Living London - By Kristin Vayden Page 0,75
each step.
No tears. And he would not win.
* * * *
Clara threw the inoffensive morning dress onto the floor and, in her shift, rang for fresh water. “Take that rag away, Nan, please.”
The maid picked up the muslin, nervous hands folding and refolding it. “Shall I have it cleaned, miss?”
“No. Throw it out. Give it to the poorhouse. Keep it for yourself. But get rid of it. I’ll never wear it again.”
Alone, she sponged the lingering stain of those hungering reptilian eyes from her skin, washing again and again until she finally felt clean. The cold way he’d leered at her, as if she were a broodmare at auction, mouth open to be checked! Clara shivered. Did that ugly, open sort of scrutiny best symbolize the marriage market? None of the gentlemen in her usual set, and certainly none of the Frenchmen she’d met during the too-short Amiens peace, had ever looked at her in such a lewd manner. It was not to be borne.
The marriage market. That was Diana Mallory’s term for it, this desperate seeking for a powerful, rich, fashionable husband, and Diana had seen enough of it in London to not complain when her parents moved her to Plymouth. So long as they returned to London for the season, of course. And oh, the horrifying stories she’d told; poor Harmony Barlow’s jaw had hung open like a fly trap. It had seemed so hilarious from that safe distance. Now, her giggles were quite gone.
Hands trembling still, Clara pulled on a clean shift — Nan could have the old one, as well as the dress — short stays that tied in front, and a petticoat. When she reached into the wardrobe, it wasn’t to her other morning gowns, on the left, but to the walking gowns, in the center. She crushed her favorite grey sarsnet to her bodice. Uncle David had told her to go to her room and think. He hadn’t told her to stay there. And she was finished thinking, at least as far as the viscount was concerned. Yes, she’d vanish for a while, until the household’s broiling emotions cooled and soothed. Too bad she couldn’t simply vanish and return, happily married to the perfect man, on the day before her nineteenth birthday, five months hence.
She tugged on the round dress, the colorless color of diffused shadows and trimmed with light dove crepe, added the matching bonnet, silk wrap, and kid gloves, grabbed her lace-making kit for luck, and snuck down the back stairs. The housekeeper and Nan bustled past in the hallway, gossiping in such low tones that all Clara could hear was her name; indeed the blasted woman had listened outside the drawing room door for quite long enough. Once the horizon was clear, Clara slipped out the back window, guilt and smug naughtiness fighting for dominance. She hurried across Ker Street in the face of an oncoming hackney coach and joined the pedestrian flow toward Plymouth Dock.
The fresh breeze tried to snatch her shawl away, billowing the silk behind her, and she tightened it about her arms. The bonnet’s brim shaded her eyes from the noonday light, but welcome summer warmth reached her face when she tilted up her chin. Behind her, the assembly hall and shops tempted, a promising source of news and fun. Perhaps the latest fashion plates had arrived from Paris, and if so, Harmony and Diana would have something droll to say about them. But it was likely the viscount had discussed his intended marriage with his friend, Colonel Durbin, who would of course tell Mrs. Durbin, which meant Miss Dersingham and therefore everyone else in town knew about it, too. Better to avoid the popular places until she felt more capable of speaking rationally on the subject; Harmony and Diana would consider her scrape just as worthy of their wit. While there was a ridiculous side to the affair, she wasn't yet prepared to discuss it.
It was impossible to think on private woes while walking a public street. She hurried on, determinedly keeping her mind and features a composed, sociable blank. As she neared the Dock, the ocean’s scent counterbalanced the horses and coal-smoke. The houses crowded together and the streets narrowed. But before respectability deteriorated too far, a mews opened to the side. Clara ducked inside, away from the lane. Halfway down the long, low building stood a faded yellow door, locked, of course. But Paul, Papa’s stable boy, had taught Harmony and her how to