Page 28 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)

That wasn’t it. She had no obligation to tell him anything, nor did he wish to know her every mistake. He’d made plenty of his own. Everyone had. Rather, the pull her past had on her drove a wedge between them. They could not become closer until she resolved it.

He cleared his throat. “I’m convinced your instinct to help them was correct. I received a letter from Sarah’s daughter Margaret, who is presumably my half-sister, informing me that the mother has passed, and the children do not need my help.”

“I suppose you won’t think of them anymore?”

“Do you believe that the best course of action?” He suspected she did not.

“You might send someone to look in on them.”

“I thought of that but don’t wish to involve anyone in such sensitive affairs. I will go and determine what is to be done.”

“You have a strict sense of duty, of right and wrong.”

“No more than you.”

“I am far more likely to allow impulse to guide me headlong into trouble.” She shifted and turned to watch the countryside.

He sensed she was alluding to what she had called her misdeed, not simply her tendency to jump horses on a whim or paddle into a pond during a downpour. Ought he to press her on the matter?

“Sheep!” she said. “I know it’s a common sight, but nothing is as charming as an emerald hill dotted in white. Oh, and poppies! So late in the season. James—er, Lord Halverton, look!”

He smiled at her slip up. “Call me James. Perhaps I am foolish, but the title Lord Halverton is a mantle I always expected to wear proudly. I don’t want it anymore.”

She made a sound as one examining a wound and adjusted the reins into one hand.

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist and gripped.

Understanding radiated from her touch. He settled his hand over hers, and for a long moment they rolled forward, their gloves entwined in mutual compassion.

The gesture did not change the imbalance in their friendship, but perhaps with time she would grow to trust him.

T he five-day journey worked to diminish some of the discomfort between himself and Louisa. When she stilled or silenced at unexpected moments, he held his tongue. Though her occasional reserve tasted bitter, he continued to seek her out, offering his company as she drove Nimbus.

They’d arrived in London only the day before.

James had spent the morning and half the afternoon pacing the townhome’s study in Grosvenor Square until Louisa slipped in and told him to get on with it before he wore a hole in the flooring.

He knew she was telling him to find Margaret and was also aware that without her urging, he may never have found the courage.

He told his mother he had business that evening and stepped into London.

The woman who’d thrown flowers at him the last time he had been in town seemed to lurk on every corner, symbolic of all he did not understand, representing a class of people he had almost never considered—a galling insight to his own lack of empathy.

Until he’d seen Margaret’s competent but unpracticed scrawl, words written by his own flesh and blood in suspicion and contempt, the lower classes had existed only in abstract.

James left behind respectable neighborhoods and crossed into East London.

He dodged begging children, drunks, and dogs through a narrow street thick with the smell of boiled cabbage and humans packed together.

A baby, swaddled in filthy rags, cried out.

His mother, sitting behind a cart of wilted vegetables, shushed him with her breast. Like dirty flags, grey laundry flapped from poles.

A toddler of about three huddled, asleep, against the side of a building.

He stopped in front of number 27 Rosemary Lane and pulled the letter from his pocket, double checking the address. He descended three steps, then knocked. A cart rumbled down the road, deafening him to any noise that might come from inside the house. He counted to twenty and knocked again.

The door swung open, then stopped short, only partially revealing the young lady who stared back with bronze-colored eyes just like his father’s.

Her curly auburn hair, a trait she must have inherited from her mother, escaped its pins, but her straight nose, decided chin, and long fingers resembled his own.

“Margaret Cooper.” He didn’t need to ask.

She flinched. “I know who you are, my lord. We want nothing from you.”

He stuck his foot into the path of the closing door. “Please. Can I speak with you?” He pushed against the door and met resistance but no reply. “I will return tomorrow and the next day and the next. I will pester you until we come to an arrangement.”

Her fingertips pressed white against the door. She stuck her head out and scanned the street. “Your sort always gets what they want.” She gestured for him to enter.

An empty hearth, three chairs scattered on a floor of swept earth, a roll of blankets shoved into a corner, and a single candle burning on a rickety table made up the entirety of the cramped space.

A small window at level with his head admitted a dusty shaft of light, and a door ahead of him led elsewhere—likely a bedroom that was just as small.

Was the boy in there? The apartment was cool and would be freezing in a month.

Margaret nodded at a rattan chair and turned her back to him before sitting. She pulled a white shirt from a basket and began to stitch, hunching near the candle’s light.

He took his seat awkwardly. How did one begin this conversation? Lovely to meet you, sister. Have you eaten today?

“I am sure you know of my—our—father’s passing,” he said. “I am now responsible for your well-being. Your brother—our bother—might attend school. Become a clerk or a barrister. And you, Margaret?—”

“I am not interested in your charity.”

“We are family.”

“In that case, we will move in with you, make it honest.” She didn’t look up from her sewing.

He had expected her defiance, but this dismissiveness irritated him. He was not culpable for his father’s sins, only trying to do his duty as her brother.

A deep-chested cough sounded from the other side of an interior door.

“Is that the boy?” he asked.

“Samuel. He is sleeping.”

“He doesn’t sound well. How old is he?”

“Seven.”

“Did you know our father?”

“When I was young, he brought gifts—a dress, a doll, or a trinket. We lived in a grander place, but after tiring of my mother, he was a sporadic presence. When he did visit, it was with pockets full of presents and a mouth of promises. Eventually, we couldn’t afford our lodgings, so we moved here.

That was years ago, years before Mother died. ”

His mind whirred at this description of his father, a man who had touted accountability and restraint. His stomach, already weighed down, sickened.

“And Samuel?” he asked.

“I don’t know that he ever met Lord Halverton. His mother didn’t live long enough to tell us her story. Sam has a weak constitution, like his mum, but he’s a sweet child.” Her voice softened.

“How old are you, if I may ask?”

She hesitated. “Seventeen, but I say that I’m twenty.”

She was the same age as Louisa, and he doubted anyone took her for a day older. Her diminutive frame made her appear scarcely fifteen. “And you’ve had charge of Samuel since…”

“My mother died a little over a year ago, shortly after Sam came to us.”

“I will move you to better accommodations. Somewhere with clean air.”

She looked up, practically glaring. “I know better than to depend on others for my needs.”

He didn’t doubt her independence, but she wore a brown dress of rough, patched linen that hung loosely around her.

From outside a booming voice sang, “Come, let us drink while we have breath, for there’s no drinking after death. Down, down…”

Margaret’s gaze shot to the door. “You must go.”

“Please reconsider and accept my assistance.” He reached for the guinea he had brought and found an empty pocket. A sneakthief. He’d thought himself so careful, leaving his pocketbook and watch at home. He would deem it a donation and return with more.

“It is not my duty to ease your conscience.” She reached for the door, but it opened, the song filling the room in a booming baritone.

“Down among the dead men let him lie!” A short, ruddy man stood singing.

“Hush, Roger,” Margaret slapped his chest. “Sam is sleeping. Stay there.” She left him in the doorway and went to a chest from which she pulled a bottle of gin.

The drunk man looked James up and down, sneering. “He’s a dandy, now, ain’t he?”

Margaret handed the bottle to Roger. “Never mind him.” She held out a hand.

Roger reluctantly placed a coin in her palm, then kissed her wrist.

Margaret wiped her hand on her skirt but did not seem otherwise affected. “Get going.”

Roger winked and shuffled away, resuming his song.

“Does he…take advantage?”

“None of your concern.”

James stepped closer to her and lowered his voice. “Let me get you out of here.”

“No, you are going as well as he. I don’t need anyone spreading it about that I’ve had a visitor the likes of you.” She gestured to the still open door.

James sighed, out of arguments. He would have to return another day. He politely stepped toward the door, then felt her hands against his back, shoving him out.

“Don’t come back.”

The door slammed, and the lock clicked into place.

Despite the waning light, the street was louder and no less crowded. A couple’s argument echoed from a window above. A bottle shattered in an alley. A gang of ragged children brushed past him. Harsh laughter, drunken song, and broken weeping joined together in an opus of suffering.

He forced a heavy step toward Mayfair, where his townhouse in Grosvenor Square smelled of beeswax polish and contained five empty bedrooms. Poverty had been a myth before walking Rosemary Lane.

It was known as Rag Fair, due to the myriad hawkers who littered the streets with heaps of stolen goods supplied by gangs of pickpocketing children.

He passed the Tower of London, which contained the nation’s mint, a fortune printed and molded in a fortress that overlooked the poorest part of London.

A hackney driver called out, “A ride for the fine gentleman?”

James refused. He needed the hour to think over what he’d learned of Margaret and Samuel. With time and consistency on his part, she might grow to appreciate his reliability and allow him to advise them. He would prove that he was not his father; he would not forget about them.

After reading the letter from Margaret’s mother, the world had tilted, but witnessing the tangible fact, the visible evidence of his father’s debauchery flipped the plane of reality entirely.

Margaret was a real person who should have been taken care of by the same father who had raised him with such love, yet she had been left to sew by the light of a single candle and sell gin to survive.

He unlocked the door to his home and was greeted by the glow of a dozen candles. How many could he carry to Margaret without drawing attention?

Graham greeted him with a bow. “Lady Halverton and Miss Thorpe are out for the evening. Dinner is ready when you are, my lord.”

James removed his coat and waistcoat, passing them to his valet. “I don’t have much of an appetite. Will you send a light repast to my study?”

“You will pardon my saying so, my lord, but your breeches are so loose, you may lose them to a breeze. I suggest you eat.”

“I will be in the study.”

Graham opened his mouth and closed it again. James’s face must reveal his fatigue. “Very good, my lord.”

A housemaid entered with a tray and left him with enough food to feed the inhabitants of Rosemary Lane.

It was not fair that he should be so blessed while others, even of the same blood, should suffer.

What if he brought his half-siblings to Mayfair, made it “proper” as Margaret had dared him?

The radical thought sparked. Announcing and accepting his father’s illegitimate children would hurt his mother, but was that reason to abandon his siblings?

If he acknowledged them, his mother would suffer in the knowledge of her husband’s betrayal.

Lady Halverton was a social woman, her presence sought with earnest desire as she attended gatherings.

London already embraced her, and she had eagerly told him of her plans to use her popularity to garner support for her favorite charities and hold court at literary salons.

Public acknowledgement of his illegitimate siblings would destroy the entire family’s reputation.

James would not deprive his mother the opportunity to contribute much-needed good to the world.

There must be another way to provide Margaret and Samuel with a home, security, and a future. He would persist until he found it.