CHAPTER
Fourteen

It’s perfect!” Lucy enthused, draping the scarf around Alice’s neck. “This shade of blue is exquisite. Perfect for your skin tone. I don’t know why we didn’t get this one before.”

Once more they were in Drake and Sons department store, but this time it was Alice’s idea. She had decided to take Douglas’s advice and try to add more interest to her wardrobe. It was purely for business purposes, of course. She wasn’t going to do anything out of vanity. “A woman’s vanity springs from her desire for love; by winning love, she thinks she has won power over the man.” So said the spinster book, at any rate—and Alice definitely did not desire either love or power over men. She was merely interested in expanding her potential for success.

“I’m so happy to see you taking an interest in fine things!” Lucy said as they left the store. “Shall we go to my dressmaker’s next? I would love to see you fitted up with a pretty new gown.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t time today,” Alice replied. “I have another errand to run.”

While this was true, it was also a good excuse to avoid the dressmaker’s shop. A new gown from the dressmaker Lucy patronized would be far out of Alice’s price range. While Lucy would undoubtedly offer to pay for it, Alice could not in good conscience accept such an expensive gift.

“What could be more important than a new gown?” Lucy asked with innocent honesty.

“I’m going to the Strand. I need to buy a penknife for sharpening pencils.”

Lucy looked less than impressed. “That sounds terribly dull.”

Alice laughed at her reaction, all the more so because Lucy didn’t realize she’d made a pun. “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to come.”

“All right, but I shall get you to that shop soon!” Lucy threatened. She paused before getting into her waiting carriage. “Yes, I do like that color on you,” she said, looking at Alice’s scarf. Like last time, Alice had worn it out of the store rather than having it wrapped. Lucy added, “I like to think I’m the one who changed your mind about fashion, although I expect some other person may have been the reason for it.”

“I beg your pardon?” Alice asked, startled. She could not think how Lucy could possibly have guessed that Douglas had put this idea into Alice’s head. Alice rarely mentioned him to Lucy, and when she did, it was only in passing and relating generally to things at work.

Lucy gave her that knowing smile—the one that always meant she was wrong about whatever she thought she was right about. “I received a letter from Fred yesterday. He asked me to send you his very kindest regards.”

“Ah yes,” Alice said, choking back a grimace. “How very kind of him.” She thought it best not to reveal that it had been a man at work who’d sparked her interest in improving her wardrobe. Lucy might jump to a new and equally wrong conclusion.

Was it better or worse for Lucy to make assumptions about Alice’s interest in Fred rather than thinking something similar about a different man? That was too hard to decide—and neither, she told herself firmly, were correct.

She gave her friend a quick good-bye and set off toward the Strand.

Douglas had been walking around Finsbury Park for perhaps half an hour when he finally located Miss Rolland and her chaperone. Given the size of the park, it might have taken much longer except Miss Rolland seemed to enjoy shrieking with delight as she waved her butterfly net in the general direction of her prey. Her chaperone, a plump, gray-haired woman, was more subdued, standing far enough away to avoid the wildly swinging net.

Douglas strode up the hill, calling out, “Miss Rolland! What a pleasant surprise to see you here!” He said this to keep up the ruse of the accidental meeting, not knowing whether the chaperone was in on the charade. He didn’t take any particular satisfaction from these little games men and women were supposed to play, but it wasn’t so bad if he thought of it as similar to the way businessmen would cut and parry during negotiations.

Miss Rolland paused midswing. “Oh!” She turned to face Douglas as he closed the distance between them. “Mr. Shaw! How wonderful to see you again.”

“May I say you are looking quite lovely today.” It was a line he had memorized, but he felt no guilt saying it. Miss Rolland’s summer frock of white muslin edged in navy blue was very fetching, and the tinge of pink in her cheeks from the sun and exercise did her no harm.

“It’s very kind of you to say so.” She smiled sweetly at him as she placed a hand on her heart. “I’m sure the wind has blown my hair into a rat’s nest.” She gave a little laugh as she tucked a stray curl under her hat.

Was she fishing for another compliment? He figured a woman could never have too many of those. But if he was going to flatter her, he was going to stick to the truth. “You look charming.”

She beamed at him in response. So far, so good.

Miss Rolland turned to her chaperone. “Mrs. Glover, it appears the sun is turning your nose quite red. I should hate for you to suffer a burn. Perhaps you might like to take a rest in the shade?” She indicated a park bench located under the trees.

“Thank you, miss. That’s very kind.” Mrs. Glover retreated to the bench—which, Douglas noted, was a comfortable distance away, giving them room to speak privately.

Once they were alone, Douglas asked, “Have you managed to find that elusive Colias croceus?”

She looked at him blankly.

He pointed toward her net, which now lay forgotten on the grass. “The clouded yellow butterfly.”

“Oh.” She shook her head. “No, only a few grizzled skippers. I already have specimens of those. But I am not discouraged. After all, the sport is in the chase, is it not?”

She took his arm as though he had offered to escort her somewhere, and began walking. Although taken by surprise, Douglas smoothly fell in step with her.

The spring breeze carried a bouquet of pleasing smells. As he took a deep breath to enjoy them, Douglas noticed some of the floral scents were emanating from Miss Rolland. He suspected she was adept at using every tool in her feminine arsenal for attracting men.

“It was Papa’s idea that I take up lepidopterology,” she said, smiling up at him from time to time as they walked. “He feels I should cultivate some intellectual interests in order to be well rounded. However, I like it because it provides plenty of opportunities to get outside. Much as I adore dinner parties and dances, there are times when life can be so stuffy indoors. Especially if there are too many people about when one wants to have a private conversation.”

“A very astute observation.”

She looked pleased at the compliment. “Isn’t it nice that we should happen to meet like this, where we can enjoy the lovely day and get to know one another better?”

“Indeed it is.” How interesting that she was keeping up the pretense about the accidental meeting even though no one else was within earshot. Douglas wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that. Did she actually believe her own fantasies?

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Tell me all about yourself, Mr. Shaw. I want to know everything.”

“Hmm.” Douglas allowed a hint of a teasing grin to warm his features. “That might take a while. Might we narrow down the topic?”

“I already know about your profession and your prospects.” She spoke as though those were only minor details. Douglas knew just how important they were. They’d opened the door for him to meet her in the first place. Not to mention how crucial it was that she marry someone who could support her. She continued, “Papa has told me he believes you will go far in life.”

“Did he?” This was gratifying news.

“He thinks highly of you. Everyone does. Except perhaps for Mr. Busfield.” She giggled. “But I suspect what he said about you was prompted by envy.”

It would seem Miss Rolland’s brand of flirtation involved playing him against another suitor. Did she wish to stoke a competition between him and Busfield? Douglas was curious to know if the man had actually spoken ill of him, or whether Miss Rolland was misrepresenting his words. He decided to take a neutral stance.

He gave a casual shrug. “I’m afraid I don’t know Mr. Busfield well enough to form an opinion of him.”

“Let’s not spend any more time talking about him,” Miss Rolland chided, even though she’d been the one to bring up the subject. “I want to know about you. Which part of Scotland are you from? What was it like growing up there? It seems an exciting and mysterious place.”

Of all the words to describe his early life, Douglas would never have chosen exciting or mysterious. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, there are so many interesting things! The mountains blanketed in purple heather. The men in kilts playing their bagpipes. The mist on the lochs.” Her voice became dramatic. “The ruined castles, haunted by the tortured souls who used to live there.”

Miss Rolland was imagining Scotland the way the guidebooks painted it. Or perhaps accounts written by the Queen herself during her frequent stays at her royal estate at Balmoral.

“Aye, Scotland has many beautiful places, although my experiences were perhaps not as picturesque as Her Majesty’s.” Douglas allowed his Scottish brogue to come forward, softening a comment that might otherwise have sounded caustic. Most of his childhood had been spent in a squalid row house in the poorest part of Glasgow, near the bleak industrial shipyards. He had not romped among the heather as a child; he and his friends had played with sticks and discarded bits of iron on a narrow, grimy street. The only royalty there were the men who were kings at hard drinking and fighting.

As a child, Douglas hadn’t known a single person who wasn’t struggling to keep the wolf from the door. At first, he had resented being taken out of school as a lad, forced into work to help support his family when his father had become unable to work. But being a messenger boy had shown him another reality: not everyone was poor. As Douglas shuttled telegrams between businesses and prosperous warehouses and the mansions of wealthy merchants, he saw a completely different side of Glasgow. Men in suits and top hats of the best quality, walking down the street as if they owned it. Homes filled with light and laughter. Fine carriages with splendid horses and footmen in their livery.

Once he had confided to a neighbor that he would one day work his way up to owning such fine things. The man had scoffed. “They’ll ensure you don’t, my lad. They’re not interested in sharing the wealth, only in keeping us down and profiting off our backbreaking work.”

But Douglas was proving that it could be done. He had come so far, and now he was on the verge of even greater advances. Even standing here in this meadow, talking with a wealthy young lady who was clearly interested in him, was proof of that.

“Mr. Shaw?” She was looking at him quizzically.

He gave himself a mental shake. How had it been so easy for those bitter memories to surface? He thought he had set those sorrows aside years ago. Other than sending money to his parents every month and the obligatory pilgrimage to their home a few times a year, he generally did his best not to think about them at all.

There was no way he could hide his humble beginnings, but he could at least downplay the grimmer aspects. Otherwise, Miss Rolland might think less of him. She might even worry that he’d be like the drunken louts in the slums who mistreated their wives and children. At least Douglas’s father had been kind, if criminally lacking in ambition. He never rose above being a common laborer in the shipyards.

“Och, me lassie, I was just pausin’ fer a moment to remember me dear home.” He struck a pose with his hand on his heart and his gaze cast off in the distance.

Miss Rolland’s face lit with amusement. “And where was that? In Edinburgh?”

Returning to a more casual stance, Douglas shook his head. “I grew up in Glasgow. While it is not as popular with tourists as Edinburgh, it is an important center for business. The shipyards provide the means for Great Britain to be the trading powerhouse that it is.”

“Was your father in shipping?”

“Yes,” Douglas said, allowing her to infer what she liked from that simple answer. “But London’s my home now. I’ve come here, to the place Shakespeare dubbed the very ‘forge and working house of thought,’ to make my own mark on the world.”

“My goodness!” Miss Rolland exclaimed. “Mr. Shaw, I hope you leave time in your schedule for leisure activities. As the saying goes, ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’”

“I’m here today, enjoying a lovely walk with a charming lady. I would say that is the very best use of leisure time.”

She preened. “You’re very kind. But there is even more fun to be had elsewhere. At the home of Lord and Lady Tilney, for example. Will you be going?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about it. Can you enlighten me?” He was already intrigued. To rub elbows with the aristocracy would be another feather in his cap.

“You never know what famous personage might be there. The Tilneys know everyone! And of course, there is the dancing!”

Douglas felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed. “Dancing?”

“Yes! It’s their annual charity ball. There will even be some Scottish country dancing, as Lady Tilney’s father is a Scottish baron.”

“Do you enjoy dancing, Miss Rolland?” Douglas asked, though the answer was painfully obvious.

“Why, naturally! Doesn’t everyone?” She scrunched her nose. “Except for my father, and perhaps a few stuffy men of his acquaintance. But Mr. Busfield is quite an accomplished dancer.”

There she was, bringing up that name again. Douglas didn’t think she sincerely favored the bank officer over him, but he couldn’t be sure. It was just that level of uncertainty that she was doing her best to instill in him. And in this case, Busfield probably did have the upper hand. Perhaps it was time for Douglas to have another try at lessons from that dancing master—or better yet, find one who was more capable.

His throat constricted, but he forced himself to speak, keeping the greater goal in mind. This was an opportunity to meet titled and well-connected people. “It sounds lovely. Perhaps you might secure me an invitation?”

“Yes, I’m sure I can. Lady Tilney’s sister is a particular friend of my aunt.” Her eyes were shining with excitement. “How wonderful it will be! My favorite dance is the waltz. Do you have a favorite dance, Mr. Shaw?”

“Oh—well, I, er, I enjoy so many of them.” He patted her arm. “Why don’t you tell me more about this butterfly-collecting hobby of yours?” He tried to sound relaxed and carefree, as though the weight in the pit of his stomach at the thought of dancing were not becoming heavier by the moment.

“I have a secret to tell you,” Miss Rolland whispered.

“Oh?”

“I don’t actually collect the butterflies myself. I secretly buy my specimens from a man in Kent. I know it’s terribly naughty to mislead my father about this. However, he likes it so very much that I have this hobby. I keep up the pretense because I’ve decided that as long as he’s happy, that’s the important thing. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“It’s hard to fault that logic,” Douglas answered, painfully aware of the irony of his words. In a sense, he had a similar goal with Miss Rolland. Unfortunately, he didn’t think there was any way to keep her happy without actually dancing with her himself.