Louise M Gouge (14 page)

“Now see here, you little brats—” Lucy hurried after them, stopping just short of snatching them away from the viscount. “I’ve told you never to address Lord Greystone until he speaks to you. And it’s
my lord,
not governor.” The girl’s manners and speech also needed improving, but Beatrice felt certain she could help her.

“There now, Lucy.” Lord Greystone knelt and gathered the boys into his arms, such a kind gesture from an important gentleman. The tender look in his eyes reminded Beatrice of the Bible story in which Jesus said,
“‘Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me.’”
The viscount was clearly demonstrating the faith he had spoken of several nights ago. The children were lapping up the affection, for they wrapped tiny arms around his neck.

What a contrast to all that Beatrice had ever known. Her own father had never so much as held her hand or brushed a kiss across her cheek. Yet Lord Greystone heaped kindness and generosity upon these little orphans. Her admiration for him swelled within her, and she approached and set a hand on the older boy’s shoulder. “Hello, Kit. Do you remember me?”

He blinked, then grinned. “Coo, miss, ’ow could I forget such a pretty lady?”

“Why, thank you, sir.” Patting his cheek, she glanced over his head to see Lord Greystone’s approving smile. “Tell me what you have been doing.”

Ben bit his lip, but Kit shrugged. “Not much, miss. That’n—” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder at Lucy, who had worn a scowl the whole time. “She don’t like us doin’ nothin’ but sittin’.”

“Hmm.” Lord Greystone stood. “Hardly good for two energetic boys. Perhaps we should devise some activities to keep you busy.”

Kit gave him a shaky grin. “We could clean the chimneys, gov. We want to earn our keep. That’n, Miss Lucy I mean, says we’re just the same as stealin’ ’cause we don’t earn our keep.”

Beatrice’s eyes stung, and Lord Greystone cleared his throat. Did he share her belief that children this young should not be forced to work for a living?

“Lucy means well, my lads, and she certainly does earn
her
keep.” He sent the girl a sympathetic glance, but she was looking toward the window with a scowl. “But right now you are my guests, so you do not have to do that. One day soon I shall take you to my school in Shrewsbury, where you can learn a trade to which you are well suited.”

“Coo, gov’ner, that’s kindness itself,” Kit said.

“Kindness itself,” echoed Ben.

Lord Greystone found a chair and once again gathered the boys in his arms, asking what trade they might find interesting. As they talked, Mrs. Parton questioned Beatrice with one lifted eyebrow. Beatrice nodded. They had put this off far too long.

“Now, Greystone, it is clear Lucy needs a rest from her duties,” Mrs. Parton said. “I should like to borrow her later this afternoon to begin her training with my Poole.”

“Ah, yes.” Lord Greystone’s smooth forehead creased as he considered the matter. “But as I said, I should first ask Crawford what he thinks. He wanted to guide his granddaughter as she trains for service.”

During this exchange Beatrice watched Lucy’s scowl turn into a bright, open smile. “Oh, milord, I should be ever so pleased to be a lady’s maid. Do say I may do it.”

Beatrice could not fault the girl’s enthusiasm, despite her lack of decorum. She looked forward to taking her in hand. Like Lord Greystone with the boys, Beatrice had no doubt she could teach Lucy everything required for the position she desired.

She would begin by teaching the girl a little respect for those whom she served.

Chapter Fifteen

“O
h, miss,” Lucy chirped. “I’m ever so pleased to be your lady’s maid, even if it’s just now and then.”

Seated at her dressing table, Beatrice studied the girl in the mirror. Lucy had cast off her mobcap to reveal brown curls cascading down her back, as if she would advertise her considerable hairdressing skills. Her plain brown dress and shapeless white apron had been exchanged for a black muslin gown with a form-fitting, embroidered bodice, perhaps borrowed from Hudson, the viscountess’s lady’s maid.

“Now, miss, you must tell me whatever you want me to do, and I’ll do it spit spot.” She fussed with Beatrice’s hair. “Oh, this is grand, just as I thought. Nice and thick and so easy to work with.” She gripped Beatrice’s upper arms and squeezed, ducking down to catch her gaze in the mirror. “We shall have such a grand time, won’t we, miss?”

“If you please, Crawford.” Beatrice stood and moved out of the girl’s grasp. She might understand her enthusiasm, but it was none too soon to begin teaching her proper behavior for her station. While Beatrice could forgive her slips, a future employer could take great offense at her familiarity and dismiss her on the spot. “You will address me as ‘my lady.’”

Not at all embarrassed, Lucy tilted her head to the side and blinked as if Beatrice had just announced herself to be a goose. “My lady?”

“Yes. And, as lady’s maids are customarily addressed by their last name, I shall call you Crawford.” She tried to keep the annoyance from her voice, but Lucy seemed utterly unabashed.

“Lud, miss, my grandfather is Crawford.” She seemed to realize her error. “I mean, my lady.”

“Hmm.” Beatrice sat down again. “That is a consideration.” She thought for a moment. “Very well. When you are here, you will be Crawford. When I see you at Lord Greystone’s, I shall call you Lucy.”

“Oh, miss—” A hand flew up to cover her lips. “I mean, my lady, you are ever so kind. May I begin now?”

At Beatrice’s nod, she began to brush and comb and curl and pin. She had already examined Beatrice’s wardrobe and brought out a lavender gown for tonight’s excursion to Drury Lane. “Mrs. Poole gave me this purple ribbon and a string of pink silk flowers. Shall I use them?”

Beatrice gave her another nod and settled back to watch in the mirror as the girl worked. Indeed she had great skill, at least with hair. It remained to be seen how she performed the many other duties of a lady’s maid. The girl chattered on and on about too many subjects to keep track of, so Beatrice let her mind wander to this evening’s adventure.

She and Mrs. Parton would ride with Lord Greystone, and she looked forward to seeing him again. This afternoon he had seemed cool to her at first. But by the time she and her mentor had left after visiting the boys, he had warmed considerably, especially in their agreement over Lucy’s training. Beatrice had done nothing to effect such a change, but still it pleased her. A gentleman would not invite guests whom he disliked to share a theatre box with him. And with the possibility of Mr. and Mrs. Grenville attending as well, Beatrice had no doubt this would be her most enjoyable evening since she’d come to London.

“And they’re just like two little mice, miss, uh, my lady, scurrying about all over the place kind of sneakylike—”

“What?” Beatrice had not heard a word Lucy had said, but she did like the abundance of Grecian curls framing her face and crowning her head, with the purple ribbon and pink flowers woven throughout.

“The boys, miss. The dirty little chimney sweeps.” Her upper lip curled in distaste. “I do wish you’d hire me straight out so I don’t have to look after them no more.”

Beatrice stared at her in the mirror. How could so much self-importance dwell in the granddaughter of a humble butler like Crawford? Who did she think she was? At the thought Beatrice felt a pinch of shame. Her own circumstances were not at all ideal and would not be until Melly assumed his responsibilities in providing a dowry.
Lord, please forgive me for my arrogance. If it is Your will, I shall endeavor to set an example of humility for this girl.
But Beatrice would do her no favor by treating her as an equal. England’s social system simply did not work that way. Best that she learn her place in it, or she would never find a lasting position. Why, even the little boys seemed to understand that simple fact.

“You did a fine job on my hair, Crawford.” She reached up to lightly touch a curl and smiled at Lucy in the mirror. “Now, shall we see about my gown?”

* * *

When Greystone saw Lady Beatrice descend Mrs. Parton’s front steps, he had to remind himself to breathe. Her beauty stunned him and left him speechless, for she was the very image of an exquisite Grecian statue. Her flowing lavender gown reflected in her blue eyes, turning them a matching color. Her thick golden curls had never before been so artfully coiffed, and her cheeks shone with a natural rosy blush no rouge could ever match. He would not permit his gaze to linger on her full lips, lest his thoughts lead him astray. But when she stepped near to take his hand for assistance into his landau, the fragrance of her lavender perfume nearly proved his undoing.

Had she worn a haughty countenance or accepted his help into the carriage as if it was her due—which it was, and more—he would not have been impressed. Many a young lady donned aloofness as surely as she put on a new gown. But Lady Beatrice was all humility and kindness, always putting others before herself. This was what he longed for in a life companion.

The thought startled him. He must not think this way. Must remember her brother’s waywardness and the harm he could do to any acquaintance. Why had he proposed this outing? Why had he let himself be drawn in by Lady Beatrice’s beauty and graciousness? But he had, and now, if for only one evening, he must grant her every courtesy. And then perhaps he should abandon all association with her.

He handed her into the carriage and, as she took her seat, only a split second of awareness reminded him of the other good lady who required his assistance. He executed a smooth turn back to face her.

“Mrs. Parton, you are a vision.” He handed her into the landau and climbed in to sit across from the two ladies. From here he could feast his eyes on the beauty of one elegant lady and delight in the merry wit of the other. As usual Mrs. Parton’s turban—orange this time—hosted two tall peacock feathers of the blue-and-green variety, which made him glad the carriage top was down, lest they be broken. Her gown, a predominantly orange paisley creation, nonetheless complimented her red hair and presented an overall pleasing effect. But try though he might to give them equal attention on the half-hour drive to Drury Lane, his gaze strayed to Lady Beatrice more often than to the older lady. Mrs. Parton did not seem to object in the least, if her several winks at him were any indication.

* * *

“‘To be, or not to be, that is the question.’” Elliston intoned the famous lines with just the right amount of haunted pathos for a tortured Renaissance gentleman.

To continue this friendship, or not to continue it, that is the question.
Greystone could not seem to concentrate on the performance, although
Hamlet
was his favorite of Shakespeare’s plays. At this moment he understood the Danish prince’s anguish all too well. While Hamlet considered whether or not to take his own life, Greystone considered whether or not to spend more time with Lady Beatrice, a sure death to some of his influence among his peers.

And then there was Mother to contend with. She was quite displeased over his plans to escort Mrs. Parton and Lady Beatrice to the theatre. But, then, Mother never seemed pleased with anything. Did she never want anyone to enjoy life simply because she chose to wed the wrong brother all those years ago? But unlike the Danish queen in this play, she could not marry her late husband’s brother, for the Church forbade it. Even though Uncle Grenville had always been the very soul of kindness and goodness, Father had been a monster, like Hamlet’s murderous, unrepentant uncle.

Without Mr. and Mrs. Parton’s intervention, Father might well have murdered Mother, perhaps even Greystone, his own heir. Mercifully he had not yet set his whip upon four-year-old Richard or two-year-old Edmond by the time he died. And neither brother was aware of their father’s cruelty. But why tell them? To excuse Mother’s bitter nature? She’d had over two and twenty years and many good things in her life to aid her in putting it all behind her. Yet she had not managed to.

“‘Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them.’” Elliston’s Hamlet continued his desperate monologue.

Whether ’tis nobler to let Mother dictate the affairs of my life or to fight her at every turn.
It would have been so easy to let her continue making decisions for him, but after his nearly fatal illness last winter, he felt God’s urging that he must make his own decisions. He did not like to displease her, but he would not be dissuaded from his course regarding the little chimney sweeps.

With a sigh he tried again to put aside personal affairs and enjoy the play and his companions. At least Lady Beatrice approved of his taking care of the boys.

She sat at an angle to him, her intense gaze focused on the stage, her face alive with interest in the action. If she enjoyed attending plays to this degree, he must purchase his own box so they could attend upon a whim and not have to depend upon friends.
They?
No, he must not think this way. He and Lady Beatrice had no future together. In that, he did agree with Mother.

How many times must he remind himself? Yes, he must marry and produce an heir. But better to marry someone strong and indifferent, like Mother, than a gentle, sweet girl like Lady Beatrice. He could not bear to think of hurting her, especially if, or when, he became like his father.

* * *

Beatrice sensed that Lord Greystone was watching her, and she had difficulty not turning his way or reaching up to see if a curl had come loose. When she had emerged from the town house, he had stared at her with obvious approval, causing her no end of chagrin. In all her life she had never blushed, even when other gentlemen had expressed their admiration of her. But a simple look from this gentleman, whether accompanied by a smile, a frown or indifference, brought unwelcome warmth to her face.

Yes, she did find him utterly appealing. In fact he seemed to be everything she had always longed for in a husband. Yet Lady Greystone had made her dislike and disdain abundantly clear. Despite the struggle Beatrice had observed between them, Lord Greystone would likely not go against her in a matter as important as marriage, even if his admiration grew into something deeper. Beatrice would do well to face the fact that she had no future with him, and she must not encourage him, must somehow feign disinterest to save them both from grief. Besides, for all his outward actions and kindnesses toward the little boys, she still had no assurance that he would not become as distant and neglectful as Papa. His frequent shifts from smiles to frowns seemed to portend that very kind of behavior.

With some effort she forced her attention back to the play, refusing to look at the viscount. After all, she must have something to say about the performance during the ride home.

Queen Gertrude made her entrance, admirably portraying elegant grief. “‘One woe doth tread upon another’s heel, so fast they follow. Your sister’s drown’d, Laertes.’”

Beatrice wept softly as the queen announced Ophelia’s death, yet a new understanding and even empathy blossomed within her. Each time Beatrice had read
Hamlet,
she had mentally scolded Ophelia for committing suicide after the man she loved so cruelly rejected her. Should this aristocratic lady not have been made of sterner stuff? And yet, like Ophelia, Beatrice must drown her own dreams of finding a loving, constant husband.

* * *

As the landau rumbled over the cobblestones, Greystone felt a strong measure of satisfaction, even pleasure. When he had finally set aside personal concerns, he’d enjoyed the play immensely. Lady Beatrice seemed not to share his sanguine mood, but no doubt she was still affected by the tragedy. Perhaps he should open a discussion about the drama so he could point out that Shakespeare never failed to write a life-affirming finale. Whether a comedy, tragedy or history, the Bard always ended his plays by having some worthy prince restore the shattered social order and establish his own authority.

In this case Fortinbras was the sane and sensible foil to Hamlet, who let his emotions overrule his better logic. Indeed Greystone preferred to follow the example of Fortinbras rather than the tragic prince of Denmark. He would proceed in an orderly, logical way regarding all things in his life, whether it be presenting a bill in Parliament or choosing a wife.

His gaze strayed to the quiet young lady seated across from him. All too often thoughts of marriage brought her to mind. But that could never be. He must continue to look for some august peer to marry her, someone whose position would undo the damage Melton had done to his family. Perhaps someone older, wiser. But that thought soured his stomach.

“Well.” Mrs. Parton broke the silence. “Prinny has let us down once again. I had hoped Bea could see him.”

“Ah, well.” The lady in question gave a charming shrug. “I was enjoying myself so much that I failed to notice.”

Greystone knew he should ask the source of her enjoyment, the play or the company she was in, but he dared not. They continued their drive to Hanover Square and stopped in front of Mrs. Parton’s town house.

“Will you come in, Greystone?” Mrs. Parton asked as he handed her down. “I have just hired a new French cook, and he has prepared a fine supper.”

“I thank you, madam, but I must rise early tomorrow. Perhaps another time.” He turned to offer a hand to Lady Beatrice, but she had already reached the pavement. In her lovely blue eyes he read obvious disappointment over his declining the invitation. “Well, then. I bid you ladies good-night. Porter, I shall walk home.” He waved away his driver.