Neal tried to shake off his anger at Miss Bainbridge’s words, but it dogged him like a shadow all the way to his flat. Australia was a terrible place. Anyone who came from that country was no better than a thieving murderer. Nothing good could ever come from those shores.
He could not bring himself to accept such casual prejudice against the place and its people.
He stripped off his outer clothes and boots, then fell onto the bed in his pants and shirt, falling asleep almost instantly. He awakened to the afternoon sun shining through his thin curtains. He lay in bed relishing the luxury of lingering awhile until a faint scratching sound caught his attention.
Tripping over his boots and rubbing his eyes, Neal stumbled through the bedroom and kitchen and opened the main door.
Rascal the cat marched in, tail raised, meowing as he circled the room before jumping onto the table.
The early spring air outside was warm, with a gentle breeze, so Neal left the door open. “I guess you’re wondering where I was this morning.”
The dark feline eyes stayed fixed on him as he moved about the room, setting water on to boil for tea, then slicing bread and covering it with cheese, which he set on a tin plate on the spider-stand over the hearth to toast. He tossed the cheese rind to Rascal, who sniffed it and then eyed him balefully.
“No cream. Sorry. Used the last of it yesterday.”
Rascal sneezed, then hunkered down on the table to gnaw on the rind.
Neal drank his tea and ate his toasted cheese accompanied by the low, vibrating purr of the cat. After feeding the chickens—barring Rascal from the gate with his foot—he returned to his rooms and dressed. He had to shoo the cat out of the flat before leaving.
The horse needed little guidance to get to the Longrieve home in Jericho, since he usually started his daily rounds by calling on Mrs. Longrieve and the baby. This afternoon, however, he was not greeted by an ebullient teen eager to discuss the latest reading project he’d conquered. Neal tied the horse slowly, wishing he did not make his visit under such tragic circumstances.
Mrs. Longrieve opened the door at his soft knock, her face haggard and pale. She stepped back and invited him in wordlessly. He followed her lead and said nothing, crossing the cramped room to the crate Mr. Longrieve had fashioned into a cradle for the baby.
Though the infant slept, she did not look peaceful. Neal lifted her and carried her out into the sunlight. Her nearly translucent skin had a yellow tint to it, and when he pried open her mouth, her gums were pale.
The baby squirmed and began a plaintive whimper—as if she did not have enough energy for a proper cry. He cradled her to his chest and ducked back into the narrow row house.
“Johnny’s out trying to earn money for food.” Mrs. Longrieve took the baby from Neal, draped a blanket over her shoulder and the child, and began nursing. “It’s hard for him, it is, with so many younger boys what will take fewer coins to carry messages the same distance.”
“What about driving the cab?”
“The constables took it—to be sold to pay our debt for the theft.”
Neal crossed his arms. “All but five pounds were returned. The cab must be worth much more than that.”
Mrs. Longrieve’s shoulders slumped. “They said we’d have to sell the cab, and our horses, to pay for a lawyer and court fees.”
“We will see about that. I will go to the constable to see what can be done. Once your husband is exonerated, he must have a way to support his family.”
“But we have nothing to pay the legal expenses with.”
“Do not worry—I will take care of it.” Neal picked up his kit. “When you next see Johnny, send him to find me. I have an errand for him.”
“Yes, Doctor. How much do I—”
“You owe me nothing. I came to check on my friend’s family, nothing more.” He stepped outside and donned his hat. “Good day, Mrs. Longrieve.”
Moisture brimmed in the gaunt woman’s eyes. “Good day, Dr. Stradbroke.”
The horse, accustomed to being left tethered at the Longrieves’ home for a nosebag of oats and a nap while Neal made his rounds on foot, tossed its head when Neal untied the rope and led it out into the street to mount.
“Come on, ol’ chap.” Neal ran his hand under the long chestnut mane, then patted the muscular neck. “We have work to be about.”
The animal waited until Neal was mounted before turning to try to bite the toe of Neal’s boot. With dexterity gained from years of training farm horses, Neal controlled the animal and headed off to the constabulary office.
Oliver stood back and watched as the Chawley Abbey carpenter set the second pane of glass into the rebuilt sash in the front door of Miss Bainbridge’s shop.
“I am so relieved the money was returned.” He patted the breast pocket of his coat. “I had come fully prepared to reimburse you for the cost of M’lady’s gowns.”
Miss Bainbridge reached up and touched the wing of hair that did little to conceal the bandage covering half of her forehead. Her smile looked weary. “I appreciate your generosity. But now I will not have to forego my visit to London and the Exhibition.”
Oliver turned toward her, his attention fully caught by her words. “You intend to visit the Great Exhibition?”
“Yes. I understand there will be displays of fabrics and fashions from all over the empire. I would be remiss not to attend.” She finished rolling fabric onto a wooden bolt, then reached overhead to slide it in between others on a shelf, like books.
Oliver gazed at the rows of shelves containing dozens and dozens of bolts of fabrics, from the most vulgar cottons and muslins to exquisite silks and linens. Only someone of high intelligence and business acumen could have built a business that attracted rich and poor alike. He could think of no other shop his mother patronized that also counted residents of Jericho as customers. In fact, she usually shunned those types of places.
He supposed that because M’lady did not have to set foot inside the shop, she did not have to admit that Miss Bainbridge counted some of the poorest residents of Oxfordshire among her clientele. And M’lady usually looked better in the elegant but understated gowns Miss Bainbridge made for her than the ostentatious creations from her London dressmakers.
“And it will be a chance to see what all the ladies of London are wearing, will it not?” Oliver leaned on the high table in the center of the shop where Miss Bainbridge had just cut a measured length of the cotton duck she’d just re-shelved.
A slight pinch formed between her fine, dark brows, but it quickly disappeared. “Yes, of course.”
Now she sounded like she was humoring him. That wouldn’t do. “I am certain, though, that you find other ways to keep abreast of the latest styles. Through . . . magazines and such.”
“And such.” She flinched when the bolt of fabric beside the one she pulled out came out and started falling toward her forehead. Quick as lightning, she caught the rogue bolt and pushed it back in place before it could cause her further harm.
She carried what must be a heavy load to the table and began unrolling the coarse indigo fabric. It landed with a hollow thud on the table each time the flat board rolled over as she measured several yards of the stuff.
Oliver reached across the cutting table to feel it—it was as rough as it looked. He wrinkled his nose. “What on earth is this used for?”
“This is denim. It is quite durable, so workmen from many professions rely on it for clothing that will hold up to all kinds of difficult work.” She glanced beyond him toward the door, and Oliver turned. Though the carpenter’s pants were brown, they did seem to be made from the same type of heavy twill material.
“All finished, Mr. Carmichael.” The carpenter put the last of his tools back into the wooden case he carried and stood, taking one last swipe at the two new panes of glass with a white handkerchief.
“Very good. Please wait outside at the carriage for your payment.”
“Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” Miss Bainbridge called after the carpenter, who had obeyed Oliver with a quickness he hadn’t realized the man possessed.
Outside, the workman turned and doffed the cap he’d just returned to his head, bowing to Caddy through the newly repaired window.
“How much do I owe you for his time and the supplies?” Caddy crossed to the end of the room and reached under the counter for the strongbox Oliver knew had been returned there.
“Nothing. It is my pleasure to be able to offer you this small token of service. I am aware of what my mother pays for her gowns in London, and how much she paid you, and you do not charge nearly enough.” He leaned toward her with a grin. “Especially since I know how difficult my mother can be.”
“But I must—”
He straightened and held up a hand as if to defend himself from her words. “No. I will not accept payment. And if I discover you undercharging my mother for her next commission, I will be very unhappy.”
Pink tinged Miss Bainbridge’s cheeks. Finally, he’d evoked some kind of emotional response from her.
“Now, when you come to Chawley Abbey for the servants’ ball next week—”
The chime on the door sounded, and Oliver turned to chide Harrison for returning without permission. But his voice caught in his throat at the sight of the two men who entered the shop.
Both had the physical build of dockworkers, though they wore clothes that indicated higher social strata than that. Each had curly dark hair—though not styled curls like his own—and seemed in need of a barber’s services. One had thick muttonchop side-whiskers; the other had a goatee sprinkled with silver here and there, making Oliver guess them to both be a good ten years older than himself.
“We’re looking for a Miss Bainbridge.” The taller of the two men, the one with blue eyes, spoke. Oliver frowned, trying to place the accent.
“I am Miss Cadence Bainbridge. How may I help you?” She stepped around the counter and toward the two men. Oliver wanted to interpose himself between them, to put up a show of protecting her from the rough-looking men. But the shorter of the two still had almost a head in height and several stones in weight advantage over him. No need to provoke them.
“We’ve been told,” said the stockier, dark-eyed one, “that a Dr. Neal Stradbroke has been seen coming and going from your shop.”
Caddy’s heart pounded in her chest. These men were looking for Dr. Stradbroke? Why? They looked dangerous, despite their fine suits. “And who are you?”
“My apologies, miss.” The taller man with light eyes and a goatee stepped forward. “I am Hugh Macquarie and this is Russell Birchip. We . . . uh . . .” Mr. Macquarie gave his companion a sidelong glance. “We have business with Dr. Stradbroke, and we were told you knew him and where he might be staying.”
Caddy crossed to the cutting table and resumed measuring the denim to give herself time to formulate an answer. Mr. Carmichael seemed a little too interested in what these two strangers might have to say about Neal Stradbroke. And these two strangers were a little too interested in finding Neal Stradbroke.
The need to protect him from whatever they might want struck with an almost physical force. She marked it down to the fact that he’d been so kind to Mother and generous with his time and services.
But the way her heart raced whenever she saw him had nothing whatsoever to do with Mother.
“I . . . have not seen him since early this morning.” She straightened the bi-folded fabric and withdrew the heavy shears from the pocket of her apron. “I believe he calls on patients in Jericho during the day.”
She didn’t miss the smirk on Oliver Carmichael’s face at the name of the lower-class suburb. She cut through the heavy fabric, secured the shears in her pocket again, then started folding the four yards of cloth.
The light-eyed man regarded her with narrowed eyes a moment, then reached into his interior coat pocket and withdrew a card. “When you see him next, please let him know that we stopped in and asked for him.”
Caddy took the card and tucked it into another pocket in the utilitarian sewing apron without looking at it. “If I see him, I will be certain to mention it. But I do not know when that will be.”
Both of the strangers inclined their heads before exiting the shop.
“Well . . . that was interesting.” Oliver Carmichael propped his elbow on the cutting table and slouched toward her, watching the two men pass up the sidewalk through the front windows. “What do you suppose they wanted?”
“I suppose they will tell Dr. Stradbroke when they find him.” She slipped her hand into her pocket and ran her finger along the smooth edge of the calling card. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Carmichael?”
He straightened as if reminded why he was in her store in the first place. “Thank you for allowing me to be of assistance to you.” He took his hat up from the main counter, tipped it to her, and crossed to the door. “Good day, Miss Bainbridge.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Carmichael.”
He opened the door, but backed up several paces before exiting, sweeping his hat hurriedly off his head.
Miss Edith Buchanan marched into the shop, chin raised, eyes piercing, nostrils flaring. “Why, Mr. Carmichael! What a surprise to find you here—in a seamstress’s store in North Parade. When you left today, you told me you were going to your club.”
“I . . . er . . . I heard of Miss Bainbridge’s misfortune. I offered her the services of Chawley’s carpenter. And when she accepted, I came to supervise the work.”
Caddy straightened the fabric remaining on the bolt, keeping her eyes pinioned to the drama unfolding near the door. Oliver Carmichael and Edith Buchanan? She supposed, given what she knew of each of them, they were fairly well matched.
“Oh, I see.” Miss Buchanan’s voice squeaked.
Caddy lifted the heavy bolt and returned it to the shelf, turning her back on the spectacle the two were making of themselves.
She took her time finding the bolt of unbleached muslin she wanted next.
“So you knew you were coming to Bainbridge’s shop when you left Wakesdown, but felt you could not tell me?” The shrill edge of Miss Buchanan’s voice grew sharper.
Caddy set the thick bolt onto the table softly, not wanting to draw attention to herself by thumping it down the way she usually did.
Oliver leaned closer to the black-haired beauty, lowering his voice. But Caddy still heard him. “I considered it of no consequence. If I had told you of my duty here, you would have wanted to know what happened, and I thought the story might be too upsetting for you.”
Caddy held her breath to keep from snorting in derision. She had been around far too many wealthy men over the past ten years not to recognize his scheme. He obviously planned to court Miss Buchanan—and with her beauty and purported wealth, what man wouldn’t? But he thought he could sow some of his wild oats with Caddy while he waited for the courtship to end and the marriage to begin.
She would not be party to his game, though. No man would use her like that. Not again.
“I appreciate your concern, Oliver, but I am made of stronger stuff than you think.”
At Miss Buchanan’s use of his Christian name, Caddy looked over just in time to see her reach up and pat his cheek.
“Now, please be so kind as to wait for me outside. I have business with Bainbridge, then I will be riding back to Wakesdown with you, since it is now too late for you to join Radclyffe and Doncroft at the club, and I told Dorcas to go on home without me.”
Caddy raised her brows in astonishment—not over Miss Buchanan’s high-handed speech, but at Mr. Carmichael’s immediate compliance.
The door had barely closed behind him when Miss Buchanan strode over to the cutting table.
“How may I assist—?”
“The gown I ordered last week? Cancel that. I, too, heard of your misfortune and”—she stared unabashedly at Caddy’s bandage—“I am convinced that your health is too uncertain for me to rely on you to get the garment finished in time for it to be fitted to me properly before we leave for London. I will simply go to my dressmaker there and have her make it.”
Before Caddy could protest, provide assurances that she could finish and fit the dress on time, or mention that she’d already cut the fabric and started piecing the gown, Edith Buchanan turned on her heel. Her flaring skirts knocked over a rack of ribbons. But she didn’t appear to notice as she strode through the door, chin once again in the air.
Caddy’s knees buckled and she grabbed the edge of the table. While losing one commission for a gown was not devastating, she’d been counting on Edith wearing it in London and having women there admire it enough to ask after the dressmaker.
If only she had a ball to attend on her visit to London. The pieces she’d cut could be altered for her taller, larger frame.
A ball . . . Caddy straightened and began pulling the muslin from the bolt. She had agreed to attend the servants’ ball at Chawley Abbey next week. She’d assumed she’d wear the same gown she’d worn to the last dance she had attended—one to celebrate a schoolmate’s wedding three years ago.
But if she could finish the gown, so long as nothing happened to ruin it at the servants’ ball, she could sell it afterward—as secondhand, of course—and not have to take a complete loss on the expensive fabric.
And she never knew—if it turned out as well as she imagined, she might take it with her to London and wear it to the Exhibition and see what kind of interest it drew.