“You are probably aware that my son refused to see charges laid.”
“A foolish notion,” Father muttered.
Conscious his words could be received as an insult, Cecy swallowed, then said, “I … I am glad an innocent man was spared.”
“I suspected you might think so.” The earl nodded, then turned to Father. “It seems Porter was investigating the bystander who supposedly witnessed the deed, but the man seems to have gone to ground.”
“That’s the problem with the village hosting a lot of visitors,” Father complained. “All sorts of undesirables come in.”
“Indeed.” Lord Rovingham’s gaze shifted back to Cecy. “Which is why it is good to see a young lady who cares about preserving the lives of innocents.”
He knew! He must have read her letter.
“Well, Cecilia often has a soft spot for those who cannot help themselves,” Father said. “Why, the other day she and Verity were wishing to know more about the situation near Manchester.”
“Were you indeed?” the earl said, keenness in his eyes. “Would you care to share your thoughts?”
“She is but a girl, Rovingham.”
“Still, I remain interested to know her opinion. Please, Miss Cecilia.”
She swallowed. Glanced at her father. Then said, “I … I truly feel great sympathy for the men who are struggling to feed their families. I wish there was more we could do to help them.”
“I’m afraid until mill owners care less about their profits and more about their people, we shall not see such things.”
“Indeed we shan’t,” Father said, as if that closed the matter.
But Cecy sensed the earl wanted her to continue, his eyes still intent on her, as he gave a small nod. “I … I understand that their desperation to be heard might lead to a sense of frustration, and I can only hope and pray that matters will be resolved peaceably.”
“These matters are in my prayers, also.”
He smiled a smile so reminiscent of his son’s that her breath suspended, and her eyes filled. She ducked her head to study the shiny globules of blackberries adorning her toasted bread. Oh, how she wished Ned were here.
“You must forgive my daughter. She is inclined to take such things rather too close to heart.”
“Better one takes such matters to heart than ignores the plight of the poor.”
The shame heating her cheeks subsided a little at the wryness in the earl’s voice. She peeked up.
He smiled kindly at her, then turned to her father, who seemed to bristle at the implied rebuke. “Not that I think you a man who would do so, Aynsley.”
“We give our dues to charity,” Father said stiffly.
“I have no doubt you do,” Lord Rovingham said, taking a sip of his coffee. “And it is apparent that your largesse has been inherited by your daughter, or is this compassion for others all your own doing, my dear?”
She couldn’t answer. What could possibly be the right answer to such a question? Dare she admit in front of her unbelieving father that it was God’s mercy to her that induced compassion for others within?
“I am glad,” the earl continued, a twinkle in his eye, “that our neighbors are so thoughtful towards others, always seeking to assist. I am most appreciative, I assure you.”
He did know! Breath released. She managed a small smile which he reciprocated.
Sensing he was waiting for her to speak again, she finally said, “It is important to love one’s neighbors.” Then, realizing how that might be construed, she added hastily, “at least, that is what the Bible says.”
“Indeed it does.” But that disconcerting twinkle had reappeared.
She returned her attention to her plate, as the men’s conversation shifted to other matters. Oh, why couldn’t she guard her tongue? What must he think of her? She should leave—
“And how is Edward getting on?”
Cecy stilled.
“He is keeping busy,” the earl said, his tone thoughtful, so she dared to glance up. “I suspect from what he writes that he is a little lonesome.” His gaze met hers.
Breath caught. She willed her expression to remain neutral.
“Still, I’m sure he’s finding his work fulfilling. It may interest you to know, Miss Cecilia, that he cares very much about the plight of those affected by the troubles in the north.”
“Can you imagine,” interrupted her father, “a weaver wishing for representation? What will they think of next?” He glanced at Cecy. “Votes for women?”
She swallowed, then dared to say, “I believe if women are forced to bear the consequences of the government’s actions then it is only right that they have some say in who makes such decisions.”
Father blinked.
The earl chuckled. “Well said, my dear.” He glanced at her father. “You might have to watch this one, Aynsley. You know it’s not only men who wave the banners at St. Peter’s Field. Now, I best be going. I’m sure I have taken far more of your time than you have to spare.”
He bowed to Cecy; she nodded, and Father grasped his hand.
The earl glanced out the window. “Ah, it seems I’m not the only neighbor visiting today. That looks rather like young Heathcote.”
Her spirits sank. Would she have enough time to get changed and see Marigold saddled?
Father snorted. “That young jackanapes has been sniffing around here far too often for my liking.”
“Has he?” The earl glanced at Cecy, his eyes holding a puzzled frown.
She blushed, tongue-tied once more. For what could she say?
Except this. “Thank you for coming today, sir.”
“As I said, I’m most appreciative.” He bowed once more and, accompanied by her father, departed.
Leaving her in a turmoil of emotion, wishing she could speak more boldly, wishing she had spoken less, and wishing miserably that her upcoming departure was not to Warwickshire, but to London, where she might finally see the man who had long ago stolen her heart.
The hackney clattered through the night, the darkness cocooning him to relax for the first time in days. He yawned, and shut his eyes, glad for this brief chance to rest, the past long days of toil and cares taking their toll. The Irish children had been taken to the poorhouse, a place that had wrung his heart so that he’d sorely wished he could offer for them to stay at Franklin Park. But his aunt and uncle had advised against it: without someone to care for them, the children would be better off with those who knew what to do, and they weren’t really his responsibility anymore, anyway. Perhaps one day he might see fit to take them there, when he was more settled himself. Although that day still seemed far away, for, conscious of his uncle’s largesse, Ned had determined to repay him by working as hard as he could, regularly beyond the prescribed hours of ten and six.
Often the last to leave, he had little time for recreation, and it was all he could do to consume his evening meal and tumble into sleep. Even asleep his mind was ticking, thinking how he could use his skills to help those who could not afford to pay the legal costs when unlawfully accused. What would help most? Most law clerks and barristers would expect recompense. Ned himself could not afford to work for free. What if there were a sponsor, someone of good heart and deep pockets, who might be willing to help with this need? Lord, what do You think?
The hackney dipped, prodding Ned’s eyes open as it clattered past a dingy tavern. These days his only time in such places was spent speaking with the Irish, seeking answers about the orphaned children, to little avail. The loss of parents was not unusual, the sending of Irish convicts to the colonies even less so, and it seemed there was little hope to find other relatives. Other conversations included speaking with officials from new-formed unions, whose hard suspicion as to why an earl’s son might be interested in their cause “cos we don’t want no dealings with government spies” reluctantly eased as he mentioned his hopes of legal redress, and wrote notes on how their plights had transpired. Such notes were viewed with mistrust
until he explained his need to gather evidence to further augment his arguments against such treatments in his determination to see their cause promoted.
“And why did ye say ye wish to do such things?”
“I do not think it right to see injustice occur.”
“There be plenty of that in this world. Why us, why now?”
“Because I understand what it is to be misjudged.” Ned had crossed his arms. “Do you want to see your friends and families starve?”
The man had muttered under his breath.
“Then let me help you.”
“But what’s in it for you?”
Apart from the chance to make up for past sins? “Nothing.”
“I do not trust a man who wants to give but gets nowt in return.” Brows had slashed ferociously. “You sure you ain’t a spy?”
If he was, would he admit to it? “I am not. You have the word of Edward Amherst on that.” He held out his hand, which was reluctantly shaken then quickly dropped.
“You should be careful, sir. There be spies about, reporting back to the government about what we do.”
Ned glanced quickly around. But no patrons seemed especially suspicious, perhaps because most patrons of this particular establishment owned the hard, tight, mistrustful features of his companion.
“I will be careful.” He pushed his chair back, threw his card on the table. “If you wish to speak further you can find me at this address.”
The man had grunted, glancing away, leaving Ned with a disquieting feeling that he was being watched. He shook his head now at the recollection. How fanciful he became, after the merest suggestion. Certainly, no spies would wish him harm. Would they?
His mind flicked back to the events of last December, when those working for corrupt government officials had certainly caused him harm. His heart, his lips twisted. Well, they had intended harm to his companion, Mrs. Julia Hale, whose husband had caused no end of concern for those dishonest men, and Ned had been caught in the crossfire. He rubbed his shoulder, paining as if in sympathy. Such events he had only learned much later, when he’d finally woken from the coma his injuries had brought him to, a time when his actions had struck fear in his parents, and he’d felt the touch of God’s hand leading him from death to life.
He shuddered out a breath. How much he needed to remember he was not in this alone, that God’s protection remained with him.
The carriage slowed and pulled up outside the house. After paying the cab driver, he moved inside to the dining room where his meal awaited him, as was the custom when he arrived late. Lionel, Susannah, and the children were at the theatre tonight; the house was silent.
He lifted the domed cover, eyed the pie and vegetables, the enticing aroma setting his taste buds tingling. A brief prayer of thanks, then he forked through the crusty pastry, which flaked golden crumbs onto the meat. He ate, closing his eyes in appreciation for Uncle Lionel’s cook. Perhaps his search for new lodgings could be delayed a little longer.
A letter on the silver salver next to his plate drew his attention. Recognizing the handwriting as belonging to his mother, he slit the seal open, scanned the wishes for his good health and news of estate improvements and that of surrounding life.
He took another bite of his pie, then propped his elbows on the table. His weariness and the lowering candlelight were making the words hard to read. Until he reached the next paragraph, a bold masculine scrawl. His senses drew to alertness.
Forgive my intrusion on your mother’s letter, but I thought it best to acquaint you with the situation at Franklin Park. It was brought to my attention that the guests staying there have been sighted, which thus necessitated my effecting their immediate removal to a locale farther north, to prevent another accidental neighborly visit. Miss C.H’s assistance and discretion in this matter were first rate, and you and I are indebted to her.
His heart grew soft, thinking about Miss Cecilia Hatherleigh. What kindness she exhibited to him! Truth be told, the gypsy staying at Franklin Park had gnawed at his conscience; he’d been glad to help in the short term, but staying in London, near powerless to help if difficulties arose, had made future plans challenging. How good that she had sought his father’s advice. She really was a thoughtful little thing.
He scanned the rest of the letter, his mother’s hopes that he was happy, that he was not lonesome, that he would visit one day soon. She concluded with sending her love, and assuring he was in her prayers.
And he finished his meal in thoughtful reflection, offering prayers of blessing for his family, for the Irish waifs, and for the neighbor whose consideration drew forth deep appreciation.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bromsgrove, Warwickshire
CECY SMOOTHED HER pale green skirt as the carriage clattered onward to the nearby Assembly Rooms. A pretty gown, worn once in London, but Mama had decreed it would suffice for a local ball.
“Such a lovely gown,” admired Mrs. Bromsgrove. “And such a lovely color for you. I think the lacework very fine.”
“It is Belgian,” Mama said, with a note of pride.
“But of course. And you are not too warm, Miss Hatherleigh? The weather has been rather more sultry than expected.”
She smiled and reassured her hostess that she was neither too warm nor cool, and switched her attention to the window as the ladies chatted amiably about fashion. The trees blurred past, her thoughts churned on, the past week’s visit nearly lulling former concerns away.
The Bromsgroves were all that were pleasant, their welcome at the Aynsley’s arrival affable and assured. Applied to by her hostess, Cecilia found herself approving the house, approving the grounds (which incorporated a lake and extensive shrubbery), approving the succession-houses and the extensive walls lining the kitchen garden. She felt sure Verity would have approved the stables, but she had been sent to Saltings accompanied by their father, whose attendance had been the stipulation his mother required before she would entertain her scamp of a granddaughter. Thus Cecy, not her sister, had been forced to murmur her admiration of horses and substantial outbuildings for which she truly held no care.
For herself she suspected she met with approval, judging from the smiles of approbation met in host, hostess, and eldest son; and truly, had her heart not already been engaged, she might have found something with which to kindle her approval of the eldest son into something warmer. The connection could almost prove agreeable, save for his family’s mill ownership, the concerns of which had hung plainly in the air.
Matters in the north had drawn murmurs of apprehension, but any enquiries had been fobbed off by gentle platitudes and sighs. Yes, they hoped matters would resolve peaceably. Yes, the situation was in their prayers. Yes, they cared for their workers, and had not slashed wages as some cold-hearted men had done. Such views were doubtless good-hearted, but she wondered if their care extended deeper into intentions that would effect true change.
Save for this, Charles Bromsgrove was an unexceptionable young gentleman, with manners and fortune and family equally unexceptionable. Her mother would be delighted by the alliance, and the very pleasantness of it all did have a certain seductive charm. It would be easy to succumb to their wealthy bubble of self-assurance, to continue the life of privilege to which she’d been born, to not care for the misfortunes of others, to pretend such things did not exist.
She wished she could look into his deep brown eyes and find something that attracted; his face was neither too handsome nor too plain, his build solid, his height neither short nor tall. But alas, he was not Edward, and—Verity’s admonition still ringing faintly in her ear—she could not give false hope.
So when he asked if she would care to walk around the Bromsgrove lake, she said no. When he asked if she cared to discuss the new novel from Walter Scott, she said no. When he enquired if she would care to attend a nearby assembly, she would very much have liked to have said no, but she knew her mother would never forgive her, and, lacking Verity’s courage—and
buoying presence, seeing as she’d been sent to Saltings, after all—she had said yes.
The carriage slowed, and she peered through the glass at tonight’s location. The Assembly Rooms were in a half-timbered building that constituted the grandest location on the town’s main street. Judging from the coaches and gigs lined up outside and the raucous laughter coming from inside, tonight would likely prove to be not quite so unexceptionable.
The door opened, the older ladies were handed down. She glanced at her mother, whose nose seemed to lift a little higher as she raised her skirt to avoid the dusty road. Cecy was helped from the carriage by a footman, and stood, gazing about her. This part of England was quite different from her native Somerset. Gone were the soft green fields and golden stone; such things replaced by a harder landscape, taller buildings of smoke-stained timber, legacy of the manufactories not far away, and reflected in the harsher accent of those around her.
Try as she might to like Mr. Bromsgrove, to think on his good qualities, she certainly could not envisage her future in a place that held little beauty, where the distant chimneys of the Birmingham manufactories cast a constant yellow haze across the horizon. She could not like that.
“Miss Hatherleigh?”
She glanced up, saw his hand stretched to her, and swallowed a sigh. She would need to make the best of tonight, to appease the questions in her mother’s eyes, without giving fuel to the hope she could see in Mr. Bromsgrove’s dark gaze.
The music was loud, the musicians drawing to a pause as they entered the room.
He leaned closer, patting her hand atop his arm. “Miss Hatherleigh, you honor us with your presence tonight. Come, Mother wishes to introduce you to some of the notables of the district.”
A dozen introductions later and she was standing in the line opposite him, curtsying to his bow, as the musicians commenced the introduction for “Mr. Beveridges’ Maggot.” She knew the people here would be eyeing her gown, eyeing her hair, wondering how an heiress could look so plain and ordinary. But she also knew tonight to be a mere illusion, and suspected Mr. Bromsgrove was fast learning that, too, as their conversation stuttered and grew more stilted the longer the evening progressed. Pleasant he might be, but truly, they shared little of real worth.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 14