Page 17 of The Secret Word
It was, of course. It became more important every time he met with Clementine Wright. Only because it mattered to her father, but that was everything, for he had little doubt that Clem would marry the man her father chose for her. More and more, Chris wanted that man to be him.
That was why, when Mr. David told him the lump sum, which would halve his bank deposits, he gulped and agreed. Better to deplete his bank account than to owe Billy yet another favor.
At least the Pettingers were far cheaper than their Bond Street counterparts. Chris thanked them all for his dinner and their professional services, and went home to bed.
The following morning, when he went to confirm his waistcoat fabric selection, they had ready for him everything he needed to turn him out as a gentleman of fashion for his afternoon drive. Even a waistcoat in stripes of cream, green, and maroon.
“This,” said Mr. David, “is the mercer we usually work with. He has a selection of cravats and stockings for you, Mr. Satterthwaite, and can also supply shirts of a finer quality than those you currently wear.”
Chris was almost afraid to ask how much this would add to his bill, but the sum was reasonable. “We do not pay Bond Street rentals, Mr. Satterthwaite,” Mr. Pettinger senior explained, “nordo we have to charge our solvent customers to cover the expense of those who think we should be delighted to dress them for free. Our clients are businesspeople like ourselves, and know the value of the work that we do. We have very few unpaid bills.”
On the strength of that, Chris ordered a dozen shirts and—at Mr. David’s insistence—twenty cravats.
Encouraged by the mercer, the three Pettinger brothers and Mr. Pettinger senior, Chris dressed for his driving lesson and his afternoon engagement in all his new finery. Mr. Thomas was good enough to arrange his cravat, while explaining each step as he folded it, put it on, tied it, and arranged it. How fashionable gentlemen ever had time to get anything done was beyond him.
The Pettingers clucked over his inability to produce a cravat pin, and Mr. David insisted on providing one—a little gold bird with chips of garnet for eyes. “Not an expensive item, Mr. Satterthwaite, but charming. And the garnet reflects the subtle red stripes in the waistcoat.”
“Very nice, Mr. Satterthwaite,” said Mr. Pettinger senior.
The reflection in the Pettingers’ mirror agreed with him. It showed a Christopher Satterthwaite who was recognizable but not the same. More assured. More elegant. More aristocratic.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Chris said. “I am amazed.”
“We are not amazed, Mr. Satterthwaite,” said Mr. Stephen. “You were already a gentleman. We merely provided the clothing that made it obvious.”
Chris was not so certain. The son and grandson of villains raised in a gambling den? A gentleman? If he was accepted as one because of his clothing, did that make it true?
Perhaps it didn’t matter. After all, while working for Billy, he’d met any number of men who were highly regarded in Society but whose behavior out of the public eye was hardly gentlemanly.
Another—more important—thought occurred as he donned his new hat and made his way out into the street, because for what other reason was he amassing this new wardrobe and expenses: What would Clem think of his new look?
*
Clem was lookingout the parlor window and saw Chris arrive. And Mr. Bagshaw, of course, but it was Chris who was driving and Chris who, as always, caught her eye. He drew the horses up in front of the house and sat a moment longer, saying something to Mr. Bagshaw as he handed over the reins.
There was something different about Chris today. He looked more put-together, somehow. Wealthier. More aristocratic. Perhaps it was the hat. He had been wearing a softer lower hat each time she’d seen him before, but today he wore the same kind of hat as Mr. Bagshaw—one of those brimmed hats with high straight sides and a flat top.
He was standing in the front hall holding it in his gloved hands when she emerged from the parlor. “Good afternoon, Mr. Satterthwaite.”
Formal names in front of the servants, and in a way, that pleased her. Calling him “Chris”—having him call her “Clem”—felt like a delicious secret that only the two of them shared.
He appeared to be amused by it, for his eyes danced as he said, “Good afternoon, Miss Wright.”
Mr. Bagshaw repeated the greeting when Chris escorted her outside. “Good afternoon, Miss Wright. I enjoyed our dance yesterday evening.”
“Good day, Mr. Bagshaw. I enjoyed it, too.” Even if she did wish that her partner had been Chris.
Chris was glowering at his friend. “You didn’t tell me that you danced with Miss Wright.”
Mr. Bagshaw grinned. “No need to be jealous, Satterthwaite. I was there. She was there. We danced.”
Was Chris jealous? Clem should not be so pleased about the possibility, but she could not deny the thrill it gave her to see him put out on this matter.
“If you attend a ball I am attending, I will dance with you, too,” she informed him.
“There you go, Satterthwaite,” Mr. Bagshaw said cheerfully. “What affairs do you attend tonight, Miss Wright? If I have an invitation to it, I’ll undertake to get Satterthwaite along.”
“I’ve nothing this evening, Mr. Bagshaw, but I shall be at the Hartford ball tomorrow evening.” She slid her eyes sideways to see how Chris was responding to Mr. Bagshaw’s machinations.
