The Ruby Heart: A classic Regency love story

by Janet Louise Roberts

  “Oh, Viola, forgive me,” sighed Lesley. “I can see now what I am doing, playing into her hands! I will try harder to be silent, if I cannot be kind. Thank you, darling,” and she kissed the cheek of her relieved sister.

  “I did not wish to speak to you so, but Edgar asked me if I would,” confessed Viola, with a blush. “He is so fine a man, of such wisdom, I finally ventured to try to do as he suggested. It has troubled us so much, this chill between you and Burke, this unpleasantness continually whenever you and Aunt Felicia and Denise meet together.”

  “You may be assured I shall try to keep my temper, though it will be difficult,” Lesley told her with a grimace. “It is not my nature to suffer blood-thrusts without swinging my sword in reply!”

  “I know, and you fence so deftly,” said Viola, with a smile. “But if you will but sheathe your sword, you might find the battlefield empty for lack of combatants!”

  It was a new challenge for Lesley, and she could not refrain from beginning at once, to try what she could do. That evening she wore a beautiful white silk gown, rather low in décolletage, showing her round, smooth throat and arms. She put about her throat the golden chain with the ruby heart and diamond pendant, and in her ears the matching earrings. She wore a simple gold bracelet, and her ruby and diamond ring next to her wedding ring of gold.

  At the dining table, she smiled and sparkled, to Burke’s unconcealed approval. Wanting to keep a clear head, she drank little wine.

  Aunt Felicia tried to barb her. “Well, the rubies of the virtuous woman,” she said. “And have you been, my dear?”

  “I hope so,” smiled Lesley. “Do try the fish, Aunt Stukely. Fresh this morning.”

  Denise tried her turn. “And does Burke give you more rubies every week?” she asked softly. “I cannot see him putting up with a new bride, somehow. He is so ... accustomed ... to expertise in all ... situations.” The smirk told what she meant. Edgar Creswick frowned, about to intervene sternly. Burke gave his ex-mistress a fuming look.

  Lesley was tempted to answer that one with a snap. She caught Viola’s anxious eye and managed a smile. “Do try the fish sauce, Mrs Huntington. Does it have sufficient herbs, do you believe?”

  It was not at all easy, to avoid answering with the smart wit she was capable of dealing out. To speak of other matters, to be deft in changing the subject, to smile over stings. Her reward came after dinner.

  She was pouring coffee when Burke came over to her. She smiled, poured out his cup, black as he liked it, well sugared.

  “Congratulations, my dear wife,” he said very softly, so no one could overhear. “You are even more intelligent than I had dreamed. Keep it up ... we shall defeat them yet!”

  And his dark eyes glowed warmly in approval.

  She drew a deep breath, smiled radiantly up at him. “Oh, may I ride out with you tomorrow, Burke,” she said clearly. “I have errands in the village, if you do not mind?”

  “I shall be happy with your company. Do let us call upon Mrs Brady, she has been crippled up and will be pleased with a call for tea.”

  “Fine. About what time shall I be ready?”

  Denise was frowning, which pleased Lesley. “At nine o’clock, I believe. But I shall stop at your parlour for you, just before then. We have some papers to go over, for the new horses. They seem of sound pedigree.” Burke lingered at her side for five minutes, speaking of the new horses he had ordered from a good stable.

  The next morning, as they were starting out, Lesley glanced up and happened to see a curtain stir, probably at Denise’s window. It was about in that location. She moved her head slowly, pretended to be admiring the flower beds.

  It was a pleasant morning. She and Burke talked without quarrelling. Whenever she was tempted to answer tartly, she bit her tongue hard. Her tongue was sore by noon, but at least she had not drawn his temper. She tried counting at luncheon, and that also helped. Whenever Aunt Felicia spoke spitefully, or Denise drew another arrow on Lesley, Lesley counted very slowly to ten. Twice she had to go to twenty, and once on to thirty and to forty. By that time, the remark had gone by, to the annoyance of her tormentors.

  Guy was watching them shrewdly, his dark grey eyes observing her carefully. Lesley hated the way he always looked up and down her, with seemingly sleepy eyes, taking in the way her thin summer dresses clung to her round figure, the swing of her legs as she walked before the men to the terrace. She felt somehow unclean under his look. And in the afternoon, when he took Aunt Felicia on his arm, ostensibly to stroll in the gardens with her and with Denise, she had the feeling he was whispering advice to her aunt, malicious smart advice. Aunt Felicia kept looking up at him adoringly, nodding her dyed red head.

  Lesley turned slightly, saw Burke was observing them also, very sharply. She whispered to him — they were several feet from the others — “I think they plot mischief.”

  “I am sure of it,” he said slowly, raising his teacup to his lips. “Do not be alone with him, Lesley.”

  She opened her mouth to snap at him, that she hated the man, and would not be. Then she thought better of it. She said quietly, “He is a clever man. He may deceive me. Burke, promise to remain near to me this evening in the dancing. Allow me no more than one dance with him. If he shows signs of carrying me off for a second, pray stop him, somehow.”

  Burke glanced at her, his mouth had softened at her earnest request. “You may be sure I will do that, my dear. I shall hang at your skirts all the evening!”

  And he was as good as his word. No matter how Denise pouted and scolded him, no matter that manners demanded he should also dance with Viola and with several other guests who had come for the evening, Burke always returned quickly to Lesley, hung about her, brought her cooling drinks, and generally “hung on her skirts,” to the amusement of some and the delight of others. “Sure, and he’s fond of his new missus,” said one woman of a manor house in the neighbourhood to a friend of hers, loudly enough to be overheard. “Can’t leave her alone!”

  “Can’t blame him, can you?” was the response. “Pretty as she is, and kind and good as well!”

  Burke twinkled down at Lesley, she had to smile in reply. He offered his arm, and partnered her in the next contradance. He moved her deftly down the long line, swept her back up again to the top, and swung her about easily. The dances at a country house came as easily to him as the smart dances of society. She clapped her hands with the others, watching as Burke armed a stout neighbour deftly about the line and back up again, then returned her to her partner.

  It was a fine occasion, and Lesley did not lose her temper once. She managed to avoid Aunt and Uncle Stukely, stayed close to Viola and to Burke, had no more than two dances with Guy Janssen and left him promptly they were over. There would be no gossip about her with him! And Burke was as careful with Denise, dancing twice with her, in the first half of the evening and then after supper again. Aunt Felicia received the same treatment, so did Viola. The other dances went to his wife, but for the one each with the other ladies of the party.

  It would have been a complete success for Lesley but for the fury in the eyes of Denise, the glittering promise of violet eyes as she stared at Burke. And the warning feverish glint of green eyes as Aunt Felicia studied the married couple and whispered often with Guy Janssen. They were not done with their plotting, sighed Lesley to herself as she prepared for bed about two in the morning.

  CHAPTER 9

  With practice, Lesley was learning to keep her temper, to turn away nasty remarks with a smile and a change of subject. It was not easy for the girl, her temper had often had free rein; she was known in London for her wit, and had prided herself on her quick answers.

  To guard her tongue, to ignore malicious stabs at herself and her sister, at Burke or any others, to be sweet-tempered on the surface when seething underneath, all went hard for her, and many a night she lay awake for two or three hours until she was finally calm enough to sleep. She had no outlet for her temper, except to stamp
about her own rooms and curse under her breath until she felt easier.

  It seemed to work. Aunt Felicia and Denise were peevish with her and each other. Lesley tried to remain out of their paths as much as possible. Viola often strolled with Reverend Creswick, or paid calls with him in the parish.

  One day the drawing rooms of Penhallow were shut off from the remainder of the house. The chimney sweep and his young assistant had come to clean the chimneys, it being summer. The chimneys always accumulated a heavy dust during the winters, as the fires had to burn almost continually throughout the wet, cold months.

  Lesley was crossing the hall headed for the kitchens, when she heard the raised voice of the boy.

  “Don’t put a fire under me, sir, don’t! Me legs hurts, I’m climbing fast as I can!”

  The plaintive, hoarse voice caught her attention. She hesitated, then went to the closed door and cautiously opened it a couple of inches. A cloud of dust met her, and she repressed a sneeze with her finger under her nose.

  Mr Porter, the sweep, wearing his long black frock coat and holding his broom, was threatening the tall, thin lad. The boy backed away from him fearfully as Mr Porter held a lighted thin bit of broom to his larger one, and went at the boy.

  “Now, up the chimbleys! And be quick about it! You’re too slow, lazing about. I don’t know why I keep such a poor apprentice!”

  The boy skipped to the chimneys, keeping an apprehensively rolling eye on his tormentor. “Don’t hit me with it — please, master,” he whined. “Please — don’t set fire to me pants, I gets so burned about —”

  Lesley flung open the doors, and stalked inside. “What are you doing?” she demanded furiously. Both turned to see her, amazed at the lady of the house suddenly appearing.

  Mr Porter was silent, his mouth agape, his smutty face turning purple. The boy was more quick, he dashed over to her, half-hiding behind her, whining.

  “Don’t let him fire me up the chimney, missus! I hurts so! Me legs aches from the burns yesterday! If he but gives me time, I can get up the chimney all right! Please, missus!” He did not touch her white skirts, already gathering a grime from the dust raised in the large room. But he held out pleading black hands with red burns on them.

  Lesley swallowed, she felt sick. She said steadily, “And is this the way you treat your apprentice, Mr Porter? You should be ashamed of yourself! That is no way to teach a boy his job!”

  “It’s the only way he’ll learn, ma’am!” the man growled, recovering his wits. He glared at the boy. “Freddie, you’ll scamper up the chimbley and quit bothering the lady, or you’ll be mighty sorry!”

  The boy but hid the more behind Lesley’s skirts, eyeing his master fearfully. “Don’t let him, missus, don’t let him!” he whispered. “He be fearful cruel! Had me a year, he has, and me covered with burns! I was ’prenticed before for six year to a tanner, and he sold me ... just when I woulda been free ... it ain’t fair, missus!”

  “Is that true, Mr Porter?” All Lesley’s outrage had risen up at this fresh cause. She faced the soot-faced man in fury. She could not make out any expression on his face, but his greedy eyes and threatening looks at the boy told her all she needed to know. “You bought his time, when he would have soon been free? Is that true?”

  “He’s a little liar, a clever little cheat!” said Mr Porter vigorously. “You can’t believe a word he says! Lies all the time, he does!”

  “Do not!” said Freddie, more boldly, sensing a defender. His anxious black eyes went from one to the other. “I woulda been free in one more year, and he bought me, and said I was ’prenticed to him for my life! He did say it!”

  “Nobody is apprenticed for life, Mr Porter,” said Lesley, more quietly. “How do you explain that, Mr Porter? You are supposed to teach him a trade, not have a free assistant for life!”

  “Free is it? Free is it? And him eating me out of house and home!” whined the man anxiously. His eyes rolled. “You wouldn’ believe how much that lad eats! Wants food all the time, he does! Won’t never get my money back for him!”

  “Ain’t so!” retorted Freddie indignantly. “Ain’t even had no food today! And only bread and water yisterday!”

  “Is that true, Mr Porter?” asked Lesley, like a judge. Before her stern gaze he crumpled a bit.

  “Well, he got hisself burned yisterday, and he cries and yells about and wastes time. I said, no work, no eat, and so I won’t feed him till he works, that’s only fair!”

  “You burn him, so he cannot work, then blame him and starve him. That is cruel and inhuman!” cried Lesley.

  Burke walked in the door, in his riding clothes, his amazed gaze taking in the fact that his wife had acquired yet another cause.

  “What in the world is going on?” he asked, with resignation.

  Lesley and Mr Porter and Freddie all attempted to answer him at once. Burke brushed fastidiously at the front of his once-white shirt as the dust settled on it. The brushing only made it worse, and he sighed and desisted, concentrating on the angry speech around him.

  “And he should not even be apprenticed to Mr Porter,” concluded Lesley furiously. “He is cruel and mean, and besides he bought Freddie’s time illegally.”

  “Was not illegal,” said Mr Porter promptly. “No, no, I doesn’t do nothing illegal! Not Mr Porter!”

  Burke listened to them all in silence, then said, “All right, Mr Porter, we will buy the remainder of Freddie’s time from you. How much does he owe you?” he added sarcastically, as the man stared at him blankly.

  “But I cannot sell him. I needs him for the work, he got to go up the chimbleys!” cried Mr Porter. “I got hunders of chimbleys to go up all the summer, I got work to do. How’m I gonna work all my chimbleys?”

  However, he recognized the power of authority in Burke’s voice, and in the end sullenly accepted a sum of money from him. After the man had left, leaving the “chimbleys” unfinished, Burke said to Lesley, “You know he’ll just go out and buy another boy, Lesley.”

  Freddie looked from one to the other anxiously. “You gonna sell my time to somebody, mister?”

  “How old are you, Freddie?” asked Burke gently.

  “I thinks I’m eleven,” he said, after some thought. “I was ’prenticed when I was three, someone tol’ me. And that was six year, and then Mr Porter, he bought my time, and that was one plus some more, how much is that? Old Peg, she says it’s about ten or eleven, I think maybe it’s eleven.”

  Mrs Grigson took Freddie away to feed him, then get him cleaned up. She knew a good family in the village who would take him in, and get him to school, clothed and fed. Freddie was smart, mischievous, cunning, and very grateful to the missus who had rescued him from his life of burning, as he called it.

  He would swing on the gate after school in the village, waiting to see if missus would come along. Lesley made it a point to stop and talk to him, and encourage him to study, though he was years behind the other lads.

  “What good is sums, missus?” he protested one day.

  “So you can get a good job when you grow up,” she said promptly. “Now, Freddie, you promised me to study your sums and to learn to read. And you’re looking so smart today,” she said admiringly.

  He beamed and patted his shirt front, and the fine little blue coat he had inherited from an older boy in the family he stayed with. “A regular swell,” he said with a happy sigh. “Missus, you got lots of money?”

  Lesley started. “Why, Freddie?” She had learned to ask direct questions from him, to answer simply, that was what he understood.

  “’Cause they’s other children need buying,” he said, with a slow nod of his head. “Reckon you’re a good lady. You want to buy some more? Got more money for them? Lots of children.”

  “Where, Freddie?”

  He looked puzzled, trying to figure out how to say it. He finally managed. “They works in the cloth, other town. I seen a boy, he tol’ me. They don’t got much food.”

  The following
Saturday, Lesley came by for Freddie in the carriage, driven by the curious coachman. They drove to a nearby town, Freddie directing the way. He seemed to have learned his way about very quickly, the London boy knew the countryside already. She thought he went about every Saturday and on Sunday afternoons, exploring the new turf. He seemed to know half the people about.

  He took her to a stark red brick building and pointed to it. “The children lives there, missus. They works on first floor and ground floor. They lives up. And they works on the cloth. Little children even, small fingers, cuts about. Start in the daylight, finish at the dark. Two meals, at elevenses and fours.”

  Lesley had soon managed to make her way about in the jungle of his language. The small children worked in the cloth factory from dawn to dusk, and were fed twice a day. She went inside, where she found the most appalling of conditions and a furious manager, who cursed her until he found out she was the squire’s wife. He still managed to turn her out of the place before she had toured half of it. She burned with indignation at his treatment, but even more at the sight of the small children, some about three or four, working the huge looms. Even smaller children, about two, crawled about on the floor retrieving spools and dropped threads.

  On her orders, Freddie had remained in the carriage. When she came back and climbed up, he whispered, “Did you see the children? You gonna buy their time?” he asked eagerly.

  She compressed her lips. “I cannot do that, Freddie,” she said, with a sigh. “There are so many, and the manager employs them. An orphanage! It makes me sick! That is no orphanage, that is a child labour mill!”

  “Don’t you have enough to buy them?” asked Freddie.

  “Not all the children in the world, Freddie.”

  “Oh.” He was silent for a time. “I thought you was rich, I thought you had enough to buy them too.”

  Impulsively, she hugged him. He looked amazed. But he brushed his small face against her jacket and said, “You smells like flowers, missus.”