The Heart Of A Bluestocking

By Renee Dahlia

When an uncommon lawyer meets an unusual doctor, their story must be extraordinary...

September 1888: Dr Claire Carlingford owns the bluestocking label. Her tycoon father encouraged her to study, and with the support of her two best friends, she took it further than anyone could imagine, graduating as a doctor and running her own medical practice. But it's not enough for her father. He wants her to take over the business, so he can retire. Then his sudden arrest throws the family into chaos and his business into peril.

Mr James Ravi Howick, second son of Lord Dalhinge, wants to use his position as a lawyer to improve conditions for his mother's family in India. When an opportunity arises to work for Carlingford Enterprises, one of the richest companies in the world, Ravi leaps at the chance to open his own legal practise. But his employment becomes personal as he spends more time with Claire and she learns the secret that could destroy his family.

Both Ravi and Claire are used to being outsiders and alone. But as they work together to save their respective families from disaster, it becomes clear that these two misfits might just fit together perfectly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781489264626

Renee Dahlia

Renee Dahlia is an unabashed romance reader who loves feisty women and strong, clever men. Her books reflect this, with a side-note of dark humour. Renee has a science degree in physics. When not distracted by the characters fighting for attention in her brain, she works in the horse racing industry doing data analysis. She writes for two racing publications, churning out feature articles, interviews and advertorials. When she isn't reading or writing, Renee wrangles a partner, four children, and volunteers at the local cricket club committee. If you'd like to know more about me, my books, or to connect with me online, you can visit my webpage www.reneedahlia.com, follow me on twitter, or like my Facebook page. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

September 1888

Start of Autumn

‘No,’ Claire said emphatically. ‘I don’t owe you my time.’ She lifted her chin a fraction and glared at her father. He stared back with those astute eyes. Even as he approached his sixtieth birthday, he still retained all the qualities that had made him into a captain of industry.

‘I paid for you to become a doctor to give you gravitas. Not for you to work in the slums of London, trying to heal people who can’t be healed.’

‘My work is important.’

‘Not as important as this. You need to learn the businesses, to understand the people.’

‘I’m learning plenty about people while I treat the poorest souls in London—’ She took a deep breath, ‘—and, might I add, I also have a practice for wealthy people that earns me an independent income. When people are in pain, rich or poor, they aren’t very different.’

‘I concede that you might gain some recognition of the grasping nature of humans. But you’ve done enough time there.’ Claire scoffed under her breath—since when was less than a year ‘enough time’?

Father continued. ‘I need you to work for me. It is time for you to take over.’ Claire didn’t bother to hide her impatience with the subject as they argued, again, about her role as his likely successor. Carlingford Enterprises—her father’s business that covered several industries across Europe and the Americas—required a leader that the world would accept. Maybe in a decade or two, their clients might be ready to accept her. Maybe in a decade, she might be ready for that fight. Not now. She swallowed. She had only graduated as a doctor earlier this year from the Municipal University of Amsterdam, and was just finding her feet, juggling her two medical practices. She wasn’t ready for this challenge of his, maybe she would never be. Besides, they wouldn’t be having this argument if …

‘You can only have this argument because I set you on this path,’ he said, one step ahead of her as usual.

‘I need more time on this path. What is the rush?’ She shrugged, lightly. An act of contrition under fire. Father’s eyes narrowed. The lines on his face showed his age.

‘I’ve waited long enough. I need to know that the future is secure,’ he said. His eyes darted to the side and back to her so quickly, she wondered if she’d imagined it. There must be more to his recent push for her to get more involved with Carlingford Enterprises.

‘What about my brother?’ she said. His grey moustache quivered. Faint patches of colour flooded his cheeks. She raised one eyebrow deliberately, as if the sign that his rage was about to explode didn’t matter to her. Her fingers knew otherwise, rubbing the fabric of her skirt between them. An old habit, the texture of the fabric against her skin soothed the anticipation that beat in her chest; a little too fast.

‘Him!’ He exhaled the word with a force that made Claire want to step backwards. She tensed her legs to stay still. And then, the old script changed. Her father laughed. A cynical, mean laugh. ‘That silly fool. He doesn’t have a head for business. Wilberforce—my God, I should never have agreed to that name! He wastes his brain, floating around society and reading poetry. If he were more like young Mr Thackery, I’d consider him.’

Claire grimaced, suppressing a shudder at Mr Thackery’s name. He’d come from nowhere, using his slimy charm to work his way up the chain of command in the business.

‘Wil has written some great advertisements for the brewery,’ said Claire defensively. Her father’s head twitched, an almost nod of agreement, as she interrupted his spiel.

‘I said he has a good brain. Just that he should focus more on the right type of task. I will never give this opportunity to a wastrel.’

Claire clamped her lips shut and stared back at her father. He shook his head with his nostrils flared, and the air shimmered as he wound up to let his temper loose. Mr Carlingford thumped his desk with his fist as he thundered. ‘You are my only hope. The only one with any sense. The only one that I can trust with what I’ve built.’ He paused for a short breath, then stared at her. ‘It’s such a shame you were born a girl. God knows, if you’d been a boy, we’d already have conquered the world.’

For a second, Claire wanted to slump down. To hear those words from her father—her champion—was a slap in the face. However, she was made of sterner stuff than that. She sucked in a hot breath and squared her shoulders.

‘Father. We will conquer the world,’ she said tightly. He almost smiled, as much as a businessman’s poker face can smile during a negotiation. ‘On my terms.’ She completed the sentence tersely, scanning his face for every tell.

‘What would they be?’ he said. His face closed, expressionless. One side of his mouth shifted slightly under his robust moustache. She paused to deliberately let the silence grow. This would be her best opportunity to finish this argument for all time. How could she play for more time, maybe not a full decade, but at least five years? She needed time to learn, to grow up. Gosh, she was only twenty-seven. An old maid, by society’s standard, but too young to run such a substantial business. And that was without the challenges of doing this as a woman. She swallowed back a sigh. The whole idea had a touch of absurdity—she couldn’t even vote, and he expected her to step in and run everything. If he wasn’t so serious in his belief in her capabilities, she’d think she was stuck in one of those comic tragedies that her brother, Wil, loved to watch at the theatre. Her father raised his eyebrows, and she opened her mouth to start the negotiation.

The door flew open. It slammed into the wall with a thud, and two suited men burst in followed by their butler, Clemton. Claire whirled on the spot, her gaze shifting rapidly between her father and the newcomers. Clemton’s face was pinched in a frown, and he held his hands clasped in front of him.

‘Mr Carlingford. I apprehend you for the crime of fraud,’ said one of the suited men. Claire’s father stood up taller. Rigid. His bushy eyebrows pressed together as he glanced between the two men. The other man walked behind her father’s desk and grabbed his hands. He wrenched them into a pair of handcuffs. Claire’s heart stopped. Her breath slammed into her throat.

‘Is this necessary?’ she asked with a squeak in her voice.

‘Scotland Yard living up to their brutal reputation as usual,’ said her father, in taut, yet civil tones, with the sparkle back in his eye. The corner of his eye twitched, nearly a wink, and Claire bit her bottom lip to see his subtle humour under pressure. No matter their prior ongoing argument, she would do anything for him. Her champion. The man who’d told her that she could get the same education as her brother. That she might have to work ten times as hard to get the same outcome as him, but that she was more than capable of doing it. His words ‘if anyone can do this, it’s you’ had kept her company in many of her hardest days.

‘There is no need to be uncivil, Mister,’ she said, turning slowly to face the officer who had spoken. She held out her hand, palm up, to the policeman in his mediocre suit. ‘Presumably, you have some paperwork to demonstrate the necessity of your impolite behaviour.’

‘Officer Wedsley of the Criminal Investigation Department,’ he said. He handed her a crumpled piece of paper with smudged ink. ‘This will be easier all round if Mr Carlingford would surrender himself to the law.’ Claire’s father’s face stayed stern and unmoved until he gave an infinitesimal nod in her direction. She clenched her jaw to abide by that instruction to remain silent, and watched the officers haul her father away.

As he walked past her, his head held high and his back straight, he whispered, ‘Get an independent lawyer. Someone good. Someone new.’ That last word resonated in the room with an urgency that swept over Claire’s skin like a sharp blast of winter sleet. Did that mean there was an enemy within the business? Is that why he wanted her to take over so soon? Her eyes widened as she sat, perched on the edge of a chair, possibilities rattling in her head. Who would benefit from her father’s removal from Carlingford Enterprises?

‘Excuse me.’ The clipped tones of her father’s butler, Clemton, made her shift in the chair. He stood beside the door with an expectant look on his face. She cleared her throat and stood up. ‘My apologies. I tried to stop them.’

‘I’m sure they made it impossible for you,’ she said. Clemton bowed his head. ‘The question becomes not so much about what you could have changed, but what we should do now?’

‘You must follow him to the Yard. Take two of the footmen with you.’

***

‘Dr Carlingford.’ Her butler, Clemton Snr, now retired from her father’s house where his son had taken over his reins, spoke in his typical reserved tone. She sat up straight and rubbed underneath her eyes as she dragged herself back into the world. ‘A visitor is here.’ Claire glanced at the clock. Time for elevenses. How could it be so late in the morning already? She’d spent a fruitless evening at Scotland Yard, then a restless night before coming into the drawing room to collect her thoughts. She rolled her head on her shoulders. Her neck made three loud cracking sounds that eased the odd pull in the base of her skull. ‘I believe it is Lady St. George,’ said Clemton Snr.

‘Thank you, Clemton. Send her in.’ Clemton Snr retreated from the room, and Josephine marched through the door in a swirl of dark blue, aniline dyed fabric. The sharp lines of the dress suited Josephine’s tall stature, with just enough decorative lace to soften the military style that was currently in vogue.

‘What are you doing here?’ said Claire. She stared blankly at Josephine through the haze of exhaustion, briefly rubbing the corner of her eyes.

‘We arranged this weeks ago. You know, lunch without the men,’ said Josephine. Claire blinked. ‘Marie will be here soon, and I have news.’

‘What news?’ called Marie from the hallway. Claire stood up as Marie waddled into the room with more energy than Claire expected to see, given the size of her pregnant stomach. ‘It’s the dress, isn’t it? I see Nicholas has managed to get you to embrace the latest in fashions,’ Marie concluded.

‘That’s Claire’s line,’ said Josephine with a smile. She sat on the chaise lounge and waved at Marie to join her. Claire swallowed back a yawn. She stood up slowly, let out a slow breath, and schooled her features into a pleasant smile.

‘Please, make yourselves welcome,’ she said to her friends with a wide, fake grin. She could always sleep later. Time spent with friends and their news trumped Father’s situation. She walked to the door of the drawing room and called out to Clemton Snr to arrange tea. The elderly butler ran her own smaller house with an aplomb that she admired. She turned back to see her two friends whispering together on the chaise lounge.

‘How is the pregnancy, Marie?’ she said. She sat opposite her friends in an antique Fauteuil armchair.

‘Fine. I’m holding up well at this stage.’

‘Two months to go?’

‘Yes. And then the worst part,’ said Marie. Claire saw the frown flash on Josephine’s face. She shared a look of worry with Josephine, whose mother had died in childbirth. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll be following Lister’s processes for hygiene. Plus, I have two brilliant doctors as my best friends to guide me through the process.’

‘As to that, I have some news,’ started Josephine. ‘I am branching out into veterinary medicine.’

‘Horses, not people?’ asked Marie.

‘Yes. I’ve had the most fascinating discussions with Nicholas’s trainer about how to improve his athletes.’

‘And horses don’t talk back,’ said Claire. Marie shot her an annoyed glance as Josephine looked downwards. When would she learn to hold her tongue? Mother always told her that her mannish tongue would get her into trouble, and here she was, using it against her best friends. She sighed, her tired shoulders sagging, wanting to apologise, but couldn’t pull anything from her tired brain.

‘I’m surprised that Gordon agreed to you coming into the city, Marie,’ said Josephine. Claire closed her eyes at the change of subject and the tiny snub. She deserved that. She hunted for something funny to say, but her exhausted brain could only produce snark. She clenched her teeth and looked away.

‘He doesn’t like it. The pea-soup air is bad for me and the baby. I know he’s right, but I had to visit Dr Jacobs to organise the next year. And I’m not going to miss seeing you two while I’m here. It’s only a short train ride. I’ll be back in the fresh country air soon enough,’ said Marie.

‘Next time, we should meet at yours,’ said Claire. Her friends both stared at her for a second then laughed.

‘Claire, my dear. You know that we meet at your place because you never have the time to visit us. I know you forgot about today’s visit,’ said Josephine. Claire instinctively squared her shoulders and opened her mouth to deny it. She’d been to Josephine’s country manor once, but clamped her lips shut before she verbalised the excuse.

‘What’s the matter, Claire? I’ve never seen you quite so jittery,’ said Marie. Claire pressed her heels into the floor. Perhaps her leg had been jiggling through this conversation.

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Mr Nothing?’ laughed Marie. Claire rolled her eyes. She continually had to ward off fortune hunters. One, Mr Thackery, had managed to work his charms on Mother, whose only goal was to get her married off for status. She blinked slowly. After years of being dragged in front of surly old Dukes, Mother seemed to have changed tack with Mr Thackery. Was it because of his sudden rise within Carlingford Enterprises? Last week, Mother invited him to dinner and presented Claire with a dress for the occasion, a soft pearl and ivory dress with pink ribbons. She’d traced the gorgeous dress with her fingertips. For all her faults, her mother did have marvellous taste—just not in potential husbands. To thwart Mother, she’d worn a House of Worth dress in vibrant green with black and purple embroidered flowers. A dress that said, I’m bold, don’t mess with me. Mother had apologised profusely for her lack of feminine graces, while Mr Thackery purred nonsense.

‘It’s just a family thing. No big deal,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. She shoved all thoughts of Mother and her ambitions aside to focus on her current, real problem. Father’s arrest.

‘Family,’ said Marie, rolling her eyes. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s the nicest thing about being married. I’ve created my own family—just Gordon, me, and this little one.’ She patted her stomach. ‘My parents, bless them, are at arm’s length.’

‘And in a different country,’ laughed Josephine.

Marie nodded. ‘That certainly helps.’ The banter relaxed Claire’s shoulders and she stretched her neck from side to side.

‘Are you certain it’s not a big deal? You look rather unsettled,’ said Marie.

‘And tired. Are you sleeping well?’ asked Josephine.

Their concern slammed into her core. She hunched her shoulders over and dropped her head to stare at the plush carpet. She dashed away a single tear with the back of her hand.

‘I never cry,’ she mumbled. Her friends stared at her with widened eyes. ‘I’ve just been working too hard. I’m tired that’s all.’

‘Are you sure that’s it?’ asked Josephine. Claire shifted in the seat and tried to ignore the continued unease swirling inside.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said.

Marie rubbed her arm. ‘We are here for you, Claire. That’s what you told me before my wedding. We are friends, we will survive this together,’ said Marie.

‘Father has been arrested,’ she blurted, then breathed out in relief, grateful for friendship. ‘I spent all of last night at Scotland Yard trying to figure out what is happening.’ Her friends gasped. ‘They wouldn’t give me any information without a lawyer.’

‘I hate to say it, but that is the process,’ said Josephine.

Claire narrowed her eyes.

‘Always pragmatic,’ giggled Marie. ‘Be honest, Claire, how hard did you push them for answers?’

‘Was I supposed to just go away and leave him there without any answers?’ She waved her hands in the air, and shrugged her shoulders.

‘No, of course not. But we know you, and I’m just saying there are ways to find answers that don’t rely on bashing your head against an immovable process,’ said Josephine.

Claire hmphed. ‘They wouldn’t let me talk to Father either, so the whole night was a waste of time.’ The three friends paused, and the silence seemed to fill the room with a heavy air. Claire pressed her fingers into her temple as a new ache began. ‘Before he was dragged away, he told me to get a ‘new’ lawyer.’

‘New?’ parroted both her friends. Claire shrugged.

‘What use is a young lawyer? Don’t you want someone experienced?’ asked Marie.

‘The business employs many lawyers already in a range of different tasks. I guess what he meant was that I should find a lawyer he hasn’t used before.’

‘How will you find one that meets that criteria?’

‘I’m not sure. I mean, we already use most of the best firms in London …’ Claire paused, her gaze flicking around the drawing room. The comfortable surroundings were at odds with the numbness in her brain as the remnants of her energy focused on getting her father out of his uncomfortable cell.

‘We will ask. Between us, we must be able to find someone suitable,’ said Josephine.

Chapter 2

Claire paced along Chancery Lane beside her trusted footman Higgins who carried her doctor’s satchel in one hand. They strode past the red brick three-storey buildings with solemn facades that announced the severity of the legal professionals inside, and Claire scrunched Josephine’s note in her fist as she swung her arms with an unladylike vigour. If she could convince a lawyer to take this case quickly, she could get back to her patients and her life. She cared too much about her father to outsource his case completely. Hopefully, Lord Walstone’s suggested firm would provide an answer that settled her life back into shape. She paused and straightened out the note to peer once again at the address she already knew by heart.

‘Damn these buildings for not having numbers,’ she said. Higgins merely nodded, accustomed to her outbursts.

‘A numerical system would be a more logical method for navigation,’ he offered, and she laughed.

‘Better than this quirky list of building names as reference.’ They were only a few miles from the slums of the East End where she ran her medical charity three days a week, and the solid old brick buildings were a strong contrast to the messy, smelly, narrow laneways of Whitechapel. Higgins, along with two other footmen, were her constant companions as she went about her business. It simply wasn’t safe to be a lone female in London, even in the wealthy sectors. Her loyal footmen were most needed when she went to her charity, especially now Jack the Ripper had everyone talking.

The air here was the same as everywhere, thick with London’s industrial coal-stoked stench, and Claire kept her breath shallow to avoid the worst of it. She strode determinedly on until she came across a grey stone building set back from the street with no brass at all. It was the height of arrogance to not bother with signage. She double checked her note.

‘This must be the one. Josephine said that it hangs back from the street as if too superior to coexist with the other lawyer’s offices on the street.’ Her comment brought a quiet chuckle from Higgins. Initially, she had laughed at Josephine’s comment too, but now she stood before the seven stone steps to the imposing front door, her laughter caught in her throat. She glanced back and forth along the street, swallowed down the scratchy lump, before marching up the steps. She pushed through the front door at Woodleyville Snr and Partners into a quiet, luxurious reception room. A neatly attired clerk stood up.

‘Can I help?’ he said.

‘Yes. Lord Walstone has given me a referral to see the Honourable Mr Woodleyville,’ she said.

‘Please take a seat. I will see if he is available,’ he said, not bothering to ask her name, presumably deferring to the mention of Josephine’s father, just as she’d planned. She took the few steps to the offered seat and sat elegantly. Higgins stood to attention beside her. The edge of her upper lip kicked upwards at the irony of the situation. Woodleyville Snr had previously rejected the prospect of working for Carlingford Enterprises, therefore making his firm the perfect one for this job. She wanted a firm with no connection to the business, and this one preferred an ancient client list of titled gentlemen over the nouveau riche of the industrial age. She raised her chin and mentally prepared for the argument ahead.

After holding herself tense for several moments, nothing happened. She started to look around the room. The clerk’s oak desk dominated the room, his work hidden behind a tall panel, while bookshelves lined one wall. A collection of matching green chenille upholstered seats lined the front windows. Claire stood up to examine the bookshelf, and perused the collection of books, each apparently chosen to highlight to gravitas of Woodleyville and Sons, judging by some of the titles such as Full and Accurate Report of the Proceedings in