Love Among the Spices Page 5

  With the little volume in hand, she turned towards the door only to find herself abruptly faced with a gentleman attempting to approach the set of shelves Marianne had perused. Stopping short, she glanced up at his words of apology, only to see a familiar countenance above a white cravat, a pair of glasses sliding low on a the face of young man not quite grown. Adam Nimbley, the naturalist.

  "Forgive me, Ma'am," he began with a shy smile, until he met her eyes. The color seemed to vanish from his face.

  "Miss Stuart," he breathed. Marianne's own countenance had gone pale in response.

  "Good day, Mr. Nimbley," she answered, stiffly. Aware that her tone and face were equally frosty as she swept past him and through the shop door.

  It did not close behind her, stopped by the gentleman as he followed. She felt his hand touch her arm.

  "Please, Miss Stuart," he said. "I wanted to apologize. For what I said before–when we met in Kent."

  "I think you made yourself quite clear, Mr. Nimbley," she answered, "in that you regard my social standing more than my personal merit. That is reason enough for us to suspend our improper introduction, as you decried it."

  He lingered still, although his face betrayed evidence of his pain over these words. "It was not that, Miss Stuart," he pleaded, "it was merely–I did not think it proper to address you– that our introduction would please your family, given its circumstances. The event of our first speaking was ... was so ..."

  "Was 'improper'?" she demanded. "For a young lady of good connections? For I should think the insignificant name of Stuart would hardly matter with regards to my station, since it did not upon first hearing it."

  "I have heard your father's name before, Miss Stuart," he answered. "I know that he is a respected and honorable man who would wish his daughter to be properly addressed by anyone. That is sufficient reason for me to wish our acquaintance to be an honorable one."

  His tone checked her stiffness, for she sensed something earnest in its depths; a fervor of principle and character as opposed to the shame of class distinction. For this reason, she raised her eyes to his with a glance of kindness.

  "Then perhaps I was hasty in my words," she answered, slowly. "I would beg your pardon, Mr. Nimbley, if my first reply was indeed wrong."

  The young man's cheeks were still red with evidence of his embarrassment. "I would wish you to believe that I was sincere in mine–the words spoken before, when we shared a common interest in the beauty of Kent's wooded scenes."

  His eye fell upon the little volume in her hand, his fingers touching its cover lightly. "I see your interest in the subject of nature continues, Miss Stuart," he ventured.

  In turn, Marianne blushed. "Yes, it does," she answered. "I confess that the copy you possessed intrigued me greatly. When I saw it upon the shelf, I wished greatly to own it."

  He smiled, with a touch of shyness. "I think it will serve you as a student of Linnaeus quite well, Miss Marianne."

  The sound of her familiar name on his lips brought an open smile of pleasure to Marianne's lips. "That is a welcome sound compared to 'Miss Stuart' from a friend's speech," she said. "A friend as old as you, Mr. Nimbley, who had the kindness to show me a bottled blue fly."

  Her teasing caused Mr. Nimbley to stammer in his reply. "I am glad, Miss Stuart," he answered. "Truly glad, for it would grieve me otherwise. If you believed I was trifling with your feelings before I knew your position."

  "Then we shall pretend that my position is of no consequence," she said, walking onwards from the shop's door as two customers glanced curiously at them in passing. Adam continued on with her, his hand moving to touch her elbow, as if to escort her.

  "I do not think I can forget your place, Miss Stuart," he answered. "That is to say, my manner of address must show you the deference you deserve–"

  "I think it is rather hard of you to continue to speak of me in this manner," Marianne protested, with a half-smile. "I do not wish to be addressed differently because of my sister's marriage, nor do I wish you to esteem my friendship based upon anything but our previous acquaintance."

  "That is not–" he began. "Will you allow me to accompany you, Miss Stuart? To escort you home if that is where you are going?"

  "Oh, I am not going home," she answered. "I am–" she glanced about, seeking an excuse which would allow their conversation to continue, "–I am making a purchase for my aunt. Of tea."

  A gift to Mrs. Fitzwilliam was a gesture which would please the good woman's heart, Marianne knew; and she could think of nothing better than tea, for a hanging sign for an India Trading Tea and Spice shop was prominent upon the street.

  "Then allow me to escort you there," he said, taking her arm and walking along, "for I am intended for the same destination."

  The interior of the shop was dim in the London gloom, a dusky, exotic smell enticing Marianne's nose as she entered. Great barrels and metal canisters, jars of all shapes and sizes filled the shop's interior, with one wall occupied by a large painted map of the Indies and the surrounding ocean. A ship's rig visible floating upon the dark waters of the heavy paper surface.

  "Is your aunt fond of Pekoe?" he asked. "The orange is very fine. Although I confess to preferring the blends which my uncle imports especially."

  "Your uncle?" she repeated. "Your uncle is a tea merchant?"

  Adam Nimbley's smile was faint, but warm as he answered. "He is indeed a merchant, Miss Stuart. And the owner of this shop. He imports a great many things from the Indies and the Orient."

  "How fascinating," Marianne answered. "Then he has seen the Orient? India? And the Bahamas–he has been there? The air is perfume, I have heard. It must be such a splendid experience." As she spoke, she turned towards the map upon the wall as if the merchant in question might be depicted upon its record.

  A look of surprise crossed the young man's face. "I would not have expected you to view his trade in such an adventurous light," he said. "Many would see it as the plight of a younger son, hardly worthy of commendation despite his success. He would be pleased to know that there are others who appreciate his good fortune at its proper value."

  Marianne's smile grew puzzled. "You think I would perceive him as unfortunate?" she replied. "When he has such a splendid life–such a remarkable experience, to have seen the world. Why should I pity him? Or think any the less of him for it?"

  A clerk approached from the adjoining chamber. "Good day, Master Nimbley," he said with a polite bow. "Good day, Ma'am."

  "A packet of Oriental tea, please," said Marianne, with a glance at the gentleman beside her.

  "The finest leaves for Miss Stuart, Grovner," said Adam. "Your master's newest import would be sufficient." The clerk bowed and retreated.

  "Have you ever been?" asked Marianne. "Abroad, I mean. With your uncle's company?"

  Adam laughed. "No, I have not," he answered. "I daresay it is a sight worth seeing. But my father would think it is not proper for me, given my obligation to him."

  She wished to ask him what those obligations might be, but the clerk approached with her packet. Opening her reticule, she reached inside only to have her face register dismay when she remembered the scene earlier this afternoon.

  "I fear I have no money," she said, her cheeks crimson with shame. "I forgot–the woman on the corner–I had but a few pence even then."

  "Please place it upon account for Miss Stuart," said Adam, hastily. "To Sir Edward Stuart of Evering House."

  It surprised her that he knew the name of her father's house, although the thought that he had given consideration to her name crossed her mine. Perhaps he found her father's connections pleasing, as opposed to being disconcerted by them, in the wake of their previous intimacy–given his embarrassment over his family's trade.

  Cheeks flushed, she seized the packet. "Thank you for your kindness," she said, hastily, turning to Nimbley. "I must go, for I am late for an engagement."

  "Let me escort you there," said Adam Nimbley, "if you have no objection
."

  Marianne shook her head. "I cannot allow you, Mr. Nimbley," she answered. "For it would not be proper. Since we have but made our proper introductions today. Good day." With a smile for the clerk and a brief nod to Adam Nimbley, she turned and exited the shop.

  She was half-afraid he would follow her and she would find herself speaking her mind more firmly, but when there was no sound of the shop door opening behind her, she felt some relief. Head held high, she tried to weigh the balance of his stammered apologies against the warmth he exhibited whenever the subject of station and fortune was not raised.

  Forgiveness indeed–why should he assume she would despise a family connected to tradesman when her own brother was but a barrister? Apparently, Mr. Nimbley believed her feelings delicate on the subject–and only preferred her interest in butterflies and blue-bottle flies when he believed her the daughter of a farmer.

  "Why, Marianne, how thoughtful," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Although why you should choose something so outlandish as this particular tea, I am not quite certain–although India Trading is a quality shop, you can be sure. Even the Duchess of Almswick purchases her tea there."

  Placing aside the packet, she kissed her niece's cheek on an impulse of good-heartedness. "What a dear little thing you can be, Miss Marianne," she sighed. "If only you would choose to behave properly all the time."

  "I know, aunt," Marianne answered. "You have reminded me many times before." Hands folded on her lap, she gazed at the floor as she spoke these words. Not thinking of Adam Nimbley's pleading voice but the look of astonishment in the beggar woman's face over being handed three coins by a girl in a dripping wet expensive muslin gown.

  Chapter Six

  When Marianne Stuart had fled the tea shop, the young man in question had gazed at her departing figure with a look of dismay and confusion. Only a moment before, he had been forgiven for previous error, he believed; but now, the young lady seemed as distant in manner towards him as before.

  "Anything for you, Master Nimbley?" inquired the clerk.

  "No, thank you, Grovner," he answered, absently. "Only give my regards to my uncle when he arrives today."

  "As you wish, sir," the clerk answered. Adam Nimbley collected his hat and set forth again.

  He did not depart to the shop of his father's trade, as Marianne would have supposed; but to a house in Conduit Street; which, not unlike Evering House, bore all the traits of being home to gentility of modest means. Within its walls dwelled Sir Nimbley, a widowed baronet of limited means and three children. A daughter Anne, who attended a ladies' academy with the promise of being 'out' in another Season's time; an eldest son and heir named John, who was at Oxford; and a middle child, his son Adam.

  With a gloomy countenance, young Adam entered his father's door when the manservant opened it. He made an effort to ascend to his own chambers, before the sound of his father's voice stopped him.

  "You there! Adam! Come and take tea!" The voice boomed heartily from the library, a tone of command which the young man chose not to refuse, although he sighed deeply over the request.

  Sir George Nimbley was seated in an armchair before the fire, his library a grand room decorated with heavy carpets and drapes, deep shelves upon which rows of books were tastefully displayed. The baronet's portly figure hoisted itself upright in the chair at the sight of the young man.

  A tray of tea things was placed upon the table by the maid, who curtseyed as the baron's son entered.

  "Come in, my boy," repeated the baronet. "How was your uncle? Did you see young Terrance at the shop? He'll be master of it by and by, when his father's got a knighthood, eh? A pretty fortune and a title in the family."

  "A knighthood isn't likely, sir," Adam answered. He seated himself across from his father, taking no interest in the cup before him or the toast upon the plate. "My uncle is content in his business and selling tea and yellow spices to the peerage is hardly worthy of royal honor."

  "You have no patience, my boy," his father answered. "Why shouldn't your uncle be made a knight? There were souls enough who never believed his father would be made a baronet–and here am I, heir to his title and proof enough of a monarch's generosity." Sir George thumped his cane on the floor to emphasize this statement.

  "As you say, father," answered Adam. Who took up his teacup, for lack of anything better to do except reply further to these statements.

  "I've a letter from John today," said the baronet. "I wish the young man would write a little more about his studies and a little less about his pointers and opera-dancer–a proper gentleman must have a head for learning, not just for play, if his title is to be worth something."

  "John is bright enough; he will be more serious in time, I suppose," said Adam. "I rather think–I think leaving London has affected him. Without you or Anne to look after his ways–"

  "Or yourself," interrupted the baronet. "I dare say you were as good an influence upon him as any brother. Always wandering about with your books and your studies without even the marks of a dean to put you forward. There's an example your brother might take to please me."

  The baronet's thick fingers closed around the toast upon the plate. "When you're away to Oxford, I expect you'll attend to your work more than he. You'll be reading for the law afterwards, of course–I should think John would be grateful, not having to take up a respectable trade, but he shows no sign of it."

  Adam's fingers traced the design upon his teacup; a long moment lapsed before he answered. "As to the law, sir; I know that you prefer it, but–" he hesitated, before continuing, "– but I wish there were another course I might pursue which would please you."

  Sir George raised his eyebrows with surprise. "Not the law?" he answered. "But what of it, my boy? Is it not a respectable trade, being a barrister? A barrister's a gentleman, his wife may be presented before the Queen. There's nothing unrespectable about it–for a younger son."

  There was kindness in the baronet's voice, but also concern. It pained Adam to hear it, for he knew the surprise his father must feel. In his mind, he had found a place for his younger son, a position which would suit a genteel young man in no position to inherit either fortune or title from his father's limited estate. But it was not of Adam's mind that the decision of the law had ever been made, nor was any volume of law among his vast possession of books.

  "I don't dispute my position, sir," Adam answered, with a half-laugh. "It isn't earning my livelihood which troubles me, merely the means by which I do it."

  "If not the law, what of the army?" asked his father. "Too late for a naval commission, I suppose, but not for the horses and a bit of glory in uniform. An officer's commission, then; and we'll hear no more about the law."

  "You are all kindness, sir," Adam stammered, "but it was not the military I had in mind. I would make a rather poor officer, at that. It was of something more academic, sir. You know where my preferences lie." His speech trailed off at this point, a rather feeble attempt at bravado giving way beneath the darkness of his father's countenance.

  The baronet's mouth drew inwards with disapproval. "Your habits of amusing yourself are not a living, sir," he answered. "You cannot expect me to approve–to give you leave to ruin yourself with this nonsense of science? Dash it all! The law is better than that–twice as good and a living for a proper gentleman. Let us hear no more of this, pray." With a final thump and a grunt of dismay, the baronet gazed into the fire with a moodiness equal to his younger son's gloom.

  The silence between them lasted a moment or two; each reflecting upon his own discomfort with the previous topic. Eventually, Sir George roused himself and spoke.

  "Perhaps it shall come to nothing," he ventured. "Perhaps Oxford will give you something to do for awhile. And there is always the possibility of a title being conferred–" He sighed wistfully, although whether for his brother's future or his son's, it could not be said.

  Adam smiled, a faint movement of his lips. "Perhaps we might dream of such things," he answered, g
ently. Placing his cup upon the tray again, he rose. "I must go and attend to some letters, father." With a bow, he left the baronet alone once again with his thoughts.

  It was not a letter which lay unfolded upon the writing-desk in Adam Nimbley's chamber, but the sketch of the stump's crevices taken with a page of Marianne's nature journal. His eyeglasses perched lower on the bridge of his nose as he glanced between it and the open pages of a slim leather volume with which his pen was busy.

  Observe the curious tunnels and carvings placed upon the surface of a dead tree by its invaders: the insects come lately to devour the rotting timber beneath the shell of its bark. Such lines might be the hieroglyphs of ancient Egypt to the eye of one observer; or the tunnels seen by the honest farmer when his space overturns a patch of ground occupied by the worm. But the worm and crawling insect of these tunnels is quite different from the garden variety ...

  His pen paused in its progress; he pressed his fingers to his forehead, as if the words failed to appear when he needed them. Although, truth be told, it was not the image of the stump’s feast of nature which came to him, but the memory of Marianne Stuart turning away from him with such haste in his uncle’s shop.

  It was no surprise, he reasoned. Her family’s fortunes were on the rise; had not her sister gained an advantageous marriage with fortune and title, a transfer from gentry to peerage? Every reminder of such connections in comparison to his humbler ones would draw a line between their conditions–for as her family rose in the ranks they shared, his own father sank into obscurity. His uncle’s good fortune was marred by the subject of trade in the eyes of the peerage and gentry; not enough to earn him the respect he deserved in society as a man who possessed honest wealth and good character.

  Even a girl as strange to society’s conventions as Marianne was surely not immune to such conditions. Such an acquaintance would be deemed unworthy of her chances, to be in the company of a young man whose father possessed only a modest fortune–and another heir.