Page 10

Chapter Nine

G eny wondered if Mr. Rowles had been able to find a mason to repair the wall in the time since their conversation the week before. He had seemed disconcerted by the fact that he did not know anyone local, so when her father’s man of business called, only to find the earl away from home, she took the opportunity to ask him if he knew of laborers who might perform the task. He sent a message the next day with the names of two masons who were located a short drive from the orphanage.

Repairs should not have been her concern, but with the house so quiet, she did not have anything to occupy her mind apart from the asylum. That, and, well—Mr. Rowles. When they visited the stable together, he had been all that was proper, but his praise still echoed in a heart that received so little of it. And she could not forget that moment at the Sookholme ball, still wondering if he had indeed wished to kiss her. Her initial disbelief had begun to give way, and it began to seem possible that he had. After all, he had said he found her character beautiful and had followed this gem of delight with even warmer praise.

Although she was not the best judge of these things, she was nearly certain he had not been flirting when he’d told her she possessed a sympathetic heart. In fact, he had appeared quite sincere. From an impartial view, Mr. Rowles had taken many more liberties than Mr. Dowling had, but they never felt like liberties because she welcomed his notice.

Mr. Dowling never spoke to her in anything approaching intimacy but would allow his regard to linger on hers, even when she gave him no encouragement. He knew he was beneath her notice and therefore did not attempt an overt courtship, but rather hinted at his interest with insinuations. Such behavior made her squirm.

The comportment of Mr. Rowles, who in technical terms was even further beneath her notice, only left her with a desire to spend more time with him. She decided she would seek him out at the orphanage the next day and see if she could assist him in his quest to find someone to do the work. It seemed unlikely that he had a carriage, but she could offer the use of hers. Her father could not object to the excursion, since it was for the good of the asylum.

In the meantime, she and Margery had planned a trip to the Pantheon Bazaar to purchase more textiles that the children could use to practice sewing.

Mrs. Buxton played guardian for such visits, and this was another reason Geny suspected her father allowed her to spend so much time with Margery. He was not inclined to such a role himself, and it was not practical to include the spinster cousin whom he supported financially for these smaller errands. Miss Edwards did not live at the house—the earl did not like her well enough for that—and was only called upon to accompany Geny to the evening society events that would admit her. For the day visits, however, she had Margery.

At precisely two o’clock, the Buxtons’ carriage pulled up in front of Geny’s house, and she tied on her bonnet as she descended the steps, then went over to where the footman stood holding the door to the carriage.

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Mrs. Buxton said, as the footman helped Geny inside to claim her seat next to Margery. Mrs. Buxton always insisted on taking the rear-facing seat so the young ladies might sit side by side. Margery smiled at Geny and grasped her hand in an affectionate clasp.

“Good afternoon,” she replied and then turned to Margery as the carriage moved forward. “My father has encouraged me to visit the Elgin Marbles exhibit. Would you care to go with me on Thursday?”

“If it is all right with Mother, I will,” she replied with an inquiring glance at Mrs. Buxton, who said she would permit it.

Geny wondered if Mrs. Buxton regretted her daughter having a friend whom she felt obliged to escort everywhere. Despite the fact that Margery’s mother was determined to see her daughter successfully settled, she had never encouraged the friendship in order to elevate her daughter’s status. Geny suspected it was more in memory of her mother, the late countess, that she did so. Whatever the reason, she had been unfailingly kind in all the years Geny had known her.

When they arrived at the Bazaar, Mrs. Buxton gave instructions to the groom for when to come for them before trailing behind Geny and Margery. By now, Geny knew where the best cloth was to be found, and they wasted no time in going to that corner of the market. Mrs. Buxton knew it, too, and followed at her own pace, sometimes stopping at other tables that caught her interest.

“Miss Buxton!” a gentleman called out from behind them and was heard over the din. Geny felt Margery freeze at her side, and she glanced at her curiously before they both turned.

“How do you do, Mr. Thompson?” Margery offered the gentleman a tight smile as she curtsied. “I believe you must remember Lady Eugenia Stanich from Mrs. Sookholme’s ball? ”

“Of course. How do you do, my lady?” Mr. Thompson bowed.

He was a well-looking man. Nothing like Mr. Rowles, of course. He was not as robust or as tall. His smile was not as warm, nor his eyes the kind you could lose yourself in. For all that, Mr. Thompson was a confident man who seemed capable of appreciating her friend without fawning over her. He also did not seem to be the type of man who would easily be put off by Margery’s show of disinterest, and she would need someone like that. Geny could like him for that reason. He turned back to Margery.

“What a pleasant surprise to see you here, Miss Buxton. Perhaps I might escort you both to wherever you are going?” He followed Margery’s searching glance behind him and perceived Mrs. Buxton, who had just arrived. He bowed. “Mrs. Buxton, how do you do?”

She returned his greeting and answered the question he had asked Margery. “You may escort my daughter and Lady Eugenia if you would be so obliged. I had hoped to visit a stand on the opposite end of the bazaar that sells soaps.”

Margery brought an enigmatic gaze to her mother that held a degree of irritation to those who knew her. This caused Geny to turn away to hide a smile. She could read her friend very well and, despite the challenging look, she quite suspected that Margery was not as opposed to Mr. Thompson’s suit as she let on. Geny had never seen her friend show anything but indifference to suitors in all the years they had known each other, but Mr. Thompson seemed to unsettle her.

“I am happy to oblige,” he replied, smiling at Mrs. Buxton. He turned a teasing gaze back to Margery, as though he knew she was disgruntled about this turn of events, and gestured forward with a smile. “We will not be successful in walking three abreast. I will follow both of you.”

“You are most obliging,” Margery replied in a dry voice, and Geny turned away to swallow the laughter that rose up. When she looked back, Margery sent a look warning her not to tease. It would be difficult to restrain.

Under other circumstances, Geny would be the first at the table heaped with cloth to sift through it. She was in search of both rags for samplers on which younger orphans might practice their stitches, and the finer cloth that could be used to sew clothing and other articles. The younger orphans practiced sewing pinafores and serviceable skirts that could be worn, and the older ones made more complex garments that would train them for working with a modiste if they became skilled enough.

There was only enough space in the crowd that had gathered for one of them to squeeze in and sort through the cloth, and Margery turned to her.

“My lady, you will be pushed and shoved. I know precisely what you are looking for; I beg you will allow me to find it.”

Margery did not give her a chance to protest, and Geny submitted to it, once again concealing her amusement. Her friend was quite determined to avoid Mr. Thompson. As for Geny, she was not likely to receive a better chance to learn why this was and was determined to seize it.

“Mr. Thompson, how are you acquainted with the Buxtons?” she asked. People streamed past them, but Mr. Thompson held his ground and somehow shielded her from the unceasing flow of humanity.

“My father was friends with Mr. Buxton before my father’s death. They were rival merchants in ceramics but could never be bothered to dislike each other.”

He grinned, and Geny returned it. Oh, she would most definitely tease Margery. What was there not to like in this man?

“So you have known Miss Buxton since…?” She allowed the question to dangle.

“I suppose our whole lives. But I have been away for many years—much of the period of time that she would remember me. I was learning the trade from my mother’s brother in Wales.”

“Oh.” Geny could not hide the surprise in her voice. “So your mother is Welsh.”

He shook his head. “No, but my uncle moved to Nantgarw and started a factory there. Although my father’s talent lies in earthenware, it was my mother who brought the knowledge of finer ceramics into the marriage. She wished me to learn porcelain painting from my uncle, so I might improve on the designs she was already helping my father with.”

“That is most interesting,” Geny said. She glanced at Margery, pressed on both sides but undaunted in her search. “Have you found topics of interest with Miss Buxton, then? Considering that both of your families are in the same trade.”

“I am well aware of how close you and Miss Buxton are, Lady Eugenia. Without wishing in any way to be impertinent, I believe you must already know the answer to that. Miss Buxton never speaks of trade if she can help it.”

Geny laughed. “It is much too fatiguing, I am sure she tells you.”

“Indeed.” He, in turn, glanced at Margery, who kept her back to them as though the cloth selection interested her very much. The general buzz from the crowd gave their conversation a degree of privacy.

“She speaks of all the balls she attends, assuring me that dancing is the only thing that interests her. Dancing, new gowns, and jewels.”

“It sounds very much like her, but I wonder if you are aware that it is not truly who she is.”

Mr. Thompson looked intrigued. “To own the truth, Miss Buxton puzzles me exceedingly. She informs me in so many words that she is uninteresting and shallow. And yet anyone who can say such a thing could not be uninteresting and shallow, could they? For someone who is both of those things would not know it.”

“Miss Buxton attends balls to oblige her mother. She enjoys sitting quietly with me and talking, and she enjoys making clothing or stockings for the orphans.” She smiled at him. “So you see? Not quite the frivolous nature she would have you believe.”

“Why do you suppose she does it, then?” he asked—humbly, Geny thought. “As much as she pushes me away, I do not have the feeling her heart is engaged elsewhere, or that she is truly bothered by my presence. If I thought she were, I would cease to pursue her so openly.”

“Ah, Mr. Thompson. As much as I could answer your question, I do not think I shall.” Geny tucked her hands behind her back, a smile hovering on her lips.

“The solidarity of two females, I suppose,” he replied, looking resigned.

She nodded. There was a comfortable pause in their conversation, and as much as the bazaar was active around them, Geny was protected from it by Mr. Thompson’s presence. No space in front of the table had opened up, and she could see that Margery was haggling with the vendor over a pile of cloth she had chosen. Geny turned back to look at Mr. Thompson, suddenly growing nervous. She wished to bring up what he had said about Mr. Rowles and felt that fate had given her a chance to do it now.

“Margery told me that you believe to have recognized Mr. Rowles, the man who works as steward in the foundling asylum—only that you believed him to have been a Mr. Aubin at first?”

“That is so.” He furrowed his brows. “If Miss Buxton had not insisted that his name was Mr. Rowles, I would have been certain it was he. However, I cannot credit my memory—especially under such unfavorable circumstances—enough to discredit a lady’s word. It is only that they share a great likeness.”

“And this Mr. Aubin, who is he?” Geny asked. Margery had mentioned a few things, but she wished to hear it directly from Mr. Thompson. It was not that it made any difference, but she could not help her curiosity over anything that related to Mr. Rowles.

“I know very little,” Mr. Thompson admitted. “I have a friend who runs in society some, and he was in a club with the man. The fellow was barred from the club for unsavory behavior. I believe he ruined a gentleman through fraudulent means and spread lies about another.”

“He sounds horrid,” Geny admitted.

This relieved her mind. There could be no confusing such a person with Mr. Rowles. There might be a bit of natural reticence to him, but he was not so base as to seek a man’s ruin, and he would certainly not be the type to spread false witness.

“In a way it relieves my mind, though. Mr. Rowles shares no characteristics with such a man, and I am glad. I should not like for the asylum to be in such unscrupulous hands.”

“Then I am relieved for your sake,” Mr. Thompson said, looking up as Margery turned toward them. A smile lit his face, but it was lost on Margery who would not look in his direction.

“I have triumphed,” she said, holding the pile of fabric up for Geny. Then, as though remembering the figure she had adopted before Mr. Thompson, added, “There is nothing I like more than shopping, even if it is not for my own purposes.”

“I can see that,” he said gravely, but there was a twinkle in his eye as he looked at her. He took the pile of textiles from her hands and tucked them under his arm.

“You have made quick work of it,” Geny said.

“Of course,” Margery replied with a tilt to her chin.

Geny shook her head fondly, full of good humor. It had been a satisfactory day. For one thing, she had been able to tell Mr. Thompson more about who Margery truly was and didn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt over betraying her friend in such a way. If he wished to pursue her, he would do so—and perhaps with less discouragement than he might otherwise have felt, now that he knew she was merely difficult to win over and not truly superficial. If he was the man for her, he would push through and win her. And if Margery chose to ignore his advances, then that was her own choice. But Geny did not think she would hold out for long.

Another element contributed to Geny’s good humor. She was now confident the man Mr. Thompson had thought Mr. Rowles to be—Mr. Aubin—was most assuredly not him. The two men could not be more different. A man like Mr. Aubin would never add to his own workload by offering to teach orphans. Why, he would not be working as a steward in the first place, for Mr. Aubin was apparently a gentleman. It just went to show one that gentlemanly behavior was not limited to those who possessed the title of it.

Geny had always loved her time at the asylum, but she had never set off for her visits with such eagerness until Mr. Rowles had taken on the position. She stepped out of the carriage and tilted her face to the sky. The spring sunlight had begun to grow warm, and tulips blossomed all along the plot of land that the gardeners were working. They grew vegetables, of course, but from the beginning, the countess had suggested they grow flowers as well. There was enough earth for it, she had said, declaring that everyone needed a bit of beauty in their lives.

Charity went on her way to the kitchen, where she would help out until it was time to teach the duties of a lady’s maid to the three orphans in training. Geny went straight to the classroom where her small students awaited her. She and her maid had been stuck behind a cart carrying root vegetables that had turned over, and it delayed their arrival. She had had no time to go upstairs and remove her cloak and bonnet. Never mind. It would be her reward to see Mr. Rowles when she was finished.

I wonder what his first name is.

Jack, the one orphan boy in her class, was waiting for her by the door, and when he saw she carried no basket, he looked disappointed. She pretended not to notice. It was better that they not grow accustomed to thinking there would be a treat at every class. They should learn that it was enough simply to live safely with their share of food, care, and instruction. One could not eat sweetmeats every day of the week, after all.

“Good morning, children,” she said and assembled them into the half-circle to begin reciting from their readers. Today she would be teaching them to write three-letter words on the blackboard for the first time and knew they would be astonished to discover they could write something that someone else could read. It thrilled her to think of their futures, of what they might become. She hoped they would be cheerful and industrious, thankful for their chance in life.

The forty-five minutes usually passed quickly, but today Geny constantly had to force her mind back to her students. She wondered if Mr. Rowles knew that she was here, and if he was as eager to see her as she was to see him. At last, her class ended, and she sent the children off to eat the midday meal the orphanage provided them while she stayed behind to tidy up the books.

Alone, Geny looked around the small room, folding her arms around her waist, as she thought about how best to approach Mr. Rowles with her idea. Her plan was to ask him if he wished to accompany her on an errand to seek out the two masons the steward had recommended, and see if either could be found. It embarrassed her to be so forward as to propose it, but she decided to do it anyway. On the days she did not see him, she missed him.

Geny went over to the blackboard and picked up the rag beside it. The only tricky part was how to accomplish this without Mr. Dowling catching wind of the errand—him or anyone else in the asylum who was likely to talk. If she went to his office, Mr. Dowling would overhear and likely summon the audacity to question her on what she was doing.

A knock on the door interrupted her meditation, and she turned from where she had been wiping the blackboard to see Mr. Rowles. In her surprise, she knocked over the tray of chalk that was next to the board.

“Allow me,” he said, darting over to help her pick up the chalk, now broken.

She bent down at the same time, flustered to have him in the room with her, despite it being the very thing she wished for. Her hands trembled, and he gently took the tray from her. She straightened, and without forethought, touched her fingers to her cheeks to try to cool them as Mr. Rowles collected the last bits and stood upright.

“How do you do, my lady? Forgive me, for I fear I startled you.” Mr. Rowles smiled, then he stilled as his gaze rested on her face. He pulled a handkerchief out of his waistcoat pocket, handing it to her.

“You have…you have chalk on your face, I believe.”

“Oh.” Geny could feel the heat in her cheeks and was glad for the distraction. She took the handkerchief and began to wipe at her cheek.

“It is not there. It is…” He pointed to the other side.

She wiped her other cheek and glanced at him in inquiry. He nodded and she handed back his handkerchief, their bare hands brushing as she passed it to him. It sent her heart rate pummeling her chest.

“I was walking by the classroom when I saw you here,” he explained. He looked as self-conscious as she felt, and she guessed that he had not spoken the entire truth. She did not think it was by accident that he had come to the classroom at this hour when he would know where she was.

The knowledge that he wished to see her caused her heart to soar. They were surely engaging in some sort of quiet courtship, were they not? It was not the loud Hyde Park romance that was followed by a trail of buzzing gossip. It was the courtship of two souls who had the same values and cared about the same things, never mind that their situations in life were different. She began to hope that he found her as admirable and attractive as she found him.

“I am glad you stopped to greet me,” she said, absently tidying the pile of books on the desk. “I was wondering if you have had any luck in finding masons to repair the wall in the stable?” She held her breath, hoping the answer was no.

“I am sorry to say I did not have the time to search.” His look was one of pure chagrin as though he disappointed her by not being in advance on his duty. How little he knew! It was precisely what she had hoped to hear.

“I inquired because I took the liberty of asking my father’s steward if he knew of any masons in London, and he gave me two names. I was wondering…” Her voice trembled, causing her to pause, suddenly aware of how forward she was acting and doubting whether it was indeed wise.

“What is it, my lady?” His eyes were intent upon hers. She had never been so drawn into the depth of a stare before, but his held kindness and warmth. There was also a familiarity that should not have been there with so little time to be acquainted, and yet it was. This was what gave her the courage to continue.

“I thought perhaps I might accompany you to visit them. Or at least we can try to see if we can find one at home. I can instruct my groom to take us there now if you wish.”

He set the chalk tray on the desk, which he had still been holding, his grin suddenly boyish. “That would be excellent. I am ready to set out whenever you are. I am much obliged to you for inquiring on my behalf.”

She returned the smile, adding shyly, “It is only that you do not know London well, and I wished to help you.”

A shadow flashed over his face that she couldn’t read, creating an odd, uncomfortable moment. She did not know why it would be. Perhaps he felt embarrassed by how little cosmopolitan he was. She would reassure him that such a thing mattered little if only she knew how. It was a brief pause, however, before he turned and gestured toward the door.

“Shall we go?”

She nodded.