“Right.” Richard appeared to be rather cautious now. “Must avoid scandal and ostracism. You know it would extend to all of us. It must eventually be seen as a fait accompli. Are we agreed?”
His listeners all murmured acquiescence, but Richard turned to his sisters. “Rebecca? Melinda? No coy hints to your friends or your maids about a secret you just can’t share yet.”
“We know.” The girls spoke simultaneously and with the same note of childish impatience.
“Well, should either of you forget, and let slip even a hint, Retta will have immediately won. Is that clear?” Gerald warned.
The two grumbled at being singled out for the repeated warning, but they did agree.
Then Gerald added, “We cannot all go parading down to the docks in elegant carriages. It will be tight squeeze, but six of us could fit into one of the vehicles Papa left us.”
Quickly Hero and Harriet, both of whom clearly had reservations about this scheme, explained that they were returning to the country the next day.
Already Retta was regretting the sheer foolishness of this project—this possible debacle. How on earth did I allow things to get so out of control?
* * * *
After a nearly sleepless night spent berating herself for allowing others to goad her into such a scrape, Retta gave up and went down to breakfast early the next morning. She was surprised to find Gerald there before her.
He waited for her to get her food from the sideboard, then said quietly, “You know, Retta, no one whose opinion counts will think the less of you if you wish to, uh, forego that wager.”
“And surely you know, Gerald, that I cannot renege now.”
He sighed. “I was afraid you would say that.”
“I do regret keeping it from Uncle Alfred, though,” she said as she stirred cream into her coffee.
Lord Alfred Parker, their father’s younger brother, had always been a fixture at Blakemoor House. As a child and even as a young woman, Retta had confided in him, taking to her dear Uncle Alfred her troubles and triumphs. He had invariably listened, offering opinion when it was asked for, offering sympathy when it was called for. It felt strange to withhold anything from him.
Gerald nodded his understanding. “‘Twould be impossible, though. He would never condone this. Keeping him unaware is not going to be easy.”
“I know.”
Two hours later she sat with her sisters on the forward-facing seat in the earl’s plainest traveling carriage. Her brothers and Lenninger sat opposite them. It had suited her mood to dress in a walking dress and pelisse of subdued gray that emphasized the gray rather than the green of her eyes. She had tucked her dark brown hair under a rather non-descript straw bonnet. The others were all dressed in their usual finery for, say, a stroll in the park.
She caught expressions of quiet sympathy from Gerald, and from Richard too, but the other three seemed in high spirits at the prospect of a break in routine that promised an adventure, if only vicariously.
As the carriage rumbled near the docks, Retta, seated at an open window, caught the smell of rotting fish, sour mud, and a plethora of other malodorous things. She conjectured that the tide, which reached this far up the Thames, was at its lowest ebb. At least the weather offered a cloudless, sunny sky. Several tall ships rocked gently near the docks. She felt the magical attraction of travel to faraway places, places she had only read about in books.
For a moment she allowed herself a foolish daydream of stowing away on a ship and sailing off to some exotic location. Then harsh voices intruded. She heard not only the shouted orders and advice of dockworkers to each other, but also a few of their comments clearly aimed at persons perceived to be intruders;
“What cause the quality got down here?”
“Ain’t no ship takin’ passengers today as I know of.”
“Bloody hell. They’s jus’ gonna be in the way.”
“Or cause trouble.”
Rebecca, seated near the other window, leaned to point across Melinda and Retta. “There. How about that man in the black felt hat?”
“Good lord, Rebecca, that fellow is sixty, if he’s a day!” Richard said.
“Well, there is a more likely one,” Melinda said, also pointing. “See? That one with a red neckerchief of some sort. He looks young.”
Retta saw that the man was young, all right. He was also small and wiry looking and, when he gazed directly at the carriage, there was a vacant look to his stare. She thought he might be somewhat dimwitted. They continued in this manner as the coachman drove very slowly along the road paralleling the docks. She could see that they were attracting some annoyed attention and a few catcalls.
“Yes! That fellow there.” Rebecca gestured beyond another man Melinda had pointed out. “That one with dirty leather breeches and a sweaty shirt. See? He is wearing a black cap. He looks a likely candidate. I choose him. We need not look further.”
The man was tall with broad shoulders and slim hips. Retta could not discern the color of his hair, but she conjectured that it was dark. He looked toward the carriage full of people he must have viewed as idle sightseers, and Retta felt as though he was looking right at her and possibly through her. But of course, at this distance, that was a ridiculous notion. Suddenly, his attention was diverted by a shout. Still, in that instant, she felt something had somehow passed between them, though she was not ready to acknowledge such an utterly preposterous idea.
“You need not decide so immediately, my dear,” Lenninger was saying to his bride.
“Are you sure about this one, Rebecca? There are plenty of others to consider,” Gerald said. “We have not traversed but half the dock area.”
“You are given to changing your mind,” Retta reminded her. “Perhaps you would do well to look some more.”
“No. I am sure. I choose that one. He looks repulsively rustic and dirty. ’Twill be a daunting task, indeed, to make a gentleman of him! Besides, I am ready to faint from the foul odors here.”
“Oh, my dear girl,” Lenninger said sympathetically, and Retta tried not to roll her eyes.
She looked at the man again. Rebecca was right about his appearance. His breeches had a long dark smear along one leg and his shirt showed large sweat stains. She had been sure Rebecca would deliberately choose what she thought to be a least likely candidate. Her own misgivings and apprehension gnawing at her, Retta watched as Gerald and Richard clambered out of the carriage and approached the man. He was too far away for her to see clearly the expression on his face or hear the discussion, but she saw him lift his cap, wipe his sweaty face on his shirt sleeve, and pause as her brothers approached him; then she saw his disbelief and perhaps a touch of contempt, though she could hear none of what was said. He turned away in what seemed a dismissive manner, but when Gerald and Richard persisted, he nodded abruptly, waved a hand, and went back to his work.
Her brothers returned to the carriage. “His name’s Bolton. He agreed to meet with us during his midday break at a pub called The White Horse,” Gerald announced. “He says it has a private room in the back.”
“I want to be there,” Rebecca whined.
“We cannot all go traipsing into a local workingmen’s hostelry,” Gerald said flatly. “Retta needs to interview him. You do not. It is enough that you know if Retta accepts the choice you made. You will simply have to trust us.”
“He’s right, my love,” her husband cajoled. “We shall drive around for half an hour or so—get some fresh air—and come back for Lord Heaton and Lady Henrietta. We shall hear all about it then.”