Page 42 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

The inn where Charles resided was more sumptuous than Louisa had anticipated—and in a better part of town. She lowered her hood and entered, addressing the innkeeper.

“My brother, Charles Thorpe, is expecting me.”

She was taken to a small but well-appointed parlor, given tea, and told to wait while someone fetched Charles. The room’s dark green and blue décor aptly reflected her emotional state—tired and bruised, a little brooding.

Charles entered. “Louisa,” he slurred, “lovely to see you.” A welt colored his cheekbone purple.

She stood but dodged his kiss. He guffawed and smacked her on the shoulder. Mud soiled his boots, and his jacket was stained.

“You have not slept. And you smell like a distillery.” She took his limp arm and pushed him in a chair before closing the parlor door.

“Now, what are you doing in town, brother?” She passed him a cup of tea, taking in his person.

More concerning than his untidiness was the sallow tinge to his cheeks and the shadows beneath yellowing eyes that made them appear large and hollow.

He appeared to sustain himself exclusively with brandy.

“It is unfair that you have all the fun, living in London and the like. I came to have a taste of it myself.”

“And you’ve spent all your money?”

“I’ve run a debt with a moneylender.” At least he did not dither. “You would not believe the rate at which interest accrues. I was shocked myself. Before I knew it, they were after me.”

“Who?”

“That damned moneylender. Kind of face, sharp of fist, I tell you.”

“Why not leave London, hide in Cornwall?”

“They would find me. I do not doubt there is someone watching the inn now.”

“Really, Charles, you flatter yourself.”

“The sum I owe is not insignificant.”

“Have you applied to Father?”

“He hasn’t got the funds. Since selling a bit of land to pay some of his own debts, he’s become crazed, determined to keep what ‘belongs to the family’ at any cost.” He ran his hand through his hair until it fanned above his head like a rooster’s comb.

Louisa sat back and surveyed her brother who, though hateful, was her own flesh and blood, an older brother who at intervals had been her playfellow, tormentor, and ally. It was far easier to hate him from afar.

If she left Charles to his own devices, he may end up in debtors’ prison, which would tarnish the family name as effectively as her own misdeed.

He needed an occupation, something to restore his health and curb his appetite for gambling and drink.

A swelling heaviness left her weak, for what solution could she offer so profound a problem?

She returned to the idea of suggesting he join the navy, but even with the means to purchase a commission, he was unlikely to take to the idea.

She loathed to look at him, reviled against the pity that coursed through her breast at what had become of the blithe, clever boy she’d known as a child.

Though he’d been a scoundrel even then, she hated to see him in such a state.

Spoiled by their father, upheld in every vice, Charles had never learned the honor of work.

Perhaps he was as much a victim of circumstance as she.

Their poor mother would weep could she see him.

“How much do you need?”

Charles named an astronomical sum, more than the value of the extravagant wardrobe Lady Halverton had purchased for her.

“Impossible. How?”

He lifted his shoulders and rubbed his red nose.

His suit of clothes, though dingy, was new and of good quality, and beneath his jacket shone a bright, silk waistcoat.

It seemed she was not the only one who had acquired new clothes as of late, yet she had been fortunate her expenses were covered by Lady Halverton’s patronage.

“Like Father, I simply don’t have the funds to pay your debts.” She had the brooch, but could she get enough for it? She had no experience bartering or appraising.

“What of your wages and the funds from grandmother’s estate?”

The “estate” was a small farm that produced barely enough to keep the cottage standing. “My wages are not extravagant, as Lady Halverton already provides for all my needs. As for Stillwater, you know it makes no money. My means are scarce; what would you have me do?”

Charles met her eye and grinned, showing a chip in his tooth that was not there before. He needed a shave. “You have connections. Get it, else I tell your fancy friends about the man who stole your heart and took you away.”

Though expected, his words sent a sharp twist through her chest. “You threaten me? My own brother, whose reputation will by tainted along with my own?”

He stared into his cup. “What care I for reputation?”

“Does father know where you are?” she asked.

“He doesn’t care.” Downcast eyes and a tensed jaw wiped away his jeering malice.

She did not want to pity him, but she understood his dejection.

Hadn’t she felt nearly the same way when their father had all but forgotten her?

Perhaps Charles could be reasoned with. She leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze.

“Why not go home and revitalize the farm? If well-run, it will provide you with income enough. Find a wife and settle down.”

“I lack the temperament.” He seemed to shrink before her eyes, a helplessness she understood.

“You don’t apply yourself. You have potential to live a comfortable life if you would but set your mind to an occupation.”

“I may dedicate myself to the cause of finding a rich wife, should you introduce me to your friends.” He smirked, withdrew a grey handkerchief, and blasted his nose into it.

She hardened against him. Slothful and indulgent, who was he to demand she solve all his problems—and threaten her otherwise?

Shouldn’t he suffer the consequences of his own bad decisions?

Didn’t he deserve to be dragged by the moneylender to Fleet Prison?

He’d created his own calamity. Let him answer for it.

He leered toward her, his face appearing more haggard up close. “I am desperate.” His voice was rough. “I am begging you. If you cannot help me, I’ll have to run, live an anonymous life with the fear of…” He rubbed his eyes. “I think they would kill me.”

Her chest constricted, her thoughts calling to mind a cherished phrase from Clarissa : “In the midst of calamity, generosity is everything.” Generosity had saved her after her Great Misjudgment; generosity was what she hoped to receive should her own misdeed be discovered.

Charity was not in her nature—even the simple hand of friendship she’d extended to Miss Trelawney still rankled—but she might use a bit of leverage to strike a bargain.

“If I find a way to help you, will you leave London and return home?”

“I’ve nowhere else.” His eyes were flat and sorrowful.

“Give me the address of this moneylender. I will see to the debt myself.” She did not trust him not to gamble the money away rather than pay his debt. The heft of her mother’s brooch weighed on her lap. “Promise me you will leave London. Stop drinking. Work with father.”

He closed his eyes, his face clearing of lines. “When?”

“Within a week.” Though a year may not be enough time, should the jeweler be unwilling to cooperate.

“Two days, or they’ll have me. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow evening, I will have no other choice than to call at Grosvenor Square.”

The following evening was Lady Halverton’s salon, and Louisa must be at her mistress’s disposal. She must act immediately or risk a public revelation of her secret.

“It will be done. You’d best pack your things while I’m gone.”

Inside the carriage, she directed the driver to Lombard Street.

They stopped in front of an insignificant, lopsided Tudor building.

Louisa entered a small, pristine office void of ornamentation but replete with shelf after shelf of thin notebooks.

A man of middling years with the round merry cheeks of a child sat at the desk perusing a ledger.

The office seemed pleasant enough, but she knew how this business worked.

A household, unable to pay for food, might run up their grocery bill.

The grocer would eventually turn their account over to the moneylender.

Over a short period, interest would run the bill from four pounds to twenty. A pitiable, common story.

Charles’s vices deserved no sympathy, but it was impossible to extinguish the familial tie that bound her to him, even when her keenest desire was to never see him again. Besides, if he kept his promise and returned to Cornwall, her worries regarding her reputation might truly disappear.

“I am Mr. Gilford. How might I help you, dear?” Like a kind uncle, his tone was sweet and clear. He possessed enough decency not to ask her name.

“I am here to pay a debt for Charles Thorpe.”

“Ah.” He smiled, a guileless grin that put Louisa at ease. He rifled through his book. “Mr. Thorpe owes…let me see.” He stated an amount fifty percent above what Louisa had expected, and she told him as much.

“The shops Mr. Thorpe frequents have become suspicious and are calling his bills. He ordered an inordinate number of silk waistcoats. I have it all here, should you like to see it.”

Louisa took the proffered ledger and perused the tidy lines detailing Charles’s expenditures. Waistcoats indeed, two dozen of them. Listed beneath the tailor and an inn were gaming dens and houses of ill-repute. Charles should be ashamed to show his face in public, yet he had condemned her .

“If I pay today, I expect a twenty percent concession.”

“Bah!” Mr. Gilford’s laugh made Louisa feel like a child. “Five.”

“Ten.”

They shook hands, and Louisa took in a fortifying breath.

She almost smiled, bright with the satisfaction of having solved the problem on her own.

Everything she’d learned since committing the Great Misjudgment culminated, and she refused to be ashamed of using her limited means to rescue her brother—and herself from that brother.

The church bell rang an afternoon anthem as Louisa stepped into a jeweler shop. In one sweeping scan, the man behind the counter seemed to comprehend her understated dress and absence of a chaperone. Her cheeks warmed, but she kept her chin high.

“I desire to speak with you about a particular matter,” she said.

“I am Mr. Schmidt.” He signaled to a room at the back of the shop. She led the way and was relieved when he left the door ajar.

She pulled out the boxed brooch—a reminder of her past wrongs, a keepsake of her most precious memories, a beacon prompting her to better judgment—and handed it to Mr. Schmidt. There was no need to explain. He extracted a telescope and examined the large diamond center.

“Beautiful.” He rolled it in his palm, opened the latch, and snapped it closed.

The diamond was large, nearly five carats, and it had been in the family for generations spanning back to when Louisa’s maternal ancestors had prospered.

With no direct male heirs, most of the property had passed to a distant relative, but the brooch and Stillwater Cottage had been handed down from mother to daughter with a solemnity comparable to a queen relinquishing her crown.

It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry Louisa had ever seen, even on Lady Halverton.

He looked at her, his eye large behind the scope. “When do you need the money?”

“As soon as may be. Now.”

Mr. Schmidt scribbled a figure on a card and gave it to her. It was more than she needed but far less than the value of the diamond. Louisa countered.

The man scoffed and made another offer, but not raising his bid as high as she had hoped.

“You know it is worth twice that sum.”

“You are in a hurry.” He meant her desperation was expensive.

“My urgency is not so great that I cannot go across the street to your competitor.” Though she feared she had no time for such an excursion, she did not allow her anxiety to cross her expression.

His eyes darted out the window. “I will grant your price, but you must take it partially in jewelry.”

She agreed but picked up the keepsake, committing its weight, the oval diamond, and lacy filigree to memory before dropping it into Mr. Schmidt’s proffered hand.

With swift fingers, he boxed it and left the room to retrieve payment.

She would never see it again. Would her mother understand? Her grandmothers?

She swallowed and stood quickly, the room swirling around her. She leaned over the desk and pressed her hand to her stomach. She hadn’t eaten all day but now was no time for weakness. She withdrew a fan and cooled her damp face.

By the time she stepped back into the hackney, her reticule weighted with coins, notes, and jewelry, she was recovered. With rising spirits, she returned to Mr. Gilford and paid him.

“Should I apply to you should Mr. Thorpe find himself in trouble again?” Mr. Gilford asked.

“That will not happen. He is leaving London.”

“Let us hope so.”

She had no reason to depend on so flimsy a thing as hope after accomplishing her objective so well and so thoroughly.

To punctuate her success, Louisa stopped at an inn, begged writing implements, and sent a farewell letter to Charles, enclosing a half-guinea to see him comfortably home.

Though her fingers missed tracing the beloved brooch, she smiled as she rode back to Grosvenor Square.

At last, her future was secured: no one need discover the Great Misjudgment.