by Darcy Burke
ALMOND CAKES
Grinde halfe a pound of Almonds and mixe with halfe a pound of Sugar and Orange or Lemon Water. To this add ten Yolks of Egges beaten and the boiled skins of two Oranges or Lemons grounde fine. Mixe together with stiff Egge Whites and melted Butter gone cold and bake it all in a good Crust.
Good for nibbling during nervous occasions, such as when my daughter brought my first grandchild into the world earlier this year. Oh, my, what a day and night. I think I'd much rather give birth myself!
—Elizabeth, Countess of Greystone, 1736
As was customary, the furniture in Aunt Frances’s Hanover Square home had been rearranged to prepare for the birth of her child.
On the ground floor of Malmsey House, a room had been designated as the lying-in chamber, and a portable folding bed had been brought in for the occasion. A larger connecting room provided a gathering place for relations during the labor, and more rooms across the corridor had been outfitted to house the accoucheur—the obstetrical doctor—and the monthly nurse, called such because she not only assisted the accoucheur and attended the mother during the birth, but stayed for a month afterward to care for the baby.
The accoucheur and monthly nurse had arrived yesterday in anticipation of Aunt Frances’s due date a week hence. But apparently Dr. Holmes had reckoned incorrectly, because today, while Corinna and her family nibbled on the almond cakes Juliana had brought, Frances was laboring in the inner chamber.
As she had been for half a day already.
Corinna had been forced to rush this morning to get her paintings sent to Lady A’s house before coming here to be with Aunt Frances. Along with the portrait, she’d chosen all her best landscapes and a few of her favorite still lifes. At least waiting for the birth was stopping her from fretting over whether she’d made the right selections.
Well, it was slowing her down, anyway.
Hearing more moans and murmurs through the door, she winced. “How long is this going to take?”
“It hasn’t been that long.” Alexandra smiled down at Harry, settled in her lap. “If you’d attended my son’s birth, you’d know that.”
Alexandra had delivered in the wintertime, at Hawkridge House in the countryside. Two weeks early, a full week before her sisters had planned to arrive. Her accoucheur had miscalculated, too, and at the moment, Corinna was grateful for that. The thought of Alexandra wailing like poor Aunt Frances made her want to wail herself.
“Oh, hang it,” Griffin suddenly said.
“What is it?” Corinna asked, her heart jumping into her throat. Did he know something she didn’t about their aunt’s condition? Something bad? Something dire?
“It’s nothing,” he said. “I just forgot something.” He rose and went over to a little desk in a corner of the room, where he started pulling drawers open. “I need to send a message.”
Juliana rose, too, and found paper and quill for him. “It seems this is taking forever,” she said, looking rather pale as she returned to her seat. “James, maybe you should help.”
James rolled his eyes. ”I don’t deliver babies,” he said for the fifth time. “But there’s no need to fret. Dr. Holmes is the very best.”
“He could take some measures,” Griffin muttered as he scribbled.
“It’s usually better not to intervene as long as the labor is making progress. What would you have him do?”
“Bloodletting, perhaps.”
“James doesn’t believe in bleeding,” Juliana said quickly. Juliana couldn’t stand the sight of blood. She said it made her sick to her stomach.
Griffin folded his letter and began scribbling again, adding the direction to the outside. “Then maybe forceps.”
“Using forceps,” James said, “can result in tearing the mother.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” Corinna said, jumping out of her seat and going to the window. The sight of blood didn’t bother her, but all of this talk—labor pains, bloodletting, forceps, tearing—coupled with Aunt Frances’s intermittent cries…
Well, it was enough to make a girl keep her legs crossed for the rest of her life.
“Are you all right?” Juliana asked her.
“I’m fine. I just never, ever want to give birth.”
Everyone laughed. But this was no laughing matter. She was never going to tell Sean she loved him, because what if he wanted to get married? And though Griffin probably wouldn’t assent, what if he did? She could end up wedded and bedded and howling behind a birthing room door herself.
A particularly piercing scream came from the lying-in chamber, and she felt the blood drain from her face.
“It’s worth it,” Alexandra said softly, still smiling down at her child.
“I think I’ll stick to making pictures,” Corinna muttered.
“Your husband may have something to say about that,” Griffin said, rising from the desk. He strode toward the room’s door. “I’ll be right back. I need to pass this off to a footman.”
I believe all men are deceitful, Corinna remembered Amanda saying in Children of the Abbey. But Griffin wasn’t deceitful. Oh, no, he was perfectly straightforward. He was determined to marry her off even if it meant she’d suffer like Aunt Frances was suffering. And he wasn’t afraid to tell her so right to her face.
Your husband may have something to say about that.
Her blood boiling, Corinna waited impatiently for her brother’s return, knowing exactly what she would yell right in his face make it clear to him, once and for all, that she wasn’t looking for a husband in the first place, and wouldn’t accept one who didn’t support her art career in any case—when the wailing and screaming suddenly stopped.
Corinna’s breathing stopped, too. “Is Aunt Frances…?”
She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. And evidently no one else could, either, because a tense silence flooded the room.
And then a thin cry came through the closed door.
“Of course not, you goose.” Juliana grinned, though she’d looked just as anxious a second ago. “She’s had her baby.”
“Thank goodness.” Corinna bit off a hunk of almond cake, suddenly ravenous. The ordeal was over. “When can we see it?”
“Not for a while,” Alexandra told her. “The baby will be covered in mucus and blood, so it will need to be cleaned up first, and Aunt Frances will need to deliver the afterbirth—”
“Stop.” Griffin walked back in, looking rather green. “I don’t think Corinna needs to hear this.”
Corinna giggled. She was feeling better already, if a little hysterical. Her stomach fluttered with excitement as they all waited to be called inside. The baby stopped crying, and the murmurs that came through the door sounded contented rather than distressed. She heard Frances’s familiar laugh and knew everything was going to be all right.
At last the connecting door opened. From the bed Frances smiled, propped comfortably against her pillows. Lord Malmsey came out of the room, a short man with a receding hairline, a wide smile, and a pink bundle cradled in his arms.
“It’s a girl,” he said, sounding bemused.
Everyone seemed to sigh in unison.
Slowly he unwrapped the blanket, revealing a little heart-shaped face, a shock of straight dark hair, and large, unfocused blue eyes.
Corinna rose and walked toward him.
“What are you calling her?” she asked.
“Belinda,” he said quietly.
“Oh, my.” Frances’s older sister’s name. Corinna’s mother’s. “May I hold her?”
Griffin laughed. “I thought you didn’t want a baby.”
“There’s a big difference between having one and holding one,” she retorted, opening her arms.
Lord Malmsey reluctantly handed his daughter over. Belinda felt warm and impossibly tiny. And holding her squirmy little body close, Corinna fell in love for the second time in two days.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Hanover Square, Tuesday 13 May
&n
bsp; My dear Cousin,
I regret that I shall be unable to accompany you to Chelsea today, as my Aunt Frances is most inconveniently delivering a child. I shall take you tomorrow if that agrees with you.
Fondly,
Cainewood
“A useful skill indeed, miss.” Sean made a notation in his notebook. “Perhaps I can find a position for you cleaning Delaney and Company’s main offices.”
“Offices?” the maid squealed, her cracked and work-reddened hands flying up to her cheeks. Cleaning offices was a huge step up from the scullery. “A place of business? Not a kitchen?”
“I cannot make any promises, since decisions have yet to be made. But you won’t be working in a kitchen.” One business he wasn’t involved in was food service. He stood, and when she stood too, he stuck out his hand. “Whatever your final assignment, you should expect to begin the Monday following Lord Lincolnshire’s passing.” He’d had enough practice saying it that his voice no longer cracked on the last word.
“Will I still live here?”
“I’m afraid not.” Sean was certain Hamilton would never allow it. “But have no fear, miss. I shall arrange lodging in a boardinghouse for you until you can find a situation of your own.”
She clutched his hand in both of hers, her eyes filled with awe. “Thank you, my lord. You cannot imagine—”
“I’m not a lord,” he interrupted. “Merely a mister.”
“You’ll be a lord soon—”
“And you’re very welcome. Before you return to the kitchens, please ask Mr. Higginbotham to step in.”
Sean sat and made a few more notes while she all but danced out of the room. When the house steward entered, he rose again. “Was she the last one then, Mr. Higginbotham?”
A tall, thin man with a gaze that didn’t miss anything, Higginbotham ran Lincolnshire’s household like clockwork. “Other than Eugene Scott, one of the gardeners, yes. I allowed him the day off to sit with his ailing mother.”
“A gardener.” Sean nodded and made another note. Perhaps Mr. Scott could be assigned to work with the crews that landscaped new buildings following construction. “Please sit down, Mr. Higginbotham.”
The steward did so, smoothing his palms on his striped trousers. “I must tell you, sir, that everyone, from the basement of this house to the attics, is extremely grateful for your seeing to their continued employment.”
“Think nothing of it. They’re remarkably loyal employees, and as such, will surely be assets to their new employers.”
Now that Sean had interviewed them all—mostly in the evening hours over more than a week—he would assess their relative strengths so he could place them strategically among the different businesses he owned. Some would be involved in property management, others in import or export, manufacturing, construction, and many other of his endeavors.
“I hope everyone will be pleased with their final assignments,” he said.
“I’m certain they will be pleased to have any employment at all. Although they wish to remain with Lord Lincolnshire until he’s gone, of course.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Higginbotham hesitated. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Hamilton…” He cleared his throat. “How is it you’ve come to know of enough available positions? And come by the authority to hire—”
“I know a lot of people,” Sean interrupted firmly.
“I expect as a well-known artist you’ve had commissions from all the best—”
“Something like that.” He tapped his quill on the notebook. “As for your future, Mr. Higginbotham…”
The man sat forward, apprehension crossing his long face. “I assumed I’d remain here. If I may say so, Mr. Hamilton, you’re going to require a minimum of staff at the least.”
Sean wouldn’t think of leaving such a fine man at the mercy of the weasel. “I’ve been impressed by your efficiency. I know of a factory in Surrey in need of a foreman. If you’re willing, I’d like to see you in that position.”
Higginbotham’s eyes widened. “A factory?”
“They manufacture lamps, the new gaslights. As it’s a growing industry, it’s a very large factory, with upwards of three hundred employees.”
The steward squared his shoulders. “I have managed a sizable staff here.”
“More than a hundred, by my estimate.” Sean felt like he’d interviewed a thousand. “You’ll have to relocate outside London, of course, but compensation will include a foreman’s house and the staff to manage it, leaving you free to focus on the factory’s needs.”
“I’m to have my own servants?”
“You’ll need them. The factory is a major responsibility.”
Higginbotham’s face set with determination—and perhaps a touch of excitement. A house steward was a respectable position, but managing a factory was something else altogether. Rather than a glorified servant, he’d be a man of industry, a man of business. “I’m up to it, sir, I assure you.”
“I’ve no doubt.” Sean snapped the notebook closed. “We’re agreed, then, and I’m finished here. Let Lord Lincolnshire know, if you please. I’m off to…paint.”
Lincoln's Inn Fields, Tuesday 13 May
My dear Cousin,
It should have been better had you notified me of your delay sooner than four hours after I expected you. You seem to have forgotten that Lady A is holding her reception tomorrow, possibly the most important day of your sister's life. As I plan to attend, Thursday afternoon will be more agreeable for Chelsea.
Yours very sincerely,
Rachael
P.S. I wish Lady Malmsey the best.
TWENTY-NINE
ROUT CAKES
Take Flour and mix with Butter and Sugar and Currants clean and dry. Make into a paste with Eggs and Orange Flower Water, Rose-water, sweet Wine, and Brandy. Drop on a floured tin-plate and bake them for a very short time.
My mother said these cakes bring luck, and indeed, I fed them to my husband the day he proposed! Serve to ensure the success of your rout or any other event you'd like to see turn out well.
—Katherine, Countess of Greystone, 1765
Finally, the day of the reception dawned. Corinna arrived at Lady Avonleigh’s town house, where an ancient butler ushered her inside. Her knees were shaking. Lady Balmforth, who shared the house with her sister, came to greet her and bring her to the drawing room.
“Welcome, my dear. Where is Mr. Hamilton?”
“He…ah…he couldn’t come,” she said, which was the truth. Mr. Hamilton couldn’t come, as he was in Wales, and Sean couldn’t come in his place, either. “I haven’t seen him the past few days, Lady B. Apparently he’s very busy.”
That was true, too. She hadn’t seen Sean since she’d finished the portrait.
“Well.” The older woman huffed, sucking in her already thin cheeks. Lady B was as skinny as Lady A was plump. “My sister is not going to be happy about this.”
Some of the ladies’ friends were already there, exclaiming over Corinna’s paintings. Lady A and Lady B had taken all the other pictures off their peach-painted walls and hung Corinna’s art there instead.
Everything in their house seemed to be peach. The color unfortunately clashed with some of Corinna’s work, but there was nothing she could do about that. Nothing but cross her fingers and hope that the artists would like what they saw when they arrived.
And hope that they would like her.
Alexandra showed up next, a platter in her hands. “Rout cakes,” she explained. “They’re supposed to ensure the success of your rout.”
“It isn’t my rout. In fact, it isn’t a rout at all. It’s a reception.”
“It’s a fashionable gathering, and as Lady A’s home isn’t overly large, it’s bound to be a crush. That’s a rout in my book.” Alexandra leaned to kiss her sister’s cheek. “You look nervous.”
A sarcastic retort hung on the tip of Corinna’s tongue, but she felt too on edge to make jest
s. “I am,” she admitted instead. She abruptly realized that, other than the rout cakes, Alexandra held…nothing. And there was a decided lack of squeaky wheels. “You left Harry at home.”
“Babies don’t belong at routs.” Alexandra set the platter on a side table of mahogany inlaid with lighter, peach-colored wood. “Show me your newest painting.”
But before Corinna could do so, Juliana walked in. Then Rachael and Claire and Elizabeth. Then more of Lady A’s and B’s friends, and their other sister, Lady Cavanaugh, and the first of the Exhibition judges.
Suddenly, it was a rout.
Corinna could barely move among all the people. Lady A pushed through the crowd to give her a hug. Corinna held her breath as she was enveloped in camphor and gardenias. “Our honored guest! Where is Mr. Hamilton, my dear?”
“He couldn’t come.”
“Well. I…well. I never—” More guests were arriving, cramming the drawing room. Her plump cheeks quivering with indignation, she turned to the nearest new arrival. “Have you heard, Mr. West, that Mr. Hamilton isn’t coming?”
Benjamin West! The president of the Royal Academy! Corinna found herself speechless with terror.
“I’m sorry to hear that, madam, but it’s hardly a surprise, considering he’s currently in Wales.”
“When did he leave for Wales?”
“Last month, I do believe.”
“Last month? I think not.” Lady A looked confused. “Lady Rachael,” she called, motioning her over. “Did we not see Mr. Hamilton last Saturday at the Billingsgate ball?”
“Why—”
“No,” Corinna cut in, sending her cousin a pitiful, pleading look. Although Rachael didn’t know the truth, surely she’d respond to such obvious silent begging. “That was Sean Hamilton, remember? Sean, not John.” Before Rachael could disagree or Lady A could protest further, Corinna clutched Mr. West’s arm and began pulling him toward her painting of Lord Lincolnshire.
Though she was no shrinking violet, she surprised herself with her boldness. But she didn’t see where she had much of a choice. She had to get Mr. West out of there before—as Rachael would put it—everything went to blazes.