Love by the Letters: A Regency Novella Trilogy

by Kelly Bowen

  “We are actually here on behalf of his lordship’s young charges,” Ada said, lest the conversation degenerate into a recitation of the Muses’ endless social schedule. “St. Jerome’s is in need of friends, my lady, and you came to my mind.”

  John’s genial expression faltered, but he certainly hadn’t done anything to steer the conversation in a productive direction.

  “Friends?” the countess inquired.

  “Friends with means,” Ada clarified. “You and I received a proper education at Henderson’s, despite all that other nonsense. Lord John has dedicated himself to St. Jerome’s, where children who have no other hope of a decent upbringing can thrive. They have nobody to sit with them, my lady, nobody to read to them, nobody to care for them, save Lord John and his staff. I am moved by their plight, and I hope you will be too.”

  Her ladyship set down her teacup. She turned the handle of the teapot. She folded her handkerchief into perfect quarters.

  “Will you ask Emily Deevers to contribute?”

  Emily Deevers had been the leader of the meanest group of girls. Her father had no title, but she had made up in arrogance what she lacked in social standing. She’d been very pretty, and the headmistress had doted on her.

  “I will call upon Emily tomorrow if it will inspire you to generosity today.”

  Lord John all but stared at Ada, then took a hasty sip of his tea.

  “I can put Emily to shame in this,” the countess said. “Not very Christian of me, but then, Emily terrorized any who were weaker than she. You tell her I’ve given you goodly sum—one hundred pounds should do—and she will know the mortification of being bested at last. Her family’s fortunes have declined since we left school, and she’s had no offers of marriage for the past two years.”

  One hundred pounds? One hundred pounds? Ada’s heart sped up simply to hear the sum spoken of aloud.

  “That is exceedingly generous of you, my lady,” Lord John said. “When shall we expect your bank draft?”

  “His lordship will send it over within the week. He expects me to handle the charitable disbursements, though he did not explain to me exactly how I was to go about that.”

  One hundred pounds…? “Can you think of anybody else upon whom we might call?” Ada asked. “Your generosity is extraordinary, but St. Jerome’s is a large institution, and many needs have gone unmet there in recent years.”

  “I will give it some thought,” the countess said, “and I will impose on my husband to do likewise. What do you think of the name Elizabeth for a girl?”

  Half the women in England were named Elizabeth. A more insipid choice did not come to mind. Ada would have said as much, except that Lord John spoke first.

  “Elizabeth is a marvelous name. Stately, feminine, regal, and yet it lends itself to affectionate nicknames. A fine choice, my lady. Might I have some more tea?”

  John’s ambitions had been humble: Take Miss Ada around on a few calls and possibly raise some coin for St. Jerome’s.

  Don’t get your hopes up. As he handed Miss Ada into the coach, his hopes weren’t merely up, they were soaring thousands of feet above Mayfair. This gruff, unprepossessing woman had in a single day solved all of St. Jerome’s pressing bills with a tidy sum left over.

  “I cannot believe she did that,” Miss Ada said. “I cannot believe, on the strength of a few girlhood trivialities, the countess committed a fortune to St. Jerome’s.”

  “To have a champion is not a triviality,” John said, rapping on the coach roof. “You were decent to a shy young woman when others weren’t decent to you. Was Henderson’s horrible?”

  “We learned to manage,” she said, drawing off her gloves. “That was probably the point, to provide us a place to practice the skills we’d need in the greater world.”

  How much heartache did those calm words hide? John had gone to public school, but he’d attended as a marquess’s spare. He’d also been taller and stronger than most of the boys in his form, and he’d been academically competent without blundering into the sort of brilliance that made a boy an outcast.

  “I will manage a great deal more easily at St. Jerome’s if Lady Barstow produces that bank draft,” John said. “You cannot imagine my relief.”

  “Do you ever worry that you’ll fail?” Miss Ada asked. “Ever worry that the children will end up in the poorhouse, worse off for having known some comfort and security?”

  “You ask the most fearless questions.”

  She was trying to tuck the errant lock of hair back into her chignon, but the curl wasn’t obliging. John switched seats and stuffed his gloves in his pocket. “Let me, though I think the softer style suits you well.” He twisted the coil snugly about his finger, then tucked it up at her nape. “Have you a spare hair pin?”

  “What do you think?”

  “If it comes down again, let it fly free. You have very pretty hair.”

  She scowled at him and pulled her gloves on. “Tell me about Uncle Bascomb.”

  That question wasn’t so fearless, but John opted for an honest answer. “He is the embittered younger son, unfit for the military by virtue of physical limitations, unfit for the church due to moral shortcomings. I have two illegitimate cousins that I know of, thanks to Uncle. He and Papa had grand rows about it when I was growing up.”

  “I like him already. Did he take responsibility for his children?”

  “Of course, rather too openly. Papa wanted some discretion about the business. Uncle scoffed and told Papa that a man who ignores his own children isn’t worth the name. I’d never heard anybody address the marquess so bluntly.”

  “And yet, you have made it your life’s work to look after children other people have discarded.”

  Well…. Yes. John pondered that coincidence—surely it was coincidence—until he and Miss Ada were sitting in Uncle’s cluttered, stuffy parlor. Uncle sat with his foot propped on a pillow, and he made no effort to rise when Miss Ada entered the room.

  “So why are you here, young Johnnie?” Uncle asked. “You come around flashing a bit of muslin at your old uncle, and something must be afoot. Are you in trouble, young lady?”

  Oh, ye leaping imps, he was getting worse.

  “Not in the sense you mean,” Miss Ada replied. “But I do know a number of young ladies who could use some assistance.”

  “The Waverlys are a lusty bunch,” Uncle said. “Sit down, the pair of you. Am I to be a great uncle, Johnnie?”

  “That happy adventure is not to befall you yet,” John said. “Miss Ada refers to my charges at St. Jerome’s.”

  Uncle snorted. “I have a bet going with your Aunt Selma. She says the doors to that place will close by Christmas. I say she’s wrong.”

  Selma was a maternal aunt, and not a warm woman.

  “You will win,” Miss Ada said. “Though you might consider hedging your bet.”

  Bushy eyebrows rose. “Speak plainly, miss.”

  “St. Jerome’s needs help,” she said. “You are in a position to assist. If a doting uncle doesn’t support his nephew’s good works, why should anybody else?”

  Bascomb glowered at his propped foot. “My damned brother refuses to help, is that it? I vow he’s the most stubborn, irascible, ungrateful wretch ever to sit in the Lords, and that is saying a very great deal. He will be furious if I donate to your cause.”

  Miss Ada glanced around the room, at paintings dark with age, a carpet in need of beating. “Isn’t that just a shame? I am furious when children freeze to death on London’s streets each winter. Your art collection is fascinating, though you are missing the second circle of hell.”

  “Perceptive chit, ain’t you? My favorite is the eighth circle, with its special accommodations for fraudulent politicians. As for the second circle, I have yet to find an image of lust that does justice to the pleasures afforded by the transgression.”

  For Uncle, that was put delicately, though once started on his favorite subject, he could not be dissuaded.

  Mi
ss Ada rose to re-arrange the pillow beneath Uncle’s foot. “You should elevate your leg if the issue is inflammation.”

  “The issue is I got stepped on by a bedamned horse when I was fourteen years old. Had to spend a year on my arse, though thanks to a decent tutor, I put that year to good academic use.”

  A year in purgatory? “I wasn’t aware of the origins of your injury,” John said.

  “It’s not an injury, pup. It’s a mishap. Fifty years on, and your father still refers to a serious maiming as a mishap because it was his damned horse that got loose.”

  John hadn’t heard that part either. “A groom lost control of the horse?” His mother referred in passing to “poor Bascomb’s riding accident,” though never in Papa’s hearing.

  Uncle regarded the painting that depicted endless combat on the surface of the River Styx. The perpetually angry souls made up the fifth circle of hell, and their fate was eternal discord.

  “His Almighty Lordship let the beast go,” Bascomb said. “He had no idea I was about to walk through the stable door and be trampled, but he’d neglected to wear gloves, you see. As he attempted to wrestle the horse into submission, the leather reins scored the flesh from his palms. The whole situation was bloody lamentable.”

  Fifty years on, that was still true. Uncle’s language was lamentable too.

  Miss Ada sat back down. “Is there a circle of hell for those tormented by regret?”

  Uncle’s smile was for once devoid of bitterness. “I suppose that circle would be life, but we can’t judge the marquess too harshly for wanting to see St. Jerome’s fail.”

  “Whyever not?” John’s question was rife with honest anger. “If St. Jerome’s fails, then I fail, which matters not at all, but forty children will be left to the dubious generosity of the parish, where they will doubtless fall prey to consumption or worse.”

  Ada’s lock of hair had come loose again. John focused on that, on the silky, shiny coil, on the memory of its warmth against his fingers. He’d never quite admitted that his own father wanted him to fail, and the pain of that betrayal cut deeply.

  Bascomb twitched at his lap robe. Of all the room’s appointments, that one item was pristine, with a border of embroidered laurel leaves and strawberries.

  “Your Uncle Simon died of consumption,” Bascomb said. “He and Pompeii were thick as thieves, while I was the extra spare who came along eight years later. When Simon died, he took a part of Pompeii with him. A year later, I’d been brought to bed with my injury, and two years after that, our dear Mama succumbed to pleurisy. Pompeii has a mortal fear of lung ailments, and you cannot blame him for that, boy.”

  And yet, John’s father enjoyed robust good health. “I’d always been told Uncle Simon had weak lungs.” A portrait of a smiling young man with overly-rosy cheeks was John’s sole association with an uncle he’d never met.

  “He did have weak lungs,” Uncle Bascomb said. “Very weak. He was a good lad, though. Kind-hearted, like you. I’m sure Pompeii fears to lose you to a similar affliction. You’re not much older than Simon was when he succumbed. Miss Ada, would you please ring for tea? The scalawags passing for servants in this house must be roused from their dicing if a man isn’t to starve.”

  Miss Ada obliged, while Uncle quizzed John about each sibling and the marchioness. When Uncle’s conversation drifted toward grousing, Miss Ada diverted him with questions about his art, until the tea pot was empty and the afternoon shadows long.

  “Young Johnnie, you have brightened my day, as have you, Miss Ada. Forgive me if I do not see you out, but do come around again. Perhaps I’ll have found my portrait of lust when next you call.”

  Naughty old scamp. “Or perhaps you will have found some manners,” John said, offering his hand. “Shall I give your regards to the family?”

  And what about St. Jerome’s?

  “You shall do no such thing,” Uncle said, sitting up on his chair. “If Pompeii wants to know how his only surviving brother goes on, he can damned well take an afternoon away from his infernal committees and drop by for a brandy. You may give my love to your sisters and your mama, but his perishing lordship… tell him I gave you two hundred pounds for your brats. He’ll come around to harangue me about my meddling, which is a sure tonic for my every ailment. Somebody needs to sound the hue and cry on Lord Pomposity from time to time, and you lot are too timid to do it.”

  Lord Pomposity? This visit was just full of revelations.

  “When I return,” Miss Ada said, “we can argue about anything you please. I love a rousing disagreement and I respect a generous and forgiving nature.”

  “Uncle, I do believe the lady is in earnest.” Which had the old fellow looking downright merry. “Thank you very much for your support, and we’ll see ourselves out.”

  Miss Ada was quiet through the sorting of wraps and gloves and parasols, then John was handing her into the coach.

  “You needn’t sit over there as if I’m some maiden auntie,” she said. “What an interesting family you have, my lord. Whatever became of your uncle’s paramour?”

  “She is his housekeeper.” John switched seats, because sitting in the backward facing direction after tea and sandwiches was uncomfortable.

  “Why did they never marry?”

  “Possibly had a husband somewhere once upon a time. More likely, she was simply beneath Uncle’s station. I’m not sure.”

  “They should marry,” Miss Ada said. “And Lord Pomposity should be your uncle’s best man.”

  She smiled, then she snickered, then she laughed outright until John went off into whoops with her, and the coach was filled with their merriment.

  Chapter Four

  Emily Deevers had put on weight. Ada beheld this development with a curious disappointment. One wanted adversaries to be worthy, to be formidable and in need of vanquishing.

  Not downcast and self-conscious. In the week since beginning her quest, Ada had faced the imperious, the indifferent, and the indecisive—also more than a few who were generous—but nobody she’d called on had been less than confident to receive guests.

  Clearly, Emily Deevers was no longer the most popular girl in any class.

  “Miss Beauvais, a pleasure.” Miss Deevers curtseyed. “And Lord John. I haven’t seen you this age, sir. How are your sisters?”

  She hadn’t seen Ada in at least four ages, but the lady’s entire focus was on his lordship. For him, she had a smile that hinted of her former vivaciousness, and for him she had endless questions regarding the Muses.

  For Ada she had sidelong glances that varied from anxious to sheepish. The inevitable tray arrived, plain blue porcelain, a single dish of shortbread to accompany the teapot. On close inspection, the guest parlor was going a bit shabby around the edges. A water stain marred the low table, a reading chair sat before the fire at an awkward angle, probably to hide a defect in the carpet.

  The candlesticks were brass rather than marble or crystal, and the curio cabinet held barely three items per shelf.

  “Did you know that his lordship is the headmaster at St. Jerome’s Hospital?” Ada asked, when the topic of Lady Polly’s shoe collection had been exhausted.

  “So kind of you, your lordship, to take an interest in the less fortunate. Would you care for more tea?”

  John passed over his cup and saucer. “More tea would be delightful. My duties at St. Jerome’s have afforded me so little opportunity for socializing, that I can’t expect you know how we go on there. I can tell you honestly, that nothing prepared me for the challenge of caring for forty rambunctious children.”

  Miss Deever’s hand shook slightly as she poured him another steaming cup. “Forty rambunctious anythings would be a challenge, I dare say. Miss Beauvauis, more tea?”

  The topic of a donation was not finding its way into the conversation, so endless had been Miss Deever’s chatter. Ada wasn’t sure it should.

  “Half a cup,” Ada said. “I am still prone to spilling, tripping, and starting argum
ents, you see.”

  Miss Deever set down the empty cup. “You didn’t start arguments, you merely corrected those instructors who lacked a grasp of their subject matter. Miss Henderson herself said that. She said the quality of education at her academy had improved because of one stubborn girl. Shortbread?”

  “One piece, please.” Miss Henderson had said what?

  “Miss Ada has a ferociously vigorous intellect,” Lord John observed. “I’m getting up my nerve to ask her if she’d like to take on some duties at St. Jerome’s.”

  Was he really? Or was this idle conversation intended to move the discussion sideways to the topic of a donation?

  Miss Deever filled the cup half-full, while Ada mentally fumbled for something to say. “If you never ask for my assistance, my lord, you will never hear my reply.”

  “I might enjoy spending some time at St. Jerome’s,” Miss Deevers said, chin coming up. “As a charitable activity. Ladies do.”

  We don’t want you, we want your money. That retort seemed like something Emily Deevers would have said to a much younger Ada Beauvais.

  “When I was a child,” Ada said, “one of few joys in my life was when my Aunt Kitty would visit. She’d read to me. Sometimes, we read the same story over and over, but when she brought me a new book, she eclipsed Father Christmas in my affections.”

  Mention of Aunt Kitty had Miss Deevers setting the cup and saucer down on the tray rather abruptly.

  “Your aunt still hasn’t married?” she asked. “Such an attractive woman, and one has to conclude she’s well dowered.”

  The question held a hint of the catty schoolgirl, but also genuine bewilderment. “Lady Kitty has particular tastes,” Ada said. “We still get on very well.”

  The moment begged for somebody—Lord John, say—to mention that St. Jerome’s was not getting on well, but Miss Deevers sat forward, clearly intent on seizing the conversational reins.

  “Do you recall when your aunt lost that letter you’d written to some dashing swain?” she asked. “I vow, I’ve never heard such impassioned prose before or since. I knew you excelled at maths and natural science, but I had no idea you were of such a literary bent. My lord, this letter was such a paean to manly virtue, that no mortal fellow could possibly have measured up.”