The Quivera Trail - Chapter 5

(From one of the current works in progress - the1870s romance between an upper-class Englishwoman, and the Texas cattleman who offers her a decent proposal. Enjoy!)

Late in January, the Family moved to their London establishment, an imposing pale stone mansion trimmed with a modest amount of classical ornaments and iron lace with a tiny strip of palisaded area before it, situated on Wilton Crescent, at the very corner opposite the Belgrave Square garden. Jane was agog with excitement, although she did her best to conceal it. For she would go with them, in her capacity of ladies’ maid to Lady Isobel – to London, when she had never been to a larger city than Abingdon, although she knew some of their neighbors had been as far as Bristol. To travel on the train! And to see the City, in company with Lady Isobel – Jane was inexpressibly thrilled, although Aunt Lydia did offer a number of gravely worded warnings, on the evening before the Family’s departure for the city, when she was summoned to the housekeeper’s private parlor after supper. Jane listened to them with careful attention, for Aunt Lydia did know much of the world, and of the ways of the Family, although she would remain at the Hall. The Belgravia mansion did also have a regular housekeeper, who looked after it when the Family was not in residence, just as Aunt Lydia looked after the Hall.

            “It is a large city,” Aunt Lydia intoned solemnly, “and some aspects of it as barbaric as any savage place in India, or the Americas. You must always be careful of your lady’s reputation – although, I have never thought Lady Isobel was reckless of her own, only her neck in the Hunt. As long as you are with her, and you see that you are accompanied by at least one trusty footman. And when you have your afternoons off, Jane – take care that you frequent only respectable places, and that you choose your friends and companions wisely.”

            “Yes, Mrs. Kittredge,” Jane answered obediently, and her aunt appeared both fond and exasperated.

            “Jane, dear child – I know that you are being amiable and respectful to those in authority over you, but I also know that you are young. And that the young are heedless of hazards and dangers, thinking that by their very youth are they somehow magically impervious to all harm . . .”

            “But I will be careful,” Jane regarded her aunt with affection, “And you know that the city is not nearly so far as Texas . . .” she stopped, abruptly aware that she might have betrayed something of Lady Isobel’s confidences. “I have heard it said that there is a place to seek hazard and adventure,” she added awkwardly, but her aunt only looked thoughtful, quite unsurprised.

            “Jane – I do know of Lady Isobel’s suitor and of his intentions, as I am in the confidence of the Family. I have observed that he is a young man whom Lady Isobel is inclined to look upon with favor; rightfully so, in my opinion  . . .  would that he were only a north-country squire, or perhaps endowed with an Irish estate  -  he would be perfection as a suitor for Lady Isobel as far as the Family is concerned! It is very well for young men, particularly younger sons to go seek adventure and fortune in far distant lands, but when did it become acceptable for young women of good family to do the same? Modern times, Jane – they bring as many trials as they do blessings. He must make his proposal soon, Jane – within the month, I think.”

            “Why would that be?” Her aunt’s certainty on this rather startled Jane. Lady Isobel had seemed to drift in a misty cloud of happiness ever since Christmas. Although Mr. Becker had not called upon her in person, pleading urgent family matters which took him to Germany, he had written several times. Lady Isobel had tied the letters into a neat stack with a length of yellow ribbon, and kept them secreted in her jewel case.

            “Because the young man wishes to return to America no later than mid-April,” Mrs. Kittredge answered, patiently as if to a child, “With Lady Isobel as his wife. They must marry therefore by the first of that month. Your lady must have sufficient time to prepare her trousseau, and for Lady Caroline to plan a wedding of such magnificence that gossipy tongues will be immediately stilled – that must likewise take time, at least six weeks. It is now nearly February. As he has given every assurance to Sir Robert that his intentions are serious, I conclude therefore that Mr. Becker will formally ask for her hand in the next few weeks.”

            “So soon?” Jane sat back into comfortable chair in the housekeeper’s parlor. “I had not thought . . .”

            “Experience, dear child,” Mrs. Kittredge answered her, and Jane thought that her aunt appeared very pleased with herself, almost smug. “Coupled with logic, observation and consideration of the Family’s needs – in that way, one may always be prepared for every eventuality which may arise. That is the means by which one cultivates a reputation for the management of an establishment such as this, and increases one’s value to an employer. As for yourself, and Lady Isobel,” Mrs. Kittredge frowned, thoughtfully, “Lady Caroline will doubtless wish to have her way in everything – whether it be Lady Isobel’s wish or not. You might wish to – without being forward, Jane dear – encourage Lady Isobel in expressing her own desires and wishes. She will soon have the governing of her own establishment, so it might be a salutary experience for her to exercise some independent thought in small matters, And also, Jane” she added, in deeply practical tones, “You might wish to take some instruction from Miss Havers on the art of packing steamer trucks for a long voyage. As I understand her thoughts on the matter, a large stock of tissue paper is an absolute necessity. And I assume that Lady Isobel wishes you to continue your attendance upon her, even after her marriage?”

            “Yes, Mrs. Kittredge,” Jane answered, demurely, “She has often said so, and spoken of married life as if I shall continue in her service, wherever a marriage shall take her.” Her aunt looked at her and unexpectedly laughed.

            “Dear little Jane, I have no doubt that you – along with Lady Isobel are also anticipating a degree of freedom in the far corners of Texas from an onerous existence in Society – a lessening of the burden of constantly being observed and judged. But do take care, child – that kind of freedom comes at a price. And one of those prices is a separation from those whom you love, and who love you in return.”

            Jane’s eyes filled – that sounded like a rebuke, or at least a chiding, even though her aunt sounded as if she were in sympathy with her.

            “Should I accompany Lady Isobel to Texas,” she answered, “I would miss you very much. And then my mother – just a little, as well as my brothers. But as for my step-father? Not at all; In fact, I would welcome and rejoice at anything which puts half the world between us!”

            “Jane dear,” Suddenly Mrs. Kittredge appeared so very grave, and looked searchingly at Jane’s face, “You sound so terribly vehement and I would not ask, save for that I hold you in such fondness  . . .  but it is my perception that your stepfather often made . . .  unsuitable advances towards you; advances that were improper and unwholesome in the extreme, especially towards a young girl.”

            “He said things,” Jane answered, “And he leered – and if I could not avoid him, he  . . . touched me, as if he wished to do more than just that. And I think he spied on me, when I was undressing for bed at night.” Jane shuddered, and her aunt took up her hand,

            “But did he do any more than that, child?” and Jane shook her head. “Ah – that relieves my mind, in part. He is a wicked man, your stepfather – wicked and disgusting and unnatural. That your mother chose to marry him, rather than remain a respectable widow is a disgrace to our sex and to your dear father’s memory! She put you in danger, by doing so – and how she could have done it - that passes belief, Jane, it really does! She risked your virtue and your future happiness, in marrying that man merely to fulfill her own base desires! I did not fear that he had succeeded in expressing his vile and unnatural urges upon you – but rather that he had poisoned your thoughts against all men, that in giving expression to his lusts he might have perverted your natural affections toward all males. The honest love of a good man is a wondrous thing, Jane – if such could come your way, I would pray that you not have any apprehensions with regard to reciprocating such affections.”

            “I am duty-bound to Lady Isobel,” Jane answered, “I would never think of leaving her. But I do not fear the general nature of men or their regard – it’s just in my position, I must not be seen to welcome their attentions.” Her aunt smiled, with a touch of sadness to her,

            “Oh, but you are pretty, Jane – and amiable of disposition. If Mr. Becker is a fair indication of the manner of men in Texas – and I am sure there are more men than women in such a place – then I think that you may have many admirers. You may even have an opportunity of a better marriage than any you might have attained by remaining in England. You might even find yourself inclined to marriage rather than remain in service. Would you prefer to have the governance of your own establishment, than that of Lady Isobel’s? I have often read that the spirit of rebellion and independence attends on those who choose a life on the ungoverned frontier.”

            “I don’t know what you mean, Auntie,” Jane answered, in such puzzlement that she addressed her aunt as she did of old, without the careful strictures upon her tongue that a year of service at the Hall had imposed upon her. “Do you think that I would leave m’lady, just like that? I like her very much, and she treats me fair – what better respectable position could I be offered? I am not a lady; I am just a lady’s maid.”

            “I do not know, Jane,” her aunt answered, “But it is in my mind that you might be offered such a respectable marriage and position, regardless. Consider it carefully, my dear child. These American men strike me as being very forward – consider carefully and choose wisely.”

            “I cannot think that I would be so charmed by one that I would leave my lady,” Jane answered sturdily. Her aunt laughed, with indulgent fondness,

            “Wait and see, dear Jane, wait and see.”

            Jane did puzzle briefly over her aunt’s words; perhaps Aunt Lydia might be right, in judging Mr. Becker to be a fair example of the manner of men to be seen in far America. But Jane had never observed any other such but him, and Aunt Lydia had never traveled farther than Bristol herself. Still – there might be something in her words, but in the labor of preparing for the Family’s departure for London she had little time to think about them, and the excitement of their arrival in London left her with even less time for private thoughts. However, she was hard-put to conceal her wonder and unseemly curiosity from Miss Havers, when they arrived at Waterloo Bridge Station, demurely following their ladies along the crowded platform.

            So many people, of every rank and condition, so much noise, with the shriek and clatter of the engines and cars, of plumes of steam and smoke writhing around the ornate metal columns holding up the roof – a roof as seemingly high above their heads as the sky. A cold gale blew through the station, and the very air smelt of coal-soot and garbage. Jane clutched Lady Isobel’s jewel-case, and an armful of traveling rugs to her, as Miss Havers directed a porter with a huge barrow to load such luggage as they had brought with them, although most of the heavier trunks had gone days before, to be unpacked and arranged as suitable in the London house by the household staff. Sir Robert’s manservant and Mr. Asbury, his secretary had already gone to locate their carriage, which had been previously arranged to meet them.

            “You look quite dazed, Jane,” Lady Isobel said, with a quiet laugh, “It is always such a tangle at Waterloo – they say that not even the stationmaster knows what train is going where and from what platform and when.”

            “I have never seen so many people at one time,” Jane answered, “Not even at race-day. And so noisy,” she added, as a train rumbled through, several platforms away. “However do folk sleep at night in the city, my lady?”

            “I expect they manage,” Lady Isobel answered, “But have now fear – Belgravia is in the center of the City, but beautifully quiet, always – mostly because of the parks. If one must live in a city, then Fa’s house is much the best situation imaginable. When I feel that I simply must go riding, there is Hyde Park ... still, I can endure the city for a season, I think.”

            “Isobel,” Lady Caroline commanded abruptly, “Come along – Havers, my coat, please. This cold is merciless!”  Havers silently draped a fur-lined mantle around Lady Caroline’s shoulders, and they all followed obediently after her. Jane thought that Lady Caroline never looked so imperious, as she strode along the platform as if she owned it, freehold and all, hardly looking left or right. Everyone seemed appeared to make way for her, from the prosperous appearing gentlemen in tall silk hats, down to the boys begging for pennies by carrying bags and running errands. So many of the men doffed their hats, or bowed, even slightly – I don’t think even the queen herself would have so many gentlemen paying her a courtesy – Jane thought.

            Sir Robert’s black covered landau waited for them in the station forecourt, with a plain dray for hire behind for their bags. Out in the open street, Jane shivered, for the cold bit more acutely, now that they were out of the shelter of the station, as drafty as it was. The sky was cast over with drear, smoke-colored clouds, and although it was only afternoon, it felt to Jane as if it were already early evening. She and Miss Havers sat together on the backwards-facing seat, with Lady Isobel, while Sir Robert and Lady Caroline shared the more comfortable, front-facing seat, and Mr. Alsbury sat with the coachman, up on the box. Lady Caroline asked for her smelling salts, complaining of feeling faint: Jane could hardly blame her, for she also felt a little light-headed, as the tall, soot-darkened buildings seemed at first to close in around them – so many other carriages, coaches, hackney-cabs and drays! The traffic and the mud, the filth in the streets – Jane found it all quite overwhelming. And suddenly, everything seemed to open up around the landau’s glass windows, and they were crossing a long bridge, over a river whose reaches gleamed dull-silver. Jane gasped almost involuntarily, and across from her in the landau, Sir Robert chuckled,

            “Ah, Miss Goodacre – it is a sight, isn’t it? Turn and look, for there is Westminster! If ever there is a heart to our Empire, it is here – the Thames and the Houses of our Parliament!” Jane half-turned, looking out the glass window at her back, at the rank of gray walls rising up and up and up, on the bank opposite, gray walls trimmed with elaborate stone lace, topped with crenels, all along the roof-edge, punctuated with tall spires. The nearest tower housed a great clock at the top, and as they approached the middle of the bridge, the clock began chiming the half hour – at the sound, birds flew up in a flock from the roof of the clock-tower. At that distance, they appeared as tiny as motes of dust, floating in a sunbeam. Jane drank in the sight, for although she had seen pictures of this place now and again, crudely printed in the newspapers and broadsheets, or painted on a china plate which her Aunt Lydia most particularly cherished; those images were nothing like contemplating it from below, as the landau drew closer and closer. Since Sir Robert had spoken to her, she could surely answer; Jane said,

            “Yes, m’lord, it is a sight!” and Sir Robert laughed,

            “That it is, little miss – and there have been times when it offered a mighty stench, as well.”

            “Oh, Robert, really!” Admonished Lady Caroline, and fanned herself with her hand, “Not politics again!”

            “I wasn’t speaking of Gladstone and his infernally long nose, m’dear,” Sir Robert answered, as Lady Isobel whispered to her,

            “Fa abominates Mr. Gladstone – he’d rather associate with a clever chap from nowhere, who has the right sort of ideas about our obligations to our people, than a pious hypocrite who runs around claiming we should mind everyone elses’ affairs.”

            This meant a little less than nothing to Jane – however, her already high opinion of Sir Robert was somewhat increased, for he spoke of nobles and important folk as if they were as familiar to him as the ordinary folk around the Hall were to her. Now the landau was bowling along a wide avenue, with open parkland along one side, and railed gardens with fine tall mansions behind them. The parkland gave way now and again to tall walls of pale brick, topped with ornamental urns, and a gateway, down the length of which Jane briefly glimpsed a very grand mansion. The landau threaded a crossroads, with a triangle of green parkland touching upon one corner and Sir Robert patted Lady Caroline’s hand, with the bottle of smelling-salts in it, and said,

            “Cheer up, m’dear, we’ve just crossed Grosvenor Place – we’ll be there in a trice.”

            Jane looked over her shoulder again – the coachman had just turned a corner, and they were coming up on building with a tower on top and a porch with tall columns with what looked like two bolster-pillows at the top of each. Looking ahead, she could see more parkland at the end of the street, trees just faintly touched with faint green and squeezed in between the buildings. Yes, it would soon be spring; if her aunt was correct, she and her lady would very well be gone from this place, by the time they were fully out in leaf.

            Isobel smiled to see Jane’s face, as they drew up before the Lindsay-Groves’ mansion, with it’s tall windows and welcoming portico. Her eyes had been as huge as saucers, all the way from Waterloo Bridge station – she seemed a perfect child then, looking upon the city around them with astonished wonderment, yet she kept herself contained and rather deliberately copied Miss Havers’ bearing and air. Almost as soon as the landau stopped moving, the front door opened; there was Spencer, who had traveled in advance, in order to ensure that everything in the London house was prepared for their arrival; this was the comfortable and familiar routine, the cycle of their year – every event seeming to be an ornate jewel in Society’s ever-moving calendar. Several tall footmen sprang out to unfold the landau’s step and assist their lord and lady to the pavement.

            “I shall go upstairs directly,” Isobel whispered to Jane, as she followed her parents, “Best to follow after me. This house is not so much a maze as the Hall. You will have a little room next to mine, so it will be easier for you to attend upon me.”

            “Yes, m’lady,” Jane answered, and Isobel stepped down from the coach and drew a deep breath. The indoor servants were already lined up on the stairs, to welcome the master and mistress back to London. Isobel looked at them quickly – oh, yes, several new housemaids, looking hardly older than Jane – and it seemed as if the Lindsay-Groves kitchen now boasted a very superior sort of chef; for Mama was speaking to him in French. Isobel smiled at Mrs. Pitts, the housekeeper – almost as old a friend as Kitty-cat, and in response to her curtsey and words of welcome, replied gaily,

            “Hullo, Mrs. Pitts – yes, I am so glad to return, and this time I have my own ladies’ maid, for there was simply too much for Havers to do, in attending on both of us. I hope there will be no trouble, making room for one more, in the household.”

            “Mrs. Kittredge’s Jane,” Mrs. Pitts replied, instantly – of course, the servants knew simply everything, “And she will be no trouble at all, not like Mon-sewer Duquesne, I am sure.” It sounded like Mrs. Pitts was ready for a good gossip, “He’s a foreigner, you know,” Mrs. Pitts added in a confidential whisper.

            “Indeed, Mrs. Pitts,” Isobel kept a straight face, with an effort, and went up into the house. The entry-way, tiled in alternating black and white squares, was full of hothouse flowers – a breath of early spring. Spencer gravely proffered his silver salver towards her, as the door closed behind her and Jane. There was an envelope on it, an envelope of heavy cream-colored paper

            “This was delivered personally for you this morning, Lady Isobel.”

            “Thank you, Spencer,” Isobel had already recognized the handwriting, and her heart fair leapt into her throat. Delivered personally? It must mean that Mr. Becker was returned from Germany and his various errands for his uncle. She took the envelope, and did not break the seal until she had climbed the stairs to her room.  

            I will pay a visit upon you tomorrow morning – most respectfully, RB

            “Are you terribly excited, m’lady?” Jane asked her, the next day. Isobel had changed her mind three times regarding a dress to wear for receiving morning calls.

            “I don’t want to look as if I had taken so much mind!” she half-wailed to Jane, sitting all indecisive,  among her dress-strewn bedroom, that corner room with a pair of windows overlooking the Gardens.

            “But you have taken much mind,” Jane answered.

            “Well, I want to take some consideration!” Isobel felt as if she would weep with despair, “I want him to think that I thought of him, but not so much! I want to look pretty, but not as if I had thought of him desperately for every day and night since I last spoke to him and considered the arrangement of my habiliments for half the morning! I want to feel as if I were not about to be sick, every time Mama chides me for not having made a good marriage . . . “

            “You’re not feeling ill, are you, m’lady?” Jane asked, swiftly, and Isobel looked upon her concerned face and brought her own to smile.

            “No, Jane  . . .  I daresay I do not feel that ill; not as of yet, anyway.” She sank onto the edge of her bed, still clad in her simple combinations and under-petticoat, with her hair falling around her shoulders. “I just don’t know what to do!”

            “Then,” Jane answered, “Let me guide you, m’lady – if you would permit, for I think I know what would suit you best, and allow you to regain your confidence  . . .  he was a man who did not look at you as if summing up all your faults in dress and deportment, was he?”

            “No,” Isobel answered, hiccupping slightly, “In truth, Jane, I think he barely noticed articles of dress – other than noting in passing that I had donned garments which were tasteful and appropriate to the occasion. I truly think he did not notice anything more than that.”

            “Then he does not see your clothing, m’lady, or any such superficial notions – he sees your essential self,” Jane answered firmly, “He is a good and kind gentleman, or so I perceive. And so has Sir Robert said, has he not? In permitting him to court you, he has expressed every confidence in him, as a gentleman of honor and good character. Then – let me sort out what you shall wear, m’lady. You do trust me  . . .  do you not?” and she looked anxiously at Isobel. Isobel reflected momentarily upon how odd it was, that she might depend so much on a simple little country girl – that this same girl might be her only true and trusty friend of her own age in all the world. She considered it for a moment longer – and yes, Jane was that proven good friend, the only one that she could depend upon, who had never proven false, sniggering behind her hand, the only one who had never laughed at her for being gauche and clumsy – besides Fa, and Kitty-cat and Martyn, and her heart overflowed with gratitude. How could anything unfortunate happen to her, when Jane stood guard, in all those moments before she sallied out into the brutal arena that was Society?

            “Yes, dear Jane – I trust you. Chose what I should wear and I promise my implicit trust in this regard. I am in your hands.”

            “Thank you, m’lady.” And before her eyes, Jane’s countenance turned thoughtful – almost calculating. She surveyed Isobel keenly, as if she had not ever contemplated her person before, “The bronze taffeta. There is some lace that I can sew along the neckline – and some other things that I can do for the look of it.”

            “It is a dress from last year,” Isobel answered, almost quailing, and Jane answered with utmost confidence,

            “But the color of it suits your hair, m’lady – and it is a plain-cut dress, the design of which makes you appear taller and thinner. Did you not feel most comfortable in that costume, knowing that it made you appear in your best aspect? It is not the fashion of the moment – but might there be something to be said, knowing that you are arrayed in a gown which flatters your person, and is colored to suit you to best advantage.”

            “You win, dear Jane,” Isobel answered, “I am utterly in your hands.”

            Some forty minutes later, she came down the stairs from the upper floor where her own chamber was; Jane had swiftly amended the neckline and the sleeves of the bronze-taffeta dress, with a quantity of lace conjured from some private store. She had similarly worked miracles with Isobel’s hair; looking into the mirror of her dressing-table Isobel felt inordinately pleased with what she saw there. Her hair picked up the rich color of the bronze-taffeta day dress, and she felt that she looked taller, even slimmer. She looked very well indeed, Isobel thought – and that confidence came out in her face and in the sparkle of her eyes.

            Even Mama’s swiftly-raised eyebrow could not entirely dash her spirits; which was all that Lady Caroline could venture, for there were already guests in the parlor, some political connections of Fa’s and friends of Mama’s; guests for whom she had the usual polite and empty greetings, as her eyes were on the one gentleman who was already standing, when she came into the room, smiling that reserved smile for only her. He bowed over her hand; she took cheer from his presence, and came very close to laughing, when Lady Lynley, Mama’s friend who lived just across Belgrave Square, looked at him very severely through her lorgnette and asked,

            “Do tell us, Mr. Becker – how did you find London, upon your first visit?” Lady Lynley was tiny and imperturbable, always dressed in black, and noted for her devotion to the Belgrave Square Garden, and to the practice of improving one’s mind. She was an elderly widow, the relict of a gentleman who had made no small name for himself in India, searching out plants and learning odd languages. Isobel considered Lady Lynley to be the only person in their circle whose disapproval her mother feared.

            “I assure you, without difficulty, ma’am,” He answered solemnly. “I got off the train, and there it was.”

            “A singular experience, I daresay” Lady Lynley pronounced and Mr. Becker shook his head,

            “It was, ma’am – but I must assure you, I don’t usually have trouble finding a town, being that I have some fair tracking skills. The smoke in the sky from a distance is something in the way of a hint – and then there are all the folk around, once you get there.”

            “Mr. Becker has interests in cattle-ranching,” Lady Caroline explained, and those gentleman friends of Fa’s immediately appeared more interested – or if not, they at least put on a convincing impression of interest. Mr. Becker answered their questions with a becoming air of modesty, although Isobel had the distinct impression that he was privately amused by it all – the parlor, the elaborate courtesy, and Mama’s friends. At the end of half an hour – the correct length of a visit – he rose and took his farewells, asking modestly if he could pay another visit the following day.

            “You are most welcome, although I must confess - we have no cattle, to divert you with, Mr. Becker,” Lady Caroline answered.

            “A walk in the garden would suit, ma’am,” He nodded towards the windows, where the trees in Belgrave Square were just beginning to show slight mist of green, “If Miss Isobel would be among the company . . . “

            “You have an interest in gardens?” Lady Caroline sounded skeptical, but Mr. Becker said,

            “My grandfather was a good friend of the naturalist, Mr. Lindheimer – he took an interest in his work in Texas, an interest so deep that Mr. Lindheimer named one of his plant discoveries after my grandfather. I don’t think my cousins and I had that great an interest, but my grandfather’s enthusiasm surrounded us.”

            “I know of his extraordinary collection of plants in the Museum,” Lady Lynley’s interest also had been piqued – to Isobel’s amusement, she offered to accompany them on the following day, having more interest in what Mr. Becker might have known regarding plants, than in fulfilling her intended purpose as a chaperone.

            Over the next fortnight, Isobel felt as if she were living in the center of a whirlwind, for visitors came and went, and the intricately meshed gears of the world of Society turned and turned again. The only constant was the presence of the man who was paying quiet court to her, under the eyes of her parents, or Lady Lynley, or even just Havers and Jane, walking a respectful distance behind, through the garden in Belgrave Square. At the end of that time, she knew very little more about him than she had when they first met, for he was a soft-spoken cipher, always polite and attentive – but Isobel realized that even though he was open to answering questions about Texas, and cattle and a hundred other things, he vouchsafed very little about himself. She gathered that he spoke German well enough to pass as a native – and astonishingly, Spanish also, but little else of those personal qualities not immediately evident.  The only unsettling incident came one afternoon, as she and Mr. Becker returned from a walk in the Garden with Lady Lynley and attended by Jane. As they emerged from the garden, Mr. Becker assisted Lady Lynley with locking the gate behind them – of all Mama’s friends, Isobel thought that Lady Lynley had warmed to Mr. Becker as a suitor – perhaps her husband’s many adventures had transferred a taste for eccentric company to her. There was a crowd in front of one of the houses on the square, around a barouche lavishly ornamented with white ribbons and flowers – someone was being married, and Isobel’s heart beat a little faster.

            “I think they must be going to St. Peters,” Isobel ventured, “It’s only a short way away.” The assembled crowd were common folk and servants, by their dress – not residents of the Square. There must have been something published in the lower sort of newssheet to draw them, the spectacle of the daughter of a notable man, sallying forth in a white dress and veil to meet her destiny at the marital altar. Isobel could not conceive of why anyone, especially strangers should care, but apparently people did. A scuffle erupted at the edge of the crowd, two well-dressed men and a slender youth, whose clothing was obviously shabbier, even at a little distance.

            “We should go around the other way to avoid the rabble,” Lady Lynley insisted, “It looks like there is trouble already.”

            “Not to my way of seeing,” Mr. Becker observed, confidently, although Isobel saw that he was watching the crowd with great interest. Now one of the men had the youth by the collar, although the lad struggled considerably.

            “Thief! Thief!” shouted the man, “Call a constable – I’ve caught this ‘un picking pockets!”

            “I didn’!” screeched his prisoner, “I wis only lookin’ at them ‘orses!” The boy was a skinny, feral youth, and his coat was too large for him. Like an eel, he swiftly turned and wriggled free of it, leaving the coat hanging in the hands of the man who held him, but that the other man was at least as quick, catching the boy by his matchstick arm, twisting it swiftly behind his back so that the boy cried out in pain.

            “I’ll ‘ave you!” the first man shouted, and lifted a heavy walking-stick, “Teach you scum of the gutters to thieve from your betters!”

            “Lemme go!” the boy cried, and at Isobel’s side, Mr. Becker murmured,

            “If you would pardon me for a moment, ladies – I don’t hold with that kind of thing.”

            “Let them be,” Lady Lynley sniffed, “The patrolling constable will see to the whole wretched situation.”

            “But they ain’t here,” returned Mr. Becker, “And I am. If you will wait for me here, ladies . . .” He solemnly touched the brim of his hat to them both and nodded to Jane. Then he strode purposefully across the street towards the crowd, some of whom had coalesced around the doorway, others gathering around the decorated barouche and two or three seeming to scatter at a deliberate pace along the wide sidewalks along the row of neo-classical houses which edged Belgrave Square. Isobel looked around for the constable – no, no blue coat and tall helmet in sight. Across the road, the man with the cane raised it and brought it down on the boy’s back, the crack of it meeting flesh and the boy’s involuntary cry of pain almost simultaneous. Jane felt an up-rush of bile into the back of her throat, and a peculiar high-pitched buzzing in her ears.

            “Isobel, dear, are you well?” Lady Lynley was asking, anxiously, although it seemed hard for Isobel to attend to her voice. Jane – trusty Jane – without a word, pressed an opened smelling-salts bottle into her hand.

            “Breathe, m’lady, breathe.” Jane urged her, and Isobel obeyed. The pungent odor of the salts rushed into her senses, and she found herself leaning on Jane. Across the avenue, the man with the cane raised it again, but when it fell, it was arrested by Mr. Becker’s firm grip.

            “’Ere!” shouted the man with the cane, “’Let be – ‘ose business is it of yours, then?”

            “I’m making it mine,” Mr. Becker answered steadily, in a firm voice that Isobel could hear clearly from across the street. “I don’t hold with grown men beating children.”

            “By ‘ose right . . .” the first man thrust his chin pugnaciously forward. He was still gripping the boy’s matchstick-thin arms. In response, Mr. Becker moved to open the front of his coat, holding it a little aside, and at that both the men’s expressions changed – from red-faced anger to something warier.

            “’e’s a thief,” insisted the man with the club, “’e nicked me watch an’ ‘o knows wot else!” and Mr. Becker shook his head again,

            “No – there was a thief, but not this boy. Just as he said, he was standing apart from the crowd, looking at the horses. Search his pockets if you like. Your thief is one of those who walked away, just now. Now,” he looked at the two of them, and his voice dropped, just as the door to the mansion opened above them. A rustle of exclamations and cheers in the crowd on the sidewalk drowned out whatever he was saying, but when he had done saying it, the man holding the boy by the arm had relinquished his grip, and the other man had picked up the boy’s ragged coat, and handed it to him, with something of shame in his expression. They melted into the crowd, for the wedding party had emerged from the house. To Isobel’s astonishment, the boy and Mr. Becker remained, seeming to engage in some quiet conversation – then the boy accompanied Mr. Becker upon his return to where he had left the three women, half trotting to keep pace with him, instead of vanishing likewise.

            “Good heavens,” Lady Lynley exclaimed, “The man has an affinity for strays. Still, I wonder what he said  . . . he seems quite forceful, in a quiet way.”

            “All settled,” Mr. Becker touched the brim of his hat, and then seemed to notice Isobel’s pale face, “You did not have cause for alarm, Miss Isobel,” he added, with quick concern.

            “No  . . .  I do not like to see such a cruel thing as a flogging,” Isobel answered, and she was rewarded with a flash of a smile.

            “Nor do I. Lady Lynley, Miss Isobel - this is Alf, Alf Trotter – he also is fond of horses  . . .  Miss Isobel is my particular friend  . . .  Alf, you should always take off your hat to ladies,” he added as an aside, and the boy Alf looked boldly at Isobel.

            “Oh-er!” he exclaimed, “G’day, miss! Pleased to meetcher!” and shot out his dirty hand, as if to shake hers. Close up, he was an unprepossessing specimen of humanity, a grimy London street urchin, appearing to be ten years or so, stunted by the bad air of the city and not enough wholesome food. Lady Lynley sniffed, and contented herself with nodding briskly, but Isobel shook his dirty little paw, feeling some relief that she was wearing gloves. Alf was such a pitiful little scrap; for all that he was as cheeky as a sparrow.

            “I am considering offering young Alf a position,” Mr. Becker explained. “I always have need of another good hand.”

            “Good heavens!” Lady Lynley exclaimed again, “My dear Isobel, I thought I was merely being humorous, remarking on your admirer’s affinity for strays.”

            “He likes horses also, Lady Lynley,” Mr. Becker did not appear to have taken offense, “And it seems that horses like him as well, if he tells me true.” Rather as was usual for him, he was amused. Dogs and horses liked him, Isobel reminded herself – so, no wonder that a grubby little street urchin would, also. Alf followed after them all, to Lady Lynley and Jane’s obvious horror, and crouched on the bottommost step of the Lindsay-Groves villa, as patient as a gargoyle waiting for his master, as she and Jane and Lady Lynley were conducted inside. As Spenser closed the door behind them, Isobel saw that Alf went trotting after Mr. Becker, like the tail following after a kite. When next Mr. Becker came to call, Isobel asked after him, fully expecting that he had run away, but it appeared that Alf was now in Mr. Becker’s employ, as a kind of errand-boy and valet. What the management of the Latham Hotel, where Mr. Becker was keeping rooms, thought of that, Isobel could hardly fathom.

            “Everyone was always asking me why I did not keep a manservant of some sort,” Mr. Becker allowed, “I just got tired of explaining why – it was less trouble to hire Alf.”

             On several occasions, he rode with Isobel and Fa in Rotten Row; to her secret relief, he rode extraordinarily well, although his riding attire left much to be desired. Over an open-collared shirt, he wore a loose coat of tan buckskin leather, belted around his waist and a plain wide-brimmed felt hat, although everything else about his person and his equipage and mount were all above reproach.

            “They are staring at you,” Isobel remarked, one sunny afternoon in mid-February, after having held her tongue on the previous occasions. “Don’t you mind?”

            “No,” he answered, after a moment’s consideration. “Not much.”

            “Why ever not?” Isobel would not have ventured so bold a question, but that she felt the discreet horror, quickly hidden, in the gaze of every rider they passed along the wide avenue underneath the trees at the edge of Hyde Park.

            “They don’t matter to me, Miss Isobel,” he replied serenely, “I do not know them, nor do I crave their respect. So what they think is of no concern to me. And besides,” he added, flashing a quick smile at her, “In two months and a bit, me and Alf will take ship from Southampton, and never see any of these again, less’n they want to invest in Texas cattle.”

            “Are you departing from us so soon, then?” Isobel felt the tiniest unease in the pit of her stomach. They rode almost knee to knee, the closest they had come to being alone and to speak privately although Fa was cantering ahead at some distance, and the row was crowded with horses, promenading their riders. It was nothing like the Hunt – not the pell-mell rush across field and hedge, but rather a stately pavane the length of the Park and back again.

            “I can’t stay here forever,” Mr. Becker answered, as if it were so casual a matter that it hardly brooked comment, “I must return to Texas when the trail season begins. Do you want to come with me, Miss Isobel?”

            “I beg your pardon?” Isobel was not entirely sure that she had heard correctly. If that were a proposal of marriage, then it was such a modest and understated one as to be all but invisible. She reined in her horse, still in the center of the Row, and he did also.

            “D’you want to come with me?” he repeated. “I thought you might – your pa said that you’d like to, mebbe – and he thought I would suit. I’ve got all the horses and dogs you would like, back home. Cows, too. We’d have to get married beforehand, though.”

            Isobel thought of all the things she had been told were proper in accepting a proposal, most of which flew out of her mind immediately. It seemed to her rather silly to say anything more complicated than the simple and obvious to him, as he waited patiently in the Row, knee to knee as their horses shifted restlessly.

            “Yes, I’d like to go with you,” She answered. That quick smile flashed across his face, and he took the reins of his horse in one hand, and reached into the breast of his coat with the other.

            “Oh, good. M’cousin reminded me to buy a ring – she picked out one she thought you would like. If you don’t care for it, I’ll return it and buy another.” He handed her a little velvet-covered box, and watched as she opened it: nested in a bed of satin was a ring of rose gold, a vivid cerulean stone in the center with a constellation of small diamonds set around it. “She said the stone was the color of the sky, at home.”

            “It’s perfect,” Isobel answered, with all her heart. “I  . . .  I expect I should put it on, right away, shouldn’t I?”

            “I think so,” Mr. Becker agreeably took back the little box, while she removed her riding glove from her hand. The ring slid easily onto her finger, and for one moment, she and he looked at it; aware that something momentous might have happened. But there were no crescendos of music, no choruses of angels – nothing much other than other riders moving impatiently around them, and Fa looking down at them both.

            “Dear little Pet,” he said at last, and Isobel wondered why he sounded as if he might be close to weeping. “I imagine we’d best go and tell your mother.” He coughed, and looked at Mr. Becker with his sternest expression, usually reserved for unsatisfactory tenants, the accused before the bar, and Mr. Gladstone. “Congratulations, m’boy. Dearest to my heart, and now you’ve won her. Take care of her, you hear?”

            “Always,” Mr. Becker answered, with serene composure, and Fa coughed again.

            “See that you do – or else I’ll come to Texas and give you a sound thrashing!”

            “Fa!” Isobel expostulated, and Mr. Becker smiled sideways at her. He reached out, and covered her hand – the one with the ring on it – with his.

            “Not to worry, Miss Isobel  . . .  sir. Not to worry in the least.”