was already familiar with the spider-like scrawl. He read it, then read it again. “My grandfather wants Mrs. Maude Tifton and her daughter to attend the reading, as well?”

“So it would seem. The reading is tomorrow in my office. Will you somehow convince those two ladies to attend the reading with you? I know they are terrified of the nasty Tiftons. The reading will begin at nine of the clock. I doubt it will take long.”

Amos leaned back in his chair as another thought about his uncle’s will took hold. “Could it possibly be…”

“It seems unlikely,” Mr. Clare said hastily, as if wanting to discard the notion. “He might have promised Maude and Madeline the house at Number Fourteen. Partly I am here to cushion you against such a personal disappointment. You’ve told me about your own shipping woes. Selling that house might have brought you a little relief in a nest egg toward future shipbuilding.”

“There are worse things,” Amos said. “Actually, I rather like the idea of two kind ladies getting a roomier place to live.”

“I like it, too. I wanted to warn you against getting any hopes up.” He held out his hand. “Whatever happens tomorrow should end your need to remain here. You’ll be able to go on about your business. I do wish you well in future enterprises.”

They shook hands. “I know they’ll be reluctant, but I will have both Tifton ladies in attendance tomorrow.”

The solicitor left. And how, Genius, do you plan to convince Maude and Madeline to join you tomorrow? Amos asked himself sourly. He did what all men do in a crisis. He held up his empty tankard. “A little more if you please, Lizzie.”