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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~ Saturday Jan 23, 1813 ~
Saturday night arrived ahead of another winter storm, and I was due to entertain Captain Remington and his wife. I felt so nervous I almost wished the storm would arrive early and spoil our plans. I knew how to entertain a gentleman, of course, but I had complicated this encounter so much that even my staff seemed to feel the weight of it as they went about their duties.
Tilda checked the front door incessantly awaiting Mistress Remington's carriage, while Jasper had stoked the fire so high it required a window to be opened. As requested, Douglas made sure the decanter was filled with port, and a pair of goblets stood on the serving cart beside a coffee pot. I knew Helena enjoyed coffee like her husband, but I was hoping she would opt for the port. I did not wish to have a jumpy wife on my hands.
When Helena finally arrived, I was staggered by her classic beauty and the intriguing nature of her parfum. While she dressed modestly, accented by a pale blue petticoat and a simple cameo broach, her face appeared to have been molded by an artist; prominent cheekbones, wide, expressive eyes, and what men would call dewy lips. How had I not noticed this on our first meeting?
"Thank you so much for attending me in my home, Mistress Remington." I offered a friendly nod, to which she responded in kind.
"I appreciate the invitation, although I am a little confused by it. And, please, call me Helena."
"Very well, Helena. You may call me Rose. I hope the invitation did not have you spending these few days in a worried state. That was not my intent. I merely thought we could get to know each other. Your husband speaks very highly of you."
We both took our seats, and Tilda stood at the ready beside the serving cart. "May I offer either of you a beverage? We have coffee and a lovely port from a local vineyard." Knowing my maid, I could tell she felt ill-at-ease as she did her best to make our guest feel otherwise. I never should have told her what I was up to.
"A glass of port sounds like just the thing." Helena smiled at Tilda, who hurried to oblige her with an ample pour. She did the same for me before scuttling off, probably to hide around the corner and listen in.
After we enjoyed our first sip, I started with the questions I had prepared ahead of time. "Have you lived in London long?"
"Most of my life. My family moved to London when my father was assigned a teaching position at Saint Paul's School for Boys."
"How nice. Is he still teaching there?"
"He's still there, but he's headmaster now. What about you? Has London always been your home?"
"Yes. I love the city. I could do without the smoke, but the architecture has no equal, as far as I'm concerned."
The conversation continued nicely from there. We talked of our favorite shoppes, trips we had taken elsewhere, and when we landed on the topic of Captain Remington, Helena explained how his arm had been partially severed by the bayonet of a French soldier.
