Chapter 19
Margaret loved the soup kitchen. The large brick building had been gutted some years ago and completely refurbished by a wealthy merchant who had risen from the ashes of the famine refugees.
Above the archway door read the words IN HONOR OF OUR LADY OF THE SORROWS. Mostly Irish Catholics graced the place, but the soup kitchen made it a rule to never discriminate. They would not repeat the hypocrisies doled out to the Irish in the soup kitchens run by so many Anglican orders in Ireland.
She still blanched at the thought of those too weak to stand being forced to renounce their faith for a bowl of gruel. Here anyone who needed a meal would be served, and she was proud to be a part of it.
Lord Carlyle wandered around the currently empty hall lined with wide plank tables, taking to the place with a surprising degree of curiosity. He called back over his shoulder, “How many does this place serve?”
One of the women, Kathryn, sorting bowls in the corner smiled. “A day? A week? A year, my lord?”
The earl had the good grace to appear chagrined. “Do forgive me. I’ve obviously no notion of the intimate workings of such a place.”
Margaret quickly crossed over to them, then glanced back, realizing that James hadn’t followed. She waved her hand at him. For some strange reason, he was holding back, silent.
Perhaps it was overwhelming for him. But she wanted that. She wanted him to feel again and have to face those feelings. Far better that they were the simple feelings of societal injustice first. Later they would face the traumas of his wife’s and daughter’s passing.
He lingered by the doorway for a moment, as if entering meant something much more powerful than it truly did.
Trusting that he would join them, she turned to Kathryn. “Now, you mustn’t think Lord Carlyle knows nothing of charity, or his son.”
At that, James strode beside her. “‘Charity, Faith, and Love’ is the motto of the Earl of Carlyle.”
Kathryn narrowed her blue eyes, slightly faded with the passing of many years. “Is that so? I rather think you’ve had a go at Lord Blarney’s stone.”
Powers coughed. “Perhaps I have. Do forgive me. My sense of humor—”
“Is rather senseless?” Kathryn sniffed. “We’ve no time for gawpers. You know that, Margaret.”
It took all her willpower not to drive her elbow into Powers’s side. On the other hand, his father was smiling at Kathryn, a look of genuine interest softening his usually stoic face. “My son is not as blessed with goodness as you so clearly are, madam. Your patience is greatly appreciated.”
“Well.” Kathryn sighed, then held out her wrinkled hand. “I did ask the good Lord that today be one full of new friends. It appears he has a sense of humor as well.”
Lord Carlyle took her hand gently in his. “A pleasure.”
James stuck his palm out and shook her hand without nearly as much grace. “Margaret tells me there is nothing to be done for the suffering outside these walls.”
Kathryn pulled her hand back, her lips puckering with annoyance. “Does she, now?”
James nodded. “Yes. Do you agree?”
Kathryn gave her a sideways glance, one that asked where Margaret had picked up this loo lah. “Is he twisting your words?”
“He is.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s clear to see you’ve the devil in you, my lord.”
“Am I possessed, then?” James inquired. “Have you any holy water?”
Kathryn threw back her head and laughed. “Sure we could have Father Gallagher in here for a week, bathing you in the stuff, but it’d do you no good.” Kathryn cocked her head to the side and eyed him up and down. “You like having the devil inside you, so he won’t be off.”
James grew dangerously quiet.
Kathryn folded her arms under her apron-covered breasts. “You’re rather sensitive for such a tough man. Have I come too close to the mark?”
Margaret reached out to Kathryn, ready to stop her. Perhaps this was too much. She’d not thought of how freely spoken some of the women here were, or how little ingrained respect they had for men of high rank.
James said quietly, “I may have been accused of enjoying my misery before.”
Kathryn nodded. “There you have it, then. And it’s right sorry I am for you. For our Margaret wouldn’t have brought you if she didn’t think you were worth something.”
“She had to bring me,” James said. “I’m her husband.”
Margaret cringed. She’d never thought of telling the people she worked with in such a way.
Kathryn’s eyes bugged. “Never on your life.” She thumbed at James. “To that devil, Margaret? Did he ruin you, then?”
Margaret threw her hands up in the air, unable to keep composed. “No. Good God, no.”
The earl cleared his throat. “My son is not quite politic. Margaret has married my son for very good reasons.”
“I can see only one good reason,” Kathryn lilted. “The man has a body on him that would send every virgin in Ireland on the path to sin. But that’s all.”
James started to laugh. “Is that not enough?”
Kathryn took a step back at that deep laugh. “Saints alive.”
“I assure you Margaret is the most virtuous young woman,” James placated. “I am constantly remarking on it.”
“Stop.” Margaret covered her eyes with her hands. Unable to face how quickly Powers had steered what was usually such a simple part of her week into such strange waters. “Both of you. I was trying to explain the earl’s and his son’s charitable work. How in the name of the saints did we come to this?”
Kathryn placed her fists upon her soft hips. “Lord High-’n’-Mighty there was expounding on his family motto, ‘Charity, Faith, and Love.’”
The earl winced. “In truth, it’s actually ‘Mercy Be Not Given.’”
Red stained Kathryn’s cheeks, and Margaret was certain that they were all about to be sent packing, the whole affair ruined, until she began to laugh so hard, tears trickled down the older woman’s cheeks.
“Kathryn?” Margaret ventured. “Are you all right?”
“Faith, these lords are quite the pair. I should curse them, but God would never forgive me. Shall we put them to work to see if they might cleanse their wicked souls by just a shade?”
“Wonderful,” Margaret replied, nearly sagging with relief. “And as I said, they’re not all bad.”
“Am I finally to learn what great charity they did?”
Margaret felt a swell of pride. Despite how low Powers had fallen, he’d once been noble, and now she was helping him. “These two men sent enough funds to my father’s works during the famine that many, many families were saved.”
“Bless you both,” Kathryn said. “And it’s thankful I am that you’ve nothing against the Irish. For today you’ll be surrounded.”
Lord Carlyle patted James’s shoulder. “I think my son and I have the fortitude for it.”
“You’ll need it,” Kathryn teased.
Margaret didn’t miss the look of shock on James’s hard face as his father touched his shoulder.
And there was pride in the older man’s gaze. Not just the pride of having managed to father a son, but genuine pride.
Her heart did a dangerous little dance. It was remarkable how they were coming together after so much dissonance.
Kathryn gestured to a long row of tables at the top of the room. “Now, the soup pots will be brought there in less than an hour.”
“We can—” the earl started.
“No, thank you, my lord,” Kathryn countered. “I’ve several boys for that.” She gave the men a wide, puckish grin. “I’d actually like you to serve the soup as people come in.”
The earl stilled. “Serve.”
“Yes,” Kathryn confirmed.
&
nbsp; Margaret remained silent, waiting to see how the two gentlemen would react. Neither of them knew how truly important this moment was.
James spoke first, “For Margaret? Anything.”
Giving James a smile, Kathryn nodded with approval.
Margaret couldn’t tear her eyes away from James. Despite his wickedness, he was exceeding her expectations for the day so far, and it gave her so much hope. Still, she didn’t want him to know, so she said playfully, “Be careful. Anything is quite a lot. Kathryn will have you out cleaning the privies.”
“I do hope not,” scoffed Lord Carlyle.
Kathryn tsked. “Why, Margaret, I’d never do such a thing. Not on their first visit. Now, off you lads go to that table. We’ll be along in a moment to show you what to do.”
As James and his father surprisingly did as they were told, Margaret braced herself. “Do you have something to say?”
“Have you gone soft in the head?” Kathryn whispered.
“No.” It was not a good sign if Kathryn felt this way. Among the women she worked with, Kathryn was the most open.
“He’s an English lord.”
“I’m a lady,” she replied.
“You’re an Irish lady. And there’s something not right about him. He’s broken, Margaret. I can see it in his eyes. I wasn’t teasing when I said he had the devil in him.”
“I know.”
Kathryn’s eyes widened, and she raised a hand to her soft brown hair, laced with silver. “That’s what the earl meant. You married Lord Powers to set him straight.”
Margaret let silence be her answer.
“Why?”
“He needed help,” she replied, knowing it was no real answer at all.
“You’ve sacrificed yourself, haven’t you? You’re doing this for some grand reason.”
“Perhaps.” Her brother. Good Lord, the futility of her position hurt. She couldn’t even see the lad unless she wished to become embroiled in his political leanings. Something she would never do. But she couldn’t stifle her fear either. Her brother was one step away from the gallows if he was caught.
She didn’t even know where her brother was at this moment. She hoped to God it wasn’t in some Fenian horde planning the destruction of the empire.
As if the older woman could read her thoughts, she hissed, “Surely, this will displease your brother, the young lord. Have you not heard from him at all?”
The mention of her brother sent another stab of pain through her heart. “Matthew knows.”
“You’re a grown woman, Margaret, with a strong mind, so I shan’t say more. I’m your friend, and I want you to remember that, if aught goes wrong.”
“Thank you, Kathryn.” And she meant it. She didn’t dare think of such a circumstance in which she would need such help. But she was no fool. She wouldn’t be a little girl who believed in happy endings. For little girls and boys who believed in such things met only with disappointment.
Chapter 20
The scent of rich stew wafted upward, and James leaned in appreciatively. Earlier, he had teased Margaret about the sheep in the markets. Several had clearly somehow made their way to this haven amid hovels. He was stunned.
Good-size pieces of mutton filled the brown sauce of the stew, mixed with carrots and potatoes and onions. He’d heard stories of gruel and broths not fit for consumption in charity houses. This? He’d happily eat it, mutton and all.
Kathryn elbowed him gently. “Admiring our fare, my lord?”
The woman reminded him of a benevolent fly buzzing about his ears. She’d hardly left him on his own. Perhaps she was afraid he’d slip arsenic into the meal. She’d certainly grown irritated when he’d announced his status as Margaret’s husband. “I am.”
“We pride ourselves on what we’re able to give.”
The doors opened at the end of the hall.
Several other volunteers, women mostly, bustled about wearing simple gowns and long white aprons. When would the poor straggle in?
He knew Margaret wanted him to see their suffering, but he was damn well going to try to ignore it. He’d send a few hundred pounds over later if it would soothe his wife’s sensibilities. He’d seen more than enough suffering already. Years of war after his wife’s and daughter’s deaths had seen to that.
Kathryn adjusted the thick netting over her hair, tucking a strand back into place. “Do you have any questions?”
To his surprise, he did. “How is it you serve meat?”
“Our benefactor is Irish.”
He failed to see how that affected the stew.
She clucked. “The Irish are very economical. As opposed to the English, the Irish will deny themselves meat or anything costly. They’ll boil the cheapest bits of fish with a few potatoes, and that’s their tea. Our patron scrimped, saved, and worked himself right to the bone and is now a leading merchant in the city. He wants his people to be able to have what he never did every now and again.”
“Do most of the Irish in London eat so frugally when not here?” he asked, the ramifications of her words landing on him.
Kathryn nodded. “They do. It’s better than in Ireland. There they had potatoes if they could be gotten during the famine, which of course they couldn’t. When they came back, they ate them with hardly anything else. Perhaps a bit of fat or bacon if they were lucky.”
“My God.” He stared down at the stew, seeing it as a veritable feast now.
“I’d no idea you were so ignorant, my lord.”
“Neither did I.”
She gave him a strange look. “At least you’re curious. Most wouldn’t give it a second thought.”
“So, the benefactor?” James prompted, wondering at a man who’d give such an exorbitant amount to feed what most considered the dregs of society.
“He came over in the middle of the famine and slaved his way out of the gutter. As I said, he now donates money so that his people can know a touch of kindness when they come to this hopeless city.”
A hopeless city. So, he wasn’t alone in such a feeling. He’d often stared up at the blackened buildings, the low, dank sky, and wondered what God would allow people to live so. But then again, the same God had let his wife and little girl die.
Unlike the people here, after such ponderings, he’d be able to go home to a soft bed, a good meal, and never have to scrounge money together to chase oblivion if he so chose.
Margaret whisked up beside them. “You both look very serious.”
“Your husband has been asking many good questions.”
Margaret’s eyes lit with pleasure. “He’s very clever.”
“Too clever,” said Kathryn, though now she was smiling at him.
“Are you ready, my lord?” Margaret asked.
He grabbed the long wooden ladle, his heart hammering fast. Something was happening to him in this place. Something that had never happened before when he’d been drunk or after escape. And it was all because of Margaret. “James.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“Not ‘my lord.’” He swallowed, wondering what possessed him. “James.”
“James,” Kathryn burst in. “A good Irish name. I think we’ll let you stay, my lord.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. Her lips had parted and her breathing had slowed.
She knew the meaning of his words. Just days ago he’d raged at her when she’d called him by his name. Now he was inviting it.
If ever there had been a moment where he wished they were in private, this was it. He longed to take her in his arms and kiss her lips for no other reason than to know her. To know her lips, and tongue, and breath as they mingled with his.
This time he wouldn’t stop because of a memory, because strange as it felt, he was beginning to wish to make new memories.
“James,�
�� she whispered . . . And then she laughed.
He tensed. How could she make light in such a moment? “What?”
She pointed. “You’re dripping gravy on the floor.”
He glanced down, and indeed, gravy was dripping from the ladle to the stone floor. He whipped the utensil back over the pot of stew and cursed. But then he was laughing as well, not a dark, sardonic laugh, but the laugh that was coming ever more frequently with Margaret near him. One that actually held that thing she promised existed in the world. Joy.
“It’s time,” she said, leaning in toward him. She gently ran her fingers over his, then squeezed.
He savored that gentle touch even after she headed toward the large line forming by the thick, dark bread down the table. He studied the swish of her charcoal skirt, wondering how something so simple could have such an effect on him.
He’d done things, violent things. And sex? There was little he hadn’t done. Yet Margaret’s gentle caress made all those memories fade as if he were a blank slate on which any story he chose might be written upon.
A bowl was suddenly thrust forward.
James shook himself.
The young woman standing before him couldn’t have been fifteen years of age, but like the boy in the street, she had the look of one who’d seen far too many years.
Her auburn hair was braided carefully but clearly hadn’t been washed in God knew how long. Her bony fingers gripped the wood bowl as if it were a lifeline. Most likely it was.
Her big green eyes stared up at him, waiting. “What are you starin’ at, then?”
He cleared his throat. “I do beg your pardon.”
James placed a hefty ladleful of stew into her bowl, and she was off before he could say another word. Quickly, another bowl was thrust before him.
Worn face after worn face, broken, defiant, came before him, waiting for sustenance.
With each bowl he filled, he should have felt the horror of all this tragedy, but there was nothing sad about this place. In fact, laughter was drifting from the many seated people.
Where was the abject misery?
The Dark Affair Page 17