Turning back toward the beginning of the accounts, Melody found many more listings in Aunt Judith’s precise script. Some of the names were familiar from her own earlier years, many were not. Various notations indicated dame schools or seminaries. A few were marked His Majesty’s Service or Trading Company; most of the latest were simply crossed through in Mama’s wavery lines, as though Lady Ashton trembled to do it. Some of the monies cataloged were substantial, many were smaller amounts repeated over years. None of it made sense.
And the blasted dog had chewed up Melody’s slippers.
*
Outside Dower House a sturdy, dark-haired boy was tossing a ball in the air. “What, sent down again, Harry?”
Melody and a chastened Angie had walked down the tree-lined aisle the Oaks was named for and through the home woods toward the smaller building that used to be the estate’s dower house, which now was home to the orphans. That is, Melody walked. Angie hop-toed and scampered, woofing at every moving branch and snapping twig.
“I didn’t do it, Miss Melody, I swear. Is that your dog? It’s a prime ’un, all right. Can I play with it?” Angie would not go near the boy, until Melody made it clear they were to be friends, at which Angie stole the ball and ran for the woods, to Harry’s delight. Harry was chased in turn by an unkempt urchin in a bedraggled pinafore. The other twin had to be somewhere close. And Philip, sitting on the steps, put down the book he was reading to duck his head, take Melody’s outstretched hand, and welcome her home, stammering.
“I brought you a book, Pip. McWorly’s Dissertations on Heavenly Bodies was highly recommended at the academy, although I could not make heads nor tails of it. I’m sure you’ll breeze through it, clever lad that you are.” She ignored his blushes by kneeling down to the level of the pale little girl sitting next to him, all swaddled from head to toe in Nanny’s woolens, with the palest of blonde curls peeking out of her cap. “Hello, Meggie. My, how big you’ve grown since last summer.” For just a moment, as the child smiled at her, she was reminded of Lord Corey. Melody gave herself a mental shake. Only a noddy would see that rake’s image in every innocent blond babe. Only a clunch would think of him at all. She went inside.
“Nanny, who pays for the children?” Nanny was feeding Ducky, who only wanted to play with the spoon, filled with porridge or not. Angie scrambled into the kitchen, her hound’s nose leading her unerringly through the house to her mistress, or toward food, anyway. Nanny started to grumble when the dog licked up the spills on the floor, on the chair, on Ducky. But Ducky clapped his pudgy hands and grinned, so more food went into his mouth at a faster rate.
“A fine question to be asking, missy. Better you be asking who pays for the clothes on your back and the roof over your head. The children do, that’s who. Who did, leastways. Rob Peter to play pool, like always.”
“You mean I’m taking food away from the orphans?” Melody gasped at the thought.
“Not you, this rugrat you brought into my kitchen. He’s eating the ham I was saving for the children’s supper! You ever hear of mince-mutt pie?”
Chapter Seven
Felice insisted on accompanying Melody to Mr. Hadley’s office the next morning. “Didn’t they teach you anything at that place? A lady can’t go traipsing off by herself, you know. Of course, schoolgirls needn’t mind their reputations so carefully,” she added spitefully, from her two years’ advantage, as though no one would be interested in Melody anyway. If the little cat only knew of the interlude in West Fenton with that regular out-and-outer, her rosebud mouth would purse right up with jealousy and freeze that way, like a cod!
Of course, Melody was not about to mention West Fenton. “I don’t think one need be so strict in the countryside. After all, I have known everyone hereabouts my entire life.” She tied her bonnet strings and pulled on her gloves.
“I’ll just walk along with you anyway, to be on the safe side. I’m anxious to hear Mr. Hadley’s opinions.”
She was most likely anxious to show off her ensemble. Melody was dressed for the early spring morning and the serious nature of her errand. She wore a serviceable blue merino gown with high collar and long sleeves, and a plain chip-straw bonnet. Felice, on the other hand, wore a flimsy short-sleeved, low-necked, Pomona-green striped muslin and a satin bonnet decorated with artificial cherries dangling charmingly just over her brow. The petite blonde tossed a fringed linen square over her shoulders as a sop to the early spring weather. Melody felt sensible, like a drab shopgirl or something.
“But I’ll be closeted with Mr. Hadley quite a while, I fear, and you might find the wait tedious.” That should take care of any notion Felice had of sitting in on the interview.
“No matter, I have some commissions for Lady Jess in the village.”
More bills to run up, Melody assumed dismally. She was hoping Mr. Hadley would explain why they were saddled with such an ungrateful burden, along with everything else. Then she shook herself for being so uncharitable. After all, Felice was as near to an orphan as could be, abandoned among strangers by a father she never knew. Now it seemed he had even reneged on his financial responsibilities. It must be hard on Felice, so used to thinking of herself as a pasha’s princess. Besides, living with Mama could not be easy. Just this morning her tea was too cool, her head was too achy to speak with Cook about menus, and her pillows needed turning, twice. Mama kept a little silver bell by her side, and by bedtime last evening Melody was having quite unladylike thoughts about the little chime. This morning Melody had feared she would never be on her way to town. Then she had the happy notion of offering Mama those Minerva Press books.
“What, those rubbishing gothic tales? Perhaps I’ll just glance at them, dear, if you and Felice are both quite determined to leave me to my own devices. I cannot read much, naturally, my poor eyes, you know. Were there any of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels?” Mama was set for the morning.
*
Melody was wrong; Felice didn’t want to come along just to show off her outfit and spend money. She wanted the opportunity to bat her eyelashes and smile coyly at every man they passed. The apothecary’s boy out on deliveries was reduced to red-faced sputters; Mr. Highet sweeping in front of his haberdashery made such a low bow he almost tripped off his stoop. Even the spotty young curate tipped his hat and walked right through Mrs. Vicar Elroy’s tulip bed. They nodded politely to Miss Ashton as an afterthought, if they noticed her presence at all. Melody felt like a paid companion!
Even Edwin, one of Mr. Hadley’s assistants who had been a Dower House boy before going off to school and landing a position, greeted Melody punctiliously before turning to fawn over Felice. He passed Miss Ashton to another underling while begging to be of service to Miss Bartleby. Could he get her a cool drink or a chair, could he help with her errands? And this was the Edwin who used to sneer at Felice for thinking she was better than everyone else. Melody shook her head.
At least Mr. Hadley was happy to see Melody. He patted her hand and told her she was as lovely a young woman as he always knew she would be. Of course, Mr. Hadley was more than sixty, but his sincerity restored a bit of her self-esteem. His views on her current situation, unfortunately, did nothing for her state of mind.
“It’s a sad day, my dear. I tried to warn your mother to set money aside, to get beforehand with the world. That’s my job, you know, giving advice.” He scratched his bald head. “Rainy days always come, you know.”
“Just how rainy, er, how bad is the predicament? To tell the truth, Mama’s books made as much sense as Euclid.”
Mr. Hadley polished his spectacles, not looking her in the eye. “In basic terms, Miss Melody, your mother has just barely outrun the bailiff. She made some poor investments, against my advice, I beg leave to tell you, and then, like many in the fashionable world, continued living above her means. Credit, you know. She was spending on her expectations, but expectations are not money in the bank, when all is said and done.”
“That much I gathered from her recor
ds. But what I do not understand is what expectations Mama had. If not an inheritance from Aunt Judith, or settlements from my father, how had she hoped to afford to live the way she was? No one will tell me.”
“The contributions, of course.”
“You mean the money donated for the orphans?” Melody had a very uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Oh dear, I thought you knew by now. You see, it started with your Aunt Judith, Miss Morley. She was a spinster lady, you will recall, with no family to speak of except your mother, who was at the time recently married to your father and living in London. Judith had the Oaks with its few acres, and a small competence, and was already responsible for Sir Bartleby’s daughter.”
“Felice.”
“Ahem. Sir Bartleby’s support included provision for your aunt, naturally, which enabled her to take in another unfortunate, ah, child. Your mother in London, meanwhile, met various ladies who, ah, wished to see such children given a better life than foundling hospitals offered. So, they became sponsors in the new Dower House Home for Children.”
“Do you mean they made charitable gifts?”
“It was more than that. To sponsor a child, a patron had to pledge to provide for that particular boy or girl through infancy and onward, right up to getting them started in a career or dowered to a respectable marriage. Other times the sums were provided to help the foster parents your Aunt Judith found, families who otherwise could not afford another mouth to feed.”
“How kind of those ladies to make such a commitment.”
Mr. Hadley took out a handkerchief and dabbed at this brow. “Ah, indeed. I helped draw up some of the papers myself. Now some of the sponsors chose to pay—ah, make their donations—monthly or yearly. Others made one large deposit to the Dower House account. Here is where it gets a bit ticklish.”
That nasty feeling in Melody’s stomach was arguing with her breakfast. Aunt Judith was a rigid moralist, who would never have touched the orphans’ money. Mama could not have, could she? Melody was certain Mr. Hadley did not mean ticklish as in funny, but she had to ask. “How?”
“You see, it was understood with each contribution that your aunt, then your mother, was to have a share of the financial benefits, for their efforts and attention to the children. When there was a lump sum, an endowment if you will, the interest would accrue to Lady Morley, for her expenses in operating the home, et cetera. Then your father died and left all of those debts, and you and your mother came to live with Lady Morley. Slightly more of the, ah, principles were withdrawn. With Lady Morley’s passing, I am afraid your mother became a tad careless with her bookkeeping.”
“As in which was the orphans’ money and which was hers?”
“Something like that. She did feel that by investing the principles she could increase the, ah, profits. As I said, the investments failed. All would still have been well, however, if she had stopped spending, or if the, ah, gifts continued coming.”
“But?” It was strange. Mr. Hadley kept mopping at his forehead as if he were overwarm, while Melody was chilled through.
“But recently the money has not kept coming. Your mother feels this may be due to certain rumors circulating in the ton.”
“She mentioned the same to me. Do you have any idea what these stories are about?”
“I do not travel in those circles, of course. If I had to guess, my dear, I’m afraid I would have to say that people think your mother is stealing from the children.”
There, it was said. Melody had refused to put the idea into words, although the notion had niggled at the back of her mind since seeing that ledger. Now she refused to believe it. “No,” she firmly declared. “Not my mother. Mama is a lady.”
Isn’t she? a tiny voice asked. Melody overruled it and stiffened her already straight back in the hard chair. “We’ll come about, you’ll see. Mama mentioned that the dowry you hold for me, as trustee, could see us through this temporary setback, so I must ask you to release those monies to me.”
“But, my dear, how will you contract a marriage, then?”
“I am afraid I am not likely to encounter eligible gentlemen in debtors’ prison either, Mr. Hadley.”
“But you are only seventeen, child. Your whole future lies ahead. You won’t want to forfeit it now. Perhaps one of your schoolmates could invite you to town for the Season.”
“What, shall I go off to enjoy myself, turning my back on my family and my responsibilities?”
The old man shook his head. Her mother surely would. “I cannot let you do this, my dear, but I respect your valiant sacrifice.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Hadley, but what kind of future would I have if I could not respect myself?”
They compromised. Mr. Hadley would let Melody have half of the money Aunt Judith had put aside for her, if it stayed in her own hands. The chit had bottom, he acknowledged, and a sensible mind that wouldn’t be sidetracked by fancy frills and furbelows. There was a lot more of Judith Morley in the lass than she knew. If anyone could get that house in order—and Dower House, too—young Melody was it. Too bad such weight had to fall on such tender shoulders. At least Mr. Hadley felt he could relieve her of one burden.
“Don’t you go thinking that Miss Felice is another of your responsibilities. Judith provided for her, too, but the chit went through the blunt in one year, and some of those other monies we talked of, trying to nab herself a title, tagging along with your mother to those house parties and such. If ever there was a wench with ideas above her station it’s that one.”
“I thought the nabob, Sir Bartleby, was to send for her.”
“We all did, but he hasn’t been heard from. I thought for a while she’d make a match with young Edwin, but he wasn’t good enough for her, nor were any of the local lads. She has her heart set on a London swell, it seems.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“And pretty is as pretty does, I don’t need to remind you. Besides, what fancy gent is going to offer for a dowerless chit who cannot even dance at Almack’s?” Mr. Hadley tidied the papers on his desk, pleased that the issue of Felice was dispensed with. He’d lost too many hours of work with Edwin’s mooning after the heartless jade.
“But why wouldn’t Felice get her vouchers?” Melody asked, confused. “I always thought Sir Bartleby was of the highest stare.”
“That’s because you listened to Miss Bartleby, I’ll warrant. He only got knighted after years with the East India Company, you know, for lending so much of the ready to the crown. Bartleby wasn’t married before he left the country either, and he left under some kind of cloud. You might say Felice was the silver lining.”
*
Then again, you might say Felice was the dark shadow on a sunny day. Here Melody had her head full of important ideas: which bills to pay first, where they could best economize, how she could earn a living and see to the others at the same time. And there was Felice, grousing because Mrs. Finsterer would not let her put the purchase of a pair of York tan gloves on Lady Ashton’s account.
“Can you believe the nerve? These provincial shopkeepers should be pleased to do trade with us.”
“They would be more pleased to be paid what’s owed them,” Melody replied, sharper than she intended. Some of the other merchants must have been more lenient than Mrs. Finsterer, or more optimistic, or males, since Felice had a whole pile of packages. She was quick to transfer the bundles to Melody’s arms, while retying her bonnet strings, and somehow that’s where the parcels stayed.
“Oh, but now that you have settled with Mr. Hadley,” Felice chirped, turning her brightest smile on Melody, “you can go back and reestablish our credit.”
“I’m sorry,” Melody told her, “but there will be no more credit.” Truthfully, she wasn’t sorry a bit. She wasn’t even sorry when the sun went behind a cloud, and the underdressed, pouting, little blond tart shivered the whole way home.
Chapter Eight
Melody was going to
make this work. She had to; there was no other choice. So what if she knew nothing about holding household or raising children? She didn’t know anything about pigs and chickens and turnips, either, and that was not going to stop her. She would just have to learn, she told herself with uncrushed youth’s cheerful belief in invincibility, and the others would have to learn with her.
She made lists and talked to more knowledgeable persons: old Toby, Mr. Hadley, the neighboring landlord’s bailiff, even a poacher brought to the house one dark evening by Mrs. Tolliver, the cook, to show Melody how to lay snares. And she enlisted the children, who were thrilled to help until their hands got blisters turning over a vegetable patch. Still, if the Morley-Ashton households were to become self-sufficient, everyone had a job to do.
Sturdy Harry was the biggest assistance, although he kept trying to convince Melody their best bet was to start a racing stable.
“I know you are horse mad, Harry, but hogs are cheaper to buy, less costly to feed, grow faster, and we can eat them.”
“I know horses are expensive, but think of all the money left over from my schooling. That last place won’t have me back, you know,” he told her, grinning. “And the fire wasn’t even my fault.”
Philip volunteered his services as a tutor, to Harry’s disgust, and to teach the younger children their letters, to save money there. “I—I’m not real strong like Harry, Miss Melody, b-but I am awfully good with figures. P-perhaps, that is, if you want, I could help with the b-books.”
Now there was a welcome offer! After studying the accounts with Melody after dinner that very night, Pip even found a way to save money by paying the bills off in part, leaving some of their funds earning interest. “B-because the merchants will be pl-pl—happy to get any of what’s due, and they’ll see you mean to make good.”
Minor Indiscretions Page 5