Carrying The Gentleman's Secret. Helen Dickson
‘I have always tried to, for my mother’s sake—they were lovers, you see.’
‘Then if that was the case, will he not help you?’
‘Alistair is a hard master. Working for him, I will never be more than an overworked, underpaid employee. I want to have a chance to make my own way, to be the dressmaker I know I can be—that my mother wanted me to be. I want to be a woman in my own right.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t expect you to understand. How could you possibly?’
Alex did understand—more than she would ever realise. As the deprived son of an impoverished and more often than not inebriated estate worker, on the death of his parents when he was just a boy, his maternal grandfather had paid for his education at Marlborough and then Cambridge. Alex would be eternally grateful to his grandfather for making this possible, even though he’d spent almost every penny he had doing so.
When Alex was eighteen, with his entire fortune of one hundred guineas given to him by his grandfather, he had worked his passage to America. Life had taught him that he had to grasp the opportunities when they arose. Nothing was going to be given to him. Gambling his money on a series of investments had paid off. Thirteen years later he had made his fortune and never looked back.
He continued to excel in business like Midas. The only other venture he had engaged in was the pleasurable pursuit and conquest of the opposite sex.
Though thoroughly put out by this whole sordid affair with Henry which had disrupted the smooth order of his business life, he was impressed by this young woman’s astuteness and he was amazed she hadn’t seen through Henry’s deception. She exuded tension and a certain authority and despite everything his curiosity was aroused as they ate their meal. She had an easiness of manner and a self-assurance and poise that was entirely at odds with her background. He was warmed by her sunny smile, the frank gaze and artless conversation, and he found himself sparing the time to listen to her.
There was an air of determination about her that manifested itself in the proud way she held her head and the square set of her chin and a bright and positive burning in her eyes when she outlined her plans for the establishment she hoped to open one day.
She told him how she was apprenticed at thirteen and how she had gained a thorough knowledge of fabrics and the business of supplying dressmakers. She had made a study of ladies’ fashions and, inspired by what she had learned and her own ideas, she had high hopes for the future. She told him she had a small nest egg put by and when she had saved enough she would realise her ambition and her mother’s before her. Alex found himself being carried along by the wave of her high expectations.
Finally falling silent, she looked at him and sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to talk so much. You must wonder how I can speak so enthusiastically about my work after what Henry has done. He told me all my hopes and dreams would be fulfilled once we got to America. Well, that won’t happen now—but I refuse to let what he has done to me ruin my hopes for the future. I cannot believe how I let myself be duped like that.’
‘No? They say love is blind.’
‘Love?’ She laughed at the absurdity of it. It was as humorous as it was bitter. ‘Oh, no, it wasn’t love. I was flattered that a man of such glamour and charm—with a merry smile and a certain devil-may-care approach to life—should pay me attention.’
‘So you didn’t love him?’ Alex felt curiously relieved on being told this, but once again he felt there was an edge to her manner—subtle, yes, but there—which led him to think there might be another reason why she had been so ready to accept Henry’s proposal of marriage, that she might be running away from something and she had seized on the opportunity to escape. After all, she had admitted she didn’t love Henry. So what other reason could there be?
Lydia smiled, a faint frown puckering her brow, and when she spoke it was as if the question was directed against herself. ‘How does one analyse love? It has always been one of life’s great mysteries to me. How can anyone adequately explain it? It’s like trying to explain why the sun shines, why the earth spins and why the moon controls the tides.’
He laughed. ‘The things you mention are rational to me. They are divined by nature.’
‘That’s another thing. How to explain nature.’
‘You sound very cynical, Miss Brook. Love does not need an explanation, surely? Love, so I’m told, is something that grows out of nothing and swells as it goes along. No one can tell another why if happens—only how it is.’
Lydia smiled at his teasing tone. ‘Now who is the cynic?’
‘Touché, Miss Brook. Tell me. Why would you want to go back to working for Alistair if you were not happy?’
She looked at him. ‘Happy?’ She pondered the question a moment. ‘I don’t think the world has much to offer in the way of happiness,’ she said, more to herself. ‘There’s too much grief—too much pain.’
‘And you have known both, I suspect.’ He looked across the table at her, his eyes curiously intense. ‘You have just told me that you do not love Henry, which I find curious since you agreed to marry him. Why, I ask myself, would a woman who is both beautiful and clever do that, unless you are running away?’
She looked at him sharply. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘It’s merely a suspicion I have. I am right, though, aren’t I?’
She looked down at her plate, tension in the angle of her jaw. ‘Yes—at least—something like that.’
‘Running away is not always the sensible thing to do.’
She looked at him from beneath her long lashes. ‘You may be right, but sometimes one is left with no choice.’
‘That’s true, but generally I think it is better to face the problem head on and deal with it.’
‘That’s easy for you to say.’
‘Why are you running away? That is if you want to talk about it.’
She eyed him with wary indecision, wondering what he would say if she were to divulge the more sinister truth behind her acceptance of Henry’s proposal of marriage, a marriage that would take her away from London—from England—far away from the awful truth that the man she had come to realise was her father, a man she had believed was dead, was very much alive. Having no wish to discuss this highly personal matter with a complete stranger, she shook her head. ‘No, thank you, I really do not want to talk about it.’
‘I understand, but I suspect it is connected to the grief and pain you mentioned.’
‘Yes, I have known both, borne out of attachment to the person or people who cause it, and knowledge.’
From bitter experience her mother had told her that knowledge was life’s blood in this world, that once gained it should not be thrown away, but used sensibly, ruthlessly, if necessary, that with knowledge a person could rule the world. And so she had applied herself diligently to her learning and then set about doing what her mother had told her to do. But when she had met Henry it hadn’t worked out that way.
She was a woman who had encountered hardships for most of her life. Even working for Alistair where her performance was valued and he paid her slightly more than the other girls, she’d learned to take care of herself, never allowing others to venture too close—her mother excepted when she had been alive—never completely letting down her guard lest the price of that familiarity would mean an equality of mind. She had allowed Henry into her life, but she had only given of herself as much as she had wanted to give.
‘My dream was that one day my luck would change and I truly thought it had when Henry came into my life. Suddenly I had a wonderful future before me, but it was not to be.’ She smiled, a smile that was quite enchanting and unbeknown to her did strange things to her companion’s heart. ‘Please do not mind me, sir. Considering who I am you are being most kind and understanding. But you should not trouble