They reached the boot room, which contained shelves and rows of hat hooks, an umbrella stand, and a table of equipment for cleaning and polishing footwear. The air was scented of leather wax and boot blacking. A small casement window near the ceiling admitted light from outside. “This is my room,” Bazzle said proudly.
“What do you do here?” Cassandra asked.
“Every night I washes the mud from the shoes and boots, and makes ’em shiny, and then I’m orf to bed.”
“And where is your bedroom?”
“Bed’s right ’ere,” Bazzle said brightly, and opened a wooden cupboard. It was a box bed, built into a recessed space in the wall, and fitted with a mattress and bedclothes.
Cassandra stared at it without blinking. “You sleep in the boot room, dear?” she asked very softly.
“A good little bed,” he said cheerfully, reaching over to pat the mattress. “Never ’ad one before.”
Cassandra reached down and slowly drew him closer, smoothing the shiny ruffled locks of his hair. “You’re about to outgrow it,” she murmured, her thoughts swarming, her throat tight with indignation. “I’ll make sure your next one is bigger. And nicer.”
Bazzle leaned his head against her tentatively, and let out a deep, happy sigh. “You smells like flowers.”
“NO, I DIDN’T know it was the boot room,” Tom said irritably, when Cassandra confronted him in an upstairs bedroom. He had been taken aback and disgruntled when she’d approached him with tight-lipped displeasure, all vestiges of their honeymoon bliss completely gone. “Mrs. Dankworth told me it was a room close to hers, so she could help him if he needed something during the night.”
“He would never go to her for help. He’s convinced she would only try to wash him.” Cassandra paced back and forth across the elegant bedroom, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “He’s sleeping in a cupboard, Tom!”
“In a nice, clean bed,” he countered. “It’s better than the rat-infested slum he was living in before.”
She gave him a withering glance. “He can’t go through the rest of his life being grateful for the bare minimum and saying ‘Well, it’s better than a rat-infested slum.’”
“What do you want for him?” Tom asked with forced patience, leaning his shoulder against one of the solid rosewood bed posters. “To have his own room on the third floor with the other servants? Done. Now, may we focus on something other than Bazzle?”
“He’s not a servant. He’s a little boy, living among adults, working as an adult … being robbed of his last chance at childhood.”
“Some of us aren’t allowed childhoods,” Tom said curtly.
“He doesn’t belong anywhere, to anyone. He can’t live between worlds, neither fish nor fowl, never knowing what his place is.”
“Damn it, Cassandra—”
“And what will happen when you and I have children? He’ll have to grow up near a family, watching from the outside, never being invited in. It’s not fair to him, Tom.”
“It was bloody good enough for me!” he snapped, with the force of a rifle shot.
Cassandra blinked, some of her anger clearing away. She turned to look at him as silence weighted the room. Her husband’s face was averted, but she saw that his color had heightened. He was tense in every muscle, struggling to contain his emotions.
When he could bring himself to speak, his voice was cool and measured. “When the Paxtons took me in, I had the option of sharing a footman’s room or sleeping on a pallet in the kitchen, near the stove. The footman’s room was too small as it was. I chose the pallet. I slept on it every night for years, and folded it up every morning, and I was grateful. Sometimes I ate with the family, but most often I ate alone in the kitchen. I never thought of asking Mr. Paxton for more. It was enough to sleep somewhere safe and clean, and not go hungry. More than enough.”
No, it wasn’t, Cassandra thought, her heart wrenching.
“Eventually I was able to afford a room at a lodging house,” Tom continued. “I continued to work for Mr. Paxton, but I started to manage projects and solve engineering problems for other companies. I began to earn money. The Paxtons invited me to dinner now and then.” A short, humorless laugh escaped him. “The strange part was, I never felt comfortable at their dinner table. I felt as if I should eat in the kitchen.”
He was quiet for a long time then, staring distantly at the wall as if memories were playing across it. Although his body appeared to have relaxed, his hand had clenched around the bedpost until the tips of his fingers were white.
“What caused your falling-out?” Cassandra dared to ask, her gaze locked on him.
“I felt … something … for one of Paxton’s daughters. She was a pretty sort, a bit of a flirt. I wanted … I thought …”
“You asked if you could court her?”
A single nod.
“And Mr. Paxton refused?” she pressed.
“He exploded,” Tom said, the corner of his mouth quirking with dark amusement. His grip on the bedpost tightened. “I’d never expected quite so much outrage. That I would dare approach one of his daughters … Mrs. Paxton literally needed smelling salts. It made me realize how differently they saw me from how I saw myself. I didn’t know who was in the wrong.”
“Oh, Tom …” She came up behind him and slid her arms around him, and laid her cheek on his back. A tear tracked down the side of her face and was instantly absorbed by his shirt. “They were in the wrong. You know they were. But now … you are.” She felt him stiffen, but she hung on doggedly. “You’ve created a situation in which Bazzle’s going to experience exactly what you did—a boy who has no one, growing up in a house with a family he can never be part of. Close enough to love them, without being loved in return.”
“I didn’t love them,” he growled.
“You did. That’s why it hurt. Why it still hurts. And now you’re following in Mr. Paxton’s footsteps. You’re doing it to Bazzle.” She paused to swallow back her tears. “Tom, you’ve taken this boy in because you saw many worthy qualities in him. You’ve let yourself care about him, just a little. Now I’m asking you to care more. Let him be part of the family, and treat him with the affection and respect he deserves.”
“What makes you think he deserves it?” Tom asked curtly.
“Because you did,” she said quietly, letting go of him. “Every child does.”
And she went from the room quietly, leaving him to face his demons.
CASSANDRA KNEW IT would take some time for Tom to come to terms with his past and the feelings he’d kept bottled up for so long. He might deny everything she’d said, or refuse to talk about it at all. She would have to be patient and understanding, and hope he would gradually come to acknowledge she had been right.
In the meantime, she would settle into her new home and start to build a life.
With her lady’s maid’s help, she spent the rest of the afternoon putting away her clothes, accessories, shoes, and the thousands of items necessary for a lady to be turned out properly. There was no sound from Tom’s connecting bedroom and sitting room. When Cassandra risked taking a peek, she discovered the bedroom was empty.
Perhaps he’d gone to his club, she thought with a touch of gloom, or a tavern, or some other place men went to avoid their wives. She hoped he would return for dinner. He wouldn’t be so inconsiderate as to miss dinner without telling her in advance, would he? Hadn’t there been something about that in the contract? Yes, she was positive there had been. If it turned out he’d violated their contract after one week of marriage, she was going to do something drastic. Crumple it up in front of him. No—she would set fire to it. Or maybe—
Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knock on the doorjamb. She glanced at the doorway, and her heart gave a few extra thumps as she saw her husband standing there, big and dark, with his hair slightly disheveled. “May I come in?” he asked quietly.
“Oh, yes,” Cassandra said, flustered. “You needn’t ask, just …” She
turned to her lady’s maid. “Meg, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Yes, my lady.” The lady’s maid moved a fabric-covered box of stockings from the bed to the dresser. As she passed Cassandra, her eyes glinted with mischief, and she said beneath her breath, “That dog’s going for a trot again.”
Cassandra frowned, and ushered her from the room.
Tom came in, bringing the scent of winter air and dry leaves with him. He leaned back against the dresser and slid his hands in his pockets, his expression unfathomable.
“You went for a walk?” Cassandra asked.
“I did.”
“I hope it was pleasant.”
“Not especially.” He took a long breath and blew it out slowly.
“Tom,” she said uneasily, “what I said before—”
“Feelings are inconvenient,” Tom said. “It’s why I decided to limit mine to five. For most of my adult life, it’s been easy to keep to that. Then I met you. Now my feelings have multiplied like rabbits, and I seem to have nearly as many as normal people do. Which is too many. However … if a man with the average brain can manage all these feelings well enough to function efficiently, I, with my powerful and superior brain, can as well.”
Cassandra nodded encouragingly, although she wasn’t quite sure what he was saying.
“Bazzle no longer has to be a hall boy,” he said. “He can sleep in a room on this floor of the house, and eat at our table. We’ll educate him as you see fit. I’ll raise him as … as mine.”
She heard him with a sense of wonder, having expected a long siege and instead been met with unanticipated surrender. For him to set aside his pride like this was not something to take lightly. Understanding the difficulty of the concession, and the changes he was going through, Cassandra went eagerly to press herself against his motionless form. “Thank you,” she said. His head eased down to her shoulder, and his arms stole around her.
“I didn’t make this decision to humor you,” Tom muttered. “You made some logical points I happened to agree with.”
Her fingers combed slowly through the fluid black layers of his hair. “And you care about him.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily put it that way. I just want him to be safe and comfortable and happy, and for no one to harm him.”
“That’s caring.”
Tom didn’t reply, but his arms tightened. After a long moment, he asked against her shoulder, “Are you going to reward me?”
Cassandra chuckled. “My body isn’t a prize for doing the right thing.”
“But it makes doing the right thing so much easier.”
“In that case …” Her hand caught one of his, and she pulled him toward the bed.
Chapter 26
IMMEDIATELY UPON THEIR RETURN from Jersey Island, Cassandra was beset by a torrent of calls, which she was then obligated to return. Tom was bemused by the complexity of the social rules his wife navigated so adeptly. She knew exactly when and how to call on people, and who received visits on which days. She knew which invitations could be refused, and which ones had to be accepted unless one was at death’s door. A bewildering variety of cards was required for this business of paying and receiving visits … individual cards for Tom and herself, a slightly larger card with both their names engraved on it, cards printed with their address and preferred receiving days, cards to be left after a chance visit, and cards to be left when no visit had been intended.
“Why would you go to someone’s house if you don’t want to see them?” Tom had asked.
“When you owe a friend a visit, but have no time to spend with her, you leave a card on the hall table to let her know you were there.”
“More precisely, you were there but didn’t want to see her.”
“Exactly.”
Tom didn’t bother trying to make sense of that, having accepted long ago that a small group of elevated individuals had decided to make human interaction as complicated and unnatural as possible. He didn’t mind that nearly as much as he minded the hypocrisy of a society that would condemn someone over a minor transgression, while letting one of its own off the hook for doing far worse.
He’d been disgusted—but hardly surprised—by the upper crust’s reaction to the London Chronicle’s exposure of the Marquis of Ripon and his son, Lord Lambert, as vicious, lying bastards who’d intentionally tried to ruin Cassandra’s reputation. Ripon’s friends and associates had hastened to excuse his actions, and cast as much blame as possible on the young woman he had publicly humiliated.
The marquis had made an error in judgment, they had said, while he’d been distraught by the misbehavior of his son. Others had claimed it was a misunderstanding that, while unfortunate, had turned out well enough in the end. The wrongly accused Lady Cassandra had ended up married, they reasoned, so no real harm had been done.
It was generally agreed in elevated social circles that although the marquis’s behavior was regrettable, the lapse must be overlooked in a gentleman of such assured rank. Some people pointed out that Ripon had been punished enough by the embarrassment of his son’s infamous conduct, as well as the shadow cast over his own reputation. Therefore, the brunt of the blame was heaped on the absent Lord Lambert, who it seemed had decided to resume his grand tour of the continent for an indeterminate length of time. Ripon, for his part, would be welcomed back into the fold when the scandal had faded.
In the meantime, social mavens decided that no harm would come of paying calls to Lady Cassandra and her wealthy husband, and cultivating an advantageous association with them.
Tom would have liked to stick to his original plan of telling them all to go to hell, except that Cassandra seemed pleased by the visits. He would tolerate anything, no matter how galling, if it made her happy.
Since the age of ten, work had been the main part of Tom’s life, and home had been the place of brief but necessary intermissions, where he conducted the rituals of sleeping, eating, washing and shaving as efficiently as possible. Now, for the first time, he found himself plowing through his work so he could hurry back home, where all the interesting things seemed to be happening.
In the first fortnight after their honeymoon, Cassandra had taken charge of the house at Hyde Park Square with an impressive attention to detail. Despite all her talk of lingering and being a lady of leisure, she was a whirlwind in disguise. She knew what she wanted, and how to give directions, and how to approach the complex web of responsibilities and relationships that comprised a household.
An assistant had been hired for the elderly cook, and new dishes were already being served at the table. After reviewing the household routines with Mrs. Dankworth, it was agreed that two additional housemaids and an extra footman would be hired to reduce the staff’s workload in general. They had too little time off per week, Cassandra had explained to Tom, which was exhausting and dispiriting. She and the housekeeper had also agreed to soften a few rules to make the servants’ lives less codified and uncomfortable. For example, the housemaids would no longer be obligated to wear the silly popover shaped caps that served no purpose other than to designate them as housemaids. Such small concessions seemed to have buoyed the general atmosphere of the house noticeably.
The extra parlor Cassandra had commandeered for her private office was filled with sample books of paint, paper, carpeting and fabric, as she had decided to replace portions of interior decorating she considered shabby or outdated. That included the servants’ quarters, where worn bed linens, blankets and towels had been replaced, as well as several pieces of rickety or broken furniture. A better quality of soap would be ordered for their personal needs, instead of the coarse soap that made the skin dry and the hair brittle.
It annoyed Tom that there were details about the lives of his household staff he’d never been made aware of, nor had he thought to ask about. “No one ever mentioned that my servants were being given the cheapest possible soap,” he had told Cassandra with a scowl. “The devil knows I’ve never been a miser.”
&n
bsp; “Of course not,” she soothed. “Mrs. Dankworth was only trying to be economical.”
“She could have told me.”
Diplomatically, Cassandra said, “I’m not sure she felt comfortable talking to you about household soap. You seem to have told her you didn’t want to be bothered by the details, and to use her own judgment.”
“Clearly my opinion of her judgment was too high,” Tom muttered. “I’d rather not have my servants scoured raw with caustic soda and petroleum soap.”
In the ferment of activity, Bazzle was hardly forgotten. Cassandra had taken him to a dentist for a professional cleaning, and then to an oculist who administered an eye examination and pronounced his vision excellent. After that, she’d taken him to visit a tailor who had measured him for new clothes. Although Cassandra hadn’t yet found a private tutor to bring Bazzle up to the educational level of other children his age, she had undertaken to teach him the alphabet. He’d found it dull and tiresome, until she’d purchased a set of painted alphabet blocks that featured pictures as well as letters. At mealtimes, she labored to teach him basic manners, including how to use his utensils properly.
Although Bazzle adored Cassandra, her relentless attentions were probably a large part of the reason the boy was so insistent about continuing to accompany Tom to the office in the mornings. Once a tutor was found, however, Bazzle’s visits would have to become curtailed.
“Fingers is as good as forks,” Bazzle grumbled as he went with Tom to a food stall for lunch one day. “Don’t need no utenskils, and no alphabet neither.”
“Look at it this way,” Tom said reasonably. “If you’re eating at a table beside a fellow who knows how to use his fork properly, and you can only eat with your fingers, people will think he’s smarter than you.”
“Don’t care.”
“You’ll care when they give him a better job.”
“Still don’t care,” came Bazzle’s sullen reply. “I likes sweeping.”
Chasing Cassandra Page 26