Underestimating Miss Cecilia

by Carolyn Miller

A worried frown creased her sister’s brow. “I don’t suppose we can do anything much, except do as you are and try to distract him.”

  “You do understand my reasons, then?”

  “Yes, although I’m not sure that I think your using him in this manner quite the best way.” Her sister snorted. “The only reason I don’t feel sorry for him is because he’s just as bad as you, save he only cares about money.”

  Her cheeks had heated. “You think he does not care for me?”

  “I think he only cares about his own interests. Regardless, I will endeavor to help you distract him. I cannot see what else can be done.”

  Cecy exhaled and thanked her, but still the questions remained. What could she do to protect Ned, to protect the gypsy? Lord, what should I do?

  Later that night, as the candlelight sputtered shadows on the bedchamber wall, and a period of prayer and contemplation had soothed the turbulence of the day, another thought occurred to her, and she eyed the writing desk.

  She tugged the bedclothes free from her knees, grasped the candlestick, and softly padded to the chair. Drew forth a fresh sheet of paper. Flicked open the inkpot. Dipped her quill. What should she do?

  She would write to the earl and beg his help to protect his son.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  STEPHEN’S VISIT THE next day was every bit the chore she had envisaged it to be. He had arrived far earlier than she expected—she had scarcely finished her breakfast—then stayed discussing the novel until the luncheon hour, for which manners had forced her to invite him to stay. Her parents had been polite, but eyed her askance, as if wondering why she had done such a thing, thus necessitating her to keep her smile affixed and pretend she was entertained by his many observations about the weather and delights of summer. But to do this, when she wondered with every breath whether her letter to the earl had been received, had been opened, had been acted upon, was enough to make her sick. Later, desperate for company, she had bade Verity to accompany them on a walk to Mrs. Cherry, who had met them with surprise.

  “Well! What makes me so fortunate as to receive a visit from three young people, I would like to know?”

  “I came to see how you were getting on,” Cecy began.

  “I know that, but what about the likes of him, I’d like to know.”

  Stephen said something smooth, with the effect the elderly lady thawed enough to offer tea and biscuits. “Lady Rovingham was here last week, and gave me this new sort to try. She is a good lady, has visited every week since Master Edward returned to London.”

  Edward. Her heart clenched.

  “I understand he is getting on quite well,” Mrs. Cherry continued, before casting a stern look at her male guest. “It is good for a young man to have an occupation.”

  He’d met her look benignly, before murmuring about the delicious biscuits, his sprawled position in the armchair only serving to contrast more fully with the man she remembered last sitting there.

  Ned Amherst might be a younger son, someone who had been tangled in London troubles the likes of which she scarcely knew, but these days he held a purpose far different from the gentleman she was spending the day with. One was trying to be honorable; the other cared for immediate pleasures. One knew mercy and had possessed enough compassion he would willingly harbor a suspected criminal; the other, she knew, preferred “justice,” and would rather see such a man hung.

  She lowered her gaze. Verity was right. She should not encourage someone she had little interest in. It was unkind. She could only hope the gypsy—and Ned—would be protected another way. Her thoughts returned to the earl; she hoped, she prayed, the mercy displayed by his son would be evident in his reception to her letter.

  “Miss Cecilia?”

  “Oh, forgive me, Mrs. Cherry. I must have been woolgathering.” Cecy glanced at Verity whose posture suggested she was straining to leave. She pushed out a smile, pushed to her feet. “Thank you, once again, Mrs. Cherry, for a delightful visit. I trust we have not used up too much of your tea. I will bring some next time—”

  “Oh, no mind. Her ladyship’s bound to bring some tomorrow.”

  “Mama is calling?”

  “Lady Rovingham,” Mrs. Cherry replied.

  “Of course.”

  They made their farewells, Verity’s impatience to return home making the trip far quicker than their journey over, and far quicker than she suspected Stephen wanted.

  Verity murmured something about the stables, and hurried that direction, which filled Cecy with misgivings. What if she returned to Franklin Park? But Stephen’s persistent visit demanded her silence, until finally, past four o’clock, and after many, many hints, he bade her farewell, and she could finally collapse onto the sofa in the drawing room. Truly, talking such inanities for so many hours was positively exhausting!

  Verity came in, scowling. “I just saw him leave, so I knew it safe to return. I am never doing that again.”

  “Never doing what again?” Mama said, looking up from her tambour, her expression only a shade milder than Verity’s frown.

  “Stephen has to be the most self-centered person I know. I’m so glad he finally left, for I do not think I could have managed another single second with him.”

  “Now, Verity, it is not kind to say so.”

  “Even if we all know it to be true?”

  Her mother, seemingly nonplussed, turned to Cecy with a weary sigh. “Cecilia, I do admit to some concern about such things. Neither your father nor I envisage seeing you attached to a neighbor, you understand.”

  She dredged up a shallow smile. Oh, she understood.

  “Perhaps if you are interested in attentions from young gentlemen we should seek the truly eligible.” She reached across to the small table positioned beside the sofa, and drew forth a sheet of paper. “I received an invitation today from Mariah Bromsgrove, an old school friend, inviting us to stay.” She peered at Cecy. “You remember Charles, don’t you? You danced with him at Almacks, as I recall.”

  Was he the one with nothing to say for himself? She swallowed, wryly acknowledging the same could be said about her, and managed to murmur an appropriate answer.

  “They have a lovely place in Warwickshire, and he was hoping to renew his acquaintance with you. Is that not fortuitous? Especially when someone like young Heathcote has the temerity to attend you. No, any notions he may have must be dispensed with as quickly as possible.”

  But if she were to leave, Stephen might renew his curiosity about Franklin Park. And what would this mean about her sister? Verity must be protected from the possible ramifications of her usual stubbornness and determined neighborly interest.

  Conscious her mother’s expression demanded a response she murmured, “I confess I have little recollection of the gentleman. Does he have brown hair?”

  “Why, he’s dear Mariah’s son, which means he’s connected to the Duke of Hartington! A distant cousin, but nonetheless. And he’s a Bromsgrove. That means he’s rich. In fact, I do believe they have one of the finest stables in England.”

  She glanced at her sister, whose slumped posture had straightened. Perhaps if they both could leave the area for a time, then they would both be safe from further consequences. “That sounds interesting. Do you think Verity might be able to attend also?”

  “But whatever for?”

  “She … she might enjoy the horses.”

  “But she is not yet out.”

  Verity’s eyes lit. “Oh, please, Mother. I would love to go.”

  “I will think upon it.”

  Cecy exchanged a glance with Verity, whose face drooped with disappointment. “Think upon it” had always proved a euphemism for no.

  Her mother chattered about some reminiscences from her school days, forcing Cecy to dig deep for patience, until Mama finally said, “Verity, fetch my notepaper. I shall reply at once. We may still have time to have this in the post today.”

  Verity’s eye roll suggested her doubt, but she obeyed nonetheless, exit
ing the room for what would likely be a few minutes. A few minutes in which Cecy might plead her case.

  She cleared her throat. “Mama, do you think Verity could come to Warwickshire?”

  Her mother frowned. “I really do not know why you would want her. We are seeking a husband for you, my dear. I fear Verity’s presence would bring rather more trouble than it’s worth. No, I’m really quite against any such notion.”

  But Verity had to leave, she had to be safe. “Then perhaps she might enjoy visiting Grandmama in Saltings.”

  “I cannot think either of them would appreciate such a thing.” Her mother peered at her. “Where has all this concern for your sister sprung from?”

  Cecy swallowed. “I feel a little sorry for her. She has been cooped up here, with scarcely a friend.”

  “She does not have much to do with little Sophia Heathcote, does she?”

  “Not as much as she used to.”

  “How strange.”

  Still, the need to secure Verity’s safety compelled her on. “I do think it would be good for her—”

  “Good for whom?” Verity said, returning to the room, Mama’s lap desk in both hands.

  Mother spent a moment adjusting the paper and ink to her satisfaction, before finally answering. “For you, my dear.”

  “What would be good for me?”

  “Your sister here has suggested that you might enjoy a visit to Saltings.”

  “And see Grandmama?” Verity shot Cecy a puzzled frown then sighed. “I suppose that would be better than going nowhere.”

  “Which is precisely where you will go with that sort of attitude, my girl.”

  “But, Mother, you can have no idea what it is like to have endured an injured leg and be forced to ever sit by wishing to do anything.”

  “Perhaps if you did more sitting then you’d be less likely to fall into scrapes.”

  “Mother, I do not intend to fall into them. They always seem to find me.”

  “They might be less inclined to find you if you were waiting patiently at home. Look at your sister; you don’t see Cecilia getting into scrapes, do you? I’m pleased that at least one of my daughters knows what behavior is due the family name.”

  Verity’s disrespectful roll of her eyes behind her mother’s back earned her Cecy’s small frown. Well she knew herself not to be quite the saint her mother presumed.

  Finally Mother pronounced her letters done and summoned a footman to have them delivered to Lord Aynsley for him to affix his signature, thus affording ease of postage, before retrieving the letters with the murmur that she should probably tell him what she had decided concerning his daughters and herself.

  “Saint Cecilia,” Verity muttered as soon as Mother left the room. “If only Mother knew.”

  Guilt kneaded her insides, but still she forced herself to protest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Verity glanced pointedly at the newspapers.

  “Oh, that. Well, I have not tried to deceive anyone. And isn’t writing those letters to help others more important than some silly rules about what young ladies should or shouldn’t do?”

  Her sister smiled. “You know, when you talk like that it gives me hope for you yet.”

  Why did that not sound complimentary? “Thank you?”

  Verity chuckled, her face dimming. “I just wish Mama could see that I am not always the scapegrace she thinks. I’d love to see her face if you told her about the letters you’ve been writing, or better yet, the gypsy.”

  Put like that it did sound like Cecy had a rather wayward streak.

  “I wish you would,” her sister said, eyes sparkling.

  “And willingly get myself into trouble? Would you?”

  “I’d as soon tell the truth and reap the consequences.”

  Cecy owned this would be true. Verity was as incapable of falsehood as a saint, even if she sometimes behaved in a manner that smelled more like brimstone. But when questioned, she always owned up to her culpability, she never lied.

  Her insides clenched. Would that Cecy owned no such deceit.

  London

  Ned hurried down the laneway, the darkness and scent of sweat and fear hurrying his footsteps. He had no wish to give up, but the whiffs of promising leads to find those keen to speak about the gypsies’ woes had all come to naught, his nighttime journey to what seemed the bowels of London yet another wasted trip. Nobody wanted to spare him time. Was it that they feared him, and thought Ned some sort of government spy? He had heard rumors of such things, both for those considered troublemakers in Manchester and for those whom Europe had long considered social scum.

  Was it best that he give up and focus his energies on those who actually wanted his help? Lord, show me what to do. The needy were plentiful, the Irish and those poor weavers from the north desperate for a voice, and by helping them he could perhaps see his way to being of real service, rather than merely wishing it might be so. But he hated to think his efforts wasted. Was giving up a sign of failure? Uncle Lionel had urged him to save his energies for those more deserving; had indeed urged him to conserve his energy. Sickness had been carried on the warmer breeze, resulting in deaths in not a few courtrooms.

  “And I cannot wish for you to be among their lot, dear boy. But if you will maintain this mad pace …”

  His uncle had sighed, before going on to share his memories about courtrooms which had seen the spread of “prison fever,” where disease from the jails had spread quickly through closed and stuffy rooms to infect the guards, the law clerks, even the magistrate and audience. Such things seemed almost gross exaggeration, but Ned had been assured it was true. And he knew his health was succumbing to London’s dense air; the city environs were not as healthful as in the west country, that was true.

  A sound clattered behind him. He peered over his shoulder but saw no one. God, protect me. A whimper saw his steps slow, pause, turn.

  A young girl, a grubby urchin of the streets who could not be more than ten years of age, eyed him from the doorway.

  “Yes?”

  “Please, mister”—her voice held an Irish inflection—“can you spare a mite?”

  Was this something of God’s leading? He dug into his coat pocket, found a coin, handed it to her. “Have you a home?”

  “Not anymore. They took my da away.”

  “Who did?”

  “The soldiers.” She nodded in the direction of the Thames, whose foul and fetid odor wafted on the night air. “He was sent to Van Diemen’s land.”

  Oh no.

  “Please sir, all he did was nick a loaf of bread, we was that hungry. And now me Ma has gone, too, and it’s just me and the wee ones.”

  Heart wrung by compassion, he soon learned their location and followed the waif on a trail of twisting lanes he could scarce remember, more than once questioning whether this was yet another fool’s errand. But he could not deny the prompting that bade him stay, that made him listen, that made him desire to render what assistance he could. Soon he found himself in a tiny passageway behind a tavern’s brick wall, from which came the loud and raucous cries of the inebriated. Two more redheaded mites peered out from behind a barrel.

  “Aideen? Dat you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where do you sleep?” Ned asked.

  She shrugged. “Here, mostly. It’s not too cold, and the inn scraps feed us enough.”

  But this was no place for children to live. How could he return home to comfort, warmth, and food knowing these children remained here? He could not do it; would not do it.

  Within the hour he had returned to Uncle Lionel’s, woken his aunt with pleas for compassion that had seen her give permission for the three children to stay overnight in the old nursery room under the eaves on the top story, seen her give the name of a children’s shelter, and the promise to accompany him—and the children—to the refuge on the morrow.

  This had to satisfy him, even as his uncle eyed him with disfavor and muttered dis
approval for embroiling his wife in such a scheme.

  But whilst apologetic, Ned could not be truly sorry, for in helping these young Irish children, he had felt a sense of peace in doing good, in doing right. And in doing so, he felt that perhaps God might weigh this as another deed to one day balance out the evil he’d once done.

  CHAPTER THİRTEEN

  A SLEEPLESS NIGHT of confession—brought about by her new awareness of her proclivity for guile—and of worry over whether the earl had received her note and whether the gypsy would be safe, was the next morning followed by the news (whispered by a footman) that the Earl of Rovingham was in the breakfast parlor with her father.

  “Truly?” Such a thing had never occurred before. Was it in answer to her letter? Oh, what if he was in there right now informing Father of his second daughter’s unmitigated boldness in addressing a letter to him? For several seconds she contemplated escaping—Verity-like—on Marigold for the day. But before her foot had reached the first stair the butler noticed her.

  “Are you having breakfast, Miss Cecilia?” he intoned. Reluctantly she moved to where the male voices within had quieted.

  Oh, what should she do? What should she say?

  With a kiss on the cheek for her father and a flustered curtsy for the earl, she hurried to select her breakfast from the warming pans atop the sideboard.

  The men’s conversation resumed, and she slid into her usual seat, positioned most unfortunately opposite the earl. She managed a small smile in his general direction then turned to her meal. Perhaps if she hurried there might still be opportunity to find Marigold—

  “Miss Cecilia, I am glad you have joined us,” said Lord Rovingham. “There is something particular I wish to speak to you both about.”

  Cecy lifted her cup of tea with a shaking hand and glanced at her father, but he seemed unperturbed.

  “It concerns the incident at the midsummer festivities in the village.”

  Her breath held.

  “I hope the culprit for that has finally been apprehended,” Father said with a frown. “I never understood why that gypsy fellow was released.”