by Betina Krahn
“When I married your mother she came with an inheritance that had been entailed by her father. He had approved of the match, but he was ill and knew he hadn’t long in this world. He wanted to protect her. She was not one for worldly matters and she had a sizable sum . . . more than I realized at the time. I vowed to her father and to her that I would not touch it, that it would remain hers and become a legacy for our children. I put it in a trust of the Bank of England and kept my word. I have not touched a penny of that money.
“My company, East Anglia, has always done well and provided us a comfortable income. But the last few years have drained our capital and strained our accounts. When Horace Townsend approached me about a merger I did some investigating and was surprised to learn that Townsend was struggling as well.
“You might well imagine what it cost Horace to admit such a thing, but it is no secret that there is little capital available in the financial markets. Our former investors are busy keeping their own heads above water. Together, merged into one company, we would become the largest import-export company in England and could set both prices and standards. The question was how to fund the merger and make it solvent from the start.”
“That is where the marriage came in,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “I was astounded to learn how the trust had grown. There was enough to satisfy our debts and even fund the innovation needed to carry Anglia-Townsend into the future.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me about it? How large is this account?”
He took a deep breath before answering. “Several hundred thousand pounds.”
She sank back in the chair, grateful for its support. That was a fortune indeed. And her father, a man of principle and scrupulous honesty, had not touched the funds in all those years.
“How many is ‘several’?” she demanded, thoughts whirling.
He swallowed hard. “Six, plus a bit.”
“Six . . . hundred . . . thousand?” She almost strangled on the words.
He nodded gravely. “You see why I was worried. It was incumbent upon me to find a man of strength, good sense, and integrity for you. If the size of your inheritance had gotten out, you would have had money-hungry ne’er-dowells dogging your every footstep. As it was, no one knew about it but our lawyers, our banker, and me.
“When you reached your majority,” he continued, “my parental control ended. But there was the entailment, which your mother and I left intact, and which was passed down to you. When I met Horace Townsend’s son Rafe and had him investigated—”
“You had him investigated?” She leaned forward.
“I did. Do you think I would trust a man I knew nothing about with my only daughter?” He leaned forward, too, his face softening. “It turned out the singular drawback to the man was his pigheaded father. So I proceeded to explore the notion with you, and you were not opposed to it.”
“Silly me . . . swayed by thoughts of long, romantic walks and deep discussions of books and the mysteries of life. And I thought of children—a house full of little ones. I imagined you bouncing them on your knee as you once did . . . me.”
Liquid collected at the corners of his eyes and he gave it a swipe. It was a moment before he could continue.
“Your mother and I had such a wonderful life . . . though our time together was cut short. I had hopes that you and young Townsend would come to like each other and make a good marriage. I had no idea things had gotten off to such a dismal start.”
“You were right,” she said, laying her hand over his.
“About what?” he said, looking up with surprise.
“That I was being a stubborn twit and he was being a horse’s arse.” She gave a pained smile. “We were both at fault.” She squeezed his hand, seeing disappointment in his eyes. Was that for her behavior or his own?
She slid from the chair to her knees and put her head on her father’s lap as she had when she was a child. It was forgiveness personified. He laid his hand on her head and stroked her hair.
“Tell me about the merger. What do you intend to do with the money?”
He took a deep breath and told her about East Anglia’s debts and the two ships Townsend had sunk too much capital into . . . sitting in the London shipyard, unfinished. He spoke of building a fast cargo fleet that could navigate the Suez Canal and revealed Rafe’s desire to start right away by refitting some of their current ships with better propulsion. That was the project he had in mind when they went to see the exhibition. It was an ambitious plan, an exciting course into the future for them and security for the families of the men who worked for them.
And all of it depended on her.
After they sat in silence for a while she looked up at her father, her mind clear on what must be done.
“I suppose there is only one thing for it now.”
He frowned. “What is that?”
“I’ll have to marry the man.”
Though it was exactly what he had wanted to hear, Lawrence found himself strangely reluctant to celebrate those solemn words.
* * *
Lauren sent Rafe a note saying that she would be at the St Ambrose parish school the next afternoon for story hour and hoped he would join her there. She had lost track of whose day it was to plan activities—as if that mattered now—but took the initiative and hoped that he would be accommodating enough to join her. Perhaps afterward they could take a walk in St James’s Park or visit a tearoom and talk. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, but she knew she had to talk with him.
She had the cab driver let her off at the gate of the garden between the gray stone Church of St Ambrose and the building that housed the parish school. It was one o’clock and there were lines of children and teachers moving along the path from the rear schoolyard toward the main doors. St Ambrose subscribed to the notion of educating the whole child, which included moral training and healthful exercise. Each day the children spent some time outside in games and physical activity intended to teach right conduct and fair play.
As she entered the main doors, some of the older children called out to her.
“Got another Round Table story for us, miz?”
“Not knights”—another boy elbowed the speaker—“cowboys an’ wild horses, miz. That’s the ticket. Got any of them?”
“Not today,” she called as she threaded her way through a sea of sweaty young bodies and glowing faces. “But I’ll look for some books that have them.”
The headmaster’s office was usually bustling with activity at that time of day but seemed less so just now. When she approached the school secretary’s desk the woman rose with a start.
“You’re here,” Miss P said, and smoothed her hair toward her bun with a fluttering hand. It wasn’t like Miss Pringle to primp or ever be at a loss for words. She seemed downright unsettled as she informed Lauren, “The headmaster and school committee are meeting in the rector’s office. They asked me to have you join them as soon as you arrive.”
“Thank you, Miss Pringle.” Lauren set the stack of books she had brought on a nearby counter. “I’ll leave these here for now. I’m so excited to start a new story today. I think the children will love it.”
But on the way to the rector’s study, she thought about the secretary’s odd demeanor. There was no customary smile and no question about the books she had brought for the school’s growing library.
The door to the rector’s study was open and she could see one man and three women seated before the reverend’s desk . . . the headmaster and the rest of the committee. With her now present, the whole committee was assembled. But it wasn’t time for their regular monthly meeting and they hadn’t contacted her about the need for a special session.
“There she is now.” Mrs. Buffington rose when she entered and stepped behind her to close the door. The only chair available was the one Mrs. B had vacated and Lauren looked around in confusion.
“I should get another chair.”
“No need.” M
rs. Buffington stepped in front of her. “Take mine. I would just as soon stand.”
Lauren protested, but Mrs. B insisted. The others watched intently as she took the seat and smoothed her dark gray skirt over her lap and adjusted the collar and tie of her starched blouse. When she smiled at them they looked away.
“I had no idea there was to be a meeting today. I would have brought my pad to take minutes—”
“No need for that, Miss Alcott.” The rector waved her concern aside. “This is an informal session.” He looked down at his desk and folded his hands on some papers there. “A situation has been brought before us concerning a member of this committee. It appears there have been some—unfavorable reports—”
“Scandalous ones,” Marigold Buffington corrected, moving to the side of the reverend’s desk and looking pointedly down at a batch of newspapers under the reverend’s elbows . . . identified by their grayish tone as cheap penny papers. Most were rumpled from reading and she could see that some articles had been circled.
Lauren’s stomach knotted at the sight. They were meeting about a committee member mentioned in the penny papers, the “evening wheezes.” This could only be about her. When she looked to her fellow committee members only one of the four would meet her eyes.
“We have read these stories with discernment, trying to apply the most charitable interpretation of events,” the rector declared. “But even by the most forgiving standards, we have found them to be . . .”
She had looked to him, hoping for some semblance of fairness in recognition of the earnest work she had done for the school. But the silver-haired rector’s face was set in a way she had never seen it: authoritative and judgmental. When he glanced up at Mrs. Buffington she realized the woman’s face shared that expression.
Pieces came together in her mind. The dinner party the other night . . . the demands for details of her “misadventure” at the docks . . . Mrs. Buffington’s shock at hearing that she had been aboard a ship for days with Rafe and a crew full of men. She remembered now that afterward the woman had scarcely looked at her. At the time she had been preoccupied with the undersecretary’s ugly comments and boorish behavior.
“Not only were you staying aboard a ship in the harbor with a man you are not married to,” Mrs. Buffington said sharply, “but after a brief investigation we discovered your previous behavior has shown a shocking lack of propriety and common decency.” Her nostrils flared. “You stripped yourself naked to go swimming in a river.”
Seventeen
Lauren was so shocked by the way Mrs. Buffington’s accusation was framed that it took her a moment to form a rebuttal.
“I–I was not naked, Mrs. Buffington. I had merely shed my skirt and petticoats before diving in.”
“So you admit that you undressed in public to go swimming. And on the Lord’s Day,” another committee member said in dismay.
“I admit to swimming . . . to an overturned boat and two women who were floundering and would have drowned if I hadn’t ferried them to the riverbank. Did you read the story in the papers? I believe they reported what took place.”
“They were quite clear about your behavior,” Mrs. Buffington declared, “including your betrothed’s condemnation of it. You called him a coward afterward, and stalked off without clothing or a proper escort. A humiliating incident for your family and intended.”
“I dressed as soon as I could and I made sure the women were taken care of . . . found them a conveyance home.”
“And scarcely a few days passed before you were plucking a dirty little street thief from the hands of justice,” Mrs. Buffington continued, her voice and accusations sharpening. “Making yourself out to be some sort of ‘angel’ while engaging in profligacy and lawlessness.”
“That’s blasphemy, that is.” The headmaster, the only male member of the committee, finally screwed up the nerve to reveal his opinion. “Making out you’re on the level of the angels. That’s sinful pride, that is.”
“I never claimed to be an angel.” Her heart was now racing and her hands, despite her gloves, were icy. “Surely you know that I am not responsible for anything in those papers. A newswriter seized upon the incident and turned it into something lurid and sensational.”
“We thought we knew you, Miss Alcott.” One of the other members, Mrs. Jacobs, had tears forming in her eyes. “Trusted you with the minds of young, impressionable children.”
“I doubt any of them read scandal sheets,” she said, feeling a restraint in her giving way. “And apparently you have only read the most lurid parts. After my work on the committee and in the school, how could you believe I would ever be a corrupting influence on the children?”
“What else would you call a woman who sneaks off to spend days dallying with a man aboard a ship?” Mrs. Buffington charged. “Under the guise of tending his injuries. More of that ‘angel’ nonsense when you were undoubtedly engaging in an unconsecrated union. As an unmarried woman who sits in services every Sunday, you knew better, and still you did it. Fornication alone is grounds to remove you from this committee and from the school.”
“Our staff must be above reproach,” Mrs. Owens, wife of a philanthropic supporter of the school, declared. “You know full well the contract we have with our teachers . . . ‘no dancing, no contact with the opposite sex, no music except hymns on Sunday, no whistling, no reading worldly novels or foreign books or attending any theatricals . . . ’”
“Our staff is expected to live modest, circumspect lives,” Mrs. Buffington broke in. “How can we expect them to abide by our standards of righteous living when one of our committee members flaunts her indecency and immorality for all to see?”
With each word delivered against her Lauren’s spine grew straighter. She was astounded by the vengeful attitude of the woman who had brought the charges against her. What had she ever done to offend Marigold Buffington? She turned to the rector, who now sat with his fingers templed, watching the woman berate her with self-righteous vigor. She shoved to her feet, determined to defend herself but struggling for words.
“Surely you, Reverend, must see that the reports in the papers and the incidents brought before the committee are not the whole story. These writings are half-truths and fabrications, meant to sell papers and titillate the susceptible. And you must see that in passing unfair judgment on me, you open yourselves to a more righteous judgment.”
There were gasps at that.
The rector’s head jerked as if he’d been slapped.
“Unrepentant sinners face a hellish eternity,” he growled as he shot forward and pounded a fist on the papers. “It is because we so earnestly wish to save them that we must pass judgment in this mortal realm. To do otherwise would leave our world at the mercy of sin and evil influences.”
She had to steady herself on the desk. She was now condemned as an unrepentant sinner?
“But in the interest of fairness, we give you the opportunity to set the record straight,” he continued. “Tell us what you think we have wrong, Miss Alcott. Did you or did you not spend days aboard a ship in London’s harbor with a man not your husband?”
“I did. Two days,” she said. “But only to tend Mr. Townsend, my betrothed. He had been hit on the head during the dockside riot and was unconscious, unable to help himself. When the men from the Clarion, a ship which Mr. Townsend’s company owns, offered to carry him to safety aboard their vessel, I gratefully accepted. I stayed to tend him because I considered his health to be in danger. I believe any young woman of decency and compassion would have done the same for her intended husband.” She glanced to Mrs. Buffington, who narrowed her eyes in disbelief.
After a moment the rector continued, finally making the real problem clear. “You have admitted to shedding your clothing and jumping into the river to swim . . . a brazen and shocking act. You have interfered with the workings of justice and let a criminal go free to prey on others. And you now claim to be an angel of mercy only interested in the health of you
r intended husband. All of which you say are misinterpreted in these wicked publications.” He gave the papers littering his desk a dismissive wave.
For a moment she felt a glimmer of hope, which he quickly dashed.
“But this latest piece,” he lifted a copy of The Morning Post, “declaring you have returned from tending a victim of brutal rioters and are at last able to return to your work at St Ambrose Church School, is most damaging of all. Whatever the truth of these unseemly events, they have been laid at the feet of our congregation. Your hedonistic behavior taints our school and the pupils given into our care. To ignore these charges is to allow them to serve as excuses for others to do the same and worse. The reputation of our school must not suffer for the thoughtless actions of one misguided and intemperate girl.”
His voice had grown louder and he rose to face her across his desk.
“We must ask for your resignation from this committee and revoke your access to our students and facilities.” He stretched his neck above his clerical collar and stared down his long, narrow nose at her. “Whether you decide to stay on the rolls of St Ambrose’s congregation or not is up to you. But I counsel you to take time and distance to think about your behavior and its effect on our ministry to a sinful world.”
She stood for a moment, grappling internally for control. She wanted nothing more than to snatch those wretched papers from his desk and use them to thrash the sanctimonious Mrs. Buffington and the compassionless reverend about their hypocritical heads. They cared nothing for the truth . . . nor would they believe it if she were to pour out the shocking details of her abduction and imprisonment aboard the Clarion. That much was clear. Even clearer was the preordained outcome of the farcical “hearing” they had arranged.
They didn’t want to hear her rebuttal or to entertain facts inconvenient to their prejudices. They wanted her gone . . . swept from the school the way homeless beggars were swept from the church steps every Sunday morning. She headed for the door, but turned back with her eyes ablaze.