Arthur could almost see the wheels turning in Carr’s head. One word of dissatisfaction from a titled customer and he’d be ruined.
“Will you require your purchases to be delivered to Withins Hall, sir?” the tailor asked.
Arthur breathed again. There’d be no necessity to spend any of the coin the Watchman had given him in this pitiful shop.
“Most of them, yes. However, I’d like to leave here with whatever you can provide in terms of ready-made.”
Arthur didn’t need to see Carr’s wide-eyed shock to know he’d committed an unpardonable offense. No gentleman would ever contemplate buying clothes off the rack! Unthinkable. However, he couldn’t turn up at Withins Hall dressed as he was.
“Certainly,” Carr replied, apparently having decided to swallow his pride. “Let me see what we have in your size.”
An hour later, Arthur stepped out of the shop feeling like a new man. The linen shirt wasn’t of the finest quality but Carr insisted it was all he had. The blue woolen frock coat was a mite snug across the back and the buff breeches were a size too small. Still, nothing amiss with a fellow flaunting his endowments, so to speak. Carr had prattled on about the importance of a perfectly tied cravat and had spent at least fifteen minutes ensuring Arthur left his shop with an acceptable neckcloth.
The outfit would suffice to make a good first impression until the other clothing he’d ordered arrived. Tucking the brown paper parcel containing his old clothes under his arm, he set off down the street to follow Carr’s recommendation of Timpson’s for new boots. Thence, his last stop before Withins Hall would be the stables behind the inn. While romping with Tillie, he’d noticed a gelding that would be much more suitable than his mule for a grand homecoming.
*
Later that afternoon,Arthur leaped from the gelding’s back, took the front steps of Withins Hall two at a time and lifted the door knocker. The sonorous echo added to the euphoria humming through his veins. It was damned good to be home where he belonged.
He thrust the package of his laborer’s togs at the gaping butler who answered the door and nigh on collided with Anthea and her husband in the foyer.
As he should have expected, his sister swooned and his brother-in-law scowled. A chap might be justified in thinking Springer would be used to Anthea’s histrionics by now. It appeared she still thought of herself as Handel’s tragic operatic heroine. Some things never changed.
Arthur hesitated when his father appeared on the scene, no doubt drawn by Anthea’s performance and the frantic maidservant fussing over her moaning mistress.
When the color drained from the baron’s face and he pressed a hand to his chest, looking as if he might crumple alongside his daughter, it occurred to Arthur he may not have to resort to using members of the Red Bandana gang. If Whiteside suffered a fatal apoplexy, Arthur could be baron before the night was out.
However, his father’s eyes didn’t roll back in his head. His ruddy complexion restored, he stayed upright and narrowed his gaze at his son. “Arthur? What the blazes are you doing here, Boy?”
It took enormous effort, but Arthur adopted a contrite pose, deciding at the last moment that falling to his knees might be a bit much. “Father, I’ve learned my lesson and I’m here to beg your forgiveness.”
Tears welled in the old man’s eyes. He opened his arms wide. “Welcome home, Son,” he rasped.
Arthur went into his embrace, confident he’d won the first round. Whatever obstacles lay in the path of redemption, his father loved him too much to allow them to triumph.
*
John Springer wasn’tfooled by his brother-in-law’s act of contrition. He’d played the role of dutiful husband and son-in-law for too long not to recognize a fellow imposter.
Tempted as he was to shove the maid’s smelling salts up his melodramatic wife’s nose, he helped her rise, all the while cooing endearments.
Clearly, the baron believed Arthur’s masterful performance. Could he not see the wretch was wearing someone else’s clothing? A new plan was necessary or the foolish old man might decide to reinstate Arthur’s claim to the title. John had endured too much to allow that to happen.
Feeling At Home
“Ican scarcelybelieve you’ve only been here a fortnight,” Susan whispered to Potts as she and Griff conducted their inspection of recent hires at Clifton Heights. A crew of properly liveried servants stood in an orderly line in the newly painted foyer.
“Still much to do, my lady,” the butler replied with a sigh.
His unsmiling response didn’t surprise her. Like Frame, Potts would never admit to being completely satisfied with the household arrangements.
Appalled by the state of the house upon his arrival from London, the butler had immediately set about finding suitable staff. Many of the workers he’d recruited had been employed at Clifton before and seemed happy to be back when Griff acknowledged remembering them.
Resplendent in a mob cap, black crepe dress and starched apron, Mrs. Fazakerly looked the very picture of a competent housekeeper. Her husband had been put to work in the stables. The tenants were not Potts’ first choice, but he’d apparently ceded to Griff’s request the couple be given employment. It was understood they were “on trial”, but Susan had a good feeling about the outcome. She was also pleased Griff had agreed to give employment in the kitchens to some of the children of the condemned men.
Gangs of painters, plasterers and carpenters were still busy throughout the house and probably would be for some weeks.
Susan had thoroughly enjoyed working with Rebecca, sharing ideas for refurbishing Clifton’s stately rooms. It was indeed gratifying to see the house reborn, as it were.