“Hold out your arm,” he ordered, taking a moment to undo the clasp of the gold bracelet with the amethysts he had given Joan during that picnic long ago. He wrapped it about Analise’s wrist and secured it, all the while fighting a lump in the back of his throat. “There,” he said as he leaned down and bussed her on the cheek.
Analise stared at the bracelet before turning her gaze back onto her father. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Was it mother’s?” She couldn’t remember ever having seen her mother wear it.
Marcus nodded. “A gift to her when she told me she was expecting your older brother. I bought the demi-parure and gave her the matching necklace when she told me she was expecting you.” He had intended to give her the earrings when his son was born, but she died before he had a chance.
“Thank you, Father,” Analise murmured, her eyes brightening. She was about to ask about the necklace, but thought perhaps it had been buried with her mother. “I shall wear it every time I wear this gown,” she added.
“She would like that,” Marcus replied, almost wishing he had given her the necklace as well. But he could do that another day. The day she announced her betrothal. Or the day she married. Or the day she bestowed him with a grandchild...
Marcus blinked. And blinked again. Perhaps a nunnery was in his daughter’s future. Although seeing her in this gown had him realizing it would be very unfair not to at least allow her the Little Season.
First, the Little Season. Then the nunnery.
Chapter 5
A New Matchmaker Makes Her Debut
Meanwhile, at Finding Wives for the Wounded, 30 Oxford Street, London
Dressed in her very best carriage gown, Charity, Countess of Wadsworth, regarded the two shingles that hung above the door to Lady Bostwick’s charities. Although she hadn’t lived in London when the first charity was started, word of its success had reached Suffolk by way of an article in The Times.
Now that the wars had been over for a few years, she supposed there were fewer applicants seeking employment and more seeking companionship. If the line of men just inside the door was any indication, Elizabeth Bennett-Jones, Viscountess Bostwick, had created another successful charity.
Winding her way past the former soldiers, Charity looked in vain for the proprietress. A rather large man spotted her, though, and his eyes widened. He made his way in her direction.
“Thank you for coming. We thought perhaps you had changed your mind,” he said as he cleared a path for her and led her to a desk in the far corner. “Oh, where are my manners? Nicholas Barnaby, at your service,” he said with a bow. “And that man over there—” he indicated a shorter man at a desk on the opposite side of the room—“That’s Augustus Overby. He sees to taking the initial information so there’s not so much for you to have to record. You probably have your own questions you want the men to answer.”
Charity stared at the man, realizing two things at once. He thought she was someone else, and that meant the position had already been filled. “I believe you must have me confused with someone else,” she said, about to turn and take her leave.
“You’re the new matchmaker, aren’t you?” Nicholas countered. “Lady B said you would be here today.” He leaned over and added, “Actually, she said she hoped someone would show up and simply fill the position. You are here, so it’s yours if you want it.” He straightened and allowed a shrug.
Charity blinked several times. “I thought there might be some competition for the position,” she replied, her attention going back to the line of men—there had to be at least ten—waiting to speak with Mr. Overby. Three more were in chairs near the desk he had indicated would be hers.
She was about to give her name as Lady Wadsworth, but thought better of it. “I am... Mrs. Seward,” she said, deciding the use of her maiden name would keep her from being remembered as the widow of an earl. “So good to make your acquaintance,” she said then, offering her hand. “May I ask why it is the position is available?”
Instead of lifting the gloved hand to his lips, Nicholas gave it a firm shake. “We’ve been through four matchmakers since this charity started,” he said on a sigh. “All of them found their new husbands whilst they worked here.” This last was said with a hint of pride, as if a marriage made up of a matchmaker and former soldier or sailor was something about which to be proud.
“Am I the only applicant?” Charity asked, once she had determined she was the only female in the place.
“Indeed. And seeing as how you’re here and ready to get started...” He lifted his hand and waved toward the desk. “The position is yours.”
Charity had half a mind to rush out of the small office and return to her townhouse, climb into bed, and never venture out again. But the expression on one of the men’s faces had her reconsidering. Despite the apparent loss of a hand, he looked hopeful. Dressed in a suit of clothes suggesting he was a clerk, he looked like any other young man one might find in an office. In fact, as her gaze swept the others in line, she was surprised to find only two who appeared downtrodden. Poor. Unemployed.
Perhaps they were in line for the other charity.
“Where are the women?” she asked, thinking there should be some in search of husbands.
Nicholas allowed a shrug. “Some days, we see one or two,” he replied. “That’s the hardest part of this operation. Finding the potential wives.”
Furrowing a brow, Charity took another glance at the line of men before she pulled back her shoulders and considered her options. How hard could it be? A few advertisements in newspapers...
She blinked, just then remembering she shouldn’t expect all women to be capable of reading, let alone having access to newspapers. She would have to devise a different way to get the word out to unmarried women. “I’ll need a pen and a bottle of ink,” she said as she turned her attention back to Nicholas.
“They’re on the desk,” he replied. “May I take your coat?”
Charity removed her gloves and allowed the tall man to see to her mantle. A moment later, she was seated and introducing herself to the man closest to the desk.
“Roger Weatherby. I am honored to make your acquaintance, my lady,” the former soldier said as his hands moved to rest atop his ball-topped cane.
“Likewise. Are you employed, Mr. Weatherby?”
“I am. Valet to Viscount Merriweather. I have a room in his townhouse in South Audley Street.”
Charity arched an eyebrow, impressed by the young man’s credentials. “Tell me, Mr. Weatherby. What characteristics might you be seeking in a wife?”
The valet took a deep breath. “I was shot over in Belgium. As a result, I have a terrible limp, so she’ll have to abide it,” he replied. “But otherwise, I am fit. Everything else works as it’s supposed to.”
Heat colored Charity’s face as she considered the young man’s words. Was he referring to...? She gave her head a shake. “Tell me about your idea of a perfect wife,” she urged.
Roger inhaled and then said, “She would be comely and not too thin. Her hair color should be dark—black, if possible—but I like it long when it’s not up in a bun.”
“Go on,” Charity urged, thinking he was describing just about every unmarried girl in London.
“No older than me. I’m five-and-twenty. And...” He stopped and allowed a sigh.
“And?”
“She should be... willing, if you understand my meaning.”
Charity blinked. “Oh. In... in the marriage bed, you mean?” she whispered.
“Is that too much to ask?” he queried, doubt in his voice. “I’m not blessed with a good deal of coin, so I don’t plan to visit brothels after I take a wife.”
Giving her head a shake, Charity realized she might have to amend the questions she had been thinking of asking the women. “Not at all, Mr. Weatherby. Wives should be amenable to the marriage bed. Is there anything else?”
Roger allowed another sigh. “It’s all right if she’s in service, se
eing as how I am.”
A spark of hope erupted in Charity. “So, a housemaid or lady’s maid?” she asked.
“And not too far away. Wouldn’t want her to be employed over in Cheapside or down in Chiswick.”
“Of course not,” Charity agreed. “Someone in Mayfair.” She wrote a few notes on his sheet and then gave him an encouraging smile. “Should anyone match your criteria, I shall send you a note to arrange a meeting,” she said, glancing at his form to be sure an address was listed.
The valet finally nodded. “Thank you, my lady,” he said before he used his cane to help lift himself from the chair.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Weatherby. You’ll be hearing from me.”
Charity watched the valet as he limped his way to the door, realizing just then that if he hadn’t been shot, he would probably already be married and the father of several children.
Another gentleman sat down before her, and soon she was asking him the same sorts of questions.
Four hours later, the fingers of her right hand stained with ink, Charity leaned back in her chair and regarded the papers scattered about her desk. Applications, all of them for men seeking wives.
One thing was certain. She would have to send Lord Lancaster a note declining his invitation for a ride in the park on the morrow. Her afternoons would be spent finding wives for the wounded.
She had a thought of where to start the search—many a modiste employed unmarried seamstresses, and nearly every household employed single maids—but she needed a way to reach them.
Word of mouth, she thought just then.
Daring a glance at her chronometer, she thought of the parade of aristocrats that would be descending on Hyde Park in another hour. A parade that would include any number of grooms and other servants.
And weren’t they the very best gossips?
Helping herself to a stack of calling cards bearing the charity’s name and address, Charity allowed Mr. Barnaby to help her with her mantle before she took her leave of the office.
“Will you be back?” he asked, worry evident in his features.
“I will,” she promised, affording him a smile. “I’m off to...” She frowned, realizing she really should pay a call on the charity’s founder before pursuing some potential wives. Lady Bostwick deserved to know the position had been filled. “To pay calls.” She paused. “Where do you suppose I will find Lady Bostwick?”
Mr. Barnaby checked his pocket watch and grinned. “At Bostwick House, I expect. Probably in the nursery. She’s got two bairns, you see.”
Remembering what life had been like for her when she’d had two small boys, Charity allowed a nod. “Of course,” she replied, deciding it wasn’t too late to pay a call in Mayfair.
Chapter 6
Meeting an Employer
A half-hour later at Bostwick House
Sitting in a rather indecorous manner on the floor of the nursery, Elizabeth regarded her son’s tower of blocks and held her breath. This latest construct was his tallest yet—nearly as tall as he was—his wooden blocks stacked in a haphazard fashion that would result in a wreck of monumental proportions should she so much as breathe on it.
“All done,” he announced proudly, his chubby arms rising into the air in celebration.
“It’s wonderful, David,” she replied with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
Christina, old enough to sit and watch as her brother built his tower, followed suit with her own arms, her tenuous grip on a stuffed doll giving way as she happily imitated her brother.
The soft doll struck the side of the tower. For a moment, Elizabeth held her breath as the stack of blocks leaned first one way and then another. Just when she thought it would right itself and come to rest in a mostly vertical aspect, Christina giggled, leaned over, and poked her finger against one of the blocks in the middle.
She continued to giggle as the entire tower crumpled to the carpet below. Once again, her arms went into the air in triumph as both Elizabeth and David let out cries of disbelief.
“’Tina!” David complained at the same moment Elkins, the butler, appeared in the doorway.
Elizabeth was sure he was suppressing a grin. How could he not find the scene amusing? Her on the floor with her children, playing with wooden blocks.
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to allow just a hint of a smile, Elkins,” she chided him.
“Very well, my lady,” he replied, a barely-there look of amusement appearing on his potato-like face. “Lady Wadsworth has paid a call. Should I tell her you are out?”
Elizabeth blinked. “Lady Wadsworth?” she repeated in surprise. She knew of the widowed countess, although she had never been introduced to her. “I will see her, of course,” she replied. “In the upstairs parlor. Please have a tea tray brought up.”
She glanced over at her children. “Mother must see to a caller. You,” she reached out to grasp one of Christina’s chubby fists. “No more pushing down your brother’s blocks. And you...” She gave her son her very best smile. “You must build another tower just as tall,” she encouraged. “Perhaps with a larger bottom.”
She regarded her position on the floor and felt a hint of relief when she realized Elkins had already made his way to the stairs. He wouldn’t be paying witness to her trying to get up from the floor. “But first, you must help me up so I can find Mrs. Foster.”
Having helped his mother rise from the nursery floor on a number of occasions, a tricky endeavor when she was round with Christina, David was quick to lend a shoulder. She leveraged herself up from the floor, the pins-and-needles of a leg having gone to sleep causing her to limp for a few steps before she could walk somewhat normally. At hearing her name mentioned, Mrs. Foster, the nurse, was quick to move into the playroom. “Do you need help, my lady?” she asked in alarm.
Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ll be fine. These two will be ready for some refreshments soon, I expect.”
“I will see to their tea, Lady Bostwick,” Mrs. Foster said as she curtsied.
“I will return when it’s their bedtime,” Elizabeth promised as she leaned over and kissed the tops of her two children’s heads. About to take her leave, she couldn’t help but notice that the nurse elected to sit in the rocking chair rather than on the floor.
Wise woman.
By the time Elizabeth made it to the parlor—she had stopped in the mistress suite to shake out her skirts and dare a quick glance in the cheval mirror—her leg no longer felt as if it were a dead limb she was dragging about. She paused on the parlor’s threshold, gratified to find a tea tray had already been delivered. One of the maids was seeing to a cup of tea for Lady Wadsworth while another delivered a plate of biscuits. The servants both curtsied and quickly took their leave of the parlor. Elizabeth was left to wonder by herself why the countess had paid a call.
“Lady Wadsworth, so good of you to call,” Elizabeth said as she breezed into the parlor.
Charity stood up from the settee and moved to join her by the door. She dipped a curtsy to match Elizabeth’s. “Call me Charity, please.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Then I am Elizabeth Bennet-Jones. I don’t believe we’ve ever met.” The two shook hands.
“I apologize for arriving so late in the afternoon,” Charity said as they made their way to the upholstered furnishings set up around the low table on which the tea tray sat. “I’ve arrived without so much as an appointment,” she added as she regarded the younger woman. She knew Elizabeth couldn’t be older than five-and-twenty, and she displayed a glow that suggested she was enjoying her role as a viscountess—and a mother.
“Your arrival is most fortuitous. Would you believe me if I told you I’ve been sitting on the floor of the nursery playing with my babes for the past hour?” Elizabeth asked, shaking out her skirts as if to reinforce her claim.
“I would, if only because Mr. Barnaby made mention of you spending this time of the day with your children,” she said. “I admit to a bit of jealousy at lear
ning you have a daughter. I only ever had sons.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows arched. “Did he now? Well, I’ll have you know my daughter just managed to destroy a most impressive tower of wooden blocks—built by my son—with a single push of one of her little fingers,” she replied. “All while taking delight in the destruction. I fear she might be a hoyden.” Then her eyes widened when she realized what Lady Wadsworth had said about Mr. Barnaby. “You’ve been to the office,” she added in awe.
Nodding as she allowed a smile at imagining the scene the viscountess described, Charity replied, “I have. I thought I should let you know that I am the new matchmaker, made so without so much as an interview or the need to provide a character. I do hope you’re amenable,” she said as she retook her seat in the floral upholstered settee.
“Amenable?” Elizabeth repeated in surprise. “I am ecstatic! But however did you know I was in need of a matchmaker?” she asked as she moved to the chair across from Lady Wadsworth. She lifted the tray of biscuits and held it as Charity helped herself to a lemon biscuit.
Furrowing a brow at hearing the query, Charity regarded Elizabeth a moment before she said, “Why, I read the posting in this morning’s The Times,” she replied.
Elizabeth blinked. She had been on the verge of saying something along the lines of “What posting?” when she realized what had to have happened.
“I love my husband,” Elizabeth blurted.
It was Charity’s turn to blink. “I don’t know that he was involved in my hiring,” she hedged. A hint of jealousy once again had her wishing for an entirely different life.
One apparently exactly like that of Lady Bostwick.
“I only met Mr. Barnaby, you see,” she went on. “He claimed I had the position because I was the first to appear and claim it.”
Elizabeth formed a mental picture of what that had to have looked like. Mr. Barnaby was probably feeling overwhelmed by the number of applicants that had been appearing in the small office on a daily basis, ever since the shingle for the new charity had been hung. “Oh, but my George was involved,” Elizabeth insisted, her attention on the biscuit tray. “The latest matchmaker, Mrs. Burton, informed me only yesterday that she was vacating the position. She’s getting married in a few days, you see. To one of the charity’s applicants. Bostwick must have seen to it the position was listed in the newspaper. Just as he promised he would. Only last night, in fact.”
The Charity of a Viscount Page 4