Chapter 3
Cosette awoke at dawn the next morning, feeling more drained than she had in months. Even after the darkness had taken over, she had been restless the remainder of the night, with horrifying dreams that caused her to thrash about on her straw mattress until her simple, woolen covering was a twisted mess around her. She had to wonder if those nightmares were merely a premonition of what was to come, for something told her she hadn’t seen the last of the Duke of Blackburn.
Since there was only one person in this hell on earth that she trusted, Cosette quickly got dressed and went in search of Charlotte Kingsbury for some much needed advice.
Like Cosette, Charlotte was an orphan, although Scottish in origin. After immigrating, her parents had opened a bakery in London, but following their deaths, she’d fallen on hard times and hadn’t been able to pay for the upkeep of the shop, eventually losing it. While Charlotte had tried to find employment within the nobility, without a letter of recommendation, even a lowly, but respectable position as a scullery maid was hard to come by, so she’d been forced to enter the workhouse a month before Cosette arrived. Since they were only a year apart in age, they had formed a close bond over the years.
The only difference was that Cosette had chosen to earn a wage by toiling away with a needle and thread, while Charlotte had chosen a different path as a tavern wench. Naturally, working around a bunch of rowdy customers made Cosette fear for her friend’s safety, but Charlotte would merely shrug and say she had it all in hand, that she wasn’t intimidated by the patrons of The Lion’s Share.
Charlotte was the first to speak as Cosette joined her in the breakfast line for their daily dose of cold porridge, which was really closer to the consistency of gruel. “Are ye feelin’ well this mornin’, Cosette? Ye look a mite peaked.” She shook her long, reddish brown hair. “You’ve got t’ quit workin’ so late fer tha’ horrid modiste. She’ll have ye in an early grave.” Charlotte’s green eyes were chiding, yet full of genuine concern.
Cosette didn’t reply as a spoonful of thin, yellow liquid was poured into her bowl. After they took their seat at one of the many, crude wooden tables, she replied, “You know sewing and my virtue are all I’ve got.”
“I’ve said it before, an’ I’ll say it again.” Charlotte waved her spoon in the air. “Ye canna always come t’ th’ tavern with me. I make most o’ me money on tips an’ I’ll make sure none o’ th’ toffs bother ye.”
They had gone through this conversation more than once. “We both know I’d be terrible at it. Besides, I enjoy what I do.” She sighed. “Or rather, I used to. I ran into a . . . complication last night.”
Charlotte’s smooth brow instantly drew together in a frown. “Wot happened?”
After a quick glance around to make sure they weren’t being overheard, Cosette still leaned across the table and whispered, “I met the Duke of Blackburn.”
Her friend’s mouth dropped open in true astonishment. “How did tha’ come aboot?”
Cosette briefly explained how his coach had nearly run her down. She omitted the kiss, for she certainly couldn’t explain something she didn’t understand herself.
When she was finished, Charlotte gave a low whistle. “Bloody ‘ell.” Then, when her natural curiosity appeared, she asked, “So what’s ‘e like? Are th’ stories true?”
Cosette stirred her spoon around in her bowl, until the smell finally turned her stomach and she pushed it away, untouched, even though it was more than she would likely have to eat all day. “For the most part.”
“Then wot’s the problem?”
After a brief pause, Cosette said, “He has my knapsack.”
“Th’ devil!” Her friend gasped in outrage. “Why would he be wantin’ t’ hold on t’ that?”
Cosette shrugged. “I have no idea.”
Charlotte’s green eyes narrowed. “Well, I dinna like it. Perhaps I ought t’ be goin’ with ye t’ work tonight in case he decides t’ bother ye again.”
Cosette shook her head firmly. She knew as well as Charlotte that to lose out on any sort of income was foolhardy.
“Then at least let me give ye some money t’ hire a hackney.” When Cosette would have refused, the other girl returned decisively, “Just fer tonight.” Charlotte reached out and took her hand. “Please? It’s really fer me, ye know, so I dinna have t’ worry about ye.”
Cosette finally relented. “Fine. But there’s truly nothing to fret about. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.”
But even as she tried to convince herself of the fact, she could tell by the considering look that Charlotte wore her friend didn’t quite believe it either.
~ ~ ~
Cosette completed her usual chores about the workhouse, but when it was dusk, time for her to leave for Madame Louvre’s shop, she felt a fluttering of nervousness in her stomach. She stepped out of the workhouse, half expecting the duke to still be standing there. Of course he wasn’t, so she flagged down a hackney. She waited while he bit down on the coin for authenticity, until he waved her aboard. The hired conveyance was poorly sprung and not nearly as fancy as the duke’s carriage, but at least she was able to breathe easily until she arrived at the modiste’s shop.
The driver deposited her at the front door, but he barely waited long enough for her to shut the door, before he spit on the ground and drove away. She ignored his behavior, for it was rather commonplace, and tried to brace herself for the inevitable, tongue-lashing that would ensue when the madame found out about her bag.
The little bell above the door tinkled, announcing her arrival, but as the madame noticed her, Cosette was stunned to see that the slightly pudgy, rouged face was split into a wide grin. She paused before Cosette and bestowed a kiss upon each of her cheeks. “My darling girl! You have made me a very happy woman this day!”
Cosette was taken aback by such a warm greeting when all she normally got was a blustery attitude at best. “What?” she asked dumbly.
The middle-aged woman merely threw back her head of salt and pepper hair, pulled into a neat bun, and gave a hearty laugh. “You silly creature, to tease me so!” Madame Louvre chided. “Surely you haven’t forgotten the Duke of Blackburn so easily, no? His Grace has just supplied my humble shop with a wonderful order for a trousseau! I shall be busy for nigh on a week! And he offered a tidy bonus upon a timely completion!”
