Anne Barbour (18 page)

“Then, I suppose there is no more to be said.” Trevor turned on his heel and exited the drawing room. Sighing, Hester sank into an armchair before the fireplace and gazed into the flames. She fell into a rather unpleasant reverie, from which she was aroused a few minutes later by the entrance of Thorne.

“Ah. You elected to stay home this evening. I trust your friends were not overly disappointed.”

“No, of course not,” Hester said quickly.

“Good. It appears dinner has been awaiting us for some minutes,” he said, smiling. “Shall we?”

Hester knew a moment of discomfort when she realized that Lady Lavinia had already taken her meal and retired for the evening, thus she and the earl would be dining
a deux
. Her fears were allayed some moments later, however, when it became obvious that the earl’s conversation was to be entirely unexceptionable. Thorne told her of his recent conversation with John Wery and accepted her felicitations with gratification.

“I should imagine he will pop the question any day now, and with any luck, Chloe will be married by year’s end.”

“You think she will be amenable?” asked Hester, a shade of doubt in her voice.

Thorne paused, a forkful of mutton pie poised halfway to his mouth. “Of course. Don’t you?”

“Well, her feelings for him seem to have changed markedly, but. . . She was so adamant before .. . Oh, I’m being nonsensical. Of course, she will accept him. He is her perfect, gentle knight, after all.”

Their conversation turned to other topics then. From a discussion on the poetry of Coleridge to an exhaustive survey of the Prince Regent’s failings as a ruler to the likelihood of paved roads in the future as far north as York, they talked through an excellent dinner—although later, Hester could not recall what they had eaten.

Afterward, they adjourned not to the drawing room, but to Thorne’s study on the ground floor, where, said Thorne, he wished to show her a collection of miniatures he had just begun to acquire. They were as yet unframed and he had not decided where to hang them.

This was the first time Hester had entered the earl’s sanctum, and she would, perhaps, have been surprised to know that she was the first female he had ever invited to set foot in this haven he had created in the heart of his fashionable town domicile. It was a pleasant room, furnished not in the first stare of elegance, but with comfortable, sometimes shabby chairs, tables, and footstools. A well-used chess set reposed on a plain wooden table near the fireplace and a navigation globe stood in a corner. A small brass telescope stood on a tripod in front of a pair of long windows. Shelves bearing a varied assortment of curios ranked about the room, including what appeared to be the nest of a very large bird, positioned next to an exquisite jade figurine.

Observing her expression of faint wonderment, Thorne laughed. “You may be forgiven for supposing you’ve stumbled into a lumber room. I wanted at least one room to be just mine, and I brought a lot of stuff from the Park that I’ve collected over the years. That”—he gestured to the nest—”was brought back from Africa by my Uncle Pointdexter. He says he personally snatched it out from under an infuriated blue-footed oryx. I was twelve years old at the time and had no idea then or now what an oryx might be, blue-footed or otherwise, but it apparently exercised a strong fascination for I have kept it by me ever since.”

“And no wonder,” said Hester, examining the huge mass of straw, leaves, and other construction ingredients, at whose identity she preferred not to guess. “And this?” she asked, picking up the figurine.

“Ah, that was my own acquisition. I found it in, of all places, a little shop in Cairo. Lovely, isn’t she?” he asked, moving closer to trace the cheek of the little oriental goddess with his fingertip.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You have been to Egypt. How I envy you!”

“Yes, it was one of the few places one could travel during the recent unpleasantness with Napoleon, and since the end of the war, I have visited the continent several times.”

“I hope to go there myself someday. It has always been a dream of mine to travel.”

“To Paris, perhaps?”

“Yes, and to Rome and Venice and into Greece—perhaps even Turkey.”

“Ah. Do you wish to participate in the revolution there, too?”

“Too?” She twisted to look up at him. “Do you consider me a revolutionary?”

He led her to a comfortable chair by the fire. “Are you not?” he asked, pouring wine for them. He handed her a glass and settled with his own in a nearby chair, regretting the words as soon as he had spoken them. He had no wish to encourage Hester to climb on her hobbyhorse at the moment. Though she was attractive when fired up, she was also at her most tedious when her bluestocking instincts took over her conversation. To his surprise, she broke into laughter.

“If you could see your face,” she said with a chuckle. “Behold the male in all his splendid indifference.”

“Well, we can’t all be gadflies.” He spoke calmly, but he was somewhat nettled. Just because he did not share her propensity for churning up the status quo, did that make him a conscienceless clod? “Tell me,” he said, leaning forward, “how did you become so devoted to—to righting all the wrongs of our society?”

“Goodness!” she said, startled. “Surely not all the wrongs —just a selected list. I guess,” she continued thoughtfully, “it started many years ago with two of my friends, one of whom I went to school with, the other the daughter of our village apothecary. The father of my school friend was a renowned scholar and he trained her to be his assistant. She helped in his research and transcribed his notes—that sort of thing. He was an enlightened man, and allowed her intellect free rein, and by the time she was twenty, she was as knowledgeable in her father’s field as he. No one knew this, of course, and her contributions to his expertise went unrewarded. When he died, he was in the middle of what he thought of as his greatest work, one that he had counted on bringing enough money to provide his daughter with a comfortable dowry. Jennifer—that was her name—was left virtually penniless. She was fully capable of Finishing the work herself, but the publisher would not hear of it.

“Without a dowry, she was unable to attract a husband who could be counted on to support her, of course. Her situation was quite desperate for a while until she contrived to acquire a position as governess in a family with several children. She now resides in Hereford—we still correspond.

“The other—Elizabeth Whitcombe, the apothecary’s daughter—was bright and keen of wit. She developed an early interest in her father’s business, but received no encouragement from her family to learn more about it. In fact, Jeremiah Whitcombe reached the point where he threatened Elizabeth with bodily harm—more than threatened, I gathered—if she did not stop hiding herself away with his books on Pharmaceuticals instead of helping her mother around the house.

“She was married at her father’s insistence when she was nineteen to a farmer, an unlikable block who, needless to say, had no sympathy for her fierce desire for learning. Her brother, who had no interest in running the shop, but had a burning desire to follow a career at sea, inherited the business, of course. The last I heard of him he had lost it because of a growing addiction to the bottle. Elizabeth,” she added tonelessly, “died a year ago giving birth to her sixth child.”

Unthinking, Thorne reached to cover Hester’s hands where they lay clenched in her lap. She jerked them away, raising one to dash the tears that had risen to her eyes.

“Don’t you see?” she cried. “The stories of Jennifer and Elizabeth are repeated a thousandfold all over the country. It is not fair that a woman’s mind must be bound into a tidy little parcel and stuffed into an unwanted marriage—or stultifying penury for the rest of her life.”

She drew a deep breath and continued more calmly. “To say nothing of the fact, as Mary Wollstonecraft so often averred, that the nation is being deprived of a resource it can ill do without.”

Despite himself, Thorne found himself stirred by her passion. For the first time in his life, he considered the vast population of females in the realm who were persons in their own right, but who could never live the lives of their choice. Most of them, to be sure, if given a choice, would undoubtedly still prefer to rely on a man for their livelihood and to make the important decisions in their lives. For some, however, such as the redoubtable Hester Blayne and those of her sisterhood, who were capable of so much more, it was, he was forced to admit, eminently unfair that they be permanently—what was it?—“cribbed, cabin’d, and confined.”

“And so,” he said softly, “Hester Blayne mounted her pulpit to right this monstrous wrong.”

She stiffened. “I imagine it is all vastly amusing to you, my lord, but I am in no mood to see my life’s work derided.”

She made as though to rise. Thorne stayed her by grasping her wrist.

“I’m sorry, Hester. I was not speaking facetiously. It has taken a great deal of courage for you to turn your back on your family and what would no doubt be a comfortable life in order to uphold your convictions.” He spoke with unaccustomed awkwardness, and Hester was touched despite herself.

“Urm. Well.” She felt a little awkward herself. “Yes, it has been a little difficult, but I would not have it any other way.” She smiled joyously. “I am free, you see, and that compensates for the scrimping and the snubs and the hostility and—and all the rest.”

“And now,” continued Thorne, smiling, “you have embarked on other reforms as well. Don’t forget I was present during your instructive discourse to Lord Pickering the other night on shorter working hours for children, or—no, no—” He held up a hand. “No labor at all for children under fourteen.”

Hester returned his smile, and the mischievous twinkle that Thorne was learning to relish appeared in her eyes. “You learn quickly—for a man. But yes,” she added, her expression serious once more. “There seems no end to the inequities besetting the poor and helpless of England. But, slowly—very slowly, things are getting better. Because of Mr. Wilberforce, we are no longer involved in the iniquitous slave trade, and, of course there’s Mr. Bennet’s work—that’s Henry Gray Bennet—do you know him? He’s the second son of the Earl of Tankerville, and an outspoken proponent in the House for the abolishment of the use of climbing boys. I have participated in his committee from time to time.”

“Mm, yes, he is chairman of the Select Committee now, is he not? I understand he tried to bring up a bill in the House this year, but it was too late. Perhaps he will try next year.”

Hester’s brows lifted. “I did not know you followed the reformists’s progress.”

“Not precisely with bated breath,” drawled Thorne, “but even the most dedicated hedonists among us must be touched by the plight of little boys being forced up smoky chimneys for hours on end. Particularly when there are other methods, just as cheap, of cleaning them.”

“I am glad to hear you say it, my lord.” Hester smiled. “Perhaps you would like to accompany me next month to one of Mr. Gray’s meetings.”

“I think not, but I would, with your permission, like to attend the gathering you intend to hold here next week.”

Hester’s gaze dropped to her lap, where her fingers busily began to pleat her skirt. She had not told the earl of her plans to invite her friends to Bythorne House, and realized that he must consider her to be taking gross advantage of his hospitality. “I did not mean—that is Aunt Lavinia considered that you would not—”

“That I would not mind,” he finished smoothly. “Of course, I do not. I told you at the outset, Hester, that you must feel free to invite whomever you wish here. I assume that among those present will be Mr. Bentham?”

Unaccountably, she flushed. “Yes, and Robert Carver as well, and—and Lady Barbara expressed an interest in attending.”

“Barbara?” Thorne’s brows flew up into his hairline. “Now you do surprise me.”

“Well, I must admit, I was a little surprised myself. I was speaking to Aunt Lavinia about the gathering, in front of Lady Barbara, and I invited her mostly as a courtesy. She accepted with a good deal of alacrity, in fact.”

“Well, well.”

“I hope you will not hold it over my head, Thorne,” added Hester, laughing, “if you find yourself married to a crusader.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Thorne’s tone was so frosty that Hester was momentarily taken aback. “That is, I understood from your aunt—both your aunts—that you and Lady Barbara were—are—”

“Allow me to tell you, Miss Blayne, that my relationship with Lady Barbara Freemantle is of no concern to anyone save myself and, of course, Lady Barbara.”

Hester stiffened. “Yes, of course. I did not mean to intrude on your private life, my lord.”

Thorne abruptly unbent. “And now we’re back to ‘Miss Blayne’ and ‘my lord,’ aren’t we? I wish my relatives were not quite so busy on my behalf. I suppose I shall marry Barbara someday, but I do not propose to become leg-shackled for some time to come.”

“You do not wish to marry her?” asked Hester curiously. Immediately, conscience-stricken, she clapped her fingers to her lips. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t—

“I do not wish to marry anyone,” he said casually, “but in my position, it’s inevitable, I’m afraid. Barbara is as likely a candidate as any—and I’m sure she feels the same way about me. I like her, which is more than I can say for the procession of simpering misses my aunts have paraded before me for the last ten years or so.”

“But, to marry someone for whom you have no more than a liking . . .” persisted Hester, appalled at her own gaucherie. She had no business prying into this man’s matrimonial intentions, for God’s sake. Why was it so important to her to ascertain his feelings on the subject?

He merely glanced at her in some surprise, however. “But, surely that is all one can expect in such a union. Ah,” he continued, his voice tinged with amusement. “You speak of a more tender emotion. Love, perhaps? I did not know you were such a sentimentalist, my dear.”

Hester flushed again. “I do not believe that marrying for love can be called merely sentimental,” she said, pressing her lips firmly together.