by Erica Vetsch
The more Charlotte talked, the more red suffused the dowager’s face. “Not going calling with me? What errands? Why didn’t you ask me what shopping you needed to do? I am here to be your guiding hand, after all. And don’t talk twaddle about current affairs. You’re neither a soldier nor a politician, and what they do should be of no interest to you. Your responsibilities are with this house, your title, and your position in society.”
She took a deep breath, and her face smoothed into the even more infuriating lines of patience and instruction that Charlotte had come to loathe. Her mother-in-law complaining and correcting was difficult enough, but her patient forbearance and her “guiding hand” were unbearable.
“My dear, I am only trying to instruct you. After all, I was the Duchess of Haverly for nearly forty years, and you’ve been a duchess for a mere week. If you will only do everything I say, we’ll get along famously.”
Of course they would. Who wouldn’t love to have free rein to run over everyone they encountered? Someone who never talked back, always acquiesced, and never had a thought of her own?
“Madam, as I said, I will not be making morning calls with you. I have business of my own that I must attend. You may give my regrets to Lady Covington and whomever else you see today.” She rose from the breakfast table. “I may see you when I return, or I may not. Marcus and I are dining at the Whitelocks’ this evening.”
Cilla grinned at her even as the dowager sputtered like a fussy hen. She had one parting shot. “Does Marcus know where you are going? That you are abandoning me and your responsibilities today?”
Marcus.
Charlotte didn’t answer the dowager, continuing out into the hall. As for her husband, she had seen him only rarely the entire week.
That wasn’t exactly true. She saw him every night when he came to her room. Heat pooled along her collarbones and crept into her face. They had not spoken of that aspect of their marriage, not when he’d visited her bedchamber and not on the few occasions when they’d met in the light of day.
It was almost as if they were different people, that the passion and tenderness shared at night happened to another couple. As if the physical side of their marriage was placed in its own separate compartment. And yet she treasured that time, because when he held her, she felt loved and important to him, at least until he left her in the small hours of the night when he thought she’d fallen asleep.
Things were more formal when they encountered each other during the day.
He was always up and out of the house before she breakfasted, and he returned late each evening. When she asked about his day, he would mention listening to speeches in the House of Lords or speaking with someone at his club, but he never went into detail. He didn’t have to ask about her day, because the dowager gave him a moment-by-moment recounting. If it wasn’t too late, they would sit before the fire, reading. Or at least Marcus read. Charlotte turned pages, but she spent much of that time puzzling and perplexed about her husband and marriage.
Was this what he meant about them not interfering in one another’s lives? Coexisting, congenial enough but distant?
For several days she had moped about, making the necessary calls, even accompanying her mother-in-law to several social events in the evenings. But she was bored with that. Bored with feeling sorry for herself. Bored with social duty and playing a role. Today she would do something useful and, she hoped, interesting. She needed to get out of that house and away from her mother-in-law. She felt stifled and claustrophobic and not at all a bride.
But now Charlotte had an entire day to herself, and she intended to make at least some progress on her promise to herself … and Pippa. Her sister and King’s Place remained heavily on her mind. Perhaps if she could gather enough information, she would discover a way to help, even if she had to do it covertly.
So she went to a reliable source, the place she always went to learn and glean facts.
A subscription library.
And this time she didn’t have to worry about where her subscription money would come from. Her reticule, tucked into an inside pocket of her cloak, held more coins than she’d ever possessed at one time. Marcus’s secretary had given her the funds the morning after their wedding.
“His Grace said you would need some pin money. If you need more, don’t hesitate to ask.”
It was quite considerate of her husband to remember, but how much better would it have been to have come directly from him and not his employee? Of course, that would mean he would have to actually spend a bit of time in her presence …
Hatchards had a reading room, but she didn’t want to ask for publications dealing with her topic there. She would go to a subscription library far from Mayfair, one she had never frequented before and where she would be unknown, and see what she could turn up.
She hurried down the staircase to the front door, eager to be on her way before the dowager found some reason to detain her. A footman opened the door, and she nodded her thanks.
She stopped on the stoop, however. A huge man leaned against the rail, his coat straining over his broad shoulders and barrel chest, a cap pulled low. When he spied her, he straightened and tugged on the brim of his hat.
“Ma’am.”
Charlotte waited. The footman stood behind her, hand on the doorknob.
The large man on the sidewalk spread his hands. “Name’s Partridge. Haw—” He cleared his throat. “Haverly … the Duke of Haverly hired me to go places with you when you left the house.”
Her eyes widened, and suspicion tightened her skin. “Accompany me? Why? When did he hire you?”
The man shifted his weight and shrugged, straining his coat seams further. “I’ve worked for him a spell of years, ma’am. Since we were both soldiers in Spain.” He scratched his prolific black whiskers.
“Your Grace.” The footman moved into her view. “I can vouch for Mr. Partridge. He does work for the duke. You’ll be safe with him around. He’ll see to your transportation, and carry things for you, and keep you from being bothered by anyone.”
Slowly she descended, and when she stood next to Mr. Partridge, he seemed to block out the sun.
“Where would you like to go, my lady?” His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
“Mr. Partridge, I’ve been leaving the house daily for a week in the company of the dowager. Why would the duke think I need a minder today?” Surely he couldn’t have known that Charlotte was ready to kick over the traces and grab a day to herself?
“You’ve never yet left the house without me, my lady. I’ve followed along on your social calls and evening events.” He stepped to the curb and raised his hand, hailing transportation.
“What? I would have noticed someone like you,” she protested.
He sent her an “Oh really?” look, held the door of a hack open for her, and asked, “Where to?”
She frowned, but she couldn’t think of a reason he shouldn’t accompany her, nor any way to prevent him, especially if he was merely following her husband’s orders. “Leadenhall Street. The Minerva Press Circulating Library and Reading Room.” The ride would be a long one, traversing many city blocks into the heart of London. But she had always wanted to visit the place.
With a brisk slam, he closed the door, and the coach lurched as he climbed aboard to sit next to the driver. He had truly accompanied them … or followed them on their calls this week? Why did Marcus think she needed a keeper?
Did he consider her a simpleminded miss who would get lost if not accompanied by a man?
But that didn’t resonate with the way he had treated her thus far. He had said he appreciated her intelligence.
She bit her lip. Did he not trust her? Was that why he appointed someone to watch her?
Or was he merely being kind, seeking to protect her and make things easier for her?
When she finally reached her destination, she still hadn’t sorted it out in her mind. It wasn’t as if she could ask Marcus, since she had no idea where
he was at that moment.
“I’ll wait here, ma’am.” Mr. Partridge leaned against the corner of the building, pulling his cap down and watching the people coming and going.
“I might be quite a while,” she warned, but he shrugged and waved her inside.
When she had paid her subscription and signed her name—her new name and title—in the ledger, she wandered down the stacks, trailing her fingers along the spines of the books, feeling quite at home. According to the placard behind the circulation desk, there were approximately twenty thousand volumes from which to browse. Surely she could find something on the topic she sought.
What she found both saddened and angered her.
Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies most outraged her. Though the publication she discovered tucked away in a corner of London statistics and government reports was fully ten years old, her hands shook when it dawned upon her what filled the small book.
Pages and pages that amounted to a catalog, a shopper’s guide to the Cyprians and paramours of the Covent Garden region of London. More than a hundred names described in lurid detail. A shopping list for lascivious, unprincipled men.
She slammed her eyes closed and shoved the book to the back of the shelves. How humiliating for these women. Was there a more recent volume that had her sister’s name within the pages? Charlotte vowed to be more careful with what she opened in this place, her face flaming and her hands trembling.
Statistics. That was what she needed. To get a grasp on the scope of the problem. Perhaps she should look in medical books?
Eventually she amassed a sobering amount of information. There were more than two thousand schools in London—and five thousand brothels. Thousands of women earned at least part of their living selling their favors in order to make ends meet.
And according to one paper that had been delivered to the Lord Admiralty and the War Department, many of these women were the dependents of fallen soldiers who had either been killed or maimed beyond their ability to provide for their families, their wives and daughters forced to sell the only commodity they had to survive.
The chair across the table from her slid out, and she looked up into the face of a woman more than twice her age. She had sharp eyes and graying hair, but a youthfulness about her all the same. A sense of familiarity swept over Charlotte. Did she know this woman? Had they met or had she seen her at some society function? She was dressed plainly enough, but the fabrics were good, and her bonnet had cost a pretty shilling or two.
“I hope you don’t mind me approaching you like this, Your Grace. I wanted to congratulate you on your marriage.” The woman smiled, and her face changed. “I have wanted to meet you for some time.”
Charlotte closed the book she was reading, careful to disguise the spine so as not to alarm the woman. A military text of dubious topic wasn’t what a woman of the ton should be reading … according to the ton.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Oh, how silly of me. I am Miss Dorothy Stokes. But you must call me Aunt Dolly. Everyone does.”
Charlotte cast about her mind for the name but came up with nothing.
“I know it is quite forward of me to approach you like this, but I believe we might be in a position to help each other.” Aunt Dolly leaned closer, her brown eyes keen. “I understand that you made an overture of help to your sister down on King’s Place and that you were rebuffed?”
A pang hit Charlotte’s heart. “Do you know her?” And if so, what did that make this woman?
“I do. I would very much like it if I could take you to my home. If you are in earnest about helping your sister and women like her”—she waved toward the stack of books and publications at Charlotte’s elbow—“I might be of some assistance to you.”
“How?” Her heart lifted. Someone who knew her sister and who had ideas of how Charlotte might help her. Was this the Lord answering her prayer, or was it merely a coincidence?
“Will you come? Now?” The woman who called herself Aunt Dolly rose. “There’s no time like the present.”
Making a quick decision, Charlotte nodded. “I’ll come. But to where?”
With a chuckle, Aunt Dolly shrugged. “King’s Place.”
Mr. Partridge was not entirely thrilled with the notion. But Charlotte perceived that he and Aunt Dolly had met before. He neither asked who she was nor where they intended to go. He must know her, for he gave the King’s Place address before the old woman could offer it. Did that mean he frequented the street and its offerings? He helped them each into a hack, climbed aboard, and said no more, but his scowl spoke volumes. No doubt he would report to Marcus her travels, and what her husband would say, she hadn’t an inkling.
But if Marcus was determined to keep their lives separate, what could he say if she chose to do the same?
Aunt Dolly rode quietly, seemingly content with the silence, while Charlotte’s mind hopped from one possibility to another. Would she see Pippa? Would her reception be kinder this time? How could this older woman assist her in helping her sister?
“How did you know I would be at the Minerva Subscription Library today?”
Aunt Dolly smiled. “I didn’t. I came to see you at Haverly House and saw your carriage pull away. I had my driver follow. You were so intent upon your research, I didn’t approach you right away, but when I saw your reading material, I knew I was right about you.”
The vehicle turned into the tree-lined townhouse terraces of King’s Place. Charlotte glanced out the window to where her sister lived, but the cab kept going until they reached the end, coming to a stop before the last house on the row.
Partridge leapt to the ground and opened the door. His face resembled a thundercloud, and he looked up and down the street to see if anyone was watching.
Aunt Dolly walked up the stairs as comfortable as if she strolled in Hyde Park. “Come, come.” She motioned for Charlotte to stop wool-gathering there on the sidewalk and follow her.
What was this place? Was Charlotte about to enter her second brothel?
“Welcome to my home.” Aunt Dolly reached for the knob, but the green-painted door opened before she could, revealing a young woman in a black dress and mobcap.
This old lady owned a house on King’s Place? Entering, Charlotte saw the similarities to the place where Pippa lived. Rich wallpaper and moldings, gleaming hardwood floors, but simple furnishings. Clearly this wasn’t a high-fashion brothel.
“Ah, May, meet Charlotte, Duchess of Haverly. She’s interested in our little enterprise here. Take her cloak, and ask Belinda to bring tea up to my sitting room. This way, Your Grace.” The old woman headed up the long flight of stairs. “We’ll settle in for a nice yarn, and I’ll tell you what I can.”
Charlotte handed her cloak to May and followed her hostess, still mystified. She found herself in a bed-sitting room, cozy and comfortable.
“Sit down, my dear.” Aunt Dolly eased into a rocker and picked up some knitting from a basket beside the chair. The needles clicked in a soothing way. “I suppose I should start at the beginning. I used to be a prostitute myself, and then a madam, procuring and looking after my own ‘stable’ of girls.”
Recognition dawned. Dorothy Stokes had been one of the names she’d glimpsed in Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies as someone who ran a house of ill repute. Heat charged into Charlotte’s cheeks, and she blinked. Trying to quell her surprise and shock, she looked at her hands in her lap.
“Don’t be distressed, child. It was a long time ago and well before I knew the error of my ways. I’ve been washed clean of those old sins, and now I run an orderly house that seeks to offer refuge and care for sick and injured women forced to make their way in this world however they can. I thank God every day that He’s more than able to save an old sinner like me, and I try to share that Good News with every woman who walks through my doors.”
Relief flooded Charlotte, and she felt elated and limp at the same time. This woman loved and fo
llowed God, and she knew something of how to help street women and paramours. She ran a charity.
“More often than not in this world, women are at the mercy of men to some degree or other. I don’t know why the Good Lord allows it to be so, but He must have His reasons. Or it is a consequence of living in a fallen world. I saw you reading those books of facts and figures. Probably learned a lot, but those books won’t tell you the real stories.”
The door opened, and a large, blowsy woman with a wrinkled apron came in carrying a tea tray.
“Thank you, Belinda. Please sit for a spell. I’d like you to tell a bit of your story to Lady Haverly here. She’s interested in our cause, and I think your experiences would help her see just what we’re trying to do.”
The woman slanted a look at Charlotte as she took a seat on the edge of a straight-backed chair, wrapping her hands in her apron. Graying red hair poked from her mobcap, and her eyes were as old as the Parthenon.
“Not a happy tale, I warn you. And not one unique to me. I was a good girl, married a good man who went to sea. Royal Navy, a gunner on the Royal Sovereign. He died at Trafalgar, just like Admiral Nelson. I was that proud of him, but when he died, I was dropped right into the soup. How was I going to earn a living?” She spread her hands, rough, red, hardworking hands. “I had no schooling, no skills. For a time, like a lot of navy and army widows, I went to work in a cartridge factory. But they don’t pay nothing, not enough to keep a roof over my head or food on the table. And I didn’t even have any kids to see to. I was living, if you could call it that, in a crowded room in the St. Giles rookery, scrounging for food and spending my days measuring out gunpowder and lead and stuffing them into paper cartridges in a factory. Making bullets to kill someone else’s husband or father.”
Charlotte balanced her teacup on her knee, fascinated and horrified at once. “What about a pension? Doesn’t the government pay widows and orphans of war?”
She shrugged and tugged on her earlobe. “The government makes it hard. Filling out forms, fronting the toffs at the Admiralty. I got turned away lots of times as not having the right proof that I was a navy widow.”