He looked doubtful.
“But Aunt says—”
“
Perhaps your aunt is wrong,” Jeannie said quietly. “And she
could be wrong about your headaches, too.”
His eyes brightened.
“Do you know, Jeannie? I have not had a headache since you came, I
do believe.” He put his hand to his mouth. “I should have called
you Mrs. McVinnie.”
She touched his knee
again. “I think you should call me Jeannie. No headaches, eh? I am
good luck to you, laddie, if to no one else.”
The hackney deposited
them on Bond Street in front of Amalie’s, a plain storefront with
the name in discreet gilt letters over the door.
“
I do
not think we could afford such a place, Tom,” Jeannie said softly
as she eyed the cool gray stone exterior.
“
Beg
pardon,” Edward asked.
She touched his
shoulder. “It is nothing, laddie. I talk to myself.”
They went inside to the
gentle tinkling of a bell that summoned a well-dressed woman from
an inner room. The woman—it could only have been the modiste—was
dressed all in black, with a white lace cap set upon black hair and
a lace fichu about her shoulders. She looked Jeannie up and down,
seemingly without moving her eyes.
“
Yes?”
she inquired in cultured tones, and that one word seemed to ask
volumes about Jeannie’s ancestry, aspirations, and the relative
value of the clothes she stood in.
Jeannie twined her
fingers in her plaid cloak. “I am here to collect a package for
Lady Agatha Smeath, aunt and guardian of Larinda Summers.”
“
And
you are?”
“
Jeannie McVinnie,” she said, wishing for the second time in as
many days that she did not sound so Scottish, so “dratted plaid,”
as Tom joked to her once.
In a blink of her eyes,
the guarded look left the woman’s face. She did not go so far as to
smile, but her expression ameliorated to a marked degree. She
clapped her hands, and Jeannie stared. Other women came silently
out from behind a curtain, seamstresses and a linen draper with a
bolt of clothes in his gloved hands. Without a word, they regarded
her and then vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
Jeannie stared after
them. “Edward, what on earth?” she whispered.
The boy only shrugged,
his eyes as big as hers.
Without a word, the
woman disappeared behind the curtain and then returned with a small
package. She gave it to Jeannie and patted her hand. “Did it fit?”
she asked.
“
Did
what ….” Jeannie began, and then she understood. This must be
the modiste that Captain Summers had bullied so relentlessly
yesterday. She nodded. “Very well, thank you. I have never had a
lovelier dress.”
The modiste inclined
her head in a grand gesture worthy of Lady Jersey herself. “Captain
Sir William Summers was most particular about that shade of blue.
We will do better next time, Mrs. McVinnie,” she assured
Jeannie.
“
Oh, I
am sure that is not necessary,” Jeannie said, floundering about in
a conversation she did not entirely comprehend.
“
But
it is, madam, and now that I have seen you, I understand,” insisted
the modiste. “I would never do anything less than my best for
someone who risks life and limb, defending our shores from the
machinations of that European tyrant.”
The woman dabbed at her
brimming eyes, and Jeannie sighed. The captain had most definitely
been here, spreading his bewildering charm before him. The man has
no scruples at all, she thought as she smiled and fled the shop,
Edward close upon her heels.
So this is Bond Street,
she thought as she looked about her, tucked her arm through
Edward’s, and joined the other shoppers and strollers, each one
more exquisite than the one before. Dandies on the strut, their
eyes on one another, comparing seals and fobs, neckcloths and boot
blacking, moved in stately progress along the busy sidewalk,
stopping here and there and gazing in a window, seeking no more
than their precious reflection. Young women were abroad, too,
followed closely by footmen and maids. They minced along the broad
walkway, eyes straight ahead or primly cast down, performing
miracles of flirtation with the toss of a head, a flick of the
parasol.
Jeannie’s fingers
strayed to the ribbon of the bonnet she had considered so stylish
only that morning, wondering, in the midst of all this finery, why
she had thought herself well-turned-out when she left Wendover
Square. I have nothing to recommend me except my impudence, she
thought.
“
Come,
Edward, let us hurry,” she whispered to her companion.
But Edward was staring
about him, even as she. He gaped after a tulip so encumbered by his
high neckcloth that he could not turn his head, and goggled at
another spring of fashion in pantaloons so tight that Jeannie could
only blush and look away.
Edward tugged at her
sleeve. “Jeannie, if I must look like that when I am older, I will
definitely run away to sea and wear canvas trousers like Uncle
Summers.”
Jeannie smiled. “I am
sure when you are old enough, all this will not seem silly.”
He looked doubtful of
this wisdom. Edward stopped and leaned against a wall as he opened
his guidebook. He studied it a few minutes, turning the pages,
until his eyes brightened. “Did you not wish to do some shopping?”
he asked.
Jeannie looked about
her at the shops, each as elegant as the one they had lately
quitted. “Yes, I do,” she said slowly, “but I do not think Bond
Street will be kind to my pocketbook.” He jabbed his finger at the
guidebook and Jeannie peered over his shoulder. “ ‘The
Pantheon Bazaar,’ ” she quoted, following his finger,
“ ‘where all of London shops. No prices cheaper in any part of
the realm.’ Lead on, Edward.”
“
Although I cannot imagine it could be cheaper than India,”
Jeannie mused as they shook the dust of Bond Street off their shoes
and walked toward the bazaar on Oxford Street.
“
India?” Edward asked, his eyes wide, his tone reverential.
“Were you actually there?”
“
Goodness, laddie, London is the farthest south I have ever
ventured,” she stated in firm tones, “and I don’t mean to change
that. No, I have two brothers there who are great letter-writers.
One is an official in the East India Company and the other is a
major in the army.”
“
I
truly do want to run off to sea,” Edward confided. “Aunt Agatha
doesn’t like to talk about it, but Papa said once that Uncle
Summers did just that. I would like to.”
She smiled. “It is a
hard life, laddie.”
“
I
know. But still, I would like it above anything.”
Jeannie made no reply,
but touched his shoulder as they hurried along. He took her hand
and they walked in amiable companionship to the Pantheon Bazaar,
which was, as the guidebook pointed out helpfully, impossible to
miss. Shoppers, many of them women, all of them intent and
purposeful, streamed into the massive building. As near as Jeannie
could tell, no one came out.
“
Goodness,” she said, “I had no idea.”
They came closer, and
were soon swept into the building by the swarm behind them. Jeannie
clung to Edward’s hand, determined that neither of them would
disappear, never to be heard from again. She thought briefly of
Galen’s housekeeper in Kirkcudbright and knew that the enormity,
nay, the responsibility, of shopping here would reduce even Mrs.
MacDonald to silence.
“
Do
you know what you are after?” Edward shouted so he could be heard
above the buzz of ladies about him.
“
Merely a shawl to wear with my gray dress,” she shouted back.
“Oh, do hang on, Edward!”
She found the shawl, a
rose-colored bit of finery, at a ridiculously cheap price, even by
Kirkcudbright standards. She also found a pair of silk stockings, a
bottle of rosewater for Larinda, and a tortoiseshell comb for Lady
Smeath. I will make them all farewell gifts, she thought. A foray
deeper into the building produced a length of toweling that Edward
frowned over when she pounced upon it.
“ ’
Tis for a towel doll,” she explained. “Something for Clare. I
don’t know a Scottish child without one.”
“
She
doesn’t have a doll,” Edward said.
“
I
know, laddie, I know.”
She was standing still
then, trying to think what to get the captain, when Edward jostled
her arm.
“
Jeannie, do you know those ladies?” he asked. “They have been
staring at you this last minute and more. And then they giggle. I
don’t think that is at all the thing.”
She looked where he
gestured with his hand, and felt a small tug at her heart. The two
young ladies had formed part of the group about Larinda last night
at Almack’s. When they realized she was watching them, they put
their heads together, laughed, and then drifted into the crowd.
Larinda has obviously
been busy, Jeannie thought, and so, I am sure, has Beau Brummell.
Does everyone in this dreadful town plan to attend the theater
tonight?
Jeannie gave a small
shake to her shoulders and turned back to the matter at hand. “I
could get him a hairbrush,” she said to Edward.
“
He
has hairbrushes, and besides, Jeannie, I am not sure he wants to be
reminded about his hair.”
She laughed in spite of
her discomfort. “How true! Some bay rum, then?”
Edward shook his head
again. “He already has quarts and quarts of the stuff.”
“
What,
then? Oh, look, Edward!”
She led him to a table
piled high with scarves, and began rummaging through them for the
scarf that was precisely the right shade of green.
“
I
don’t know about that,” Edward said doubtfully.
“
It
must be cold on the blockade, I think. Ah!” Jeannie pulled out a
cashmere scarf of deep green and rubbed it against her cheek. “This
will do.” She dug a little deeper and extracted another one, this a
bluish gray. “This will be yours, Edward, when you are someday on
the service of his majesty aboard a ship of the line in the
Baltic.”
Edward shook his head.
“Aunt Agatha would never permit it.”
“
Well,
then, at Oxford or Cambridge. And don’t shake your head over
that!”
They were headed for
the exit, clutching Jeannie’s treasures, when Edward stopped before
a counter of gloves. He considered the situation at length,
stalking about the pile, while Jeannie stood by in silent
amusement. He found a pair of pearl-gray gloves.
“
I
thought maybe something for Larinda,” he said, his voice gruff, as
if he expected her to laugh at him. “I don’t know that I like her
much lately, but she is my sister and she used to be a bit of fun
in Suffolk before she started wearing her skirts long and pinning
up her hair. It could be that there is hope for her,” he concluded
generously as he counted out the money and paid the shop
girl.
“
I
think it quite admirable,” Jeannie agreed.
Her good humor deserted
her outside the Pantheon. There, sniffing delicately among the
fresh flowers and setting aside rose after rose, was Beau Brummell.
He was dressed impeccably in blue Bath superfine and buff trousers
without a crease, his neckcloth of an impossible white. His hair
was as carefully curled as last night and he smelled better than
the roses. He smiled when he saw her, and tipped his hat, his
glance taking in Edward, who stared back, fascinated. The ladies
seated in the barouche behind him looked her up and down and then
glanced at each other.
“
Advise me, Mrs. McVinnie,” he said as he looked from rose to
rose. “Which will it be?” When she hesitated, he came closer. “I
await your decision,” he said, “or will you declare this too
frivolous? I have been here these ten minutes and more, trying to
decide.”
The laughter in his
eyes surprised her at first, because it seemed to be directed at
himself. His tone was self-deprecating, even as his eyes twinkled.
She had to smile in return, despite her misgivings. She thought for
a fleeting second of the grasshopper fiddling away in Aesop’s tale,
and picked a red rose without any hesitation. She took a deep
breath, broke off the stem, and carefully placed it in his
lapel.
“
That
will do, sir,” she said when she stepped back.
He looked down at the
rose. “Everyone in London, my dear, who is anyone in London, would
have chosen the white. That is my color.”
“
Perhaps it is time you tried something new, Mr. Brummell,” she
replied, and the ladies gasped. “Ha’ ye nae heard of Bobby Burns,
sir?” she asked in her deepest brogue. “Bobby and his red, red
rose?”
He nodded and smiled.
“And that is what I get for asking a Scot to select my rose? Even
if all of London would take issue with you?”
“
Even
so, sir,” she declared. I have gone too far to back down now, she
thought, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes in that expression
that used to put Tom in a quake. “And as for everyone in London, I
do not care.”
Brummell regarded her
in silence for a moment. She watched as his hand went to the
quizzing glass that dangled on its ribbon. And now he will stare me
out of countenance in front of all these people. Well, get it over
with, man, and let me go home to Kirkcudbrightshire. She looked him
right in the eye.
Brummell fingered the
ribbon and then twirled it around his finger. “Can we look for you
at the theater this evening, Mrs. McVinnie?”
She let out the breath
she had been holding and her evil genius spurred her on. “So many
have taken such an interest in my entertainment habits, sir, but,
yes, you may depend upon it. You see, I have never been to a play
before and I mean to enjoy myself tonight.”