Page 62 of Holding Onto Love

She stood, marveling again at the snugness of the boots after her thin, worn slippers. She put the coin in Jon’s hand. “These are perfect, Jon, truly, I couldn’t be happier. They would fetch thrice the price in London.” Thrice? Five times. She mused aloud. “If they were placed in the right shops, it would be ten times.”

Jon blew a raspberry through his lips. “Ladies don’t want boots like these. They want flimsy things.”

Vanessa thought of Lady Posonby. She would buy them. And the six young ladies, her disciples, would copy her. But a small cadre of bluestockings wearing decorative Hessians would not set a fashion.

The corporal was more disparaging. “Even with Lieutenant Taverston’s good word, we couldn’t sell boots to the army. London ladies’ shops will not be knocking down our door.”

Vanessa blushed, as much from hearing the Taverston name as from fear of giving away her own secrets.

“Well,” she said, a little ashamed of her own mercantile instincts, “not London shops but perhaps you could place a sample in Brideley’s in Paxton Downs.” It was the nondescript little shop where she’d purchased her bonnet. Then she had another thought. “Or there are shops over in Binnings.”

She’d been planning to hire a conveyance in Paxton Downs to take her to Binnings. She had never been there but heard it was a quaint village with shops frequented by a wealthier clientele than Paxton Downs. Some Society people—no one she knew—owned properties there. There were no large country estates, just small playgrounds and hunting copses for aristocrats. Her father, who would have hated the isolation but loved the cachet, had once attempted to purchase a Binnings cottage, but no one had anything they were willing to sell.

She hadn’t been intending to buy much in the shops, only to walk through them and imagine a connection to a life she no longer lived. Moreover, she’d thought she might find a place where she could sell a piece of jewelry when it came to that so that she wouldn’t have to involve Will again. Now she had an urge to visit their shoe shops.

“Shops won’t take a risk on something so outlandish,” Jon said. “They suit you, Mrs. Wardrip, but you know the value of strongly made shoes. And I daresay Lydia wouldn’t mind a pair so pretty. But most women—”

“Most women don’t have a choice,” Lydia said. “They wear what men make for them to wear. And I’d wager most men like their girls a bit hobbled.”

“Be that as it may,” Jon said, “we’re fortunate Mrs. Wardrip likes her boots. Bitter, you idiot, you should have asked first.”

“Yes,” Lydia said. “She might have preferred bluebells.”

Oh, she would love bluebells. But she couldn’t order a second pair of boots. Rather she could, but she mustn’t. Not yet.

*

Vanessa traveled with company: Mary and Myrtle. She hired a coach and driver and rented a small room for two nights, a room over a tea shop in Binnings proper. She convinced the sisters to accompany her by saying she could not go alone. They understood her timidity or thought they did. In truth, the only thing that frightened Vanessa was talk. Traveling with the sisters lent her respectability.

She enjoyed the women’s company, to a point. However, they told so many stories about their sons, who were now nearly men, that Vanessa was pleased when, after two hours of aimless shopping and a half hour of fortifying tea drinking, Mary begged a chance to retire to their rented room upstairs to rest. Myrtle added her plea.

“Of course!” Vanessa said. “I didn’t mean to run you ragged.” It must be fatiguing to look at pretty things one could never afford. “There are a couple more shops I would like to visit, but I’m comfortable going alone. We can meet for dinner.”

So it was agreed. Vanessa took herself to a dressmaker. She was tired of turning hems and attempting to discreetly mend tears, and a little annoyed she’d sold so many of her clothes before leaving home. Before leaving London, she amended. It would not hurt to order two simple day dresses to be sent to her in Cartmel. They would not be finished here, of course, because she could not return for multiple fittings. But she could do the finishing herself.

She stepped into the shop and a small bell tinkled. A good-looking, dark-haired young man, who was sitting patiently with a large book in his lap, glanced up. Vanessa gasped.

The man jumped to his feet. “Van—Mrs. Wardrip. Good Lord!” He came toward her. She had nowhere to run.

She nodded. “Mr. Taverston. This is a surprise.”

To her horror, a very beautiful woman—strawberry-golden hair, flawless skin, a dainty nose, no wonder Jasper had courted her—stepped out from behind the rolls of fabrics. She had a question on her face. “Reginald?” She turned a smile upon Vanessa.

“Georgiana, this is Mrs. Wardrip. She was Jasper’s—” He froze, and his face contorted as he realized what he was about to say. In a choked tone, he finished, “Friend.”

“Well, how delightful!” The woman moved forward, graceful as a goddess. “You must, then, be our friend as well. Will you have tea with us? Reginald has been complaining he is parched.”

“I think…” Vanessa risked a glance at Reginald, who looked as though he wished he could drop through the floor. What a disastrous encounter. Vanessa decided honesty would put the quickest end to it. “I fear that would be unfitting. Iversley and I are no longer ‘friends,’ as Mr. Taverston so generously puts it.” She raised one eyebrow archly. A defense. “We severed our friendship when he began to court you.”

Lady Georgiana looked confused for a moment, but no more than a moment. Her eyes went wide, then she said, “Oh. Oh, I see.” Then she turned to her husband. “And you were all acquainted?” It sounded more like curiosity than accusation.

Mr. Taverston’s eyes closed, and his throat worked. Then he opened them and said, “Yes. But not well acquainted?” He offered the apology like the weak excuse he knew it to be. Vanessa felt a pang. These two were such innocents. She didn’t wish to be the source of any discord.

The next moment, Georgiana laughed. “This is awkward. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Wardrip.”

“You are?” Vanessa felt bewildered. She’d expected a cut. She’d invited it. “For-for what?”

Georgiana laughed again, then turned up her palms. “I don’t know. For my naivete, perhaps.” She elbowed her husband. “And Reginald’s. I suppose he should not have approached you. But now that he has, and the air is cleared, would you have tea with us?”