Page 4 of The Gentlewoman Companion (The Gentlewoman #4)
Chapter Two
J ames, Earl of Halverton, pushed his way through Covent Garden. He fished a farthing from his pocket, dropped it in a flower seller’s outstretched hand, and continued toward home and his waiting business.
“Leastwise take what you paid for,” the woman called after him.
Something lightly smacked his left calf. He turned and seized a posy of wilted violets from the ground.
The woman curtsied. “I thank you for taking the trouble.” Her smile revealed empty sockets where her two front teeth should have been.
Her face was clean, but filth had almost erased the floral pattern from her gown.
She could be twenty or forty. And what would she do with the money he’d given her?
Likely purchase gin. It was mother’s milk to those of her class.
The woman was not unusual. There were hundreds like her, men and women. But none had ever spoken more than a whispered thanks upon receipt of a coin, and he had never looked into their hollow, wanting eyes. He wasn’t sure how to respond to the woman.
“Get on wif you.” She shooed him, but the sight of her, both repulsive and pathetic, kept him rooted. She crossed her arms over her chest and lowered her head but peered up at him.
“Thank you for the flowers,” he finally said. He bowed, answering what seemed to him a demand for respect.
She repeated his words in a mocking tone, threw her head back and laughed. A few around her tittered. Shock shuddered through him. He was an earl, insulted by no one. And he’d given the wretch money.
He opened his mouth to demand the return of his coin, but the woman, sharp-boned, gray-skinned, and hoarse, nudged the person next to her and said, “He dunno we’re bamming ‘im.” Her form was swallowed by a cluster of people walking between them. When the crowd dispersed, she was gone.
He shook his head and turned in the direction of home, training his attention on the others in Covent Garden. Respectable merchants, clean and polite, hawked their wares to well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. For every crass and unclean person, there were twenty dignified and prosperous.
But the sight unsettled him. Theoretically, he knew poverty ran thick in London’s streets, even as the population grew at an unparalleled rate.
With the war against France in America, decisions on how best to keep various colonies in check, and Britain’s interest in the West Indies, caring for the poor ranked low in concern.
Halverton would start casting votes on legislation regarding these problems soon, a responsibility he did not hold lightly.
He’d spent the better part of the last six months seeking to understand current issues. It was like trying to swallow an ocean.
“Lord Tilney?” Lord Halverton called out to a gentleman, a dear friend of his late father and Halverton’s mentor.
“Lord Halverton.” Tilney’s gray-blue eyes became slits as a smile wrinkled his face. “I am glad to see you. In fact, if you have a moment, let’s slip into Button’s Coffee House.”
Halverton wanted to leave for Lundbrooke and had only gone out that morning to procure a box of powder—a request from his mother—and a box of chocolate—a gift for his mother.
But time was short. The House convened in December, leaving just over three months to prepare.
If Tilney wanted to discuss something, Halverton must join him.
“Of course.” Halverton followed Tilney’s round figure and bobbing powdered wig across the street and into the coffee house, where they seated themselves and ordered drinks.
“I’ve been considering what you told me yesterday about feeling incapable of making decisions on so many diverse matters.” Lord Tilney sipped his coffee, grimaced, and added sugar. “Running a country is delicate and complex, but you are a Tory. Let that guide you.”
Over the past month, Lord Halverton had discussed with other members of the House of Lords a long list of issues that would come before them as proposed acts on a variety of topics: building roads and bridges, forbidding exports of grain, recruiting tactics for the military, permitting peerage members to sell property, and relief for the poor.
It was easy to agree to vote with his party, but each act had its repercussions.
The money allotted to the building of a bridge must be obtained from somewhere. Was it best spent on a road or to succor the needy? He recalled the flower woman. Why was she impoverished? Had she no family to care for her? No parish to apply for aid?
“I appreciate the sentiment, but it does not alleviate the pressure to make ethical decisions. It feels like I’m picking up in the middle of a story with no context.”
“We all start somewhere.” Tilney leaned back in his chair and looked past Halverton, his eye turned toward the past. “Your father and I took our seats in the same year, I three years his junior. We had little idea of what was in store. Ah, but we had a time of it, took it more and more seriously until our work became a passion.” His eyes rested on Halverton’s face, softening.
“A fine man, your father. One of the finest in all of England—a persuasive orator, a man of conscience and principle. He would be proud of how seriously you’re taking your responsibility.
Your interest and desire to be like your father is all you need for success. The rest will come with time.”
The reminder of his obligation to perpetuate his father’s legacy fell heavily onto the load he already carried. He was determined to be principled and vote to benefit all of England.
“I mean to assure you,” Lord Tilney said, adjusting his crooked wig, “that you are on the right path. Why not give a speech this winter? Speak on impressment. Courts must continue to support the practice as the navy depends on press-gangs to strengthen its numbers. Without it, we could lose our strongholds.”
While impressment was a significant source of legal and political contention, the practice of seizing citizens and forcing them into military service was not something Halverton wished to make the topic of his first political speech. “I’d prefer something more altruistic.”
“Very well. What about the Foundling Hospital? They’ve been privately funded but are desperate for more money. Speak on the obligation we have to our desolate children.”
Halverton nodded slowly; the idea appealed to him.
Having recently returned to England, he was disappointed to see Britain did not provide so well for its poor as other countries.
While the Hospital had been established in England only a few years prior, Italy had been offering housing for orphans since the early 1400s.
He was interested in the enterprise and agreed to speak on the topic.
Halverton parted ways with Tilney and was soon stepping into his Grosvenor Square townhome. “Graham!” he shouted, mounting the stairs and entering his bedroom.
“I am here, my lord.” Graham was fastening the strap on the same portmanteau the two of them had dragged through Europe together.
“I see we are ready to depart.”
“What’s this?” Graham nodded at Halverton’s flowers. “A lady?”
He must have taken them absently when he left Lord Tilney. “Wouldn’t you crow if it were? I’d never give a woman so sorry a bouquet.” He placed them atop the trunk. “Throw them out, will you?”
“A pity.”
“If you’re so anxious not to waste, give them away yourself.”
“Touché.”
“I wish to depart immediately.” He enjoyed the opportunity to travel to London frequently for his role in Parliament, but he was eager to return to his country home. He missed his mother, and besides, he worried about her. Sometimes she lost herself to melancholy since the death of his father.
“All is arranged,” Graham said. “I’ll have the carriage brought around.”
Half an hour later, Halverton, surrounded by letters and papers, rolled toward home. Already he’d begun preparing for his speech, which would remind the peers he was taking his late father’s place and set a precedent for his involvement.
The carriage hit a pothole, sending his organized pages to the floor. He sorted them and began reading a petition to improve the roads between Richmond and Lancaster. Words blurred. He shook his head, determined not to sleep. There was too much to learn and too little time.
Working through the night, ignoring invitations to balls and dinner parties in favor of examining legislation, left him deeply yet pleasantly exhausted.
The unruly ache of losing his father was somehow soothed as James stepped into the rooms his father had frequented, discussing affairs of the world and country as his father had.
Although he hadn’t anticipated assuming his father’s role so early in his life, he felt fulfilled to finally be in pursuit of his purpose.
Since leaving home for school at thirteen, time with his father had been limited to brief clusters during school holidays.
Even then, he’d brought his friend Hugh Morden, who, though welcome company, had distracted Lord Halverton from receiving his father’s guidance.
Upon graduation, he and Hugh had left for the continent, where they traveled for three years.
Back in London, the time and space that had once disconnected father and son folded, bringing Halverton a sense that in fulfilling his father’s work, they were united.
He forced his attention back to the document, but it slipped from his lax fingers. Heavy weariness weakened his limbs. He stretched, retrieved the page, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and read.
“ D arling, it has been an age.” Halverton’s mother kissed his cheek. “You must be exhausted.”
“Not at all,” Halverton said. “I’m restless after sitting all day.” That much was true. She did not need to know how little he slept of late. “You look well, Mother.” She seemed younger, brighter than when he had left.
“And you are very handsome, more like your father every day. But your eyes are heavy. Go rest.”