Page 57 of The Lost Lord
“Smith.”
“Mrs. Smith,” Miriam started, “We represent a new export concern operating out of New York. We’ve a shipment of tobacco, cotton, and other fine goods arriving any day. As we’re working to establish ourselves in London, we are prepared to offer substantial discounts on our goods if you were to purchase ahead of their imminent arrival.”
Mrs. Smith cocked her head. Hair a mousy brown streaked with gray pinned up in a topknot. “But you haven’t any goods to sell us now.”
“They are on their way,” Richard said reassuringly.
“Yet as of now, you have nothing,” the lady sniffed. She turned her back to them and began rearranging jars on the shelves behind the counter. “Assuming your shipment arrives and clears the exchequer, you’ll find the discount less inviting, I wager. How am I to know you won’t sell to the highest bidder?”
Mrs. Smith cast a hard look at the man who had entertained their pitch for a quarter-hour, to no avail. Miriam nodded to the door and mouthed,let’s go.
Outside, Richard exhaled his frustration. “Between the overpriced warehouse and the lack of interest from buyers, it’s beginning to seem as if this venture is doomed.”
No wonder. If he was involved, the situation was bound to go south. Richard kept an achingly small distance between him and Miriam. Or, perhaps, she kept her distance from him.
“If making money were easy, everyone would attempt it,” Miriam replied briskly. Yet her shoulders sagged as the warm sun beat down from above. Suddenly, she halted and grabbed him by the arm. “Do you see that?”
“What about it?” Richard echoed, testily, staring at a billboard that readWhat About Gliddon’s? He could not fail at this. Howard depended upon him. Livingston, his almost-father-in-law depended upon him. Richard needed this shipping venture to work if he wanted to avoid hating the man he saw in the mirror each morning. If it failed, he might as well go back to drinking and rutting his way through life. Richard mentally batted away despair. He hadn’t expected selling quality goods to be this hard, but he would persevere.
“This handbill says the coffee house opened in February. Are they popular?” Miriam asked.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here in February,” Richard reminded his wife in name only. Miriam cast him an exasperated sidelong glance. Richard suppressed his frustration and examined the old poster pasted to the side of the Smith’s storefront. It read,Visit Gliddon’s Cigar Divan. Offering Fine Tobacco in 42 King Street beginning 8 February, 1825. “Ah. I see what you’re getting at, Miri. After the Peninsular Wars, cigars have become a popular vice.”
“Have you ever tried them?” Miriam asked softly, staring at the poster.
“Of course. However, when my income declined abruptly, I decided I didn’t care enough for tobacco to prioritize wasting money on it.”
“Very wise,” Miriam observed with cautious approval. A swirl of warmth that had nothing to do with the early September afternoon swirled through him. Yet Miriam’s stiff spine told him not to touch. She continued to keep a physical distance between them that invited no familiar touches. The brief squeeze of his hand had not been repeated. Richard missed Miriam’s teasing invitations to kiss her. He yearned for the light brushes of her hand against his, tiny temptations that he’d refused to indulge when he had the chance.
He was ever and always the greatest of fools.
“Shall we try them?” he asked through a throat choked with regret. He raised his hand to her elbow. Miriam turned away on her heel.
“We must offload our tobacco shipment one way or another,” she replied briskly, signaling to an exasperated Mrs. Kent to follow her back to the carriage.
“We could light it on fire,” Richard observed acerbically to cover his disappointment.
“How would that help?” Miriam tossed over her shoulder. “We will have had to pay wages to the captain and the crew. Howard will have lost the use of his best ship for months. No, Richard, we must see this through. My idea of bypassing the warehouses hasn’t worked out. Yet the city is practically aflame with tobacco smoke. I have seenchildrensmoking from these little pipes.” She marched down the busy street.
Richard didn’t have the heart to tell her about the source of the cotton they had yet to attempt selling. Cotton could be stored for long periods without spoiling. Selling their tobacco would give them a quick profit to get off the ground—if they could find a buyer.
“There is a certain irony in a young woman with weak lungs going about town looking to sell tobacco,” Mrs. Kent observed grumpily. “When she ought to be visiting elegant castles. Or dancing.”
“Have you been to a London ball, Mrs. Kent?” Richard asked.
“You know full well I have not, Mr. Northcote.” Ever since Lizzie’s appearance on theNew Hopeshe had reverted to omitting his title. “Our first excursion isn’t until next week.”
“Prepare to be shocked by the ratio of dancing to gossip,” Richard offered. “I am of half a mind to send you to Windsor tomorrow and let me and Miriam attend to this business of finding buyers ourselves.”
“I am of half a mind to permit it,” Mrs. Kent replied sharply.
“Do it,” Miriam insisted. “Mrs. Kent. You deserve a holiday. I promised you castles, and castles you shall have.”
The woman hesitated. “Leaving you to approach coffee housing cigar divans is possibly the stupidest thing I could do. What if you have an attack?”
“I know how to treat her,” Richard said. “Miriam will be safe with me.”
“How do I know this isn’t part of your plot to get her money for Lizzie?” Mrs. Kent demanded.
