He scowled. “And what would you know about those matters?”
Verity shot Cecy a look, then said, “I have read the papers, and can surmise as well as any man—”
“You?” His laughter held a jeering note. “A girl of seventeen?”
At the mutinous tilt to her sister’s chin, Cecy hastily intervened. “Are you aware of what is happening farther north, Father?”
He made a dismissive noise. “It is nothing but the workers, protesting about wages and such.”
“And why have their wages been cut?”
“It’s to do with trade, and tariffs, matters you will not understand.”
“But I will not be able to understand, Father, unless you help me.”
He appeared taken aback by this, his glance shifting between them.
Verity appeared prepared to argue, so Cecy laid a gentle hand on her knee, and her volatile sister closed her mouth.
“Truly, Father, I think it is important to be aware,” Cecy continued. “You have mentioned that you have encountered not a few people over the years who have suffered from the effects of war and famine.”
“Hardly famine,” he scoffed.
Verity’s head rose, her eyes snapping. “How would you know, Father? Have you been there? I would think if people are suffering hardship they should have the right to feel disgruntled.”
“Rights? Don’t talk to me about rights!”
“But, Father …” Cecy began.
“What would either of you two know about such things? These are greedy people, wanting to overturn society, overturn our very way of life, simply to make a point.”
“But surely they cannot be considered greedy if they simply want to provide for their families,” Verity argued.
“I would think feeding their families of far more importance than any political point,” Cecy said softly. “I cannot imagine how awful it must be to have no food.”
An image of the desperate gypsy hovered. Is that what desperation did, causing one to abandon societal norms in an attempt to find food, to secure help? Her throat, her eyes filled. No wonder people felt abandoned.
“Now, Cecilia”—her father’s voice had softened—“there is no need to look like that.”
His image blurred. “But how can we ignore their plight? It is not right.”
He drew near and awkwardly patted her shoulder. “And this is why ladies should not trouble themselves with these matters. It stirs up emotions best left alone.”
Although it was not just her emotions stirred; her heart felt impassioned, too. Some might believe her presumptuous, but it almost seemed as though God Himself was drawing her attention to this, helping her to see a world far bigger than she’d known. But for what purpose? What could she do?
“Oh, here you all are!” Mama’s voice. “Cecilia, you do not look at all well. Your eyes are red.”
Father cleared his throat. “We have been discussing certain matters to do with the protests in the north.”
“Protests?” Mother looked horrified. “No, no, my dear. Gentlemen do not like young ladies to concern themselves with such things. Why, I myself have never picked up a newssheet in my life!”
Verity gave a huff of exasperation beside her, one sure to invite further censure from Mama should opportunity arise. Cecy patted her sister’s knee again then rose, looking towards her father. “Please excuse me. I have something of the headache.”
“Of course, of course,” he murmured, his expression soft once more. “This is why I do not think it wise for my daughters to think on such matters. It does not do to work oneself into a state.”
She managed a smile that did not feel completely artificial, directed a more genuine look of amusement at her sister, then retreated upstairs to her bedchamber.
But not to sleep.
Instead, she retrieved her journal, and began to write:
I do not know why I feel so strongly about such things, but I feel as though God has pressed His finger to my heart and said “Take notice.” Why, I do not know, save that these poor people suffering are His people, innocents and babes, the elderly. Surely it has to be more than just entering into Ned Amherst’s interests. What if he never notices me?
Her eyes filled again. She shook her head at herself, at her selfish thoughts, and continued writing.
Regardless, I feel certain these matters are of far greater importance, and require much prayerful intervention. And prayers for myself also, to be guided into what God would have me do.
Cecy placed the pen in the inkwell, and leaned back in her chair. Eyed the ream of paper. Eyed the inkpot. Recalled the published letter. Yes, she would pray, but she felt sure some part of what God wished for her to do would involve her writing to draw attention to His cause.
She drew forth another sheet of notepaper, and dipped her pen once more.
London’s streets held an eerie air, the shuffle and stamp of feet in the morning seemingly prescient of doom. The murmurs of snatched conversation all devoted to talk of the proposed massed public meeting in Manchester. What would happen? Would the threats of violence be realized? Would the troops have to be called in? Ned hurried to the office, where talk among the other clerks also tended to matters farther north. When invited to share his opinion, Ned murmured something of what he’d spoken to his uncle two nights ago, something about the need for those who felt disempowered to have a voice.
“Do you not think it strange—and, frankly, wrong—that a city the size of Manchester has one elected representative in Parliament when a tiny village in Suffolk with one voter can elect two MPs?” He shook his head. “I have read Thomas Oldfield’s compendium, I have spoken to those who can testify to such records, and believe it to be”—obscene, he swallowed—“completely understandable that those in Lancashire would object to this injustice.”
Smithers, a clerk of similar years standing, frowned. “But you are an earl’s son. How can you align yourself with those who are so far beneath you?”
“Because I am a Christian. And, I believe it is fair to say, my father would doubtless agree that something ought to be done.”
“Something ought to be done, that is certain,” Smithers said. “But at what cost? These men are arguing not simply for suffrage but against the Corn Laws. Surely you would not wish to see English farmers go unprotected.”
“I do not, that is true. But neither do I wish to see the working man starve because he cannot afford to buy any grain, English or imported.” He drew in a deep breath, forced himself to calm. “I do not know the solution, but I do know we live in an age of injustice. It is not just the working men of Lancashire who have been affected; consider the Irish.” He ignored the snort of dismissal, looked at Gordon. “What about those in Scotland forced to remove from the homes they have lived in for countless generations, just because rich landowners want them cleared for sheep? Do you not think such matters wrong?”
Gordon nodded, gave a barely perceptible, “Aye.”
“It is the way of the world,” insisted Smithers.
“But the way of the world is not always right.”
“But it cannot be stopped.”
Ned stared in disbelief. “If you believe that, then why are you working in a legal office?”
Smithers flushed.
“It can change.” Ned swallowed. “What about men like William Wilberforce who were instrumental in seeing the cessation of the slave trade in England? It might have taken years, but ultimately this trading in humans, this blight upon humanity, was forced to cease. I believe it is only a matter of time before we will see the scourge of slavery stopped everywhere. Do you not think that a good thing?”
“Well …”
“Of course it is. You know it is. And it behooves us, we who understand matters of the law, to do all we can to see justice prevail, regardless of whether it is in our interests or not.”
The door opened, his uncle walked in, and Ned was forced to attend to his court papers once more.
&nbs
p; What seemed like hours later, when the documents started to blur, he leaned back in his seat, stretching to clear the kinks in his upper back and neck.
“Amherst?”
He pushed out of his chair, following his uncle’s gesture to his office. No overt signs of familial favor were encouraged. At his uncle’s signal, he closed the door, and took a seat. “Yes, sir?”
“It has been a busy day, and I have not had time to talk with you until now.” His uncle’s brow wrinkled. “It concerns what you were speaking of before.”
Dismay filled him. “You heard?”
“Your talk with Smithers and the others, yes. I heard enough, anyway.”
“I am sorry that time I should have spent on work—”
His uncle held up a hand. “I understand you are concerned. But I would not have your reputation tarnished because rumors reach those influencers who may come to regard you as a radical. The bench does not take kindly to employing those of a radical nature, so if you wish to be made a barrister, you will need to temper some of your remarks.”
Ned inclined his head, but said nothing, his uncle’s hinted question giving pause. Did he wish to be made barrister? Would it not be better to speak up now, for truly, how could he be silent at this time? But he could see his uncle’s point. The men who made such appointments were sticklers for irreproachable character; it would be a miracle if they considered him at all. But there might be something said for working within the law, not being what sometimes seemed a lone voice crying in the wilderness begging to be heard. After all, Wilberforce had needed to wait years until his proposed reforms could be made law …
“Well?”
He would wait and curb his tongue. “I have no wish to give you further embarrassment, sir.”
“This isn’t about me, but you and your future.”
“I understand that. And I appreciate your faith in employing me. I have no wish to cause distress. Heaven knows my actions have caused you pain in the past, so if you prefer I can work elsewhere. I would like to continue to work here, and will guard my words. But I cannot promise to cease from doing what I can in my own time, even if it seems my actions are pointless. I cannot in all good conscience ignore injustice when it is in my power to do good.”
His uncle studied him with a fascinated eye. “You are so different from the foppish nephew of before.”
He refused to take offense. “Thank you.”
“May I ask, what has changed you so?”
The question took him aback. Had he not spoken of this before? “My near death made me see the futility of my former way of life. It was only God’s mercy that sustained me. I have determined to spend the rest of the days God gives me proving that He was not wrong to save me.”
Uncle Lionel drew a deep breath. “I … I barely know what to say, except I cannot help but feel you have chosen a very heavy path.”
“Perhaps. But I know what it is like to feel helpless, to feel my life has no meaning, and I would wish that on no man. Not when it is in my power to do a mite of good.”
“Yes, well …” His uncle eyed him for a moment more, then shook his head. “I believe it must be time to return those papers to Chancery.”
“Of course, sir.”
“I shall see you at home?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Sir, I trust you will not take this amiss, but I have no desire to be a burden upon you and Aunt Susannah. I have wondered about seeking lodgings elsewhere.”
“You are no burden, you know that.” Lionel cleared his throat. “Perhaps you might consider such a thing in the future, or when the barrister post is guaranteed.”
Ned swallowed. “You think the event likely?”
“I hesitate to raise one’s hopes, but from all that Whittaker and Matthews have said, they seem pleased with your progress, which gives me reason to believe they may overlook your, ahem, more youthful indiscretions.”
“I can only hope so.” And pray so. Lord, grant me favor.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“THE MANCHESTER MEETING has been postponed,” Verity murmured from her position at the door.
Cecy exhaled. “How do you—?”
“You didn’t think I would forgo my reading of the news just because Father thinks it indelicate?” Verity sniffed, advancing to the writing table, her dark blue riding habit trailing behind her. “Indelicate! I’d like to know who thought that a good rule.”
She peered over Cecy’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
Cecy covered her journal with both hands. “Nothing.”
Verity chuckled. “A strange sort of nothing if one cannot be permitted to see.”
She sighed, then forced sweetness to her lips, to her voice. “Tell me, how long have we the pleasure of your company until school resumes?”
Another chuckle. “Careful, else you’ll start to sound like our dearest sister, and one Caroline is quite enough, thank you.”
Cecy giggled, but shook her head, and endeavored to turn her sister’s attention away from her journal. “You said, about the meeting in the north … ?”
“Oh, yes. From what I could understand, it seems Home Secretary Hobhouse advised the local Manchester magistrates that such a meeting was not illegal, provided the men did not incite a riot.”
“You think a riot likely?”
Verity nodded. “I hate to think so, but yes.”
Cecy sighed. “I don’t know why they cannot come up with a peaceful solution.” She drew forth a small stack of letters. “I have been writing again to all the papers and periodicals, asking for them to reconsider their stance on these matters. We can only hope and pray such things can be speedily resolved.”
At the mention of prayer, she noted her sister’s faintly curled lip. Verity had as much use for God as her parents did. She stifled a sigh. She would double her prayers for her sister’s heart to be open to receive God’s love.
“So, are you finished? With your letters?”
“For the moment, yes.”
“Good. I have to say, Cecy, I’m rather proud of you for taking to this cause. I thought at one stage you cared for nothing but Ned Amherst’s good opinion.”
She willed away the flush she could feel spreading over her cheeks. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, if you don’t then …” Verity smiled her cheeky smile. “I don’t suppose you’d care to ride with me?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you intend to cast further aspersions against me.”
“Was that an aspersion?” Verity asked with raised brows. “I thought I simply told the truth.”
“In that case, I don’t think I would like—”
“Oh, stop it! Don’t be silly. I am impressed with your letters, I hope you know that.”
Pride licked within, forcing her to admit, “I don’t know how much good they will do.”
“But at least you are trying. Now, shall we ride? Please say you’ll come. I heard Mama murmur something about Saltings, and I have no desire to go to Grandmama’s just now. I’m hoping if I remove myself from her vicinity that she’ll be less likely to think me a nuisance and wish to be relieved of me.”
“She does not think that.”
“No?” Verity gave a crooked smile that held more than a hint of wryness. “Well, no matter. Please, say you’ll come.”
Cecy glanced out the open window, where the sun held promise of a beautiful day. “I’d enjoy that.”
“Marvelous! Let’s go.”
“I just need to change my gown.”
“Of course.” Verity stood, the folds of her riding habit falling to the floor. “I’ll see you in the stables soon.”
A RIDE WAS perhaps the best way to clear her head: it demanded concentration, it delivered fresh air, and offered new sights as distraction. She’d followed Verity’s madcap gallop through golden fields and dark green woods, along the path that led to the very back acres of the Aynsley estate. This was a path she ha
d not taken, though she could understand Verity’s appreciation for the coolness offered by the great oak’s twisting branches.
She drew in a deep breath and released it, savoring the scent of earth and leaves. A mite of tension lining her heart eased.
Marigold clopped placidly, clearly resigned to following Banshee, Verity’s “outlandishly named” horse, according to Mother. Cecy did not mind the slower pace; Verity possessed ability on a horse that Cecy would never own, a confident horsemanship that would in fact surpass the abilities of nearly everyone she knew. She had no desire to compete. Horse riding was simply a faster method of transport than using one’s legs. Besides, it was too warm a day to do much more than enjoy the shaded cool.
“Have you ever seen Franklin Park?” Verity called over her shoulder.
She gulped. “No.”
“Want to?” Verity asked with her mischievous smile.
“I …” If she admitted the truth and said yes, would her sister not simply find such an answer reason enough for further teasing?
“Oh, come on. Nobody will know. Ned is in London still, and I daresay he wouldn’t mind us visiting. It’s not like we would be trespassing.”
“But what if there is a caretaker?”
“Honestly, Cecy, if you think a caretaker wouldn’t know who we were then you have the sense of a peahen. Come on! I’m dying to know what it looks like.”
Her words triggered Cecy’s latent desire, too, and she nudged Marigold to a slightly faster trot.
Within minutes they had cleared the wooded path, which ended in a lane running alongside an aged wooden fence. A gate, whose appearance suggested similar years, lay immediately before them, behind which stretched a grassy field and another thick grove of trees. She guessed the house lay beyond. Anticipation thrummed through her veins. What would it be like? What if he was there? Would he think her intrusion presumptuous, or would he pity her knowing why she had so dared?
“Come on, Cecy!” her sister called, to the sound of padding hooves as Banshee approached the gate.
“Verity, no—”
But it was too late; her sister had leapt the gate, landing safely on the other side.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 11