Page 25 of Tutoring a Lady into Sin
“Over there,” she whispered. “Please, take me toward the doorway.”
“Should I accompany you?” Phineas asked.
“You cannot,” she replied with a bit of a whimper. “Someone might notice.”
It was agonising to watch her walk out the door, knowing he could not be by her side. She moved stiffly as if by making one false movement, she might crumble into a thousand pieces. Phineas knew Christianna was not a frail woman. She had proven as much during their dance rehearsal this afternoon. If so inclined, she could jump, jig, and twirl for hours. So, he was confounded by her sudden drop in spirits and wished to race after her.
Phineas stood near the doorway for a full three minutes. He counted them out in his head. When no one approached him, and he was certain no one was looking in his direction, he hurried out of the ballroom and ran straight for the library.
He didn’t even bother to knock at the door, but barged right in to find Christianna precisely where he expected her to be, sitting on the window seat with the moonlight filtering in the window behind her, washing her in its pale aura and making her look even more exhausted.
“Lady Christianna,” he said as he shut the door firmly behind himself. He crossed the room as quickly as possible, then sunk to his knees right in front of her. “Tell me…”
“You cannot be here, Doctor Radcliff,” she hissed.
“Why not?” he prompted. “I could see you were in pain and—”
“But Lady Bianca will be looking all over for you. She extracted that promise out of you and….”
“It does not matter,” Phineas assured her. “I know you are in pain. Now tell me where it hurts.”
Christianna hesitated for just one second longer, then she lifted the hemline of her full skirts. She had worn a silk lavender-coloured gown this evening, and she had her petticoats on as well, but he could now see a pair of very petite, delicately crafted shoes on her feet.
“Here,” Phineas said as he leaned forward and placed his hand on her right foot. “Let me help you.” Carefully, using the gentlest of touches, he removed the brocade shoe and set it to the side. Christianna whimpered softly. “Does that hurt?” he asked and looked up to see her nod stiffly.
“It aches abominably. I think my toes were squashed and….” He reached out to touch the tip of her big toe, and she winced.
“Should we take off your stockings?” Phineas asked as he moved his hand to her heel and readied himself to do exactly that.
“No,” Christianna said quietly, yet forcefully. “I cannot show you my…”
“Of course not,” Phineas murmured. “I do not know what I was thinking, only that I wish to help you.” He paused and said in his most respectful tone. “But do allow me to remove your other shoe, at least.”
“Yes,” Christianna urged. “Please, please take it off.”
He had a little more trouble peeling away the left shoe, and even though she still wore her stockings, he could see that this foot was in even worse shape than the right. Near her smallest toe, there was a speck of blood. “Christianna,” he whispered as he reached out to run a careful hand over her arch, which was still cramped into a position as if it was stuck inside the shoe, “what have you done?”
“I…” she paused and sniffed. “I was feeling perfectly fine after our dancing this afternoon, and I wanted to try out my new court shoes. They are lovely and…”
Phineas gave the shoes a reproachful glare. “They might look nice but see what they have done to you.” He ran his thumb underneath her arch, rubbing at it, trying to get her foot to relax.
“I wanted to look my best,” Christianna replied. “Since I knew I was going to be lifting my skirts a little, I wanted to make sure my footwear was appealing.”
“Hang your footwear,” Phineas retorted hotly. “Men do not care about what you have on your feet. I assure you no one was looking at your shoes.”
“But—” Christianna began, “the cordwainer who made them said—”
“Do not speak to me of that blasted cordwainer,” Phineas interjected. He was not so much agitated with Christianna as he was peeved at the shoemaker himself. His hands travelled to the back of Christianna’s ankle, and he massaged the heel and her Achilles tendon. “I am sorry,” he said after a moment. “I do not mean to make you think I am displeased with you. It is just, in my profession, I see these sorts of injuries regularly.”
“You do?” Christianna questioned.
“But, of course,” he replied as he moved his fingers back toward the sides of her feet and gave them a slow, easy rubbing. “I cannot tell you how many cordwainers have done their patrons a disservice by making shoes that were too cramped. Not a day passes when some lady or even a gentleman calls for me, only to report that they are suffering from an injury related to their shoes.”
He gave a disgruntled shake of his head. “If it is not blisters on their heels, then it’s toenails which have been bent out of shape. Some have abrasions on the sides of their feet, and others complain of cramping that is so abominable….”
He stopped talking and looked up at her. “I do not mean to bore you by railing against the person who made your shoes. It is just that I feel very passionately that if a person pays the agreed-upon sum for the product, then they should get their money’s worth.”
“Do not apologise, Doctor Radcliff,” Christianna said quietly. “You are speaking from experience, which I find quite interesting. Go on, then. Tell me more about the evil shoemaker and how he makes products which are unfit to be worn.”
