Walter was still very set on this match, all the more so because Margaret had done her level best to thwart him. And it was an excellent match. There was nothing objectionable about Killin. Since Margaret’s return to London at the beginning of the year, she had not once faltered in her efforts to please. Her desire to fulfil her obligations was clearly genuine, so why did she have to work so hard to embrace them? Ought a mother to ask? But what good would it do, when the die was cast? When they were married, Margaret and Killin would reach an amicable accommodation, as couples invariably did.
A final discordant screech from the violin brought the duet to a merciful close. “Well, that was most uplifting,” Charlotte said, getting quickly to her feet in order to prevent another encore.
“I have not a musical ear as you do, Your Grace, and so must bow to your superior judgement,” Killin said primly. “I believe that a cold collation is to be served in the dining room. If I may offer to escort you, in His Grace’s absence? And your daughter, of course.”
“We are much obliged,” Charlotte replied, “but I notice that Margaret’s flounce is torn and must be pinned. If you will excuse us, we will join you shortly.”
Taking a firm hold of her daughter’s arm, she headed for the ladies’ retiring room.
“Mama, my gown hasn’t any flounces.”
“If music be the food of love, then that performance has made me bilious.” The retiring room was happily empty. “I am reliably informed that after supper our hostess plans to warble her way through a selection of operatic arias. Too much of a good thing, methinks. We shall wait here while our carriage is summoned.”
“But Killin is expecting to take us in to supper.”
“We shall take the risk for once of disappointing him. He has been most assiduous in his attentions.”
“Extremely,” her daughter replied with an acid smile. “Every time I turn around, there he is, assiduously paying attention.”
Charlotte stifled a laugh. “When you are married, you will likely find that he becomes considerably less assiduous.”
“Oh, I do hope so.”
The heartfelt words startled them both. “When you have a family,” Charlotte said bracingly, “you will likely spend most of your time in the country, for fresh air is what young children need. You certainly thrived on it. I expect that Killin’s business interests will keep him occupied elsewhere, so for the better part of the year, you will hardly see him.”
Contrary to her hopes, Margaret was not at all reassured by this. “I have a horrible premonition that Killin’s progeny will be tediously correct and rather boring.”
“I doubt it, not with you as their mother. In point of fact, there is a great deal to be said for having a tediously correct and rather boring child.”
“Then I will name my first daughter Victoria in the hope of guaranteeing that.”
Seeing the spark of laugher in Margaret’s eyes, Charlotte permitted herself a small, complicit smile.
Margaret stared down at her gown, pleating the silk of the skirt between her fingers. “Mama, you and my father do a great deal of charitable work, don’t you?”
“We are both very much aware of our position in society,” Charlotte replied, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “We feel it is our duty to do what we can by serving on committees, raising funds, sponsoring causes, that kind of thing.”
“I have been thinking that I would also like to do something useful. I have so much time on my hands between engagements and nothing to do with it, save kick my heels at home. I know you will say I should read an improving book or some other worthy endeavour but . . .”
“Go on,” Charlotte said warily.
“There is a parson, Reverend Beckwith, who lives with his sister in Lambeth.”
“How on earth did you come to meet a clergyman from Lambeth?”
“I met him through Lochiel.”
Colour stained her daughter’s cheeks. She wasn’t lying, Charlotte was sure of it. Margaret never lied, but there was more to the affair than she was admitting. However, there was no more respectable and trustworthy man than Donald Cameron of Lochiel. “You think this parson can provide you with a useful occupation? Does he wish you to help him with his charity works?”
“Father Sebastian—that is how he is known there—hasn’t actually asked for my help. His parish is near Waterloo Bridge Station, and he lives with his sister, who is a widow. I hoped that I might assist her in some practical capacity.”
“Practical?” Charlotte frowned. “Are you thinking of emulating the charitable work that Lady Cavendish does, soup-kitchens and the like? It is most commendable, but hardly the kind of endeavour you should be getting embroiled in while your future is hanging in the balance. Frankly, Margaret, I am not at all sure that Killin would approve.”
“I am quite certain he would not. In any case, Mama, I would rather not tag along in Lucy Cavendish’s wake. She is so frightfully clever and just a little bit intimidating, if I am honest, and I don’t want to be ordered about like a junior officer.”
“Margaret, really! You are welcome to assist me in raising funds for one of my own favoured charities.”
“No! I beg pardon, Mama, but I’d prefer to do something off my own bat. If Mrs. Elmhirst—that is Father Sebastian’s sister—if she is willing to take me on, then I could go to Lambeth, not as Lady Margaret but as plain Miss Scott, ready and willing to learn and to do whatever is needed—do you see, Mama?”
What Charlotte saw was a daughter eager to contribute, and where was the harm in that, if it helped her to cope with the restrictions that would be placed on her for the rest of her life? There was a glint of excitement in her eyes that had been absent for a long time. By the end of the year, assuming Killin came up to scratch, Margaret would be the latest in a long line of female sacrifices to the family weal. She deserved this much. And if she was in Lambeth, being useful incognito, then there would not be the additional worry of the press latching on to the story.
“Very well. If I can be assured that this Mrs. Elmhirst is a respectable person, then I see no reason to object.”
“Thank you! I am certain she is, because Father Sebastian is a most respectable man. Indeed, he gave up a parish in Cheltenham to come to London and work with the poor and Lochiel says that such a post would be more than comfortable.”
Margaret had met the brother but not the sister. A vague warning bell rang in Charlotte’s head, but the man had Lochiel’s approval, and Charlotte, herself an excellent judge of character, would take a view on Mrs. Elmhirst when she met her. It was highly likely that Margaret would quickly tire of traipsing about after the no doubt earnest and well-meaning parson and his sister, but at least she’d have had some respite from the strain she was under. And Killin would be none the wiser.
“Then it is agreed,” she said. “You may send Mrs. Elmhirst a note asking her to call on me at her earliest convenience. If she passes muster, I will smooth the waters with your father.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Lady Margaret I presume, do come in.” Mrs. Susannah Elmhirst, a slim, fair-haired woman in her early thirties, with the same warm brown eyes as Father Sebastian, opened the door to the rectory herself. “You found us easily enough, then?”
“We came in a hackney carriage,” Margaret said. “This is Molly, my maid. Thank you so much for permitting me to help out. I don’t know how useful I will be, but I can promise I’ll do my level best.”
Mrs. Elmhirst smiled. “I was surprised when I received your note asking me to call on your mother, for you’re not our usual sort of volunteer, but my brother remembered you very well. You made quite an impression on him.”
“He made a lasting impression on me.”
“He does tend to do that, though he divides opinion. People either love him or loathe him.”
“I can’t imagine why anyone would take against him.”
“Certain individuals resent him hindering their efforts to make money
from suffering,” Mrs. Elmhirst said dryly. “Sebastian is a thorn in the side of the Board of Guardians for the Poor, too, which is where he is now, though he has promised he will be home in time to take tea with us later. I thought the best way to introduce you to the parish would be to take you on a little tour. I’m glad to see that you are dressed plainly.”
“I am as eager as my mother to avoid attracting attention here. You see before you Miss Scott. Let us say I am visiting from Edinburgh, where my brother—no, my father—is a minister in one of the poor parishes there, and he has sent me here on a mission to learn from your excellent example. How about that?”
“Goodness, what a fertile imagination you have. You will be a great asset to the children’s storytelling group. Now,” Mrs. Elmhirst continued, addressing Molly, “I think it would be best if you waited here. Our dear indispensable Esther, who is our chief cook, bottle washer, and everything else besides, will be glad of the company. If anyone calls, Esther will know what to do,” she added, turning back to Margaret. “We operate an open house policy here. People come to us with problems at all hours of the day and night. Sebastian prides himself on never turning anyone away. Occasionally, some of them are even ecclesiastical matters!”
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Margaret agreed. She had been instantly drawn to Father Sebastian, with his charming smile and easy manner. His sister’s smile was similar, lighting up her face and reflected in her eyes, giving her an unexpectedly endearing and rather mischievous look.
“Now, Miss Scott, are you ready for your introduction to the parish?”
“Oh yes, please, but I wish you will call me Margaret. I hope we are going to be friends.”
“In that case, you must call me Susannah. Shall we?”
The rectory sat in the shadow of the church, the front step leading directly onto the street. “It was in a dreadful state of disrepair when Sebastian moved in,” Susannah said, leading the way onto a series of narrow streets. “Though we have made it habitable, there is always another call on our funds which prevents us doing any more than keep it watertight. The houses generally are very cheaply built, and I’m afraid most of the landlords are reluctant to spend money fixing roofs or supplying fresh water. And damp—that is the very worst problem here. Sometimes water is literally running down the walls.”
Her father, Margaret knew, owned an immense portfolio of property, including any number of parochial houses and estate cottages, but he had factors to manage it all. She couldn’t recall him ever mentioning repairs or costs, but if he had, would she have listened? “I am so horribly ignorant,” she said, frowning, “but surely there are laws requiring landlords keep their properties in good repair?”
“There are regulations, but enforcing them is another matter entirely, and a fine balance has to be struck. If a property is actually deemed unfit for habitation, the tenants are made homeless, you see, and alternative accommodation is in very, very short supply. Poor Sebastian spends an enormous amount of time lobbying landlords directly, or via the vestry—that is the parish committee responsible for inspecting houses and sanitation—but with limited success. The men who sit on the committee are very often landlords themselves, and so have an interest in maintaining the status quo.” Susannah smiled ruefully. “They are united in their hearty dislike of my brother. Not that Sebastian gives a fig about that.”
“Aside from telling stories to children,” Margaret said, rather overwhelmed, “I’m not quite sure how I can best be of assistance to you. I’m happy to try my hand at anything, but I’ve no practical skills or experience.”
“Can you sew?”
“Plain stitching, hemming, yes, but anything more intricate—no. Mama once said that my sampler was the finest example she’d ever seen of how not to embroider.”
“There’s not much call for embroidery here, but if you are willing to help with some plain sewing, perhaps teach some of the little ones?”
“I’d love to do that. What else?”
“A good many of Sebastian’s older parishioners cannot read or write, and need assistance sending and receiving correspondence. You could act as his scribe, if you don’t consider that too menial a task. It would relieve some of the burden on him.”
“Oh yes,” Margaret said enthusiastically, imagining herself sitting opposite Father Sebastian at his desk as he dictated letters. “I can absolutely do that. What else?”
Susannah laughed. “Your mother agreed you may spend a few hours a week helping out, no more. I am sure the duchess would consider sewing or letter writing appropriate activities, but as for anything else . . .”
“Oh, please, I don’t want to do only what is considered seemly. I’m not Lady Margaret here, remember? I’m Miss Scott, the practical daughter of the Reverend Scott, and used to getting my sleeves rolled up and getting wired in as Molly would say.”
The screech of a train on the Charing Cross viaduct rattling overhead towards the river made her jump. Clouds of thick black smoke belched from its funnel, dispersing into the already murky grey pall that passed for the London sky.
“If you are truly determined to muck in,” Susannah continued when the train had passed, “there are no end to the things you can do to help out. We have a mothers’ club on a Wednesday. I pay house calls most days to help with whatever needs done. Some of the dwellings are not for the faint-hearted, Lady—I mean, Margaret. When one is poor, cleanliness can be a luxury.”
“You mean the houses are dirty?”
“I mean the occupants smell, not to put too fine a point on it,” Susannah said, grimacing. “Very few of the houses have running water. People have to queue to fill buckets, as the supply is only turned on a couple of times a week. There is a public baths, but it costs thruppence for a cold tub and sixpence for the water to be heated, which for most people here is a luxury they simply can’t afford.”
“I had no idea,” Margaret said, too appalled to begin to imagine what the more intimate sanitary arrangements might be.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. When I first came here, I thought myself a battle-hardened follower of the drum, but there are still days when I am humbled by the deprivation I see. Here, take this,” Susannah said, giving Margaret a little muslin bag tied with tartan ribbon. “I make up these little sachets for Sebastian to carry with him. It’s filled with lavender. I have a tiny patch of garden at the back of the rectory where I manage to grow a few physic herbs. My nose is quite immune to smells, but poor Sebastian struggles, even after all this time.”
Margaret inhaled the sweet scent of the dried lavender and immediately sneezed. If Father Sebastian didn’t let his sensitive nose stop him, then she most certainly wouldn’t. “You say you followed the drum? Do you mean your late husband was a military man?”
“He was indeed. Frederick’s last posting was as a captain in the Light Division under Colonel Yea in the Crimean War. We had been married for five years, and most of it was spent on one campaign or another. I went with him everywhere.”
“You must have been very young when you married,” Margaret said, her admiration for Susannah increasing tenfold.
“I was a bride at eighteen. Our parents wanted us to wait, but Frederick was committed to his army career, and we were very much in love. All we cared about was being together. I knew nothing of the life of a military wife, and I was next to useless when it came to homemaking. Poor Frederick would come home to a fire that refused to light, a dinner that hadn’t been cooked, and a wife in tears, but he never once complained. Fortunately, army wives are a tight-knit little band, and to my astonishment—and Frederick’s—I eventually proved to be most adept at making do.”
“You were obviously very happy,” Margaret said, touched by the other woman’s tender smile.
“Oh, very, right up until the end. He was—Frederick was wounded in the battle to take the Great Redan and lost a limb. It’s a horribly common occurrence, when facing cannon fire. Unfortunately, gangrene set in, and in the end,
he was too weak to survive.”
“You were with him?” Margaret asked, a lump in her throat.
“To the bitter end. In that sense, I was more fortunate than many other wives. Now,” Susannah continued brusquely, “your nose will have informed you that is the vinegar works over there. Here we have one of the parochial schools run by our church, and just across the road another, a British school which is run by Nonconformists. Through there, you can see Nelson Square, which is a little oasis of greenery and has some of the better housing in the area, but we are headed further over to the more deprived streets.”
Margaret scurried after her, her eyes wide, her ears assaulted by the clatter of barrows, carts, and horses; the screeching of the trains rattling overhead; and the rhythmic hammering from the many building sites. Her nose had grown accustomed to the smell of horse manure, which was all-pervasive in every corner of the metropolis, but it mingled here with the smoke from factories, the mud that oozed between the cobble-stones, and the sickly sweet smell of rotting vegetables in the gutters. Surreptitiously, she took another sniff of the lavender sachet.
“And here,” Susannah announced, “we have the workhouse.”
The huge building stood at the far end of the market where Margaret had first encountered Father Sebastian. The red brick was tarnished almost black in places, and the many windows were mean and small. An imposing gate led to an even more imposing portico.
Her Heart for a Compass Page 11