“Nothing.”
“Tosh. I have seen you these past days looking quite morose. Are you still upset that Ned Amherst has gone away?”
She stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.”
“Verity, this is none of your business.”
“I think it is,” Verity said, a gleam in her eye.
Cecy sighed. “Why do I have to have the most determined little sister?”
“Because you’re extremely fortunate,” the imp said with a grin. “Besides, I’m not so very little.”
Yet sometimes she seemed a lot more than two years her junior, judging from previous mischievous pranks she had played. “I am surprised you are not with Sophia.”
Verity shrugged. “She was a little catty earlier. She said—”
From the way her sister abruptly cut off her words Cecy gathered it would be prudent not to know.
“And she’s not very smart,” Verity continued. “She thinks New Holland is a place near Germany!”
It wasn’t?
“Cecy, please don’t make me want to disown you. Everybody knows it is the country our King sends convicts to.”
Apparently not quite everyone. “Not everyone is as enamored of geography as you.”
“That’s because everyone apart from me has been somewhere interesting.” She sighed. “I wish Mama would allow me to visit Scotland with Helena.”
“Your friend from school?”
“Yes. Mama has said she may come visit before school starts again in September, but I wish she might permit me to go there.”
“Perhaps one day she will.”
“Perhaps—when pigs sprout wings and fly. Oh, well. No use feeling sorry for ourselves.”
“No.” Cecy offered a smile. “So, what do you propose we do?”
“Hmm.” Her sister glanced at the writing implements lining the table. “Ned Amherst.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You care for him, don’t you?”
Heat washed over her as she replied stiffly, “He is a friend, that is all.”
Verity mumbled something under her breath, something Cecy didn’t imagine would be terribly complimentary so she made no effort to enquire.
“Why exactly has he gone to London?” her little sister persisted.
“He believes he can do some good there.”
“Yes, but doing what? He cannot speak in Parliament, not that it is in session at the moment, anyway.”
“He wishes to resume his work in the legal profession.”
“I didn’t know he used to do that.”
“Well, you were young, and then away at school.” Noting that reminders of her sister’s youth had earned a scowl, Cecy hurried on. “He is hopeful of being able to help those who are poor, people like …” Perhaps she should not mention Ned’s interest in the gypsies. “People like the Irish, or those even more marginalized in society.”
Verity’s brows rose. “Well! I did not know him to be so interested in the plight of others.”
“He is good-hearted,” Cecy murmured. Conscious her sister eyed her with a disconcerting smile, she hastened to add, “I understand from Lady Rovingham that he is working for his uncle again.”
Verity nodded. “And his causes? How does he hope to draw attention to the poor?”
A chuckle escaped. “I do not know. You should perhaps ask him.”
“Have you his direction?”
Cecy flushed. “No! Of course not. It is not the done thing to write to gentlemen.” Her cheeks grew hotter; her gaze dropped. Of course, such scruples had not prevented her before …
She peered up at her sister, who still possessed that gleam of amusement in her eyes. “You are not to write to him. Understand?” Heaven forbid he think Cecy had put Verity up to such things!
“Very well. I shan’t. But I wonder …”
Cecy studied her sister with misgiving. Verity, whilst owning a scrupulous degree of honesty that inevitably saw her own the truth when confronted—often at great personal cost—was not above leading others to false assumptions. When in the past Cecy had tried to point out the illogical nature of that, Verity had simply said, “I cannot see it as being so very wrong when it is for the greater good.”
“But dearest, if we all applied such logic then surely we would all have different understandings as to what is good, which must by necessity make for a very confused morality.”
Verity had demurred, and nothing further had been said. Cecy could only wonder if she was about to see her sister’s interesting ethics put into place again.
“I think, dear Cecilia, it is time you wrote a letter.”
“To whom?”
“The Times.”
“I beg your pardon? Ladies don’t write letters to The Times.”
“Well they should. Surely if it brings awareness to the matters Mr. Amherst is fighting for, then that must be a good thing.”
“But how would one know if anyone even read such a letter?”
“Why do you suppose they would not?”
“Verity, have you ever read The Times?”
“On occasion.”
“Really?”
Verity shrugged, in a manner sure to reap Mother’s disapproval should she see her. “I think it’s important to know about our world. Of course, I can but read such newspapers rarely. Miss Haverstock takes nothing but Lady’s Monthly Museum and other worthy periodicals, so I am forced to wait until I return here to read Father’s copies, which, by then, are so out-of-date they seem scarcely of use. But still, I do my best to keep abreast of matters.”
Uncertainty surged within. As unladylike as it seemed, perhaps young gentlemen—perhaps Ned—would be more interested in her if she gained a wider understanding of the world.
“Cecy?”
She refocused her attention. “You truly think writing a letter would help others see the plight of the poor?”
“Yes.”
“But no one is going to read a letter from me.”
“Do not sign it then. Or, sign it ‘from a concerned citizen.’ I am sure I have seen such letters published.”
“But what if someone finds out it is from me?”
“How will they?” Verity eyed her. “Don’t you want to help Ned help the poor? Don’t you care about the poor?”
Well, when put like that …
Her sister made an impatient sound. “How can you sit there and say you care about him and be unwilling to help him at all?”
Cecy stared at her. How was it every time she spent any great amount of time in Verity’s company she felt as if a strong current was dragging her in its grasp?
“Well?”
She swallowed. “I will write a letter.”
“Good!”
“But I won’t sign it.”
Another shrug. “That does not matter. What matters is that he is seen to have support, even if it be from an unknown source. Really, it would be better if we could write to multiple publications and draw as much attention to it as possible.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Verity waved a hand. “Oh, no pardon needed.” She flashed a mischievous smile, her black hair gleaming as she bounced up from the bed. “Now, where is your inkpot and paper?”
“Here.” Cecy drew both items to attention on the writing table, while swiftly sliding her journal away from view. “Verity? What are you doing?”
Her sister ignored her for several minutes as she quickly scrawled on a sheet of paper. “Here.” Verity said, extending the paper towards her.
Cecy grasped it and scanned its contents—a list of popular magazines, newspapers, and periodicals.
“It would seem you have some writing to do.”
It would indeed.
Her heart was snagged by new hope. Perhaps she could do more than merely pray for him. Perhaps this scheme might one day bless him—and further align their hearts.
The first few weeks in London passed slowly, a
time when Ned forced himself to recall so many of the practices and routines of the past. He had worked with his uncle for three years; it felt a lifetime ago and yet something he could slip back into with ease.
Thank God it was so. His thoughts drifted to earlier days, when in those weeks after graduation everything had felt shiny and full of possibility. After gaining his doctorate in civil laws he had been granted work with his uncle, a path encouraged by his parents, keen to see their younger son given purpose beyond the exploits of his university friends. As the work had proved not strenuous, amounting to little more than drafting papers and ensuring he mingled with those whose approval of his work and character meant he could become a barrister, it had allowed time for other recreations, ones that proved rather less helpful for those wishing to find his character satisfactory. Lured by gold and the larks and laughter of his friends, there were eventually more missed days than ones worked. And at the time when he should have been called to the bar, he was instead excused from the office by his uncle, with bitter words of disappointment and frustration.
Ned hadn’t cared. His friends held the rigid morality of his parents loosely, the world beckoned, and he had reveled in the chance to be free. Such freedom had, of course, necessitated the borrowing of funds from his father from his future inheritance, such funds John begrudged him now. But at the time it had seemed the easiest way to join his friends in their adventures, both in London and farther afield. Only then he had not realized what precisely he was getting into.
He pushed his head into his hands, willed away the memories. Poor Baxter. God forgive me. When would the past cease its taunting?
Drawing in a deep breath, he refocused on the pile of papers on his desk. His work generally involved drafting court papers, pleadings, for the barristers to wield in chambers. If he had passed the bar he would now be one of the benchers pleading cases, not drafting briefs. But such was the result of his former choices, choices which meant it would take a very long time until others could approve and trust his character. He would simply have to hope that God saw his attempts to help as worthy of mercy, and pray that one day His favor might be restored.
Two hours later he had concluded enough business that he thought even the Lord Chancellor himself might approve. He cleared up, locked up, and made his way back to his uncle’s residence. Eventually he would have to find lodgings of his own, but at the moment he preferred the security of a family to that of being alone. Occasionally after work he made discreet enquiries at various places where the disenfranchised were, the inns, the hostelries and taverns frequented by the Irish and the poor. As some of these visits were not conducted in especially salubrious or safe environments, he tried to limit them to nights when he was not drained of energy, should quick wits and reflexes prove necessary.
Other nights—like this, when all he wanted to do was curl up into bed—found him instead meeting unspoken obligations in the drawing room, assuming the role of big brother as he played chess with his young cousin Frederick, whilst his uncle read the newssheets.
“Check.”
Ned frowned, stifling a yawn against the back of his hand. How was it that a mere lad could beat him?
“Edward?”
Ned gave Frederick an apologetic smile. “Forgive me. It seems your father wishes for my attention.” He rose and moved to where his uncle sat.
“Have you seen this?” Lionel pointed to the front sheet of the newspaper.
“Not as yet.” He’d scarcely had time to finish his meal before obeying the silent summons to the drawing room. Time rarely permitted him to read the day’s news.
“Read this article here.”
Ned carefully lifted the paper and settled on the sofa nearby. An editorial, outlining the newspaper’s staunch support for the government’s opposition to those wishing to help the poor.
He scowled. “How any Christian can justify such attitudes is beyond me.”
His uncle peered at him over the top of his pince-nez. “The editor no doubt wishes to keep his job and not make statements that would anger the authorities.”
“Yes, but it is wrong.”
“Of course it is. But I find it interesting.”
“How so?”
“I do not think these things have been written just in response to the rumblings from Lancashire.”
Lancashire, where the weavers and spinners had seen their wages cut in half in recent years, where the people were demanding change, were demanding better representation in Parliament, so the stories of unemployment and starvation could be heard by those who cared rather than suppressed by those wishing to protect the patrons who had seen them elected to a government seat.
Heartbreak had been the substance of some of the stories and letters that had come Ned’s way, but as yet, his uncle refused to act. These problems were a matter for Parliament, he said, not the law courts.
Ned had swallowed his objections, not keen to exacerbate his uncle’s displeasure by harping on a subject sure to heap coals on his head. But he knew about the worsening conditions, and he prayed that God would bring peace to an increasingly heated situation.
“Edward?”
“Forgive me, Uncle. You were saying?”
“I find it interesting that such a thing be mentioned. It’s almost as if …”
“Almost as if what?”
His uncle’s brow creased, and he moved to retrieve a different magazine. “Ah, I thought I had seen something of the like. Look here.” His uncle jabbed at the page.
Ned scanned the letter from “A Concerned Citizen,” a letter which espoused the importance of helping the poor, and which mentioned specifically the Irish and others deemed less acceptable to society.
God bless them, he breathed. Whoever had written this certainly had a way with words, using Scripture to reinforce their case: Rob not the poor because he is poor: neither oppress the afflicted in the gate.
“How gladsome to see others pleading for compassion at this time.” He glanced up at his uncle.
“Now, don’t be thinking that just because I uphold the law that I do not have any sympathy. I am not completely unfeeling, after all.”
Ned inclined his head. “You have shown me your charity through your reemployment of me.”
His uncle waved an impatient hand. “I do wish you would stop going on about that. You have been proving your worth these past weeks, and I’m sure it will only be a matter of time before the likes of Whittaker and Matthews can see it, too.”
His words fueled hope. If the two senior barristers could deign to look kindly on his plea for a second chance to reapply to the bar …
“But you must tread carefully, my boy. I have said I do not mind your interest in such matters, but it would not do to draw attention to oneself.”
“But surely good works require doing.”
“I’m not saying they do not; quite the opposite, in fact. But I would hate to see your future negatively impacted because you were known to be supporting the cause of those who are most clearly against the government.”
Ned swallowed further protest. His uncle was right. And Ned could not—would not—put him into the embarrassing position of having supported his nephew, against the advice of others, only to shame him once again.
He pointed to the letter. “Perhaps if other people could be encouraged to support these views, then even the government could see this issue spans far broader than me.”
“True.” His uncle’s lips creased into what usually passed as a smile as he gestured to the newssheet. “Well, at least there are two of you.”
“Two bothering to do something about it,” he muttered.
“Now, now. For all you know there may well be many people who feel this way but have little opportunity to speak out.”
He bowed his head. “You are right. Forgive me for letting my emotions get the better of me.”
His uncle pursed his lips. “You are tired. One is never able to best control one’s emotions when one is wear
y. Perhaps we can discuss this more tomorrow.”
“Thank you for your understanding,” Ned said, before offering his good-nights.
He had best pray for some sleep and a rein for his tongue, before he once again let emotions carry him astray.
CHAPTER TEN
THE SCENT OF leather and tobacco filled her nostrils as she slid deeper into her father’s chair. Across the room, tall windows spilled rectangular pools of light onto the Arbusson carpet.
Verity’s chair squeaked as she sat higher. “Oh, look, they have published it!” She held out the Gentleman’s Magazine, something Cecy felt sure Mama would frown upon their reading. But propriety seemed less important than the knowledge their actions were for a greater cause.
Cecy read it. Felt a ping of pride. “I hope it draws the attention of others.” And helped Ned in his efforts. Her prayers for him may have lessened, her mind taken with other concerns, but they had not ceased.
“Yes.” Verity frowned, her eyes having shifted to another newssheet.
“What is it?”
Her sister did not look up, her attention engrossed by the article. “This is not right.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What is happening in Lancashire.”
“What is happening in Lancashire?”
“The workers, weavers, spinners, are protesting about their wages being cut, how they cannot afford to eat.”
“Truly?” Cecy moved to sit beside her, following the newsprint. “That is terrible!”
The article, however, provided little news, instead arguing that a meeting planned by radicals in the Manchester region was seditious, and their desire to elect a parliamentary representative illegal.
“I don’t understand. Why would they wish to do such a thing?”
Verity sighed. “Because the government is not listening to their demands.”
“Verity?”
Cecy jumped, unaware her father had come in.
“What is this you two are doing?”
“We are simply reading about the terrible conditions in Lancashire, Father,” Verity said, meeting Father’s gaze without a blush to signify embarrassment at being caught in his library without permission.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 10