by Darcy Burke
“They will understand I am busy adjusting to my new role.”
“Of course they will,” his uncle said, sending a glance toward the countess.
“Don’t wait too long,” Mother said. “It’s good that I came to help you. Aren’t you anxious to get on with things?”
Apparently not as keen as his mother was. “What things?” David knew bloody well what “things.”
“You’re in dire need of a countess. You’ve wasted time with your birds long enough.”
Not nearly.
“Is this why you came out of mourning? To pester me about marriage? While I plan to wed, when I do so isn’t your concern. Nor to whom.”
“I am still in half mourning. I will only attend a few Society events, and I don’t plan to dance, of course. But this isn’t about me.” She frowned at him and looked over at his uncle while giving an infinitesimal nod toward David. Clearly, she wanted him to intervene. David braced himself, for he knew Walter would.
His uncle cleared his throat and fixed David with a serious stare. “You made a promise to your father. And he made a promise to Yardley Stoke.”
“I can’t be required to fulfill a promise my father made before I was even born.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Marriages have been arranged for centuries,” his mother said, still frowning. “This was very important to your father, and if you can’t honor his promise, then honor yours.”
It had seemed an easy thing as he’d held his father’s hand in those final hours. The infection had taken complete hold of him, and his moments of lucidity had become few. But during one such respite, his eyes had been clear when he’d asked David to honor a very specific request: marry the daughter of his dearest friend. They’d attended Cambridge together and had hoped to unite their families one day. While David hadn’t ever met Miss Stoke, his father had, and he’d sworn she was beautiful and intelligent and would make him an excellent countess. His father had hoped she and David would fall in love as soon as they met. Then he’d retreated into his delirium once more, speaking of romantic, endless love and happiness that knew no equal.
David fought against the duty and the love he felt for his father tugging at him from within. “This is not an arranged marriage.”
Uncle Walter spoke with a carefully bland expression that didn’t reveal how he felt about the matter—which he often employed—and David didn’t know. “Perhaps not legally, but your father thought of it as such, and I believe Stoke does as well.”
“Does he?” David wasn’t certain of that either. In fact, his father had said official promises had not been made—not to Miss Stoke and not to her father. Still, there was perhaps an expectation, and if he didn’t mean to at least attempt to see if he and Miss Stoke would suit, he should inform them immediately.
David abruptly stood, eager to quit the room and this conversation. He missed his father dreadfully, and he hated the idea of disappointing him. And yet, how could he turn away from the incomparable Fanny?
His mother looked up at him, her lips pressed in a perturbed moue. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve a meeting with Graham.”
“Oh.” She seemed mollified by this excuse—David hoped Graham was about. “Do give him our best.”
“Of course. He’ll join us for dinner.” He bowed to her, then turned to his uncle and inclined his head before stalking from the room.
He descended the stairs with speed and purpose, agitation propelling him to his study, where, thankfully, Graham sat at his desk poring over ledgers. He looked up as David walked in.
“I hear the countess and Walter have arrived.”
“Yes.”
Graham started to rise, but David waved him back down. “Sit. I’m getting a drink. Do you want one?”
“When would I refuse?”
Never. David went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of the whisky he’d brought back from a trip to Scotland two years ago. He delivered one to Graham, who received it with an appreciative nod. “To what do I owe the pleasure of drinking with you at this hour?”
David slumped into the chair next to the desk with his legs sprawled out in front of him. He took a long draught of the liquor and briefly closed his eyes as he rolled it over his tongue before swallowing.
He turned a weary expression toward Graham, who sipped his drink. “I have a vexing dilemma.”
“Allow me to help. If I can.”
“I’ve met someone.”
Graham nodded slowly. “I suspected as much. You were being rather evasive yesterday regarding your social interest.”
David arched a brow as he stifled a chuckle. “Social interest?”
“You’ve never had any before, and suddenly you wanted to attend a bloody ball? I didn’t believe that for a moment. It had to be a woman.” He sipped his whisky and sat forward in his chair, setting the glass on the desk before him. “Who is she?”
“I met her over the Christmas holiday while I was out for a walk. She’s the sister-in-law of the Duke of Clare.”
Graham blew out a breath with a slight whistle. “Well, that ought to have pleased your mother.”
“I didn’t tell her. She immediately brought up Miss Stoke.”
Graham’s ebony brows shot up, and he nodded. “Of course she did. And honestly, if you’d told me about this woman yesterday, I would have brought up Miss Stoke.”
David scowled at him. “Not you too.”
“You promised your father you’d marry her.” Graham paused before continuing. “I know how much you loved him, how much you miss him, but that was a promise you never should have made.”
A bitter taste vaulted into David’s throat. “That’s easy for you to say. Your father is still among the living.”
Graham’s dark eyes narrowed. “My father wouldn’t have asked me to marry someone I’d never met.”
Anger roiled in David’s chest. “No, he’d just browbeat you into taking a position you never wanted.”
Graham picked up his glass and took a leisurely sip, but his gaze glittered with suppressed irritation. “If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t.”
“If you had somewhere else to go.”
Graham slammed his glass onto the desk, causing whisky to slosh up over the edge and send droplets across the ledger he’d been reading. “Don’t direct your frustration at me. This is your mess to untangle, not mine.”
David sat up straight and glared at his best friend. “Then help me bloody untangle it!” He rarely raised his voice. In fact, he had rarely surrendered to any emotion until the grief of his father’s sudden death had overtaken him. Since then he’d been a bit more volatile—prone to things such as raising his voice or kissing young women he shouldn’t.
One young woman.
Fanny.
He fell back against the chair and took another drink. “I’m being a prick.”
Graham’s black brows slanted up. “Yes.”
“I want to honor my father—you know I do. No one was more important to me than him.” His voice was low and nearly cracked. He swallowed and wetted his suddenly dry mouth with more whisky.
“Of course I know that. Just as I know that marriage should not be entered into lightly.” Graham spoke from experience, given that his mother had left his father and abandoned Graham when he’d been just four. She’d claimed she hated being married and simply left.
“I’ve no plans to marry anyone.”
Graham looked at him over the rim of his glass. “Not yet, but you will.”
Feeling perhaps more irritated than when he’d arrived, David stood and left the study. He took the back stairs to his chamber on the second floor rather than chance meeting his mother or uncle. He still held his whisky and finished it as he entered his room.
Setting the glass down on a table, he pulled at his cravat to expose his throat. He took a deep breath in an effort to still the conflict in his mind. He wanted to court Fanny. He felt beholden to at least meet Miss Stoke. Perhaps s
he’d be vapid or cruel, and he could dismiss her immediately.
He doubted she was either of those things. If Father had liked her and thought her worthy of marrying his son, she was likely a model young woman. He ought to at least meet her.
And if he liked her?
Cursing, he strode into his dressing chamber and poured water from the ewer into the basin. He splashed the tepid liquid over his face, mindless of it trickling down his neck.
He couldn’t torture himself like this. He’d made no promises to Fanny and hadn’t made any directly to Miss Stoke or her father. He would make his own choices.
Why, then, did he feel as if he were trapped in a cage?
Fanny surveyed the arranged seating in the drawing room. In a few minutes, guests would start arriving to hear Fanny’s proposal for a workhouse. She’d extended invitations to listen to a “new charitable endeavor” and looked forward to discussing her idea in detail. She was a bit nervous wondering if they’d support her.
Ivy came into the drawing room, her hand resting on the curve of her stomach. “Leah is with her nurse, so I am yours to command. Has anyone arrived yet?”
“No, but I expect them at any moment.” Fanny was prepared for ten or so guests, including Sarah and Lavinia and their friend Miss Jane Pemberton, as well as Ivy’s friends, Lucy, the Countess of Dartford, Aquilla, the Countess of Sutton, Emmaline, the Marchioness of Axbridge, and Nora, the Duchess of Kendal. Nora’s mother-in-law, the Countess of Satterfield, was also expected and was perhaps bringing some other ladies.
Aquilla arrived first. Fanny knew her well and wasn’t at all bothered when she and Ivy bent their heads together and exchanged stories of motherhood. Sarah came next with her mother, and Fanny went to greet them.
Mrs. Tabersham and Jane came in right after Sarah and Lady Colton, and after exchanging a few pleasantries, the younger women separated from the mothers.
“How was the Newcastle ball?” Fanny asked. She hadn’t seen Sarah since the dinner party they’d both attended Friday night.
“Oh, like any other ball,” Sarah said. “Jane and I amused ourselves trying to discern which gentlemen were wearing padding. There seemed an excessive amount of abnormally thick calves.”
Jane’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Excessive.”
Fanny grinned. “I’m sorry I missed that. Leah was having trouble with her tooth coming in, and Ivy didn’t want to leave her.” Fanny didn’t blame her, though she’d been disappointed to miss the ball. The ball? She didn’t give two figs about the ball. She’d missed seeing David. “Was the Earl of St. Ives there?” She tried to sound casual in front of Jane, who wasn’t aware of the near courtship between them. Was it nearly courtship? Or did kissing make it an actual courtship?
“Yes, he was there,” Jane said. “I didn’t see him dance. He was with an older woman and a gentleman.”
Sarah glanced toward Fanny. “Anthony said that was his mother and uncle. They’d just arrived in town the day before.”
The day before? That was when Fanny had seen him, and he hadn’t mentioned it. Perhaps they’d arrived while he was here. And perhaps they were why he hadn’t shown up at the park the following day. After missing him at both the park and the ball, Fanny had hoped to see him at church yesterday. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been there either.
“Do you have a special interest in the earl?” Jane asked, smoothing a hand over the back of her upswept blonde hair.
Fanny darted a look toward Sarah to see if she should say anything, but Sarah only offered the barest shrug, which said, I have no idea.
Thankfully, she was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Nora and Lady Satterfield. They were accompanied by another pair of ladies who appeared to be mother and daughter. Fanny greeted them as they entered the drawing room, and Ivy joined her.
Lady Satterfield smiled warmly. “Thank you so much for your kind invitation. I’m delighted to be a part of such a wonderful endeavor. As I mentioned I would do, I brought some other interested parties, and I do believe Mrs. Greville will also be joining us. And perhaps a few others. I hope you don’t mind that I shared the meeting with so many.”
“Of course not,” Fanny said. “The more hands we have, the faster this will come to fruition.” She looked toward the women who’d accompanied the countess.
“I am remiss,” Lady Satterfield said. Her gaze went deferentially to Ivy. “Duchess, allow me to present Mrs. Yardley Stoke and her daughter, Miss Arabella Stoke.” She turned to the Stokes. “This is the Duchess of Clare and her sister, Miss Fanny Snowden.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Fanny said. “I’m so glad you came today.”
“We are always eager to help those in need,” Mrs. Stoke said.
They moved aside as others began to arrive, and Fanny spent the next several minutes welcoming everyone. Just as they were about to begin, the tap of a walking cane hitting the floor at intervals brought a smile to Ivy’s face. Fanny knew it would be her former employer.
The Viscountess Dunn walked in, surprisingly spry for a woman nearing seventy. She was petite but possessed a personality twice her size. Her sharp brown eyes assessed the room before landing on Ivy. She smiled widely. “Duchess.”
Ivy went and embraced her in a hug. “It’s so lovely to see you. How was your trip?”
Lady Dunn had been in Cornwall enjoying fairer climes for the past several months. “Pleasantly boring. I am glad to be back. I won’t go for so long again. As it was, I cut my time short by a fortnight. I was delighted to hear of this meeting from Lady Satterfield.”
The aforementioned countess came forward to greet her. “I didn’t think you’d come—you only arrived yesterday.”
Lady Dunn lifted her cane. “Bah. I wouldn’t miss a thing hosted by my dear Ivy, or her sister.” She sent a warm smile to Fanny. They’d met last summer when Lady Dunn had paid a visit to Stour’s Edge to meet Leah. “But I am a tad late, and I don’t wish to delay your business. Let us get on with it!”
As Ivy guided the viscountess toward a seat, Fanny overheard Lady Dunn say, “I am not surprised Clare has filled you with child again. You brought that man’s life to a careening halt. Please give him my love.”
Ivy laughed softly. “Of course I will. He’ll be sorry he missed you.”
Taking her place in front of the assembled guests, Fanny suddenly felt a bit nervous. What if no one wanted to support her idea? For some reason, she was afraid that a workhouse would be less appealing than a hospital or foundling home.
“Thank you all for coming today,” she said loudly. “As you know, my sister and I are devoted to the support and care of those in our society who are less fortunate.”
As Fanny spoke the words, her skin prickled with unease. Looking around the opulent drawing room, she saw a collection of women who wore rich fabrics and were adorned with beautiful and, in many cases, unnecessary accessories. A selection of tea and cakes was laid out on a table that bore silver and crystal. It was all so…expensive. While Fanny hadn’t been poor, she’d come from a much different background, as had Ivy. One in which they had chores to complete and learned to sew for utilitarian purposes, not just to embroider. She exchanged a look with Ivy, who gave her a tiny, encouraging nod.
Fanny continued, “There are many places where someone may seek care or shelter, and in some cases support to help them provide for themselves. I would like to launch an endeavor that will provide care and shelter, but also hope for the future. How many of you have visited a workhouse?”
Several of the attendees lifted their hands or nodded.
“Then you know that those in the workhouse perform a service in exchange for their food and shelter. I would like to found a different sort of workhouse, one that will train the inmates in a field in which they could then find employment. We would train them to be governesses or teachers, cooks or maids, seamstresses or weavers.”
“How can we be sure they would find employment?” Nora asked.
“That’s on
e thing the staff will need to be able to do—help these souls find a permanent position. My hope is that our involvement will support that effort.”
Mrs. Stoke lifted her hand. “Are you suggesting we provide references for these women?”
Lady Dunn turned her head toward the woman. “That’s what it sounds like to me, and I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
Mrs. Stoke’s face turned a dull shade of pink. “I wasn’t sure,” she said quietly. “It is a good idea.”
“Thank you.” Fanny wanted to smooth any ruffled feathers. “I appreciate your questions as well as your votes of confidence.” She smiled pointedly at both Mrs. Stoke and Lady Dunn.
“How did you arrive at this innovative scheme?” Lady Satterfield asked.
For a moment, Fanny’s brain arrested. Her gaze darted to Ivy. Her green eyes met Fanny’s in unspoken communication. Ivy’s history in a workhouse was a secret they hoped would remain buried.
Fanny offered a bright smile and a shrug. “It came to me as I worked with my sister on various charitable efforts. Growing up in Yorkshire, I saw plenty of young women who would benefit from formal training.” That was certainly true. Her and Ivy’s background was firmly working class. Their father made furniture and was proprietor of a cabinetry shop, and they lived on a farm that provided most of their food.
The conversation continued, and by the end of Fanny’s presentation, everyone in the room was excited about her project. The final question, from Emmaline, asked where the workhouse would be located.
“It seems as though it should be here in London,” Fanny said. “Yet I can’t help think of where I am from in Yorkshire.”
Aquilla looked around the room. “Perhaps we can start one here and, based upon its success, because of course it will be successful, we can then establish one in Yorkshire.”
There were universal murmurs of agreement, and Fanny felt a swell of pride and excitement. “Wonderful,” she said. “The first thing we must do is find a suitable location.”
“Or build one,” Lady Dunn said. “Though I daresay that would be rather expensive.”
“Yes,” Fanny agreed. “We will definitely need to raise a good deal of funds.”