She shrugged in an attempt to make him believe that it did not matter and forced lightness into her reply. ‘You already know that I came to Seven Dials when my mother fell ill. When her condition worsened I needed to look after her, which made it difficult to earn money. Doctors are expensive. They do not work for free. At least in the workhouse she received medical attention and medicine.’ As the walls of the workhouse gave way to a small cemetery, she finally came to a halt, staring wistfully at the unkempt plot of land. ‘She is buried here somewhere. I am not sure exactly where because I was only told of her passing after the funeral had taken place, but at least I have somewhere to visit.’
His heart ached for her. She stood so proudly and so still. That she had had to cope with all of that alone, and had not only survived it but emerged so determined to change things for others, humbled him. What a truly remarkable young woman she was. Suddenly, knowing the correct way to seat guests at dinner paled into insignificance when compared to Miss Mansfield’s achievements. She had sunk as low as any human could, climbed out of the pit, dusted herself off and then rolled up her sleeves to fix things. He seriously doubted that any of the Potentials had that much gumption. Yet this tiny woman still managed to blithely carry on without complaining.
But now she was sad because she was remembering it all. He wanted to chase away the ghosts in her sorrowful eyes, so it felt like the most natural thing in the world to pull her into his arms and hold her close. She did not protest and went into his embrace willingly, her dark head resting below his chin as they both stared at her mother’s pathetic excuse for a grave. ‘Did you have no one else who could help you? Family, perhaps?’
‘Nobody who was willing to help. My mother’s family were long dead and my father was indifferent.’
Up until that point Bennett had assumed her father to be dead and he stiffened. ‘He was alive at the time?’
‘He is still alive, although he has long been dead to me. He washed his hands of us when I was only twelve. I haven’t seen him in years.’
Chapter Eighteen
A young lady’s outward appearance gives you many clues as to her character. One who wears gowns that are too bold or too plain should be avoided...
Amelia had no idea why she felt compelled to be truthful, aside from the fact that she was enjoying the sensation of being held by him and of feeling protected for once. Years of being on her own had made her forget how heady that feeling was. That and the painful location where they currently stood. Norfolk Street always elicited a powerful yearning for all she had lost, reminding her of how awful things had been and forcing her to recall images of her poor mother at her absolute worst—weak, deathly pale, completely broken, inside and out.
Under normal circumstances Amelia would have avoided the street like the plague, and had done for a full year after her mother’s death even though she had lived only a few yards away. Usually she came here only on the anniversary of the day she’d died—or, as she had this year, on the closest day that she could get to that fateful date.
But these were far from normal circumstances. He had asked her to show him the things that she thought he should see, and there was no way of doing that properly without showing him the workhouse. She had intended to march past quickly; it had been his fault that they had dithered. He was not here on sufferance or out of a sense of duty. He had come willingly in order to learn, so it seemed wrong to pretend that she did not have personal experience of the utter desperation and complete degradation wrought by poverty. And now she was wrapped in his comforting embrace and wondering exactly how she might bring herself to willingly extricate herself from it.
‘What sort of a father allows his wife and daughter to sink into poverty?’ She could feel the anger in his body as his arms tightened around her possessively. ‘Did he not know where you were?’
‘I told him.’ More truth. ‘He did not care.’
‘He let your mother die in the workhouse and left you to fend for yourself? A young girl in this terrible place?’
His incredulity at her situation made her defensive, although not towards him. Her outraged sense of injustice would always be directed at her hateful father. ‘At the time, my options were the streets or the workhouse. I had hoped that I would be allowed to spend my mother’s final days with her, but the wardens would hear none of it. Burdens to society do not deserve basic human kindness. And then it was too late. If I could do it all over again, I would choose the streets. At least then I could have been with her when she died. I am certain that my father will have to atone for his sins one day. That is a small comfort.’ When that time came she sincerely hoped that he suffered for all eternity in the fiery bowels of Hell.
He held her at arm’s length then and stared deeply into her eyes. ‘Tell me his name and I will see that he atones for them now!’
The fierce determination in his eyes thrilled her. It was so very tempting that Amelia had to break eye contact to avoid answering. Lady Worsted had explicitly told her to keep that part of her identity a secret while she was in London, to avoid embarrassing her nephew with the scandal. It had been an easy bargain to stick to because Amelia had ceased thinking of the Viscount as her father a long time ago.
‘He is dead to me,’ she said instead without meeting his gaze. ‘I would prefer to leave it that way.’
The Duke did not look convinced. Before he could press the matter further she set off down the road at a brisk pace. ‘We should head to the soup kitchen now. There will be plenty to do before lunchtime and I am heartily sick of all this melancholy.’
The walk took less than ten minutes, during which time neither of them spoke. Her companion was deep in thought and clearly still fuming and Amelia regretted her loose tongue. He was here to see what life was really like for the poor, not to fight her battles for her, and she was feeling increasingly uncomfortable about talking about her past so openly. The Duke now knew more about her than any other living soul—even Lady Worsted had no idea about her stay at the workhouse and the hopelessness of her situation then—although she was beginning to trust him, which was a peculiar state of affairs in itself. He had a title, yet she trusted him? Enough to have told him about the workhouse—but Amelia hated feeling vulnerable and exposed, preferring to keep those uncomfortable emotions well hidden from anyone who might construe them as weakness. Which meant that she had kept them well hidden for four long years.
But now he knew that she had suffered at the hands of another, had been left with nothing and destitute, and she resented his pity almost as much as she resented her need to seek more of his comfort. Of all the men she should choose to confess her sorry tale to, she had to go and choose a duke. His sympathy would only extend so far, no matter how much her heart was becoming attached. At some point he would become a duke again, so she needed to remain resolutely detached.
As they walked closer to the Rookery, the character of the streets became darker. Drunkenness and squalor lived hand in hand here and from time to time Amelia saw the Duke’s eyes widen at something he had glimpsed. She felt a pang of sympathy for him; she remembered her own horror when she’d first set eyes on this place, not quite believing that human beings actually lived like this. However, Seven Dials was also awash with the milk of human kindness. Those with nothing were often the most generous because they knew what it was to suffer. And the heart of that kindness was where they were heading. The Church of St Giles was the only building that did not look ready to fall down at any given moment. Its tall white spire stood proudly in stark contrast to all of the filth and depravity, like a beacon of hope in this place of despair. The place of her reinvention and salvation. Home.
Amelia directed the Duke around the back to the wooden hall where they distributed the poor relief but paused just outside the door. ‘These people have known me for many years. I shall tell them that you are a friend of mine who wants to help o
ut. They trust me and are wary of newcomers. Lots of people, including politicians, are highly critical of the good work that they do here, believing that providing food for the poor encourages them to become dependent on handouts rather than working. Try not to ask too many questions that might give away your identity.’
Bennett nodded and waited for her to go before him. The sight that met his eyes was as unexpected as it was humbling. There were perhaps ten people working side by side amongst the sacks of vegetables. None were dressed any better than he was now, which suggested that they were all fundamentally poor despite the fact that they were providing charity for the less fortunate, yet there was laughter and a bonhomie that made one want to be a part of it as they cheerfully peeled and chopped. A large, jolly-looking woman with a halo of frizzy grey hair held court but fell silent the moment she laid eyes on them.
Immediately, she dropped what she was doing, wiped her plump hands on the front of her apron and waddled over to Miss Mansfield before engulfing her in a big hug. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t coming, Ames.’ She released her and then turned to Bennett, her knowing eyes slowly raking down the length of his body and then back again. ‘And I see you’ve brought a fella.’ At that she burst out laughing and nudged her with such force that she sent poor Miss Mansfield sideways. ‘Well, ain’t you the dark horse, gal! He’s a right proper sight for sore eyes! What’s his name?’
Before he could speak for himself, Miss Mansfield did. ‘This is Ben. He’s a friend.’
Ben?
Oddly, he liked the informal shortening of his name. He especially liked the way Miss Mansfield said it, although she was having difficulty meeting his eye.
‘A friend, is he?’ The older woman chortled her disbelief. ‘If that’s all he is, girl, you’d best pull your finger out and stake a claim on him before somebody else does.’ To his complete surprise, Bennett suddenly found his jaw clamped in that plump hand and turned one way and then the other. ‘He’s gorgeous, Ames! If I was ten years younger, I would steal him off you.’
Having never been treated like a piece of meat before, Bennett was at a loss as to what to say. He didn’t want to offend the woman, but ten years was a poor estimate of the vast difference in their ages. This woman looked as if she had long been fully grown whilst he was still toddling around on leading strings.
Miss Mansfield looked thoroughly mortified at her friend’s blatant appraisal. ‘Oh, leave him be, Dolly, else you’ll scare the poor man off and we could do with the help.’ It was the first time that he had ever seen her blush and it made her look quite delightful. ‘Ben, the woman manhandling you is Dolly. She means well.’
As his blushing guide was casually dropping her T’s and flattening her vowels, he did the same but felt so silly that he found himself staring at the floor. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Ooh, and he’s a shy one too! I do love the strong, silent type. Especially if he’s got all his teeth.’ At that Dolly grinned at him, displaying a set of gums devoid of them. ‘But if you’ve come to help, you might as well start over there. Help Charlie bring all them sacks over.’ She gestured towards the huge stack of vegetables in one corner and a pasty, unshaven man with a stooped back.
Bennett’s eyes briefly flicked to Miss Mansfield’s and she smiled encouragingly, even though she was still horribly embarrassed. ‘Is that all right, Ben?’
He definitely liked the way she said that. It was a great improvement on ‘Your Grace’. And he liked seeing her all flummoxed and pink too. ‘Of course it is...Amelia.’
Of its own volition, his left eye winked at her saucily. He had never winked at anyone or anything in his life, but it had the most wonderful effect on her. Her dark eyes widened, her lush mouth opened slightly in shock and the soft pink blush turned instantly into the most vivid shade of cerise. He was off to haul potatoes, another thing he had never done in his life, yet suddenly all he wanted to do was grin. He was flirting! Him! Now he understood why Uncle George was so keen on it. It was strangely empowering.
He lifted the first sack and nearly dropped it. He had not expected potatoes to be quite that heavy, but Amelia was watching him, so he hoisted it with all of his might in the vain hope that he made it look effortless. Then he winked at her again and watched her scurry off, completely flustered. Her lovely hips swayed as she walked and Dolly caught him watching them.
‘Just friends, are you, lad? And I’m the Duchess of Devonshire!’ Then she winked at him and Bennett found himself blushing too.
The next few hours whipped by in a blur of activity. Bennett fetched and carried, was taught to peel vegetables by Dolly and was then put in charge of stirring the bubbling soup in three of the largest cauldrons he had ever seen. As it was hot work, Dolly insisted that he remove his coat, although he was almost certain that it was as much for her own benefit as for his. The old lady was blatantly ogling him as she stacked bowls with Amelia and shamelessly pumped her for information, not caring that he could hear or that her words were embarrassing her friend.
‘Where did you meet your Adonis, then?’
‘Um, at a meeting a few weeks ago.’
‘You always did have a weakness for do-gooders. What is he, then? A Revolutionary?’
Amelia’s pretty face was outraged at the suggestion and her eyes darted towards him briefly before she lowered her voice. ‘I don’t consort with Revolutionaries, Dolly. You know that. If you must know, it was a meeting about factory conditions. Do you know, at least one child a week is being killed by those machines?’
Dolly appeared unmoved. ‘You’re trying to change the subject. I want to talk about you and your fancy man.’
‘He’s not my fancy man!’
Dolly rolled her eyes and then grinned at Bennett. Despite his attempt to appear as though he was not listening, he found himself smiling back at the woman. It was nice to watch somebody else feel uncomfortable for a change, and his aunt’s companion was certainly that. Every time he caught her staring at him she blushed like a beetroot and then pretended she had not been looking at him at all. His ego told him that she was casting him admiring glances. The truth was probably nothing quite so exciting.
He could hardly blame her for checking up on him. Her friends would judge her on the strength of his work. Thanks to Charlie, he now knew that the intrepid Miss Mansfield had first come here half-starved and penniless. Dolly had taken her under her wing and helped her find work, and since then she had continued to work here at the soup kitchen whenever she was able. To look at her now, the way she moved around with such purpose and the way everyone else clearly respected her, it would be easy to presume that she belonged here. Such respect would have been hard-won, he knew. He caught Dolly watching him and turned back to his boiling soup and could have sworn that she deliberately spoke louder so that he did not miss her next words of wisdom.
‘There is no shame in wanting a bit of comfort from a strong, handsome man in the night, Ames, and he’s a strong, very handsome man.’
Amelia did not know where to look, although she was certain it would not be in the Duke’s direction. Heaven knew what he must be thinking. Later she would apologise for Dolly’s crassness. Right now, if she protested too much, Dolly would become unrelenting. ‘We share some of the same ideals,’ she finally managed, knowing that perhaps that statement was true. ‘But there is nothing else between us, I can assure you.’
‘That’s just a crying shame, then.’ Dolly unceremoniously dumped the last pile of bowls on the long wooden table. ‘It’s about time you got yourself a nice fella. I hate seeing you all on your own. If you ask me, you’re too independent for your own good. Not all men are rotters. I had some lovely ones in my time.’ She sighed wistfully and clutched her hands to her generous bosom. ‘My second husband, William, he was a lovely man to have around at night. So...vigorous.’
Amelia saw the Duke stifle a smile but
decided to say nothing as any further discussion was likely to be a bit ripe. Dolly had no boundaries when it came to talking about her husbands. Fortunately, time was on her side.
‘Shall I open the doors, Dolly?’ shouted another volunteer from the other side of the room.
After that, it was all hands on deck. Amelia kept a close eye on her guest, fearing that he might find the reality of nigh on a hundred people swarming into the hall in search of a hot meal quite daunting; however, her concerns were unfounded. He coped brilliantly, spooning the nourishing soup into the municipal wooden bowls as if he had done such a menial task every single day of his life. As time went on, she saw him talking to people, a look of intense interest on his face sometimes and humour at others.
He spent a long time with the young family they had seen earlier, huddled in the doorway, listening intently and sympathising with their particular tale of woe. He ruffled their young son’s hair, seemingly oblivious to the crawling nasties that undoubtedly lived within it, and crouched down to eye level with their pale and emaciated daughter, telling her some tale that nudged a reluctant smile out of the girl. All the while, Amelia watched for his superior stiffness to return to his body. At no point did he turn back into the pompous Duke, which bothered her immensely, although she could not quite put her finger on why.
When she saw him rush to help an old man who stumbled, watched him guide him to a bench and fetch him a bowl of soup personally, she realised why. As the Duke, he was easier to resist. Her heart was hardened against all men with titles and power. But here, in those ordinary clothes, he was just Ben. And she had no ready-made defences prepared to repel the torrent of tender feelings that were rapidly growing for this complicated and surprising man. One minute so stiff and formal, the next thoughtful and kind. A stickler for timekeeping and correctness who would risk his own safety to save her, who shared his horse and his home, but wrote a silly book about the perfect wife. He knew about coal mines and came to slums to see things from another point of view, a man who hid in gardens because he felt awkward and knew about the stars. A lethal conundrum of a man who looked like sin and kissed like it too.
DISCERNING GENTLEMAN'S GUIDE, THE Page 16