Page 4

Chapter Three

T he idea to use some donated cloth to create curtains for the orphanage classrooms had seized Geny the night before as she was falling asleep. It would keep out the drafts while giving the drab rooms a more cheerful aspect. She was plying her needle to this end the next morning when her father entered the drawing room.

“Good morning, Eugenia.” He scarcely gave her time to respond before he said, “I came to inform you that I will be leaving for Windsor today. I will be gone for two weeks.”

“Will you?” Her disappointment at having to bear an empty house again was tempered by the knowledge that his estate was not far from Eton. Perhaps she might go with him. “Do you plan to visit Matthew then? May I accompany you? I won’t be a bother.” She hated how desperate she sounded, but the idea of being able to see Matthew was too tempting not to make the push.

“No, it is impossible. We must not allow your brother to interrupt his studies, and he will not thank you for coddling him in front of his classmates.”

“No, of course not,” she replied, cast down by the immediate rejection. Her father was likely right, even though Matthew had not managed to convince her that he was happy at school the last time he came home for break. And, she supposed, it would be best if she did not interrupt her lessons at the orphanage.

“Besides,” her father added, “I have much business to attend to. It will inconvenience me to have you at the estate.”

Geny flushed. “I see.” She should have been used to his careless barbs by now, but somehow they still stung.

Her father recommended she visit the Elgin Marbles, newly showing at the British Museum, so she could follow the latest topic of conversation in society. He then informed her that the Duke of Rigsby’s son would be coming to London, and that he expected them to meet. She must not delay in settling down before she got too old to be desirable, and the marquess was a worthy prospect. With these injunctions, he took leave of her.

She sat lost in thought, the blue hessian curtains on her lap and her industrious spirit temporarily spent. His recommendation to visit the Elgin Marbles had been benign; she never worried beforehand about what she would speak about in society. It was the knowledge that she would eventually have to endure a meeting with His Grace’s son. Lord Amherst, I think it is . All she remembered about him was that he had small eyes and fleshy jowls, and that his conversation revolved around hunting and eating. She picked up her needle again and tried to put aside the mood of despondency that had come over her.

Later that afternoon, Geny was at home and in sore need of divertissement when Margery Buxton came to visit. Margery often came on Tuesday afternoons, as her socially active mother considered the weekends to start on Wednesday evenings, and Margery required Mondays to recover from them. She wasn’t in the least bit feeble but cheerfully labeled herself a most indolent creature. Despite her declaration, Geny could rely upon Margery’s help in whatever sewing or knitting project she had decided upon for the orphans .

“I have had tea prepared,” Geny said, looking up at her friend with a smile. “And you are perfectly on time, for it is hot and brewed and ready to be poured.”

“I have exceptional timing when it comes to tea.” Margery removed her cloak and handed that to the servant, then sat on the sofa across from Geny as she removed her bonnet. The tip of her nose was still red from the cold, and her cheeks bloomed with health. Although Margery lived on the fringe of society—brought only into that august sphere by her wealth—she was universally declared a beauty, with hair so blonde it was almost white and a curvaceous figure more suited to the fashions of the last century than the clinging Grecian gowns society women wore now. Even her brown eyes were called luminous and said to be an advantage.

Geny set her sewing on her lap and reached for the teapot. Placing her fingers on the lid, she poured hot tea into a cup for Margery and one for herself. As Margery spooned two generous helpings of sugar into her tea, Geny observed her friend, a smile playing on her mouth. She had just remembered their last conversation.

“What is it?” Margery demanded once she was aware of being observed. Her voice trembled with laughter, as though she already knew what Geny was thinking.

Geny shook her head, still smiling. “I am thinking of poor Mr. Bunting, who must be nursing his broken heart.” At Margery’s indignant look, she rushed on. “I know, I know. He was not the husband for you, so I do not tease. But I have been wondering how long you will keep at arm’s length those who are smitten by you before one of them pushes through your defenses.”

“There is truly not a one who interests me,” Margery declared, stirring her tea and setting down her spoon with a flourish. “I do not wish to lose my independence. Nor do I want to marry a man who is in pursuit of another possession. ”

Geny’s smile faded as quickly as it had come. In many ways, she agreed. They hadn’t spoken about marriage since the season began—only about undesirable suitors. Though she harbored similar fears to Margery, she had the desire to find a worthy husband with whom she would be comfortable and perhaps even find love. Anything must be better than the unbearable loneliness of life in her father’s house.

“You are just as aware of the risks of a poor match as I am,” Margery said, reading her mind. She reached out for her tea and this time took a sip. “I wish the world was at our feet.”

“Isn’t it?” Geny asked, thinking of the orphans who would likely prefer a life of drinking tea and doing needlework than worrying about what situation they would gain and how they would be treated there.

Margery shook her head decisively. “It is not. We are pretty birds held captive, and the dealer haggles our price. We will be sold to the highest bidder.”

“You are a poet,” Geny said. “Why accept the invitations if you feel that way?”

Margery gave her a speaking look. “My mother would do me bodily harm if I thwarted her weekly charade of doting mother and obedient daughter. She already thinks I am sabotaging my chances for a match because I am becoming known as difficult .” The expression she gave was so full of that dry humor Geny saw plenty of and her suitors little. If they had, they might think twice about referring to her as empty-headed besides a cruel breaker of hearts.

“You have only turned down five offers,” Geny said, reverting to her light tone. “That is not so bad. It is not as though you have universally sworn off marriage.”

“Eight,” Margery admitted. “But Mama only knows of the five that include Mr. Bunting. If only they had not been so eligible . She does not like to concede defeat. My mother would attempt to play matchmaker for you if she did not consider such a thing to be grossly encroaching.”

Geny smiled. “Your mother is kind. She need not worry, however,” she added with a sigh. “My father does a fine job of it on his own.”

Margery reached into her basket and pulled out an infant’s gown she was hemming. “I have refrained from asking yet this season, for women should have other things to speak of than matrimony. But do you truly have no one who could persuade you from a life of spinsterhood?”

Geny glanced up from her sewing. “I do not fear spinsterhood, not as some do. I don’t desire it either. I want to live in a house where people talk to each other and eat meals together.” She sent Margery a wry smile. “However, not just anyone will do, and I have not yet met a man who might tempt me into matrimony.”

A sudden image of Mr. Rowles assailed her, although why she should think of him at this precise moment defied logic. He was a handsome man, but besides having no claims to the gentry, he was too enigmatic to be someone good. Good men did not hide behind facades.

“What are you thinking of?” Margery demanded. Geny’s frowning brow had betrayed her. Her friend knew her all too well.

“It is only that someone new has come to take over Mr. Biggs’s position at the orphanage. You remember that Mr. Biggs served as steward since the asylum first opened?” When Margery nodded, she continued. “It is the oddest thing. This man has all the appearance of a gentleman, although he has only worked as a steward for one. I cannot for the life of me understand why he has chosen to work at the asylum. His name is Mr. Rowles. I don’t suppose you would have heard of him?”

Margery came from trade, but as her parents had accumulated vast wealth, she was occasionally invited to certain society events. Very often she knew others who lived on the fringes of society, as Mr. Rowles likely did.

Margery thought for a moment. “I do not recognize the name.”

“He said he left the gentleman’s estate solvent, so it is not that he is running from failure. It is a step down for him to leave that position and accept one in an orphanage. It is unusual.” She shook her head. “I do not like it when I cannot understand someone’s motives.”

“And yet you thought of him when I asked about your matrimonial interests,” Margery observed, a smile hovering on her lips.

“Purely a coincidence,” Geny said repressively, then laughed. “Although he is handsome, I confess. I will have to see how he does in his position.”

“ Mmm. Handsome.” Margery spoke volumes with an arch of her brow. “And…is Mr. Dowling still showing signs of interest?” This came in a light, teasing tone, for she knew her friend’s feelings toward the headmaster.

Margery worked slowly, for she stopped to drink her tea while it was still hot and to sample the cakes. Geny was too restless and generally preferred to keep her hands busy, for it brought her relief from an overly active mind.

“I would not say that it is interest, per se.” Geny thought about it for a moment. “I do not believe he would attempt to rise above his station.” She wished she didn’t have such a poor view of him and worried she was being unfair.

Her stomach grumbled audibly, and she laughed as Margery glanced at her from under her eyelashes.

“Very well, I will stop.” She knotted the thread and set the curtains down, finally sipping her tea which had cooled. On the plate was an assortment of almond and lemon biscuits, and she selected one of each. “I suppose Mr. Dowling is a considerate man, and I hope he will find an esteemed woman for his wife one day.” Just not me.

The conversation turned to Margery’s younger brothers and sisters, of whom she had five, although the girls were too young to be out. They then discussed the latest gown that Mary Bingly had worn, who always seemed to create trends rather than follow them. On this particular creation, the waistline sat lower than was precisely fashionable, and her ruched sleeves provided the only ornamentation on the entire outfit. They both agreed she had looked very well and that they would likely begin to see more lowered waistlines.

“I wonder where she has her gowns made,” Margery mused.

“We should find out. I will send Grace to work there,” Geny said, before finishing her cake.

On Wednesday’s visit to the asylum, Geny saw no one other than the orphans she usually taught. She had resisted the urge to stop by Mr. Rowles’s office to see how he got on. The day after that, she decided to return to the asylum, though it was not her usual day to do so. She attempted to convince herself that it was not because she was eager to meet Mr. Rowles again. That would be an embarrassing admission to make, and so she simply decided she was not. However, she told Charity that she would wear her white linen gown rather than her serviceable brown one. Other than an eyebrow lifted in surprise, Charity obeyed, and perhaps proving herself a servant able to read her mistress’s mind, dressed Geny’s hair with more care than a usual daytime outing to the asylum merited.

When they reached the orphanage, Geny alighted from the carriage, leaving Charity to go straight to the kitchen. She was mindful as she walked over the cobblestones. However, the snow was thawing and leaving puddles of mud in its wake. No matter how carefully she picked her way across them to the main entrance, she knew she was muddying her skirt in the process. Before stepping through the wood and glass door, Geny looked down to assess the damage. Her skirt had splatters of mud, and the hem had accumulated smears of it. Charity would not complain at having to clean it, but Geny was impatient with herself for having been so foolish as to wear white.

Sometimes I wear fine gowns to the orphanage , she reflected, trying to persuade herself that it was not because Mr. Rowles was attractive that she had done so today. Usually those times were when the weather was beautiful—and dry.

Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, and she heard a mistress correcting one of her protégées on the type of seam to be used on finely woven linen. Geny climbed the stairs, the satin lining of her cloak sounding as it brushed against her gown. As her heart rate picked up, she gave up lying to herself. She was interested in meeting Mr. Rowles again. But then, such interest was perfectly natural, was it not? She wanted to learn how he was fitting in, and what his plans were for the latest donation they had received from Mr. and Mrs. Butteridge. Would he view the needs the same way she did?

Mrs. Hastings exited the office and glanced at Geny with an air of surprise. “You have come again today?”

“Yes. I wished to see how little Ben is faring with his cold.”

“He appears to be improving,” Mrs. Hastings said. “Nurse Ramsey is confident he will fully recover.”

“Wonderful. I will see for myself.” Geny smiled at her and moved into the office to set her basket on the desk, which she always carried to the orphanage in place of a reticule. She removed her cloak and hung it on the hook beside the door.

From there, she walked through the parlor that connected to the other set of offices and was halfway across the room when she stopped short. What am I doing? I can’t visit a man’s office for no reason other than to bid him good day! He will think I am pursuing him. I have gone mad .

Her odd behavior troubled her, and she turned to go back to her desk. She would merely stop by the nursery to see little Ben as she had planned and then go home. She was nearly at the door leading to her own office when she heard someone addressing her.

“Lady Eugenia.”

She turned back to see Mr. Rowles standing on the opposite end of the parlor. His coat had clearly been made by one of the best tailors in London, and it once again sent her thoughts into confusion. Surely he is a gentleman of substance? His pantaloons were spotless, as were his Hessians, making her even more conscious of her dirty gown. He bowed.

“Good morning, Mr. Rowles.” She remained frozen, half turned and unsure of herself, and this frustrated her, too, for such awkwardness was unlike her. “How have you found your first days at the asylum?”

“Interesting,” he said. “However, I have not had a chance to see much of it.”

“Did Mr. Dowling not bring you to visit the rooms then?” she asked, surprised. It seemed like something he ought to have done as the first order of business.

“No. In fact, other than Mrs. Hastings inviting me to partake of a midday meal with the rest of the workers, I have not yet seen much of anything.” He shrugged and gave a smile. “It is of no account, since I spent much time going through the ledgers. However, I must gain a better grasp of how the asylum is run and visit the rooms without too long of a delay.”

“Perhaps I might show you the rooms,” she suggested. “That is, if you are not too busy?”

He revealed his surprise with a brief lift of his brows, but what seemed to be his naturally good breeding removed its trace almost before she noticed. “I would be delighted.” His tone contained nothing more than professional interest, and if she had any lingering doubts about mixed intentions, his next words were clear. “If I am to see how best to use the donations we receive, it is important that I learn every corner of the asylum.”

“Very well.” Geny was nervous and feared it obvious. She did not seem to know what to do with her hands. “I am ready if you are.”

“Perfectly,” he answered and walked to her side.

“Let us visit this floor first. It is where all of the bedrooms are, and some of the classrooms.” She led the way into the corridor, trying to discover why she was so nervous around Mr. Rowles, and at the same time trying not to think of him at all. “We will begin by visiting the boys’ dormitory.”

The asylum formed a full square on the first floor, although the ground floor was interrupted by the gated entrance. In the middle of the square were the courtyard and gardens. The stable and carriage house took up part of the ground floor as well, although these extended some into the courtyard. She led Mr. Rowles into the first room from the corridor, which stretched the length of the building from the offices behind them to the street at the far end. There were beds on both sides of the wall, neatly made although the blankets were thin and some had holes. Blankets were valuable and donations of them rare; the money coming in was not enough to purchase new.

“This is it. And I am reminded that I will need rods to be installed in the windows of the classroom downstairs, as I am making curtains similar to the ones here.”

“Certainly. I will see that it is done.” Mr. Rowles looked at the beds, sending his gaze to the far end of the room where the curtains had been pulled back. “It is a healthy environment for them,” he observed. “Where do they put their effects?”

“They are each given their own box. You can see them under each bed, placed next to the wall. ”

He nodded in silence, and she took note of his interest in how the orphans were treated. It touched her. As she observed him, she could not help but appreciate his even features. It was not like her to have such a coup de foudre for someone. In fact, she had never experienced any of this breathless awareness with another gentleman before.

“How young are they when they arrive?” he asked, bringing his eyes to her.

His gaze scorched, although he would not have meant for it to, and she immediately looked away. It was terrible. She felt like a schoolgirl. Her tongue darted to her lips in her attempt to moisten them.

Act rationally , she scolded herself.

“We find them at all ages. We are not well-known to the poor, and we must keep it that way if we are to limit the number of orphans we can take in and train. We cannot manage babies being deposited on our doorstep, although that does sometimes happen.” She paused and when he didn’t comment, added, “We depend upon the local parish. Saint Michael’s Church receives orphans who are brought to them. The curate there brings the foundlings to us if we have room to take them in.”

She led him across the room as there was another door on the far side. He kept pace with her, the sound of their boots echoing with each step.

“The age of the oldest orphans we take in is thirteen. Older than that, we assume they will be able to find some form of work to support themselves. And our youngest are babies. In general, Mr. Vittaly brings them to us, but in February we did have an infant dropped off in front of the gate. It was a fearful time. None of us knew if he would survive because it was so cold.”

She stopped, feeling her throat close as she remembered the sorrow and anger when she had found out about it. She could not say who she was angry at, for she understood a desperate mother, likely one step from starvation herself. But to leave a baby—even well-bundled—alone and in the snow seemed unconscionable. Her lips tightened, then she glanced at him quickly before looking away, aware of his silence. “I have been rambling on. I beg your pardon.”

“I imagine it must have been difficult to witness such a thing.” His voice was low, and she dared another look. He seemed to be genuinely affected by the story. This did nothing to assuage the odd attraction she seemed to have created for him out of thin air.

“It was. In fact, I had been planning to visit Ben before I offered to give you a tour, so you will meet him as well. We must take these stairs to reach the girls’ ward, for it is not accessible from here. That, or retrace our steps to the office, but I believe this will be faster. And then we will visit the nursery, if you are amenable to the idea.”

“Yes. I wish to see everything, if you please.” Mr. Rowles followed her to the stairwell.

She set her hand on the railing but then turned back. She had been flustered. “Oh, I almost forgot. This room behind us is used to train orphans for the services that a footman or valet might perform.” She opened the door for him to see for himself the various instruments of the trade that included shoe-shine equipment, silver polish, and sewing kits. Even if there were chips in the plaster on the walls, the equipment itself was in good shape.

“They will arrive fully trained at their position,” he said quietly as he cast his gaze to all the corners of the small room. “This is remarkable.”

“I think so, too.” She smiled, closed the door behind them, and turned toward the staircase.