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“Crockery.” Tante Cristelle employed her lorgnette—an affectation that she used mainly when she wished to cow others. She peered first at Mr. Hartley and then returned to her fascination with Miss Hartley’s lower skirts.
Mr. Hartley remained uncowed. He smiled at Emeline’s aunt and then at Emeline. “Crockery. Amazing how much crockery we use in the Colonies. My business already imports earthenware and such, but I believe that there is a market for finer stuff. Things that a fashionable lady might have at her table. Mr. Wedgwood has perfected a process to make creamware more delicate than anyone has ever seen. I hope to persuade him that Hartley Importers is the company to best bring his goods to the Colonies.”
Emeline raised her eyebrows, intrigued despite herself. “You will market the china for him there?”
“No. It will be the usual exchange. I will buy his goods and then resell them across the Atlantic. What’s different is that I hope to have the exclusive right to trade his goods in the Colonies.”
“You are ambitious, Mr. Hartley,” Tante Cristelle said. She did not sound approving.
Mr. Hartley inclined his head to her aunt. He didn’t seem perturbed by the old woman’s disapproval. Emeline found herself reluctantly admiring his self-possession. He was foreign in a way that had nothing to do with being American. The gentlemen of her acquaintance didn’t deal in commerce, let alone discuss it so bluntly with a lady. It was rather interesting to have a man regard her as an intellectual equal. At the same time, she was aware that he would never belong in her world.
Miss Hartley cleared her throat. “My brother has informed me that you have kindly agreed to chaperone me, ma’am.”
The entrance of three maids bearing laden tea trays prevented Emeline from making a suitable retort—one that would wing the brother and not the girl. He’d taken her assent for granted, had he? She noticed, as the maids bustled about, that Mr. Hartley was watching her quite openly. She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge, but he only quirked his own back at her. Was he flirting with her? Didn’t he know that she was far, far out of his reach?
When the tea things had been settled, Emeline began to pour, her back so straight that she put even Tante to shame. “I am considering championing you, Miss Hartley.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words. “Perhaps you’ll tell me why you have—?”
She was interrupted by a whirlwind. The sitting room door slammed against the wall, bouncing off the woodwork and putting yet another chip in the paint. A tangle of arms and long legs lunged at her.
hough he inquired high and low, there was no decent work to be found for a soldier returning from war. And this is often the case, I think. For though all are happy enough to see a soldier when there is a war to be fought, after the danger is past, they look upon the same man with suspicion and contempt.
Thus it came about that Iron Heart was forced to take the job of a street sweeper. And this he did most gratefully....
—from Iron Heart
“I thought I heard you come in late last night,” Rebecca said as she placed some coddled eggs on her plate the next morning. “After midnight?”
“Was it?” Samuel replied vaguely. He was sitting at the breakfast table behind her. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“Oh! Oh, no. You didn’t disturb me at all. That wasn’t what I meant.” Rebecca sighed inwardly and took the seat opposite her brother. She wanted rather badly to ask him where he’d been last night—and the night before that—but shyness and a certain hesitation held her tongue. She poured herself some tea and strove to open a topic of conversation, always a bit hard in the morning. “What are your plans for today? Are you conducting business with Mr. Kitcher? I...I thought if not, that we might go for a drive about London. I hear St. Paul’s Cathedral—”
“Damn!” Samuel set his knife down with a clatter. “I forgot to tell you.”
Rebecca felt a sinking in the pit of her belly. It’d been a long shot—her brother was so often busy—but she’d hoped nevertheless that he’d have time to spend with her that afternoon. “Tell me what?”
“We’ve been invited to tea by our next-door neighbor, Lady Emeline Gordon.”
“What?” Rebecca glanced involuntarily in the direction of the grand town house that adjoined their house to the right. She’d glimpsed her ladyship once or twice and had been awed by their neighbor’s sophistication. “But...but when did this happen? I didn’t see an invitation in today’s post.”
“I met her at the salon I attended yesterday.”
“Goodness,” Rebecca marveled. “She must be a very pleasant lady to invite us on such little acquaintance.” Whatever would she wear to meet a titled lady?
Samuel fingered his knife, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve said her older brother was uncomfortable. “Actually, I asked her to chaperone you to some gatherings.”
“Really? I thought you didn’t like balls and social gatherings.” She was pleased, of course, that he’d thought of her, but his sudden interest in her schedule seemed rather odd.
“Yes, but now that we’re in London...” Samuel let his sentence trail as he drank some coffee. “I thought you might like to go out. See the city, meet some people. You’re only nineteen. You must be bored to death, rattling around this place with just me to keep you company.”
Well, that wasn’t quite true, Rebecca reflected as she tried to think of a reply. Actually, she was surrounded by many other people—servants. There seemed to be scores of servants in this London town house Samuel had rented. Just when she thought she’d met them all, an odd maid or bootblack boy who she’d never seen before would suddenly pop up. Indeed, right now there were two footmen standing by the wall ready to wait on them. One she thought was named Travers, and the other...fiddlesticks! She’d quite forgotten the other’s name, although she knew for certain that she’d seen him before. He had jetty hair and amazing green eyes. Not, of course, that she should be noticing the color of a footman’s eyes.
Rebecca poked at her cold eggs. She was only used to Cook and Elsie at home in Boston where she lived with Samuel. Growing up, she’d eaten most of her suppers with Cook and the elderly maid, until she was deemed a lady and made to sit in the dining room with Uncle Thomas. Her uncle had been a dear, and Rebecca loved him, but dining with him had been rather a trial. His dinner conversation had been so flat when compared to the lively nightly gossip she’d had with Cook and Elsie. The conversation at meals had improved a little when Samuel had come to live with her on the death of Uncle Thomas, but not by much. Samuel could be terribly witty when he wanted to, but so often he seemed distracted by business affairs.
“Do you mind?” Samuel’s question broke into her rambling thoughts.
“I’m sorry?”
Her brother was frowning at her now, and Rebecca had the sinking sensation that somehow she’d disappointed him. “Do you mind that I’ve asked Lady Emeline to help?”
