Louise M Gouge

by A Suitable Wife

  “Yes, my good man.” Greystone put on a serious face, although he wanted to laugh at the confusion on the man’s countenance. “These are my new charges.” As he made the declaration, the weight of his new responsibility bore down upon him. Did he have the right to assume the care of these lads? He must find out who they were and whether their parents had truly sold them to the master sweep, lest he be considered a kidnapper. Just the work for his brother Edmond, who was studying law. Or, in the event criminals were at work in this, perhaps a Bow Street Runner.

  While the footmen cleaned up the mess caused by the thrashing boys in the bath, Greystone apprised Dr. Horton of the events of the past two hours. He ended with orders that he should not mind the embedded grime, for it would grow out eventually. At least he hoped so, for if not, it would mark the lads forever and limit their possibilities. And while he could have left the chamber and been done with the affair, he found himself unable to abandon the two round-eyed boys, one wincing in pain, the other quaking in fear.

  “Easy now, Kit. What is your brother’s name?” Greystone asked.

  Kit had been cradling his injured arm in the other, but he let go and put the good one around the smaller lad. “This ’ere’s Ben, sir.” He whispered something in his brother’s ear that seemed to comfort him, for his shaking grew less intense.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Ben.” Greystone gave him a slight bow, earning a gasp from Dr. Horton.

  “Why, my lord, these are nothing but—”

  “My charges, as I said.” Greystone schooled the man with a sharp look. “You must treat them with all courtesy.” He softened his expression. “Do tend to his arm straightaway. I shall not rest until we know its condition.”

  After an examination of said appendage, the doctor confirmed Lady Beatrice’s astute diagnosis. “Not broken, but severely sprained. It seems a previous break healed incorrectly. The only remedy is to re-break it and set it properly.”

  Kit exploded with a howl of protest. “I like me arm as it is, gov’ner.” At Crawford’s scolding harrumph, he winced and added, “milord.”

  The distress on his face, mirrored on Ben’s, cut into Greystone’s heart. Poor terrified children. “There now, do not be frightened. We have no intention of causing you further pain.”

  “Most of the bruises will heal soon enough.” Dr. Horton completed his examination of both boys and prescribed treatment for several ailments, both internal and external. “And of course they are dreadfully thin, as climbing-boys must be to do their work.”

  His comment brought Greystone up short. Of course sweeps must be small enough to crawl inside chimneys, and many were children. It was a nasty but necessary business, for London would burn to the ground without well-cleaned chimneys. But he could not countenance such young boys being pressed into that service. He must examine the laws to discover exactly how young a climbing-boy could be, and perhaps find some way to ease their lives. “Yes, well, Kit and Ben will soon be too fat for cleaning chimneys.”

  That earned a few sniffles until he knelt before them with a reassuring smile. “What do you say, lads? Would you like to learn a different trade?”

  Each one gave him a solemn nod, although he doubted they knew what he meant.

  “Well then, we’ll get you some clothes and food while we decide exactly how to proceed.” He beckoned to the housemaid, and she stepped forward, her face as blank as her grandfather’s always was. “Lads, you must obey Lucy at all times, understand?”

  More solemn nods. Kit leaned toward him and whispered, “Th’other lady promised sweeties.”

  Greystone chuckled. “Lucy, did you hear that? If they eat all their dinner, you must see that they have sweeties afterward. If you have any questions, I am certain Crawford can advise you.” He ordered one footman to dash out and purchase clothing for the boys. Another was sent to the kitchen for food. The rest continued to clean the nursery and make it fit for habitation.

  With all set in motion, Greystone at last quitted the room and descended to his second-floor chambers, content that his new venture would be a grand and enjoyable success.

  Gilly emerged from his small bedchamber attached to the larger room, his eyes widening in horror as he took in Greystone’s appearance. He cleared his throat, as if correcting himself, and schooled his expression into his usual placid smile. “Well, milord, what have we been up to today?” He removed the soiled jacket and cravat, staring at them as if wondering how to repair the damage.

  Greystone laughed. “Quite a mess, am I not?” He quickly explained the situation, receiving Gilly’s usual acceptance of anything he said. The least he could do was offer a way out of the work his valet would have to do to restore the garments. “Why not just toss them, old man? They’re just clothes. Easily replaced. Unlike a human life, no matter how humble.” He was surprised by the emotion on Gilly’s face, a reddening of his eyes and a slight sniff, if Greystone was not mistaken.

  “A fine thing you’re doing, milord.” Gilly kept his eyes on his work as he cleaned Greystone’s face and hair. But then, as a servant, he rarely looked Greystone in the eye. In fact he had not done so for many years, not since Greystone had taken his seat in Parliament, as if that had signaled a parting of the ways for them. He missed that deeper connection with the man. Maybe now was the time to recapture it.

  “I am pleased to have your approval.”

  Now Gilly directed his gaze to Greystone’s eyes, and he blinked, then smiled. “Thank you, milord.”

  Greystone returned a grin, and warmth spread through his chest. With Gilly’s endorsement he was once again struck with the certainty that he was doing the work of God. As his heart lightened in exultation, Lady Beatrice’s approval came to mind. With Mrs. Parton he could count three people in his corner regarding the little boys. He wished the younger lady’s approval did not please him quite so much. Wished he did not think of her quite so much.

  Interesting how she had correctly diagnosed Kit’s injury. No doubt she had ministered to her brother’s tenants, just as Greystone’s mother often visited the people of their Shropshire village, taking them food, clothing and medicine. Yet Mother always seemed to begrudge her duties, or at best tolerate them, while Lady Beatrice had clearly delighted in helping with the boys. He had no doubt that the young lady had been trained in managing a home and an estate. And no one could deny she was a singular beauty. Why must he search further? What more could a peer wish for in a wife?

  Simple. He could wish and pray for a lady whose name was untarnished by a reprobate brother.

  *

  “Mrs. Parton, it is exquisite.” Standing before the wardrobe mirror in her bedchamber, Beatrice turned this way and that to see every detail of her new pink evening dress. As dictated by this year’s fashions, the waistline hung halfway down the midriff, which she found more comfortable than the higher, tighter bands. The sheer full-length sleeves hugged her arms, but did not bind. And the lace-lined neckline was high enough to protect her modesty. Would Lord Greystone view her with approval in this creation as he had the blue day dress? She dismissed the wayward turn of her thoughts and directed her attention to the lady beside her. “Giselle’s seamstresses must have worked without rest to complete it in three days. How can I ever thank you?”

  Her benefactress chuckled, then sobered. “’Tis no more than your dear mama would have done for you, my child.” A tiny sniff escaped her. “I am pleased to provide a wardrobe appropriate for my companion.”

  Beatrice sighed. “Yes, madam.” She was deeply grateful to Mrs. Parton, but must she always be reminded of her reduced status, even as she found a moment of enjoyment?

  “But I have decided it would be wise to accept Lady Greystone’s advice.” Mrs. Parton reached up to adjust the silk scarf and strand of pearls her lady’s maid had entwined in Beatrice’s hair. “Hmm. I do believe this requires another pin or two.” She set about searching the dressing table drawer.

  In a mere five days of being in London, Beatrice
had learned her employer often became distracted. “Lady Greystone’s advice?” The viscountess had given counsel on many topics as the three of them had sipped their tea the other day. But the majority of her warnings had to do with avoiding chimney sweeps and other such members of the working classes.

  “Yes, dear. Do try to keep up.” Mrs. Parton clicked her tongue. “We must not present you as Miss Gregory, as I first planned. Such a scheme will be all too easily exposed, and you will suffer for it. Some members of the ton may even think you have tried to deceive me.”

  An odd tendril of hope threaded through Beatrice. Would she now be elevated to the position of ward rather than employee?

  “No, we will introduce you by your rightful name, and no one need know you are in my employ.”

  So much for Beatrice’s fondest wish. Why did she not leave London right now and return to Melton Gardens? At least there she would receive the highest respect of the tenants, who never blamed her for their master’s failings.

  Mrs. Parton’s thoughtful frown was reflected in the wardrobe mirror. “And of course we must make it clear that you have nothing to do with your brother. I have given orders to the entire staff that he absolutely must not be permitted to enter this house.”

  Her proclamation cut like a knife into Beatrice. As much as she did not want to be seen with Melly in public, she refused to believe he was utterly lost to her. But she would comply with Mrs. Parton’s orders in hopes that their refusal to receive him would shame him into reformation. And of course she would continue to pray day and night for her wayward brother.

  This evening, however, she had the responsibility of being a good companion to her employer, which would bring her both joy and sorrow. Attending the Royal Olympic Theatre in Drury Lane with Mrs. Parton had been among Mama’s favorite activities when she had accompanied Papa to London every spring. She had often promised to take Beatrice to plays and balls during her debut Season. Left at home in the schoolroom with her governess, Beatrice dreamed of the coming adventures, but Mama died of a fever before she could keep her promises. At one and twenty Beatrice was long past the proper age for a debut, and she doubted Mrs. Parton planned to introduce her at one of Her Majesty’s Drawing Rooms. But for now she would try to enjoy this evening as though Mama were with them, scheming to find the perfect husband for her only daughter.

  Alas, for the past several days Beatrice’s thoughts of marriage were followed straightaway by thoughts of the viscount who lived next door. But despite Lord Greystone’s playful winks and banter about their shared interest in the little chimney sweeps, Lady Greystone made it clear Beatrice was not completely welcome in her home and was received only because she was Mrs. Parton’s companion. Even Lord Greystone had advanced his friendliness no further. Beatrice chafed at these unfair judgments against her because of Melly’s reputation, but there was no remedy for it.

  To carry them to the theatre, Mrs. Parton had ordered her new blue-and-white landau, drawn by her favorite team of four white horses. The two ladies sat side by side facing the front of the elegant carriage so they could best enjoy the scenery as they traveled. Emerging from Hanover Square, they observed many other stylish carriages conveying members of the haute ton to parties and routs and festivities to celebrate Napoleon’s defeat.

  At the thought of such gaiety Beatrice dismissed the pain of her own disappointments. After years of war perhaps England and all of Europe could breathe more easily. Beatrice decided the future looked brighter than it had since Mama died, at least for the moment.

  The carriage clattered over the cobblestones, but the thick cushions covering the benches and the springs on the wheels protected the passengers from severe jarring, making conversation pleasant. The air was filled with various scents, spring roses and honeysuckle vying with the evidence of passing horses on the roadways. As the landau turned this way and that on the streets leading to Covent Gardens, the always jovial Mrs. Parton extolled the talents of the renowned actor who would soon entertain them.

  “Mr. Robert Elliston is quite handsome, to be sure. He will no doubt thrill us as Richard III, although I cannot think he could surpass his performance as Hamlet. Have you seen any of Shakespeare’s plays performed, my dear?”

  Beatrice felt her own excitement growing. “No, madam, but I have read them all.”

  “Oh, gracious.” Mrs. Parton eyed her with alarm. “Even Titus Andronicus?”

  Beatrice gave her a sober nod. “And did not sleep for many a night afterward.”

  “I should think not.” Mrs. Parton shuddered, as if to shake off her own memories of the bloody tale. “But tragically, real life is often mirrored in these dramas.” After a moment her smile returned, accompanied by a twinkle in her eyes. “We are meeting Lord and Lady Blakemore at the theatre and will share their box, then go to their home near Grosvenor Square for a midnight supper. They have invited a few other friends, although Grace did not tell me whom.”

  “I should like that.” Beatrice found herself hoping a certain viscount would be in attendance. In fact, Lord Greystone’s handsome visage continued to dance across her mind as the landau stopped in front of an imposing building.

  “Here we are. The Royal Olympic Theatre.” Mrs. Parton waited while the footman opened the door and handed her down. “Come along, my dear.”

  Beatrice scooted across the velvet cushion and reached for the white-gloved hand extended to assist her, all the while fussing with her skirt to keep it modestly in place. But as she emerged from the carriage and looked up to thank John Footman, she gazed instead into the very face that moments before had filled her thoughts. Her pulse quickened with guilt, as when her governess once caught her stealing a sweetmeat before supper.

  “Lord Greystone.”

  But to her chagrin, the gentleman did not return her smile.

  Chapter Seven

  Why did she have to look so beautiful? Exquisite, in fact. As members of their little party greeted each other, Greystone had no option but to believe that Mrs. Parton and Lady Blakemore, perhaps even Lord Blakemore, had conspired to arrange this evening. Otherwise why would the earl have taken the trouble of driving by White’s to invite him to the theatre? Yes, Blakemore did have some information to impart regarding the laws about child chimney sweeps. Yes, his countess did have her own pretty companion who, Greystone suspected, would be put forward to him for a bride, should they fail to match him with Lady Beatrice. Schemers, the lot of them. He had a mind to have done with it and offer for the Duke of Devonshire’s dull granddaughter, who owned no opinions of her own except those concerning expensive frocks.

  But Lady Augusta could never hope to display a dress as Lady Beatrice graced this stylish new creation. No ill-fitting castoff, this, but a perfect fit over a perfect form. Its warm pink shade brought a rosy blush to her flawless ivory cheeks and heightened the blue of her intelligent eyes. Only the questioning frown upon her fair brow marred her beauty, and he was at fault for it.

  “My lady.” He offered a bow, then his arm to escort her into the theatre, but his attempt to smile was more of a grimace. He could feel it. Could see it reflected in the hurt that darted across her eyes, in her diminished smile that still succeeded more than his.

  “I thank you, sir.” She placed a gloved hand upon his forearm and permitted him to guide her in following their friends through the theatre’s wide doors. “I did not expect to see you in our party this evening.”

  “Ah, well.” He managed an honest smile at last, hoping to appease her. “We are at the mercy of our elders, are we not?”

  “What a pity.” Now those blue eyes snapped to his, and her tone held a hint of frost at odds with the warm evening air. “Tell me, sir, what would you prefer to be doing rather than attending a performance by the celebrated Robert Elliston?”

  Warmth crept up his neck, and he felt—but denied—the urge to tug at his collar. She had all too easily read his reluctance to be in this company, playing this part. Oh, if only she could know the depth
of his reasons, not one of them having to do with her, other than her brother. Now the heat in his chest fired up again over the injustice of it all. But he had made too many solemn vows, had too many missions to complete for the Almighty to ruin them all by evil associations. He must not permit himself to become attached to Lady Beatrice.

  *

  Beatrice urgently wished to remove her hand from Lord Greystone’s arm, but she would surely get lost in the well-dressed throng entering the theatre. She located Mrs. Parton in the crush ahead of them only because of the white peacock feathers in her turban.

  Still not responding to her question, which she had intended as a challenge, Lord Greystone escorted her through the double doors and across the broad lobby, where they joined their party at the foot of an elegant red-carpeted staircase.

  “Do let us go right up,” Mrs. Parton said. “I want to see who is here. Of course Prinny will be late, if he comes at all, but surely there will be someone fascinating to see.” With an impatient wave of her hand she began her ascent, with everyone else following after.

  “Humph.” Lord Greystone deigned to lean toward Beatrice as they followed the others. “As if we were not sufficiently fascinating to her.” He offered her a grin, but Beatrice felt no pleasure in it.

  She may have spent her entire life in County Durham, but numerous peers and their families had visited Melton Gardens over the years. She had learned from those aristocrats that overdone manners and silly humor often masked insincerity. Clearly Lord Greystone’s attempt at wit was meant to mask his discomfort over being left to escort her. She should not let his deficiencies affect her, but they did. What should have been a thrilling experience for her, one she had anticipated since childhood, was now nothing less than an exercise for her in that same kind of insincere courtesy. How ironic. They had come to be entertained by actors, but they themselves were performing roles neither wished to play. But as the daughter of an earl, she deserved courtesy and would demand it. If she must perform, at least she could write her own lines.