Seventeen
‘Over ‘ere.’ Hawkins’ impatient words broke across the night air, a well-timed command to mingle with the felonious commerce abounding in the King Street rookery. Southampton was a far cry from London but distance did little to dampen the prosperity of prostitutes, street sellers and thieves. Hawkins, no exception, an adept smuggler in particular, waited for an answer.
‘Aye.’ Gulliver’s blunt reply joined the darkness beneath a dilapidated awning, the wood rotted away to leave a skeletal frame of exposed gutter and drain, a discernible landmark in the moonlight even for a low-cunning simpleton like Gulliver Booth, a petty criminal with unremarkable intelligence.
‘‘Ave you got the ready?’ Hawkins retreated until his shoulders brushed the dirt-besmeared bricks of the squalid lodging house in guarantee his identity remained cloaked. Gulliver knew him from past business, but while uppers would dare not make eye contact with the seedy sort found in the rookery, the inhabitants who lined the decaying foundations and blind alleys possessed the innate ability to observe all with a flick of the eyes. Information was sold for coin, no loyalty existed. Aware he could meld no further, Hawkins watched Gulliver pull a face as if his question had insulted the thief’s reputation.
‘O’course, Gov, ‘ere it is.’ A shadow of an arm thrust a pale paper forward, the moonlight a poor lamp to judge whether or not the content proved authentic: detailed instructions to their next smuggling operation. As with most thieves, time was the enemy, and Hawkins had no choice but to trust his associate. The notion soured his stomach like loathsome rot; still he pushed the paper into his pocket and whistled his dismissal, the sharp sound common among the noisy colony of illicit dwellers.
Then the two men parted, the plan begun.
Lavinia Montgomery paused in front of the rectangular pier glass, keen focus at her feet where her maid tied the delicate ankle ribbons of the slippers in question before moving aside to provide a clear reflection. Lavinia angled her right foot with a sigh of sublime satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Dinah.’ Smiling at her maid, she glanced over her shoulder to confer with Esme, her friend and fellow conspirator in fashion, at least within the walls of Lott’s Majestic Shoe Shop. The ladies frequented the establishment often and were tended with the most preferential service, which elevated the experience from delightful to grand, and ensured they would visit again soon.
‘I adore them. They’re perfect.’ Lavinia – Livie to her friends – slanted the heel and examined the orchid silk where swirls of pristine embroidery patterned a miniature fleur-de-lis in black satin thread. ‘I’ve never seen such clever design. I must have them.’
‘You claimed the very same last Tuesday when you tried the brown cordwain half-boots and then again on Thursday when you purchased the ivory silk slippers with satin rosettes,’ Esme reminded her with melodic amusement.
‘I did, I know. At that time, I’d never seen such fine detail, but these…’ – she wiggled her toe in a flurry to emphasise her declaration – ‘…are too exquisite to ignore.’
With a nod, Dinah scrambled to gather the box, deftly intercepted by Mr Horne, the shoemaker and shopkeeper, who beamed with a perceptive glint in his eyes in anticipation of the expensive purchase.
Esme sidled closer, her whispered comment for Livie’s ear only. ‘You own nearly seventy pair.’
The note of alarm in her friend’s voice provoked Livie’s quick smile. ‘Bite your tongue – that’s a barefaced exaggeration. Last time I counted I had fifty-two and no more.’
‘When was the last time you counted? I’d wager it’s been some time. Boxing Day, perhaps?’
‘Don’t trifle with details, Esme. No one enjoys the company of a know-it-all.’ With a dismissive swish of skirts, Livie bent to untie the ribbons and return the coveted shoes to the box. She had every intention of bringing them home, her friend’s disapproval dismissed as easily as she righted her spectacles. ‘Besides, if I knew the exact number of pairs, it would be proof I didn’t have nearly enough.’
‘Your sister will not be pleased. Wilhelmina will insist the last thing you need is another set of slippers. She already complains you have too many, which you do.’ Esme’s provocative objection rose with emphatic declaration.
‘You’re supposed to be my ally. Have I ever commented on your obsession with earbobs? Even once?’ She pinned her friend with an accusatory stare and tapped a fingertip against the elegant gold swirl dangling from Esme’s left lobe before gathering her reticule from a nearby chair. ‘My sister has no eye for fashion, wrapped tightly in a blanket of practicality. How easily she forgets she’s married to an earl and can afford the most opulent wardrobe.’
‘Especially when you remind her so often. I suppose she reflects on your past more than the present.’ The conversation took a decided turn.
‘Oh, I do as well. Be assured.’ Livie glanced at her feet as her teeth hemmed across her lower lip in contemplation of a dozen serious thoughts in the expanse of one exhale. ‘How could I not?’ The question needed no answer, the emotion in her voice adequate explanation. ‘I spent over a year staring at my feet, willing them to support my legs and cooperate so I might walk again, relearn to dance and ride, and experience life without pain. I’ve made every promise and said every prayer, if only to secure my future and stand strong as a debutante. I’ll forever reward my feet with new shoes. It’s the least I can do to repay the debt.’ She paused and managed half a smile. ‘I shall celebrate my accomplishment with silks and satins, ribbons and gemstones. So much time has already been wasted.’
‘I agree. You’ve worked inordinately hard to land on your feet. Shoes and boots are a fitting resolution.’ Disarmed, Esme strove to restore the convivial mood. ‘Don’t forget your sister is planning for you the grandest come-out London has ever seen. Imagine the slippers you’ll wear that evening.’
‘You
