“Thank you, Mr. Rothschild. I would be honored.” She spoke in a quiet voice and mustered a smile. She looked across the table, hating how easily she could be made to feel small. Heat burned her cheeks. “I’m sorry for arguing with your guests, Mr. Griffin. I do get rather heated when politics are brought up.” She glanced at Lord Mather, who was watching her with a curious expression. She did not offer him an apology.
Mr. Griffin’s wide smile returned. “I am not bothered by it at all, Miss Newton. Please, feel free to discuss whatever you’d like.” He elbowed Lord Mather. “And you could not have picked a better person to argue with. Mather does enjoy debating important issues.”
Emmeline glanced at the arrogant lord again, but she continued to direct her words at Mr. Griffin. “I don’t believe Lord Mather considers this important issue to be within a woman’s realm.” She raised her brow. She hadn’t forgotten one word of their former argument, and she wanted him to know it.
Lord Mather rested a forearm on the table. “On the contrary, Miss Newton. I would never criticize a person—man or woman—for wishing to expand her understanding of the world.”
His response managed to sound polite and condescending at the same time.
Emmeline stood, setting her napkin on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’d intended to explore the grounds before the day grew too hot.”
The gentlemen stood as well. “The gardens are magnificent,” Lord Chatsworth said. “You won’t be disappointed.”
Mr. Griffin folded the newspaper and set it in the center of the table. “I’ll make certain Giles picks up the latest edition every morning.” He motioned between Emmeline and Lord Mather. “For those with a penchant for political events.”
“Thank you, Mr. Griffin.” Emmeline shot a look at Lord Mather, unable to resist a final jab. “Perhaps I will bring a pencil to breakfast to mark the passages I particularly think you should consider, my lord.”
He laughed, and Emmeline was surprised to notice the sound was not condescending at all but rather agreeable. He bowed, and she got the impression that he did not consider the argument to have been entirely unpleasant. Had he enjoyed the debate? “If I arrive first to breakfast, I will do the same.” He smiled, the expression holding the slightest tease. “I am typically an early riser.”
The other men chuckled as well, none louder than Mr. Griffin, who slapped his knee as if the exchange were the most amusing thing he’d ever heard. “I’m tempted to send for two papers,” he said, wiping his eyes. “But I believe this way will be much more entertaining.”
***
Emmeline strolled along a wooded path. She’d decided after just an hour of wandering that she preferred this untamed area of Griffin Park to the manicured gardens. She had missed being in the country, and while London’s parks were large and filled with trees, there was something about a natural forest that spoke directly to her soul. The ground beneath her feet was soft and springy, the trees spread overhead making the air cool and muffling sounds. Ivy climbed up some of the trunks, rustling like a thousand whispers when a breeze passed through.
She paused at a fence and reached through the rails to scratch the pink-spotted belly of a fat pig. A small shed sat on one side of the pen, and inside, another pig nosed through a feeding trough.
In the distance, she heard the occasional report of gunshots, reminding her of her interaction with the men at breakfast. Perhaps it was a testament to how long she’d been away from formal society that she’d been so completely out of her element. When she’d met the man the day before, she would have said with no hesitation that she would have been thrilled above all imaginings to have the dashing Mr. Rothschild request a dance at the ball. But when it actually happened, she felt none of the heart fluttering or nervous excitement she would have expected to accompany such a request. She left the pig and continued along the forest path, wondering if she was getting close to the duke’s property. The butler, Giles, had told her the forest was the dividing line between the two estates. But she would have to travel farther if she wanted to see the castle. A pheasant darted across her path, and she hoped the bird would find safety somewhere far away from the hunters.
If she had been asked yesterday to predict the result of an interaction with Lord Mather, she would have wrinkled her nose and hoped not to find out. She’d grown defensive and angry when he’d spoken politically, but in spite of it, she found herself considering some of his points long afterward. He did understand what he was speaking of, she admitted grudgingly. And while she didn’t necessarily agree, she was glad that he at least had an opinion. Which was a far superior trait to Mr. Rothschild’s disinterested acceptance of whatever point required the least thought.
Emmeline picked up a long stick, absently swatting at patches of undergrowth as she walked. Ahead, she saw the edge of the forest and, a bit farther along, a gazebo beside a small pond surrounded by willows. The roof and floor of the structure were made of copper, green with patina, and the columns were stone. When she stepped inside and looked up, she saw shiny copper stars on the domed ceiling. Four stone benches were set around the edges of the gazebo, curving with the structure’s shape. Emmeline sat on one and continued to ponder her interaction this morning.
The thing that had struck her the most was Lord Mather’s laughter. Something about the sound had changed the entire encounter. She’d been defensive, angry, and, she was embarrassed to admit, fully prepared to be offended by whatever he said next. But then he had laughed at her rather poor joke, and . . . Emmeline had wanted to laugh as well. She thought back over the entire conversation, wondering if she may have misread the man all along. Perhaps he was just as passionate about his opinion as she was, and maybe—well, there was a very slight possibility—he was not as arrogant and close-minded as she’d believed.
With reluctance, she turned back toward the manor house. She didn’t want the other ladies to have to wait for her and delay their outing. She followed the path back through the forest and past the pigs. When she emerged from the woods, she tossed aside her stick and continued back down a slope in the direction of the Manor House. The field was covered with wildflowers. As she drew closer to the house, she saw two women and recognized them as Mrs. Griffin and Miss Presley.
When the pair saw Emmeline, they waved and started toward her.
She quickened her pace to meet them. “Are you hoping to leave already for town?” she asked when she reached them. “I apologize if I’ve made you wait.”
“Not at all,” Miss Presley said. “Miss Stewart hasn’t risen yet.”
“When Giles told us you’d gone for a walk in the sun, it was too tempting a proposition not to join you,” Mrs. Griffin said. She linked arms with both women, and they continued across the lawn toward the manicured gardens. “A gorgeous day, is it not?”
Mrs. Griffin seemed much more at ease here at her home than she had the first time Emmeline had met her.
“Griffin Park is splendid,” Emmeline said. “I could happily walk here every day and not tire of it.”
“I agree completely,” Miss Presley said.
“As do I,” Miss Griffin said. “And I will admit I fell in love with this estate almost as much as its master.”
“You seem very happy here,” Emmeline said, smiling.
They entered the garden at the side of the house, and Miss Griffin released their arms so the women could step beneath the arbor and continue single file along the narrower path that led among the roses.
“I feel that I owe you an apology, Miss Newton,” Miss Presley said from ahead of her. Miss Presley stopped in front of a fountain, turning to face her.
Emmeline was surprised. “I can’t imagine what for. And please, call me Emmeline.”
“If you will call me Joanna.”
Emmeline nodded her agreement. “For what do you feel the need to apologize, Joanna?”
&nbs
p; “Arthur—Lord Mather. I knew you were not fond of my cousin. But I didn’t tell you he would be here, because I worried if you knew, you would not come.” She grimaced.
Emmeline felt a pang of guilt. Had her feelings for the man been so obvious? “I don’t think I have ever met anyone who disagrees with me so completely in every way,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. “But you do not need to apologize—for anything. I am so pleased to be here. And one irritable cousin does not change that.”
“I am glad for it,” Mrs. Griffin said. “I rather hoped Miss Stewart would help Lord Mather to be less . . . irritable.”
“Miss Stewart?” Emmeline asked.
“She is very similar to Margaret—Arthur’s late wife,” Mrs. Griffin explained.
“And Harriet considers herself quite a matchmaker,” Joanna said, teasing her friend.
Mrs. Griffin shrugged. “You did not complain one bit when I invited Lord Chatsworth.”
Joanna’s cheeks went red and her eyes soft. She smiled dreamily. “What do you think of Lord Chatsworth, Emmeline?”
“He is very agreeable,” Emmeline said. “And polite.”
Joanna put her hand on her heart. “And so handsome, isn’t he?”
“Please don’t swoon, Joanna,” Mrs. Griffin said in a droll tone. The three burst into laughter, and Emmeline felt warm inside, glad the women had thought to come after her and very pleased that a friendship was forming.
They continued through the garden, pausing now and then to admire the flowers.
Joanna and Mrs. Griffin chatted about their planned activities for the next weeks, and Emmeline considered what they’d said. Specifically about Miss Stewart and Lord Mather. Emmeline had spoken only briefly with the woman. She seemed pleasant enough. And apparently loved to talk about her cats. Would the pair make a good match? Emmeline couldn’t imagine the man would be content to discuss cats for the entirety of his marriage. But then again, perhaps he would. She was surprised by how much the idea bothered her.
Chapter 5
Arthur came down the stairs early and stepped into the empty breakfast room. He stopped at the mirror over the hearth and tried his best to fix his cravat, as usual, then gave up and served some of the food from the side table onto his plate.
The quiet of the morning was very welcome. While he enjoyed socializing—especially with his dear friends—he did crave his solitude every now and then.
A footman slid out a chair and poured tea. Arthur thanked him, pulling the Times toward him as he tucked in to the meal. He turned the pressed pages, skimming the advertisements and social announcements, at last coming to the important news sections.
He turned the page and paused, teacup halfway to his mouth, and stared. A smile tugged at his lips. The title of one article was circled, and an arrow leading from his name written neatly in the margin pointed directly at it. Various sentences throughout the article were underlined.
A thrill pulsed through Arthur’s nerves. The exhilaration of a challenge. He’d wondered—hoped, actually—if the opportunity for another debate would present itself. But over the past few days, Miss Newton had seemed especially careful about bringing up anything that might be the least bit controversial. Her behaving so properly had been a bit disappointing. After their discussion about the Malay Peninsula, Arthur had thought of little else. The young lady wasn’t simply an angry bluestocking with an agenda. She was intelligent and earnest, and though he had never considered it a woman’s place to argue about political matters, he’d rather enjoyed that she seemed unafraid to say what she thought. She had an opinion. One developed through research and careful thought. And while the result was typically the complete opposite of his own opinion, he respected it. His thoughts flicked for just an instant to Miss Stewart and her pleasant nods and compliments. It was so blasted irritating when someone agreed with him all the time. And he was growing very tired of hearing about cats.
“Let us see what point you wish to make today, Miss Newton,” he muttered.
“Are Innocents the Casualty of Progress?” was the title of the article. It discussed the proposed factory acts, legislation that would limit child labor in cotton mills and some factories to twelve hours per day. Based on the phrases she underlined, Miss Newton’s views on the matter were quite obvious.
“Exploitation of childhood?” he muttered. “Workhouse enslavement?” He glanced at the top of the article, looking for the reporter’s name. The tone of the essay was grim and accusatory, blaming wealthy industrialists for profiteering off the lives of the most vulnerable members of society. Though it felt sensationalized, it was nothing he’d not heard before. Almost weekly, representatives from various charitable societies wrote appeals to his office or came in person. He’d spoken quite a few times with Bishop Forsyth, who ministered particularly to the workhouses in the Whitechapel slum in attempts to combat the pervasive poverty in the area, especially as it pertained to children. Did Miss Newton think Arthur’s heart so hard that he cared nothing for the suffering of the youngest members of the kingdom? The thought brought back some of the anger he’d felt at their first meeting. There were more factors at play than simply telling factory owners to limit their workshifts.
When his breakfast was finished, Arthur folded the paper, tucked it beneath his arm, and set out in search of Miss Newton, not entirely certain what to expect when he found her.
He learned from Giles that she had left an hour earlier to take in the fresh air of the gardens. And after a bit of searching, he found her strolling around the edge of the pond.
She didn’t see him as he approached. She walked slowly, with her hands behind her back and her face turned up toward the morning sun. Her curls seemed to be trying to escape her bonnet, and they bounced as she walked. Arthur paused, not wanting to disturb her. Miss Newton looked happy, even though he couldn’t see her face. It was more in the way she carried herself. Some would call her brave or even foolhardy to walk so far from the house alone, but she didn’t seem to be doing it for effect. The young lady was confident, there was no doubt about that. Arthur wondered what had happened in her life. What experiences had made the Honorable Miss Emmeline Newton into the woman she was? And why was he so curious about it?
He cleared his throat as she neared.
Emmeline blinked, looking startled, but seeing him, she smiled and inclined her head. “I see you’ve brought the Times, Lord Mather.”
Not even a “good morning.” But he wasn’t surprised. Miss Newton had not struck him as a person fond of small talk.
She continued to walk, and he joined her. “The exploitation of children?” he asked, taking the paper from beneath his arm and holding it out to her. “Do you think I condone such a thing?”
“I hope you do not.” She turned her face back toward the sun, and he realized she had a smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose. Had those been there when she had arrived at Griffin Park? He hadn’t noticed.
“I only pointed it out because you have a chance to influence the vote on the issue next winter,” she said. “And you must agree the offences are egregious.”
“I do agree.”
She glanced to the side, one corner of her mouth tugging into a smile. “Well, that was easy. I admit I rather worried I would need to convince you.”
“I agree that something must be done. But it is not a problem as easily dealt with as you may think.” The freckles were really very fetching, and so was the color on her cheeks. Why did so many women hide themselves away from the sun when it enhanced their beauty in such a manner?
She turned her face completely toward him. “Enacting laws to protect the most vulnerable members of a society is not easy? I thought that was precisely the duty of government.”
“There is more to a grand-scale social reform than just making a law. The poverty problem in London is extremely complicated, with many factors in play.�
� He rolled the newspaper into a tube as he spoke. “I suppose you think it could all be fixed if only the government allotted a fund for every poor person.”
“It’s a start,” she said, nodding as if satisfied with the suggestion. “And repaired the tenement buildings, cleaned the streets, educated the children to give them the option of a better future . . .”
“Again, it is not that easy.”
Miss Newton stopped. “Why?” Her forehead wrinkled. “Will you explain it to me?”
Arthur certainly hadn’t expected that. He glanced around, and seeing a partly buried boulder beneath a birch tree, he motioned toward it.
Miss Newton sat on the boulder, and he sat next to her, extending one leg and shifting around as he tried to find a comfortable seat on the bumpy surface. “Imagine if the government were to give every man, woman, and child in the rookery twenty pounds,” he said. “What would happen?”
She furrowed her brow. “I suppose everyone would have enough for food and lodging, and parents would no longer worry that their babes would go to bed with an empty belly. Children would be able to play and attend school instead of working at a dangerous job for eighteen hours a day.”
“Ideally, that is so,” he said, bumping the rolled newspaper against his leg. “Many would use the money for food. Some might pay off debt. There are even some who would invest it wisely. But the money would run out, even with the most prudent spending. And within a year or so, people would be back to where they were. Ready for the next distribution. You see, the amount is enough to better their lives for a time but not forever. So what is the answer?”
Miss Newton considered for a moment, picking blackberries from a nearby bramble. “The answer is opportunity.” She offered him a handful of the plump berries. “That is why education is so important. For the girls, as well as the boys. That is how they will rise out of the rookery and have a chance at a better life.”
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