Page 102 of Better Love Next Time
“Your husband,” Mr. Sloane said, the lines around his eyes creasing amiably, “is quite a determined young man to avoid his brother’s assistance. By troth, it astounds me. Though one cannot resist respecting such a man. You have written to your husband on the thefts at the yard?”
“Yes, sir,” she lied.
“And he will quit London in haste, no doubt.” Mr. Sloane shifted in his seat with the aid of his cane, his gaze touching upon her black gown. “My condolences, Madame. I have lost two sons myself.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She answered his inquiry that, yes, she and her husband intended to reside permanently in Hampshire, and the magistrate, having pledged to inquire on potential houses, made good on his promise. Five days later, the Countess Pierpoint had delivered a letter wishing to know her.
Kitty and Althea arrived at the countess’s country home, and a thorough inspection of character commenced. Kitty worried she should have brought letters of recommendation. The Lady Pierpoint turned her attention to Althea and her miniature prayer book. Althea had quite outdone herself for the occasion, dressed in dove-grey silk, lace fichu, cap and tails, and a gold cross with a teeny blue stone in the center.
After tea, they toured the lodge situated on the northwest corner of her vast estate with seven bedrooms, sweeping views ofthe river from the master’s chamber and drawing room, a formal garden and natural woodland.
Hiding her excitement lest the lady judge her coarse, Kitty praised the lodge’s situation and interior. Following several tense moments, the lady let the St. Clairs the lodge.
Hardly a lodge, Kitty mused, as she packed Julian’s belongings. In the desk, she found the bottle of cherry perfume and his father’s letters. Tossing them to his trunk, she latched the lid and refused the siren call of melancholy. In the cool, grey afternoon, Vicar Carleton graciously saw to the transport of their trunks to the lodge while Kitty and Althea walked to the yard.
Two weeks had passed since the sabotage incident. The forward bulkhead had been placed in the south cutter and the stern had been shaped. Eight more men had hired on, lured by the night premium. Kitty assumed Julian was alive, though she had not received another letter from him.
Over dinner with Mrs. Worthing and Althea, she silently wondered if Julian would wait 484 days to see her again. Regardless, she would not ever, ever, fashion another memorial for him.
Urgent pounding shook the Worthings’ door. Standing in the threshold, a wide-eyed youth gripped his hat as Kitty pressed from the bench. “Come quick-like, Madame. We got trouble.”
The three women scrambled out into the dusk, hurrying toward the slipways where a stranger braced his thick limbs and the men stood where they had risen from their labors, listening.
“Remember you well,” the man boomed, his swarthy complexion and oft-broken nose heightened in the torchlight, “what happened when St. Clair closed his yard. How long before you found work? How many nights did your children sleep with their bellies empty? How many tears did your wives shed?”
The men stood riveted. Struck speechless by the man’s boldness, Kitty looked to Sam who stared back evenly. Hissilence in the face of the man’s words was a challenge. He expected her to address the trespasser.
“And now,” the man said, “St. Clair has a French whore minding you while he hies his noble arse north to plow the London strumpets and spend your wages.”
“Mind your tongue,” Sam said to the man. “Alice get back to the cottage.”
Alice heeded her husband’s order, running off. Kitty stood on the open lawn with the eyes of thirty-seven men upon her. Some men frowned, others gazed upon her with pity, believing the last of the man’s words on strumpets.
Kitty found her voice. “What is your name?”
The man turned and executed an exaggerated bow. “Monsieur Lovett to you,Frenchy.”
Kitty clenched her fist. The man was not French by any stretch. His accent she couldn’t quite place, but he might be a Londoner. One who had risen from the bowels of the rookery and polished his speech but couldn’t quite rid himself of the filth.
“Mr. Lovett, please leave my yard now. Before I summon the magistrate and have you charged for trespassing and slander.”
“Slander, is it? Plum word.”
“Mr. St. Clair,” she said, “is in London to procure timber and a commission.”
Lovett addressed the men. “The only procuring he’s done is a black-haired adventuress. Saw ’im giving her the stiff and stout myself in the walks at Vauxhall. A lusty gent to be sure. Plowed her field the next morning in St. James Park too.”
Kitty swallowed down a sick rage.
Lovett tutted. “And lost a thousand at a gambling hell. How many families could he feed with that quid?”
“I’ll fetch the pistols,” Althea said, dashing away.
Julian would never wager such a sum after he had spent two months breaking his back in the yard and searching for men. Never. The man’s words were lies designed to put doubt in her workers and send them running. And denying them would only serve his purpose and make her appear a fool. In the past, Julianhadspent time with loose women and gambled to excess. Every man here knew it.
“If what you speak is the truth, what of it?” she said. “Every Englishman has the liberty to engage a woman’s charms. What man here has not?”
