The Bargain: A Port Elizabeth Regency Tale: Episode 2 (17 page)

Her pulse stopped as a wide smile appeared upon his lean countenance.
 

"Ladies." The tall gentleman in onyx and snow-white evening wear dipped his top hat, an expensive, familiar thing. "Be careful. The clouds are ready to burst."

"Then we must go." Mercy took the lead and grabbed Charlotte's arm. She had to be quite concerned, for the woman didn't flirt with the handsome man, not once.

"Ladies." With one hand, he opened and held the door. With the other, he balanced his chapeau. Given the cut of its short cylinder and the tidy inch of banding about its circumference, it had to be constructed by Papa's favorite haberdasher.
 

The lump returned and all she could do was blink away the stirred sense of loss.
 

Mercy towed her forward. "Tomorrow, we agreed. No second thoughts."
 

The wind ramped, clanging the overhead signs strewn along Fish Street Hill. Charlotte wrapped her arms tighter about her middle and trudged toward their carriage parked along Gracechurch. The walk seemed extra cold, as she held no paper bundle of her treasured shoes within her mitts.
 

The howl of the growing gale warbled the panes of glass forming Ella's street front. Edwin leaned against the door, hoping to catch a final glimpse of the ladies. It wasn't dark yet, but the two shouldn't be walking alone in this weather.

Perhaps he should run and catch up to them and escort them to their transport. That's what a gentleman would do, but Edwin wasn't gently born.
 

How did his elder stepbrother put it?
A product of low birth
.
 

It didn't matter that the trade of selling shoes had restored Lord Rundle's circumstance and continued to afford things such as twenty shillings for a hat. Twenty.

He popped off the expensive thing and dusted the rich fabric upon his sleeve. A hat, more than a man's weekly wages?
 

For the sake of his stepfather, he'd bear the slights, buy costly headgear and linens, all to prove himself worthy of the man's respect.

With a final glimpse, he caught the blur of the young woman's dark skirt turning the corner. What if that was his dear sister, Lillian? Insides twisting, he tucked on his beaver dome and moved to straightening the shoe displays.

It wasn't Edwin's place to chase after a customer. Or to contemplate the tears gathering in her crystal blue eyes.

Not his place to be concerned for a class in which he didn't belong.

Straddling the gentry's, the merchants', and the workers' stations in society bore too much weight. Designing and selling shoes were comfortable to him, all he really knew. Happiness had to be in that.

"Mr. Cinder." Farmington, his clerk, stood at the counter with a bolt of tan kid leather. "The duchess and her companion will be here in the morn to convince you to sell the slippers. I tried to tell them we could make something similar, but you know how the genteel get."

"Perhaps she'll be in a better mood once the storm has passed. Bluster and foul moods go hand in hand." Edwin moved to his mother's wedding slippers, a pair he'd crafted with his own fingers and lasting tools. She prized the shoes, loved them with all her heart. Upon her deathbed, she wished them displayed here, in the store that made their fortune and her marriage to Lord Rundle possible.

Farmington rushed over with a duster and a stool. He wiped the glass container free of smudges. "Hopefully, they'll order a similar pair and be happy to wait for an Ella creation."

Farmington's words settled into Edwin's head.
Duchess, aye?
That might make the young lady a companion or better, a governess. A jolt went through him. Could those bluest of all eyes be in reach? "You say they'll return tomorrow?"

"Yes, sir." Farmington shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark apron. "Now go on. I can lock up. I see you are dressed for your stepfather's dinner." Stomach bulging, he stepped down and moved to the seating area. "Oh, one of the ladies left an 'mbrella. I'll hold it for them."

"No. They'll need it now. I'll see if I can return it. Goodnight." He scooped up the peach-colored thing by the pearl handle and rushed out the door. Nothing but catching the young lady and capturing her name filled his brain.

The wind chilled to the bone as he turned the corner. Trotting, he scanned to the left and then the right. Which way had those pretty eyes gone?
 

His brand new top hat lifted from his brow, hurtling down the sidewalk. Grousing, he gave chase. Maybe it would lead him to the ladies. One could hope.

Wedged between a door and its frame, Edwin settled his long fingers upon the brim, but another arctic wind swept the commerce-filled street, sending the hat flying.
 

Lord, let it not splatter with mud.
His stepfather would never forgive it. Lord Rundle was fastidious and noticed every mark or bit of lint.
 

Abandoning the sleek hat and arriving at his stepfather's party disheveled and ill-dressed would not bode well. The poor man would think Edwin didn't care for him or his opinions. That simply wasn't true.
 

Lord Rundle was a good man, a godly one, whose fussiness was only to make his children happy. And for some unknown reason, he treated Edwin well, even forcing him to go to tutors to speak like an equal to the man's gently bred sons.
 

Stomping, Edwin took the final steps. One swing of the umbrella knocked the hat from its nest in the chandler's sign. Twenty shillings. Oh, the lengths he endured to fit into Rundle's world, even for an evening.

Brim in hand, Edwin sped down an alley. The ladies had to be heading toward the mews. Another gust knocked him against the jeweler's window. If the weather grew any worse, the next wind would surely send him through, and he'd land flat on the gilded ostrich egg display. With his thick arms and torso, it would take all of Prinny's horses and men to put the fragile shells back together again.

Chuckling, he girded up his strength, pointed the umbrella like a walking stick, and trudged forward. As if moving on stilts, he balanced on his dancing leathers, his fine kid shoes stitched with brass buckles, and turned on to Gracechurch Street.
 

The ladies stood huddled together at the front of an alcove, no carriage in sight. They definitely needed assistance.

Above them, a draper's sign shook. The heavy wooden plank trembled with the ramping squall. The aged chains groaned, making the board shudder and knocking the brick facade.
 

"Ladies, I…" He'd only taken a step toward them when the creaking from above became deafening.
Snap
.
Wham.
His mouth dropped open.
 

The sign now dangled over their heads.
 

The tall one with the form of a lithe goddess froze, craning her long, thin neck to the overcast heavens. The danger must've hypnotized her, for she didn't move. Gold tendrils escaped her onyx bonnet.
 

Earlier, he'd been so captivated by her eyes, he hadn't noticed the color of her locks. Such a beauty, but an endangered one.

The short, buxom woman, the duchess, yanked on her young companion's dark sleeves to no avail.
 

"Take care!" His heart thudded in his chest as he sprinted. They could get hurt.

He saw no movement or acknowledgment of his warning. Perhaps the moans of the sign and the bellowing gale obscured it. The violent wind lifted the plank. The metal of the chains squealed. The links seemed to lengthen, then pull apart.

Arms outstretched, he rushed forward and grabbed each lady as if they were bolts of satin. Those lovely blue eyes, the bluest he'd ever seen, expanded as her fingers tangled along the silk of his waistcoat. With his awkward hold, he dragged them under the awning against the door.

Click. Pop.
The ground shook as the massive sign hit the sidewalk. His tailcoat flapped against his legs from the rush of air.
Thank the Lord.
It missed them.

Something heavy, maybe a piece of the broken chain, slapped the back of his skull. Pain swept through him, darkening his vision. He sank against her bombazine skirt, sliding down to her trim ankles. He blacked out against the silk moiré ribbons of her slippers.

Charlotte shook free, letting her beleaguered rescuer flop from her feet to the ground. With a splat, the handsome fellow lay still, unconscious. She stooped and checked his head for injury, her fingers sweeping through his dark, curly mane. No cuts, just a lump the size of a melon.

"Will he live?" Mercy bent beside him, waving her meaty palm under his nose.
 

"I think so. But if he hadn't helped us…." A shudder raced Charlotte's spine. "I hate to think of the consequences." No more death.
 

Her friend knelt, whipped off the man's glove, then grabbed his wrist. Counting, she lifted it into the air.

So bold a move for a woman, touching a stranger. "What are you doing, Mercy?"

"I saw my father, Mr. Goodmom, do this to a patient."

Fidgeting, Charlotte folded her arms. She hated the helplessness settling in her cold fingers. The man could die while they fumbled. "Well?"

Mercy released him. "I'm not sure what it means, but his hands are freezing."

"Mercy!" A sigh shot from Charlotte's mouth. Then she took a short breath, remembering Father's admonition:
dignity and calm are the start of all solutions
. In a firm but genteel tone, she said, "Let me revive him."

Kneeling, she swept off her own mitts and massaged his firm temples, then angled his strong jaw. This was the man they'd bumped into at Ella's—and he was holding her umbrella. Her heart sank. "He wouldn't be injured if I'd taken this with me."

She touched his neck. The vein pulsed with life. Who could he be? Did he know someone was looking after him?

Mercy leaned by Charlotte's ear. "Should we rifle through his pockets to see if we can find a name or a residence?"

Digging into his pockets didn't quite seem the lady-like, noble-woman thing to do. She shook her head. "I don't want him rousing, thinking he'd succumbed to footpads."
 

Was he breathing enough? Anguish clogged her throat, diminishing her voice to a whisper. "All this over shoes."

Mercy lifted her chin. "If it makes you feel better, they were some pretty shoes, fancy with beading."

Her fist balled and settled on the unconscious man's snowy cravat. "If the clerk at Ella's had just sold them to me when we first arrived, none of us would be here."

Her companion shrugged. "You have to respect a worker who follows orders."

Now that was ironic coming from Mercy. The woman didn't seem to know how to obey and still managed to catch each of Charlotte's inconsistencies. "We can't leave him here, Mercy."

Another strong wind whipped, off-balancing her. She slipped and struck the man's washbasin-hard stomach. "Sorry."

Mercy grabbed Charlotte's hands away, probably protecting the gentleman from further harm. "You get too worked up and fixed on things. Like staring at that sign or wanting those shoes."
 

The man released a deep moan. His eyes, an autumn-kissed brown with hints of gold, opened with heavy blinks.

She smoothed his upturned collar from his firm lips. "Where can we take you?"

He didn't answer. One of his hands lurched to his head. The movement was slow. His fingers vibrated in the harsh breeze.
 

"Let me help you as you helped us." Tentatively at first, then with nothing more than Papa's courage rattling her bones, she gripped his hand. "I will take you to a physician."

His bare palm tightened around hers. "No…. to Rundle's…. Lord Rundle's." His hold became weak as his lids closed. The strong arm, which had sheltered her, fell away to the sidewalk.

Mercy stood and smoothed her spencer. "That's the dinner party you didn't want to attend."

"I didn't want to attend Fairwilde just because of my presentation." She wiped her mouth. "I might as well confess. Papa was attempting a match with one of the earl's son, but I'd heard those young men have grown up terribly wasteful." She pointed to her face. "With large noses."
 

His nose was well-proportioned, perfect for a man. She hadn't seen the sons, Shelby Theol and Percival Theol, in over fifteen years. Which one was this?

Her friend shook her head. "We shouldn't judge, for beauty's in the eye of the beholder." Mercy's lips lifted into a brilliant smile, the one she hid for schemes. "This one didn't inherit a large nose. Seems the late duke might have done well with a match to this heroic and handsome son."

Looking out at the vacant street, Charlotte pulled back, hoping to seem indifferent. She strengthened her voice. "Go get the footmen. He's not far from here. Then we'll take Mr. Theol to his father's."

Giggling, Mercy curtsied. "Yes, Duchess. And then we'll go freshen up and attend the party at Fairwilde, proper."

"Just go." Looks weren't everything. Her heart beat unevenly. The possibility that Papa could still orchestrate Charlotte's life from the grave was too much to bear, even if this man was noble and fiery handsome.
 

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