Louise M Gouge Page 3

  “Why, yes.” More chuckles. “Ladies generally shop in the morning before the gentlemen and the lower classes take over the shopping district.”

  “Ah. I see. How interesting.” In the village near Melton Gardens, Beatrice shopped whenever the mood struck her. Or rather, whenever she managed to set aside a few coins for her own needs. “But surely you know I am without resources.”

  “Why, my dear girl, you are my employee. Have you noticed my servants’ fine purple livery? Do you think I brought you to London to follow me about wearing tatters?” She took a sip of tea and another bite of her French pastry. “Indeed not. I shall provide a wardrobe for you to suit every occasion.”

  Beatrice avoided looking down at her gown, a faded, much-mended orange chintz. Should Lord Greystone happen to see her dressed so meanly, she would never live down the shame. But why should she care what he thought when he clearly held her in no regard? Still, her eyes stung with unshed tears over her miserable situation. “I thank you, madam. You are too kind. But what of your children? Will they not resent your spending their inheritance on me?”

  “Ha. They have more than enough.” She leaned toward Beatrice and winked. “More than enough and to spare. Furthermore there is no entail on my property, so I can spend as I please. And this afternoon I shall show you one place where I am very pleased to spend it.”

  Beatrice’s heart leaped. “St. Ann’s?”

  The lady beamed. “St. Ann’s.”

  “Oh, how wonderful. I have longed for this day.”

  “More than for a ball?” Mrs. Parton’s eyes twinkled with kindness.

  “Well,” Beatrice drawled, “at least as much as for a ball.” Indeed she had always looked forward to being involved with St. Ann’s, Mama’s favorite charity. She would concentrate on that worthy cause, not on some unreasonable peer who happened to live in the town house next door. Besides, she had no doubt such a gentleman would prove as distant and neglectful a husband and father as Papa had been. Despite his obvious admiration last night, she could expect nothing more from him.

  On the other hand, Mrs. Parton’s promise of a new wardrobe was far more than Beatrice had expected. She was, after all, the lady’s hired companion and now had no claim to pride or vanity of any sort. But in less than an hour she found herself in a pretty little dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street, where the delicate scent of rosewater filled the air.

  The modiste fluttered around Beatrice like a butterfly, not at all put off by her plain country clothing. “Mais non, mademoiselle. Ze orange is not for you.” The brown-haired woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, cast a quick glance at Mrs. Parton. “For madam, of course, eet ees perfection. But mademoiselle must have ze blue, ze pink and perhaps even ze pale green to enhance her flawless complexion and beautiful eyes.”

  Beatrice did not care for Giselle’s excessive flattery, but she did admire the woman’s skill, which was exhibited in lovely gowns draped over molded female forms. Beatrice longed to try on one of the exquisite dresses. Not since before Mama died had she worn such beautiful clothes, for Papa had never given her wardrobe the slightest consideration.

  “Do you not think so, Miss Gregory?” Mrs. Parton’s question interrupted Beatrice’s dark musings.

  “What? Oh, yes, I am certain—” She had no idea to what she was agreeing. “Forgive me. I was admiring this lovely gown.” She fingered the delicate lace edging on the low-cut green bodice of a dress on display. Without doubt, this style would demand a fichu. Her hand involuntarily went to her neckline. While her dress might be old and an unflattering color, at least it was modest.

  “Then you must have one just like it, but in pink sprigged muslin. Giselle, write it down.” Mrs. Parton wagged a finger toward the modiste’s growing list. “But for now, for this afternoon, you must have something to wear. Giselle has this blue already made.” She took a walking gown from the modiste’s assistant and held it up in front of Beatrice. “What do you think?”

  Beatrice embraced the Irish linen garment and stepped in front of the tall mirror. By its delicate finishing stitches she could see it had been skillfully completed, no doubt for another lady near her size, perhaps someone like her who in the end could not pay her bill. Or, more likely, some spoiled miss who thought the waistline too high for the latest style and had changed her mind, leaving Giselle with an expensive castoff no wellborn lady would have. If Mrs. Parton took Beatrice to all the promised events, she risked being seen by the lady who had ordered it. Perhaps this was a part of God’s journey for her, this stripping away of all her pride. But never mind. The people she would meet this afternoon would not judge her by her clothes.

  “It is lovely. I thank you, Mrs. Parton.” After measurements were taken for her other gowns and fabrics chosen, Beatrice donned her hastily altered new dress and followed her employer out to the black phaeton.

  Mrs. Parton insisted upon driving the small carriage herself, but at least a tiger and a footman sat behind them in the jump seat, which eased Beatrice’s mind. Melly once overturned his smaller phaeton while racing, and thereafter Papa had forbidden his sole heir to use the sporty conveyance. She prayed her brother had not taken up racing again, but she would not seek him out to ask him.

  They wended their way through the busy streets, and Beatrice soon understood why upper-class ladies shopped before the crowds descended upon the area. The lower classes, even the women, shouted in the most colorful language she had ever heard, generating frowns from Mrs. Parton and heat in Beatrice’s cheeks. Even gentlemen in fine suits and top hats, riding excellent steeds, seemed to have left their proper manners at home, for they rode as if the streets belonged to them and berated anyone who stood in their way, again in language no one should hear, much less use.

  “Well, my goodness.” Mrs. Parton waved her whip toward a wide boulevard where the crowds had thinned. “There’s Greystone. I suppose he is on his way to Parliament.”

  Beatrice located the viscount among the few carriages and carts filling the street. He was the very picture of grace upon his black gelding. Her heart jolted, but she forced down her emotions. “Hmm. How interesting.” She managed to keep her tone calm as she sank back into her seat, wishing all the while the phaeton top were raised so she could hide from his view. To her horror, he spied them and turned his steed in their direction. They met at the edge of the street in front of Westminster Abbey.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.” His expression appeared guarded, but he did tip his hat. Here was one gentleman who remembered his manners in the midst of all the rudeness and hubbub. “Did you complete your shopping before the crush?”

  Beatrice noticed his gaze briefly touched on her new gown, and a look of approval flitted across his face. Then he frowned and gave his head a little shake, as if to snuff out any admiration. But how foolish she was. Why should she hope for his good opinion when he seemed determined not to give it? Humph. That was a favor she could easily return.

  “Yes, we have finished,” Mrs. Parton said. “And now we are off to St. Ann’s. Miss Gregory has a great interest in my work there.”

  “Indeed?” The viscount’s gruff expression softened. “Very admirable, Lady Beatrice.”

  Beatrice’s face warmed, something she was growing tired of. At home at Melton Gardens, she had never felt so discomfited so often. Had never, ever blushed. “I thank you, sir.” She gazed upward and beyond him toward one of the Abbey’s two square spires, lest he see how his small approval pleased her. How quickly she had abandoned her resolve not to wish for his good opinion—and all against her will.

  “Most young ladies I know never give a thought to orphans or any other needy soul.”

  “Indeed?” Even her eyes betrayed her, turning back as if of their own accord to view the handsome viscount so grandly mounted on his fine horse. “Why, how do they occupy their days if not in service to some worthy cause?”

  He shrugged. “My lady, I cannot guess. Perhaps shopping, visiting, gossiping, planning parties and balls. Y
ou have my utmost respect for your generosity.” No smile confirmed his compliment.

  Once again an infuriating blush heated her face, and she waved her fan to cool it. “You are too kind, sir.”

  “Not at all.” He stared at her, and for several seconds she could not move. Or breathe.

  “Well, go on then, Greystone,” Mrs. Parton said. “We shall not keep you.” She waved him away. “You are excused to go solve all of Prinny’s problems.”

  “Madam, if I could do that, the world would stop spinning upon its axis.” At last he smiled, then tipped his hat again. “I bid you both good day.” He reined his horse around and rode toward the Parliament building in the next block.

  Beatrice still could not turn her eyes away from his departing figure. What a handsome gentleman, so refined, so considerate of his mother’s friend. But admiring him or any gentleman would bring her only heartbreak and disappointment. She must concentrate on the work ahead rather than dream of having the friendship of a gentleman who clearly did not wish to befriend her.

  How annoying to realize that no matter what she told herself, her heart raced at the sight of Lord Greystone.

  Chapter Three

  “Here we are.” Mrs. Parton drove the phaeton through the gates of a large property into a wide front courtyard. “St. Ann’s Orphan Asylum. But it has become much more than a refuge for foundling girls.”

  Eyeing the seven-foot wrought-iron fence as they passed through, Beatrice felt a shiver of dread that diminished her former anticipation. The gray brick of the three-story building added to the asylum’s foreboding appearance. This seemed more like a fortress, even a prison, than a home for children, though she approved of the tidy grounds. Unlike the street beyond the fence, not a scrap of trash littered the grassy yard, and not a single pebble lay on the front walkway.

  “I delight in these visits,” Mrs. Parton said. “The children are so dear, and the matrons do such fine work in schooling them and teaching them useful skills. Most of my maids were reared and educated in this school.”

  “Mama was going to bring me here.” Beatrice swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Her mother had become ill before she could keep any of her promises.

  “Lady Bennington founded the institution, and your mother and I joined her some twenty years ago.” Mrs. Parton waved to the two men on the jump seat.

  The tiger took charge of the horse while the footman helped the ladies down.

  “We will be here awhile,” Mrs. Parton told them, “so you may go around to the kitchen for a bite to eat. Miss Gregory, shall we go in?”

  Beatrice followed her employer up the concrete steps to the large front door. A black-clad woman of perhaps thirty years opened it. “Welcome, Mrs. Parton. Please come in.” The matron’s eyes exuded warmth and welcome.

  In the front hall they were met by the smells of lye soap and a hint of lavender. The floor was well scrubbed, and not a speck of lint or dust lay upon the polished oak hall tree or the framed pictures that adorned the long, wide entryway.

  The matron spoke quietly to the young girl beside her, and the child hastened up the staircase. Soon the soft rumble of running feet disturbed the silence as over a hundred girls of all sizes and descriptions descended the steps and formed lines. Each girl wore a gray serge uniform and a plain white pinafore bearing a number.

  Once again Beatrice swallowed a wave of sentiment. Like these girls she had no parents, but how vastly different their circumstances were. How sad to be an orphan, a seemingly nameless child with only a number on one’s clothing for identification. Beatrice steeled herself against further emotion, for tears would not help the children and might inspire them to self-pity, an exercise she knew to be fruitless.

  A slender middle-aged matron in a matching uniform offered a deep curtsey to their guests, and the girls followed suit.

  “Welcome, Mrs. Parton.” Another matron, silver-haired and in a black dress, stepped forward. Authority emanated from her pale, lined face.

  “Mrs. Martin.” Mrs. Parton’s face glowed as she grasped the woman’s hands. “How good to see you.” Her gaze swept over the assembly. “Good afternoon, my dear, dear girls.”

  Mrs. Martin lifted one hand to direct the children in a chorus of “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parton.”

  “Children, this is my companion, Miss Gregory.” Mrs. Parton brought Beatrice forward.

  Again the girls curtseyed and called out a greeting.

  “Now,” Mrs. Parton said, “what have you to show us?” She and Beatrice sat in upholstered chairs the matron had ordered for them.

  The girls’ sweet faces beamed with affection for their patroness while they recited their lessons or showed her examples of penmanship, sewing and artwork. Mrs. Parton offered praise and dispensed many hugs as though each was her own dear daughter.

  Beatrice followed her example in commending the children. Over the next hour she found herself drawn to one in particular. Sally was perhaps fourteen years old, and Beatrice observed how well she managed the younger children. How she wished she could offer the girl employment, perhaps even train her as a lady’s maid if she was so minded. But alas Beatrice had no funds for such an undertaking.

  As they left the building, Mrs. Parton told Beatrice that the true beneficence happened later when her steward ascertained the institution’s needs and budgeted the funds to cover as many of them as possible.

  “I take such pleasure in helping them,” Mrs. Parton said on their way back to her Hanover Square town house. “Not unlike Lord Greystone.”

  “How so, madam?” Pleasantly exhausted from the afternoon’s charitable exercise, Beatrice still felt a jolt in her heart at the mention of the viscount’s name.

  “Why, he is the patron of a boys’ asylum in Shrewsbury, not far from his family seat.”

  Beatrice experienced no surprise at this revelation, for Mrs. Parton had already mentioned the viscount’s generosity. Of course she could not expect that generosity to extend to the sister of a wastrel, lest his name be tainted. She knew very little of Society, but that one lesson had stood at the forefront of her thoughts ever since she had met him the night before. Perhaps she could glean from that experience a true indication of his character. He might perform charitable acts to be seen by others, yet neglect his duty to family, as Papa had. Thus, she must do her best to ignore her childish admiration for his physical appearance and social graces.

  But somehow she could not resist a few moments of daydreaming about what it would be like to have the good opinion of such a fine gentleman.

  *

  Greystone longed to dig his heels into Gallant’s sides and race madly down Pall Mall. Unfortunately traffic prevented such an exercise, so he would have to find another method of releasing his anger. In his six years in Parliament, this was the first time he had stormed out in protest over the way a vote had gone, but he had no doubt it would not be his last.

  Never had he been more ashamed of his peers. Or, better said, the majority of them—those who today had rejected a measure providing a reasonable pension for wounded soldiers returning from the Continent. How did the lords expect these men to survive, much less provide for families who had often gone hungry while their husbands and fathers were fighting for England? Greystone’s own brother Edmond had been seriously wounded in America, but had the good fortune to be an aristocrat, as well as their childless uncle’s chosen heir. He now had an occupation and a home, not to mention a lovely bride. The rank-and-file soldiers had no such security or pleasures. What did Parliament expect these men to do? Become poachers? Pickpockets? Highwaymen?

  Somehow Greystone and his like-minded peers must break through the thick skulls and hardened hearts of those who regarded the lower classes with such arrogance. Almost to a man they claimed to be Christians, yet they exhibited not a whit of Christ’s charity. Then, of course, there were dullards like Melton, who sat in the House like lumps of unmolded clay, showing no interest in anything of importance, no doubt waiting until
the session was over so he could return to his gambling. No matter how young he might be, how could the earl be so uncaring? And how different he was from his sister.

  Greystone had not failed to notice that Lady Beatrice appeared eager to accompany Mrs. Parton to the orphan asylum. With a wastrel brother who should be seeing to her needs, the lady no doubt had limited funds, which made her charitable actions all the more remarkable. Still, she wore a new blue day dress, which complimented her fair complexion far more than the brown gown she had worn last night. Perhaps she was better situated than it seemed. But then, why would she be Mrs. Parton’s companion, generally a paid position? Why was she introduced as Miss Gregory?

  That last question was the easiest to answer. Were he related to Melton, he would not wish for Society to know it, either. Yet dissembling could do her no good and much harm if she hoped to make a match worthy of her station. But then, it would be difficult to find a gentleman whose charitable nature matched her own who would accept such an intimate connection to Melton.

  His useless musings were interrupted when a coach rumbled past, drawn by six lathered horses and churning up dust to fill the air…and Greystone’s lungs. He fell into a bout of coughing almost as bad as those he had suffered in his nearly fatal illness last winter. For a moment he struggled to breathe as he had then, but at last his lungs cleared. Being deprived of air was a frightening matter. He coughed and inhaled several more times to recover. If he arrived home in this condition, Mother would fuss over him and send for a physician.

  His early arrival meant that the lad who watched for his homecoming would not be at the front window to collect his horse and take it around to the mews. Thus when Greystone dismounted, he secured the reins to the post near the front door. Then he took the three front steps in one leap to prove to himself that his illness had not permanently threatened his health.

  Inside, a commotion lured him to the drawing room. The furniture was covered with white linens, and Crawford the butler knelt over something on the floor. Near the hearth stood a scowling, soot-covered man in black holding a broom with circled bristles.