* * *
Grant St. Benedict Garrick strolled into White’s and nodded at several surprised gentlemen.
“I say, Saint, giving up the sea, are you? Can’t imagine why, she’s probably a worthier mistress than mine!”
Chuckles met the comment. That particular rake was notorious for choosing the unlikeliest of mistresses, still Grant winced. Nothing had changed, more’s the pity.
Other members greeted him less warmly.
Try as he might to attend the attempts at conversation, his mind kept straying to Patience. He had not seen her for two days.
Since he’d sent her Madame Lambert’s direction only this morning, she would most likely be there about now. Had he purposely suggested that today would be perfect for her and the girls to visit the dressmaker?
He shrugged away the question. How easy it would be for him to walk by the shop, gaze in, ascertain everything was well, and continue on. But he wouldn’t. It was past time for him to allow her to go on with her life, while he went on with his.
Then why, he asked himself, did he make certain she would go to the dressmaker today. Because he was a fool.
He picked up the London Times in exasperation and found an article on the results of the embargo between America and England during Boney’s war. Ah, here was a subject worthy of his interest. As far as his trade with America was concerned, the embargo could have made or broken him.
He was glad the war had ended, finally, for more than monetary reasons. He might never have met Patience otherwise. What a scamp. Even if she needed his help choosing the girls’ wardrobes, that wasn’t his style. And Patience could handle it. Hell, she could handle anything.
He thought of the calling cards he’d printed for her this morning. He could hardly wait to give them to her. His typesetter just about had apoplexy when he walked in and said he wanted them printed immediately. It was a good thing he owned the shop. Rolling up his sleeves to set type and ink the press reminded him of when he’d apprenticed to learn the trade. He never invested in a trade unless he knew how to perform each task.
He folded his paper, placed it on the table.
In the way, he’d learned to sail.
He stood and walked through the club.
In the way he intended to learn to run his Massachusetts textile mill.
On the steps outside, he donned hat and gloves.
He could hardly wait to try his hand at spinning and weaving.
He sauntered down the street.
He would learn to run all the modern machinery that he and his partner would bring to Lowell.
He turned the corner.
The dyeing process, now that would be fascinating.
Grant stopped, surprised to find himself near Hyde Park, while he didn’t remember leaving the club. He shrugged. Oh well, Madame Lambert’s was just around the corner. He might as well walk that way.
His spirits lifted, he quickened his step.