Mr. Fairclough's Inherited Bride (Secrets 0f A Victorian Household Book 3)

by Georgie Lee

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Silas wrapped his arm around her waist. His ability to notice her moods before she could say anything had been endearing in Baltimore, but at this moment was most inconvenient.

  ‘Everything is fine, only this sight is so overwhelming,’ she lied, turning to peer into the large hole in the earth, eager to shift his attention from her to where they were. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The first tunnel underneath the Thames. Mr Brunel designed and built it, after one he built in Russia. Steam engines make it possible to dig, along with numerous other building techniques he’s developed. With this technology, imagine what we’ll be able to do with railroads in America. Rivers and large mountains will no longer be an obstacle in the way of progress, but simply another portion of the railway to be built.’

  Mary looked down at the circular opening. Classical swags had been carved into the cement work supporting the sides of the hole, and long, curving staircases wound down into the ground before opening up into the tunnel that led beneath the river. The mildew scent of water and mud drifted up along with the chatter of workmen and the clank of bricks and chisels.

  ‘When I was younger, I used to come here sometimes. They charged a shilling to go down and watch the workers. I never had the money to pay to see the steam engine up close, but I once convinced a worker to let me in, to marvel at everything they were doing, to dream that I could accomplish such impossible things the way Mr Brunel did.’

  ‘And you have.’ Mary squeezed Silas’s arm in encouragement.

  ‘And I’ll do even more when I have the English steam-engine patent.’

  ‘You’ll get it, I’m sure you will.’

  Silas turned his back on the tunnel and rested his thighs against the railing as he faced her. ‘I’ve shown you want I wanted to see, what would you like to do now? We can go anywhere.’

  Except places where anyone I used to know might be, Mary wanted to say, but bit her tongue, refusing to dampen the delight of the morning.

  She was eager to enjoy her time with him, to see more of the sparkling Silas instead of the sober one who had greeted her in the dining room this morning or before they’d made love last night. He was as troubled as her by this homecoming, as conflicted as she was about a past that could never truly be resolved. They both needed to forget it all for a while.

  ‘Show me some more of the city that I might never have seen before, things you used to love and enjoy.’

  ‘Even if it’s noisy and dirty and full of people?’

  ‘Especially if it’s noisy and dirty and full of people.’

  He escorted her away from the Thames Tunnel. They approached a man dressed in rags who held out his hand to beg for a coin from the many men and women who passed him without a glance. Silas dug into his pocket for a shilling and laid it in the man’s grimy palm, not recoiling at this smudge of dirt the man’s fingers left on his fine leather glove.

  ‘Thank you, sir, and God bless,’ the man said.

  Silas tipped his hat to him, showing him the same respect he would any other gentleman before he and Mary continued. ‘Well, what do you want to do?’

  ‘Let’s go to Mr J. R. Smith’s Tour of Europe Panorama. I used to beg my parents to take me to see it whenever we were in London, but they wouldn’t. They were too afraid of breathing common air to dream of mixing with the rabble.’

  ‘Then the Panorama it is.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Mary let out a deep sigh as she sat in the front window of the Fairclough house watching the traffic on the street outside pass by, wishing Silas were here. After a delightful morning together, he’d left her to meet with Mr Williams about the English steam-engine patent. Mary had spent a good hour unpacking her and Silas’s things, refusing to add additional work to the young maid’s already full day. With everything arranged in the wardrobe and the dresser, there was nothing else for Mary to do but come downstairs. The house was quiet with Lottie being at her own home and Mrs Fairclough engaged in whatever Foundation business occupied her day.

  More than once Mary considered going through the small hall to the adjoining Foundation house and offering her help, but each time she hesitated, afraid of Mrs Fairclough’s judgement. From what Mary had already seen of the woman, and everything she’d built and maintained through hardship and lean times, Mrs Fairclough was as strong and determined as her son. She wasn’t formidable in the way Preston’s mother had been, but it was clear there was steeliness beneath her gentleness that one would be foolish to overlook.

  Mary should have taken the risk of Mrs Fairclough’s judgement instead of lingering here with the newspaper. She’d make the mistake of reading it and most of the people mentioned in the society column she only knew in passing from when she’d lived in England. It was the last paragraph at the bottom that had nearly stopped her heart and made her long for Silas’s sure presence. In bold, typewritten letters Mary had read about the birth of Jane’s first child, the next Earl of Longford, that the christening would be held soon and that both the Ashfords and the Longfords were proud grandparents.

  Mary would not be there for the christening or for any other event in her nephew’s life. In none of Jane’s recent letters had she mentioned being with child, but with Mary having gone to America, Jane’s letters had taken so much longer to reach her. No doubt the missive with the news would be waiting for her when she returned to Baltimore. Mary considered writing a letter of congratulations to her sister, of telling her she was in London and asking if she could come visit her and the new baby, but she didn’t. Even if Jane was willing to accept Mary into her home, the Earl of Longford wasn’t likely to countenance Mary darkening his doorstep. Jane was celebrating the triumphant birth of a son and heir, a wanted child who would secure her place in the Longford family, unlike Mary, whose child would only have been accepted if she’d faced Preston across the anvil. Even then the truth of its conception would have followed it and her for the rest of their lives, especially if the child had been a girl. It didn’t matter. The child hadn’t lived and she and Preston had not married.

  Tears filled Mary’s eyes as every loss she’d endured over the last four years threatened to overwhelm her in the fog and smoke laden air of London.

  ‘Good afternoon, Lady Mary,’ Mrs Fairclough greeted, stealing as silently into the room as she had last night, her plain dress barely rustling with her steady and stately stride. If Silas hadn’t told Mary during the train ride about his mother’s simple background as the daughter of a tradesman inventor, Mary would’ve thought her far more high born. Mary wondered if she’d ever struggled in the same way she did with her change in status and the direction in which her life had gone. ‘I hope you don’t feel that I’m neglecting you?’

  It was a far warmer greeting than Mary had received yesterday and it set some of her fears at ease. Mrs Fairclough wasn’t going to berate her for her past sins while Silas was gone, at least not yet.

  ‘Of course not, I know you have a great deal to do and it’s been rather nice to sit here in the quiet after so much travelling.’ Mary tried as sneakily as she could to brush away the moisture clouding her visions. She didn’t want Mrs Fairclough to ask why she was moping in the sitting room. Mary was too afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep all the truths inside her from pouring out if she did, giving the woman every reason to shun Mary. However, she knew as well as Mrs Fairclough did that she was failing to hide the tears.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to help me with some of our work. Today we’re giving sewing lessons to the women. It’s what we do, prepare the women for some kind of future other than the one their status has enforced on them. Can you sew?’

  ‘I do a fine stitch.’ There hadn’t been much else to do in the country but sew.

  ‘Then come with me.’

  Mary followed her, thankful Mrs Fairclough hadn’t asked anything more personal about Mary than her abilities wi
th the needle. They walked down the hall of the house to the door connecting it to the brick building that sat adjacent to it. Where the Faircloughs’ house was cosy like a family’s, the Foundation’s had more of the air of an institution about it. The furniture was built for utility rather than decoration and the art on the walls and the knick-knacks on the various side tables were few and far between, keeping everything uncluttered. That was not to say it was cold or foreboding like a work house for it wasn’t. It was a welcoming space, but one that was a place for people to stay temporarily until they could move on to a better situation.

  ‘It’s quiet at this time of day. The women who’ve been here longer have gone out to their positions as seamstresses or in service and some of them will be moving on from here shortly. The older women who reside with us serve as our matrons. They are servants who worked a long time with a family and were dismissed, through no fault of their own, with no reference or position, such as Mr Edwards,’ Mrs Fairclough explained, the pride in her voice at the Foundation’s accomplishments evident. ‘Today, we’re honing our sewing in the dining room where we often work when we need to spread out.’

  Mrs Fairclough led Mary into the dining room. It was a much simpler room than the Faircloughs’ one with the large table in the centre covered in a clutter of fabric, needles, pins, thread and ribbons. Four young women and two older ones looked up from their work when Mary walked in. She halted over the threshold, almost afraid to join them. They all seemed so young, the same age as Mary had been when her misfortunes had befallen her. Mary’s heart began to race as she thought of the morning her parents had ordered her lady’s maid to pack up her things, giving her only the basics to take with her, forcing her to leave behind the beautiful gowns and fine gloves. They’d told her she wouldn’t need them where she was going and she’d stood shaking in fear, terrified they would order her dropped off in some unknown part of the city where she would be left to fend for herself. Thankfully, they’d sent her to Ruth, who had calmed her fears with hugs and helped to dry her tears.

  ‘Ladies, this is Lady Mary Fairclough, my son Silas’s wife. She’s going to help us with our work today.’

  The women rose to their feet and said in unison, ‘Good morning, Lady Mary.’

  Mary wanted to yell at them to sit down and not show her respect, she didn’t deserve it because she was no different than they, but then Silas’s words came back to her.

  Don’t think about who you were but who you are, the wife of a prosperous Baltimore businessman.

  Yes, she was, and like these women who were working to put their mistakes behind them, so was she. Perhaps it would help them to see all that they might achieve in spite of their misfortunes, but Mary didn’t have the courage to admit that she was no different than they. She didn’t want their respect for her to change into disdain. Instead, she nodded kindly the way she imagined any other generous patroness who entered here might do.

  Mrs Fairclough urged Mary to sit down and within a few minutes, after introductions and some explanation of their work, Mary set to stitching a fine hem on a small girl’s dress.

  Mary sewed in silence, listening to the young women talk among themselves of neighbourhood gossip and family news. Mrs Fairclough oversaw their progress, going to each woman and enquiring about their day or how they were and helping to correct their stitches. Mary wondered how her future might have been if she hadn’t had Ruth or a place like this in which to seek shelter. Mary touched the watch hanging on the new chain from the bodice of her dress. Ruth had never judged her, but simply accepted her and her mistakes while urging her to remain strong and endure whatever happened to her and to have faith that all would be well in the end. Mary was still waiting to see if that would ultimately be true.

  Mrs Fairclough came around the table to Mary, admiring her work as she had the other women’s with an approving nod. ‘You are good with a needle. Did your mother teach you?’

  ‘No, Mrs Fairclough.’ Mary concentrated on the push and pull of the needle through the fabric so that her face gave no indication of how much she did not wish to think of her mother at this moment or to have Mrs Fairclough ask any more questions about her past. She didn’t want to lie to her, but she could not tell her the truth. ‘My companion for a number of years used to sew layettes for the poor mothers of the village or clothes for their children. I used to help her and she and I worked very hard to refine my stitch. She also taught me to keep simple accounts.’

  She noticed two of the Foundation women exchanging curious glances, no doubt wondering what a woman with the honourarium Lady affixed to her name would be doing with a companion, especially one who’d taught her such practical skills.

  ‘Please, call me Lilian.’ Mrs Fairclough sat down in the chair beside her. ‘Those skills are very much in demand here, aren’t they, Mrs Bethany?’

  ‘Yes, they are,’ the plump matron with grey hair answered before leaning over to correct one of the women’s stitches.

  ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind imparting what you know to our guests while you’re here. We can use all the help we can get.’

  ‘I’d be delighted.’ It was the least Mary could do to show these women kindness and to help them the way Ruth had helped her.

  Lilian sat down beside her and took up an embroidery hoop. Thankfully, she didn’t ask Mary any questions about her companion or her life when she’d lived in England, but listened like Mary did to the other women chatting, their lively discussions covering the quiet between the two women. Lilian drew a long line of thread through her embroidery fabric before tucking the needle back through. The scene she embroidered was a whimsical one of unicorns and a magical forest, the image a stark contrast between the sensible small stitches and the woman in the dark dress making them. Perhaps Lilian understood Silas better than he realised, but of course Mary was being silly. It was nothing but embroidery.

  Mary worked hard on the dress, enjoying the companionship of the others and the distraction from thinking of Jane when Lilian’s question dragged her back into the room and reality.

  ‘I understand from Lottie that you’re Lord Ashford’s daughter.’ Lilian lowered her voice, doing her best to keep the conversation between them and out of earshot of the rest of the room.

  ‘I am.’ Mary’s heart thumped against the inside of her chest, not wanting her mother-in-law to discover that Mary was the same as the women sitting around them. No doubt she’d already guessed and she would upbraid her in front of all these women, bringing her as low as her family once had for her mistakes.

  ‘Will you visit your family while you’re here?’

  Mary pinched the needle tight, afraid she might drop it. ‘No, I haven’t spoken to my family for many years.’

  ‘I see.’ Lilian glanced past Mary to the other women before fixing on Mary, her voice low and soothing. Mary’s finger shook as she pushed the needle through the fabric, her stitches growing sloppier with each moment she waited for Lilian to unmask her as a fraud pretending to be a lady and to accuse her of dragging her son down into the filth he’d risen up from. Lilian did neither, but tilted closer to Mary. ‘The one thing I tell the women we take in after I interview them to find out their stories is that they are not alone. It may feel as though they are, as if the world has ended and no one understands their suffering, but it isn’t true. There are many women that have gone before them and many women who will come after them, not just here but all over London and other places. I don’t ever want anyone here to feel ashamed or unwanted and judged because of their mistakes, because here they aren’t. Do you understand?’

  Mary lowered the dress and nodded, not trusting her voice enough to respond.

  ‘Whatever your story, Mary, whether you decide to tell me or not, it doesn’t matter. All I wish is for you is to be a good wife to my son, to support him in ways I perhaps failed to do, to make sure he’s happy with the decisions he’s made and the life
he’s chosen to lead.’

  ‘I will,’ Mary promised, noticing the veil of tears glimmering in Lilian’s eyes. Whatever distance and tension there was between mother and son, it was clear they both loved one another a great deal even when they did not see eye to eye. It heartened Mary to believe that these kind of families existed. After the coldness of hers it gave her hope that her own future might involve more care and love than she’d dared to imagine when she’d stood with Silas before the Justice of the Peace.

  * * *

  Silas sat across the desk from Mr Williams, his usual confidence that had almost been shaken out of him by his confrontation with his mother this morning with him once again. ‘America is in need of an engine with the power to haul increasing amounts of goods and people. I can assure you handsome profits from the lease of your patent and help you secure your reputation as one of the finest engine designers in the world.’

  Mr Cooper, Mr Williams’s assistant, sat at his desk off to the side, listening to the conversation and taking copious notes, at least that’s what Silas assumed he was writing furiously while Silas and Mr Williams spoke. For all he knew, the clerk was drafting some legal document.

  ‘And when my model becomes obsolete?’ Mr Williams straightened the pens in the stand again. He was a slender man with thinning blond hair and spectacles pushed high up on the bridge of his nose. He sat, but he hadn’t been still the entire time. Silas wondered if he yelled ‘boo’ whether Mr Williams would flee, he was that agitated and restless.

  ‘A man like you will never be out of new idea to replace the old ones. You’ll give us enough new engines to keep us going for many years and through many different developments.’

  Silas’s confidence in Mr Williams did nothing to bolster Mr Williams’s. He touched the pens again, knocking them out of their previous perfect alignment. ‘But with you in America I’ll have no oversight over the quality of the production of my designs. I can’t have inferior copies ruining my company’s good name.’