A 19th century London courtesan agrees to a phony courtship with a navy captain and finds herself negotiating uncharted territory outside the boudoir.
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The year is eighteen-t...
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~ Sunday, Jan 17, 1813 ~
Over the course of the evening, while everyone slept, London disappeared beneath a thick layer of snow. It reached the windowsills and blocked the sidewalks. Leisure horses remained warm inside their stalls, and I contributed the absence of Clara and her husband, Douglas, to their inability to safely navigate the distance from their flat three blocks away. But the most troublesome bit was not attending church service. I knew Reverend Lawtey would be disappointed. But, by the look of things, the reverend might not be attending either.
On the positive side, the inconvenience provided an opportunity to revisit my kitchen skills. I helped Tilda prepare oats while she poached the eggs. Then Jasper suggested I use my idle time to accompany his violin with my pianoforte, which I had not touched since Christmas. Tilda graced us with an aria she had learned during the short time I entertained a bel canto singer from the Italian opera. We even shared a bottle of port as an early toast to Jasper's upcoming birthday.
It was afternoon by the time Piccadilly Street came to life, with horse-drawn plows giving way to horse-drawn carriages. Clara and Douglas finally arrived and described their adventures through tunnels of snow dug by vendors desperate to sell their wares. The paper also managed to find my doorstep, and I sat at the parlor window catching up on the news.
Turning first to the events section, I frowned when my gaze fell upon an article recounting the clash between one Lord Albert Kinglsey and his close mate, Ben Dalrymple, which occurred during the Oxford estate ball. The reporter described that the row between the two had been triggered by their mutual interest in a young lady. While the paper withheld the young lady's name to protect her privacy, they did report that her chaperone was a naval officer and aspiring boxer who also happened to be her brother.
Protect the lady's privacy, indeed. Poor, sweet Alice.
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~ Monday, January 18, 1813 ~
Having frittered away an entire day, the next morning I was eager to see the men at the rehab home to tell them of my recent visit with the army paymaster. During my absence, Thomas had prepared another hymn, and Reggie had shaved. He explained this was on account of his brother arriving that day to collect him so he could continue his recuperation at home. Apparently, his mother did not approve of facial hair.
