Love and Scandal, page 16
“They will think I am just trying to protect my anonymity! Gentlemen do not write novels!” Jameson said it slowly, as if she needed time to understand.
“What bosh!” Collette cried. Maybe she did need time to understand, because it sounded like he was talking errant nonsense to her. “Mr. Dickens, Mr. Thackeray, Mr. Trollope…”
“Are not gentlemen,” he finished stiffly. “They are, or have been, a clerk in a law office, an illustrator and a postal clerk. A gentleman does not work!”
“Then if you, sir, are a gentleman, I can think of no more worthless creature on the face of the earth. Not work? A man should work, and I have more respect for Mr. Trollope than a dozen of your gentlemen…fellows, I surmise, like your friend, Mr. Ellice.” She sat stiffly as the waiter brought the pot of tea, set it down and departed once more.
Jameson waited until the young man was gone again. “Collette,” he remonstrated, leaning across the table and punctuating his remarks with his finger on the tabletop. “I am just saying that is what people will think, that I protest so they will not think me stooping beneath my station in life.”
“Well, heaven forfend that you would seem to stoop!” Collette said, batting away his finger and rising. “I had not thought you so, so…gentlemanly!”
She turned to go, but Jameson jumped to his feet and grabbed her arm. “Collette, do not run away from me,” he said, his tone low and urgent. He circled her upper arm with his hand, holding her tight.
“I am not running away, but I thought you were going to help me—”
“I am! I just need to think of the best way, the way to be believed!”
“Simply tell the truth! And let go of my arm. You’re hurting me”
He released her immediately. “Collette, listen to me. You must admit I know London ways and society better than you. There is no point at all in doing this thing if people just smirk and think I am being modest or trying to maintain my anonymity. I meant what I said yesterday. I think you the most talented…” He paused, afraid to say more, aware how it could easily be misinterpreted in light of what they had done the day before. “I meant it when I said I worship at your feet.” He longed to see the tenderness on her face again, and the light in her eyes when she had given him that peck on the cheek in his carriage, outside of the seamstress’s establishment. He felt as though he had damaged something precious by seducing her, as difficult as that was for him to admit even to himself.
She glared at him but could not stay truly angry. “That is a picture,” she said softly. “I would pay a year’s royalties to see you at my feet, sir.”
“You could have me there and not pay a penny for the sight.” He took both her hands in his and stared into her eyes.
Would he kiss her again, right here in the coffee room? Surely not! But the wish was there in his expression. Why it was, she could not say, but he truly seemed to care for her, even if it was just as a funny little country mouse he felt protective toward. Collette wished she could go back to the day before, to the moments before she had gazed up at him and asked him to kiss her. Would he have tried to seduce her if she had not so blatantly made herself available? Had he merely taken advantage of an opportunity for lovemaking with a woman who offered herself? Now she would never know.
“What shall we do?” she asked, staring into his dark eyes.
“I will go today and try to find out what I can about the man who wrote the bilge in the first place. Proctor has hitherto been haunting my doorstep and now that I want him, I can’t seem to track him down. I can’t even remember what he looks like. Not a memorable sort, I suppose. But I will try again today. What will you do with your day?”
“I am promised to Henny. We are to spend the day with her children in the park.”
Jameson shuddered. “I think I have the more entertaining itinerary ahead of me. Remember, if you need me, just send a message to…here,” he said, giving her his card, then recaptured her hands. “That address will find me.” He lifted her hands to his lips, kissed them both and then departed.
In the corner of the room a man reading a paper peeked over the top at the two, then dipped below his copy of Wilson’s Gazette again. He scribbled on a notepad with one hand while he held the daily paper in his other. Collette glanced his way, but he bounced up that moment, threw some money on the table and stepped quickly out onto the street.
Collette passed the day in the park with Henny, the Dancey’s nursemaid, a nanny and the children, then spent another almost sleepless night, tossing and turning in her lumpy inn bed. The next morning, she frowned down at the note in her hand as she waited in Philoxia’s sitting room for her friend to join her. What did it mean, “I must see you on a matter of some urgency”? What was wrong? Collette hoped her friend was not ill or in some kind of trouble.
In their school days, Loxy had been the daring one, the wild one, the one who took all of the chances while Henny hid and Collette watched. It was Loxy who had first stolen into the pantry to filch cakes and cream, and it was Loxy who had shinnied down a trellis to visit a local tavern dressed as a boy. Only after she had successfully had those adventures did Collette and then Henny dare to follow. Collette was not proud of what a coward she had been, but next to Loxy, wild, capricious Loxy, anyone would have appeared a coward!
But now Philoxia seemed to have settled into the role of society matron, widow of a rich and prominent businessman. She was now the darling of the literary world and held the most dazzling parties, but she managed it all without a breath of scandal touching her name. Collette was happy for her. In her youth Loxy, for all her wild antics, had never seemed truly happy. Each escapade was more daring, as though she wanted to be caught, wanted to be taken away from the lonely confines of their refined girl’s school back to her even lonelier home.
Finally, of course, she had taken the ultimate risk and had indeed been caught and suffered. The attention of her parents was focused on her at last, but not in any positive way.
At least now, after all of these years, and more than her fair share of tragedy, she seemed serene, happy and fulfilled.
“Colly, dear!”
Philoxia entered the room with her hands outstretched and the two women embraced. They sat together on a settee.
“Whatever have you been up to, my dear?” Philoxia asked, her tone arch.
“Up to? Yesterday I was with Henny all day. We had an outing to the park with her children. My, they are energetic, I must say! I don’t know how she keeps up with them.”
“That is not precisely what I meant. Collette…” Philoxia broke off and sighed.
Collette held out the note. “What is it, Loxy? What does this mean? I have been in a panic since receiving your note, picturing you ill or troubled.”
“I’m sorry if the note worried you, but I did need to see you immediately.”
Collette noticed for the first time that Loxy had a newspaper clenched in her hand, which she now held out to Collette. Wilson’s Gazette! Had Loxy found out her identity? Was that what this was about?
But it was a new Gazette, not the one from a month ago that featured the story of the “discovery” of the identity of Colin Jenkins. It was folded over to expose a gossip column, a part of the paper that Collette never read, not knowing any of the people involved.
“What is this?” she asked, looking into her friend’s eyes.
Philoxia’s expression was troubled and she pointed one long finger at a particular piece. “Read it. Note the mention of C.J. That is Charles Jameson. They have been hinting he is the author of a new book…but that is neither here nor there. What is important is… Oh dear, this is so difficult. Just read it, my dear. Please tell me I am imagining things.”
Collette scanned the gossip piece for whatever disturbed her friend so.
Perhaps we were hasty in naming C.J.’s mistress yesterday, for they were observed in the dining room of a certain coffeehouse on Paternoster Row, and they were having a row!
What was this about the Chapter Coffeehouse? Why, she and Jameson had sat there two days before and talked, even had a little spat. The story retailed just such an argument with “C.J.”—Charles, according to Philoxia—and his…mistress?
Is it possible that it was due to the extravagance needed to feather the little bird? On good authority we have it that the feathers cost C.J. rather more than his last “friend’s” parting gift! It is said that the entire feathering will cost more than £500! How is that for feathering your nest?
Alarmed, Collette looked up at Philoxia. “Loxy, what is this about? I don’t understand why you’re showing this to me.”
The woman, normally unflustered and calm, reddened. “Colly, my sweet, I’m afraid to ask you a question I must ask, for fear of offending you.”
Collette took her friend’s hands and pulled her down beside her, discarding the paper and letting it slide off the settee. “Dearest, just say whatever you need to say.”
“First I must ask you, did you go to Mrs. Parker and purchase new clothing?”
“Yes, and it was marvelous!” She relaxed and smiled. “Oh, Loxy, I had no idea it could be so much fun to buy clothing! I am accustomed to sewing my own for the most part, or having old Mrs. Fenton in the village assist me, but at Mrs. Parker’s she had the most gorgeous…”
Philoxia interrupted her raptures, holding up one hand and saying, “I know, my dear. Did you go alone?”
“Well, no, I meant to, but you see, Mr. Jameson was just coming to see me, and he offered me a ride, and then he came into Mrs. Parker’s establishment with me… I don’t know why…”
Her friend searched her eyes, and once again Collette was puzzled at the concern she read there.
“And what did you buy?”
“Too much! You were right to send me there, Loxy. I spent a little more than I should have, but I purchased two dresses she had made up, a day dress and an evening gown, and ordered a walking dress, two more day dresses and one more evening gown. And some oddments: a fan, some petticoats, gloves. I shouldn’t have been so extravagant, I suppose, but really, I think that Mrs. Parker did not ask half what she could have.”
“But you paid for them yourself?”
“Of course I did,” Collette said, gazing at her friend in astonishment. “Or at least, I will. Who else would pay for them? I have not received the bill yet, but I already know the total amount, and it is quite reasonable.”
“But you are going to pay for them yourself? That is the agreement?”
“Of course! Loxy, what are you saying? What is this all about?”
Her handsome face drawn with concern, Philoxia picked up the paper from the floor. Collette frowned.
“Have you also been in Hyde Park with Mr. Jameson?” Philoxia asked.
“Yes, we…we went for a drive a few days ago.”
“And did you meet anyone there?”
“No… Oh, yes! An odious friend of Mr. Jameson’s. His name was… Oh, what was it? Ah, Sainsbury Ellice, I remember! A vile man, I assure you.”
“Sainsbury Ellice. S.E. Did you then have words with the gentleman?”
“I did! He disparaged Mr. Trollope, whom I met at your soirée and found fascinating. And then he called me a strumpet and Jameson tore a strip from him and…” Collette’s mouth dropped open. She plucked the paper from Philoxia’s hand.
“Do they mean…” Words failed her and she pointed at the piece and then at herself.
Philoxia nodded.
“But…”
“Then—I am sorry my dear, but I must ask—then it is not you? You are not his…his…”
“Am I his mistress? Is that what you are asking?” Collette quailed at the thought. Was she? Did making love once make her his mistress? But no. Being someone’s mistress meant they paid for your establishment and bought you things. She would never submit to such a life. She had satisfied her curiosity and nothing more. “Of course not, Philoxia! Good grief, his mistress? I am hardly the type.”
With an exclamation of sorrow Philoxia threw her arms around Collette, hugging her close. “I didn’t think so, but I had to ask! Please do not be angry, my dear, do not…”
Collette pushed her away but smiled at her. “I’m not angry at you, dear. I’m just shocked that any of this is in a newspaper. Why would it be? And what does all of this mean, about feathers and all that rubbish?”
“It refers to an earlier piece, from the day before. That piece told about your meeting in the park with Mr. Ellice, and your altercation with him. It named you Jameson’s mistress but did not identify you, thank a merciful God! That vile Mr. Ellice has been supplying this awful reporter with gossip.”
Collette was deeply shocked and sorely offended. “But it’s not true!” she cried. “None of it… Well, most of it is untrue, anyway.” This was the trouble one got into consorting with the likes of Mr. Jameson! She supposed it was true when he said he understood London ways much better than she.
“No one will believe this bosh anyway,” Collette finally said. “They are implying, are they not, that Mr. Jameson paid for my clothing at Mrs. Parker’s?”
“They are. The previous article stated it outright.”
“Well that is nonsense. Mrs. Parker is sending the bill around to my inn, and I am to send for a draft on my bank in Listerwood. We agreed on a price, and though it was more than I intended to spend, I was a little carried away by the divine fabrics.”
“How much she is charging you?”
“Oh, more than I have paid in the last five years for clothing.” Collette laughed. “But I have come into a little money, so £65 will hardly break me.”
“Oh, my dear,” Philoxia gasped, “£65? Your wardrobe cost at least £500, and probably more! I very much fear there is some duplicity here, and I would ask Mr. Jameson his part in it!”
Fourteen
Jameson glanced over at Collette, noting the stiff posture, the clenched hands, the rigid expression. He flicked the whip over his horses’ heads, and they quickened their pace through the jammed workaday streets of London. Lorries and omnibuses, clerks on foot, messengers and horsemen teemed on road and sidewalks, all with places to go, work to do, business on their minds.
Where could he speak to her privately, away from all this bustle? Something was bothering her, judging from her fixed expression. He had not expected her prim note requesting “a moment or two” of his time, and he wondered what it was all about, but he would not speak of it until they were private and his attention was not taken up with the worrisome job of driving through the hubbub.
It was a far different kind of day than the first time he had taken her for a drive. The sky was iron gray with clouds scudding across it and wind tossing the tops of trees. For lack of any better idea, he headed to Hyde Park and drove onto Rotten Row, pulling off into a grove of trees almost immediately. He had taken the precaution of bringing a tiger with him, and he threw the reins to Tommy and lifted Collette down, feeling the tension in her body.
“Shall we walk?” he asked, brusquely.
“Certainly, Mr. Jameson.”
“To the Serpentine, then,” he said, taking her arm and escorting her across the grassy sward in the direction of the small lake. “Now,” he said, glancing around uneasily, trying to rid himself of the feeling he had had lately of being followed. “What is this about? I have not thought of a manner of proclaiming myself not Colin Jenkins yet, if that is what you’re on about.”
“No doubt you will come up with a plan when it suits you,” she said tartly.
“What does that mean? What’s wrong with you today?” he asked, trying to catch her green gaze but failing. They stopped by the small lake, disturbing a family of ducks that blustered away with wild quacks of alarm.
She pulled her arm away and confronted him. “I want to know what you are up to.” She appeared to steel herself, and then her chin lifted, a clear sign she was ready to do battle. The trees tossed above them and a chill wind tugged at her bonnet. “What is going on between you and Mrs. Parker? Did you pay for my clothes? How much did they really cost? And why would you purposely compromise me that way? Was it all—everything, even the c-cottage and our…what we did—a scheme to discredit me?”
Damn, and damn again! How did she find out about his little ruse? “I’m sure Mrs. Parker will be sending you a bill any day,” he equivocated.
“But for £65! I am told my new wardrobe will cost close to ten times that!”
Searching her angry green eyes, he tried to think of a way around the problem but finally sighed, stroked his mustache and said, “All right, the truth of the matter is that your wardrobe cost me £672. And worth every ha’penny!”
Collette’s creamy complexion blanched as she stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. “Six hu… Six… What ever possessed you? Are you quite, quite mad? Why do you treat me like your whore? Is it because… Is it because of what we did together?” Her voice clogged with tears but she would not stop. “How could you do this to me, and then tell the papers…”
She turned away toward the Serpentine, covering her face with her gloved hands. She was crying, damn it! But what was that about the papers? “What are you talking about?” he said, grasping her shoulders and turning her to face him, pulling her hands down and grasping them. He searched her eyes again and saw the thick droplets trembling on her long lashes. “What do you mean, papers?”
“Wilson’s Gazette, as if you didn’t know! Even before the incident at the dressmaker’s shop they reported I was your mi-mistress!” Her voice was catching as she tried to quell her tears. “Someone must have told them so. Who else but you?”
Stunned, Jameson felt as if he had been hit in the chest with a hammer. “My mistress? You must be mistaken! How…” He stopped, dropped Collette’s hands, stepped away from her and gazed off into the distance with unseeing eyes. He should have known better than to accompany Collette in such an open manner. He was dogged by reporters, who collected the most innocent tidbits of his life and turned them into salacious treats for public consumption. A rumble of thunder rolled over them and a light pattering of rain tapped at the canopy of leaves above them but did not penetrate so far as the ground yet.
