by Kelly Bowen
“That is the smell of progress.”
“A very odd sort of progress, my lord. I come bearing a letter from Mr. William Carruthers. Might we discuss its contents somewhere less malodorous?”
The hint of Accident in the air was so faint John could barely detect it, but then, women were said to have delicate noses. Miss Ada’s proboscis was more heroic than delicate, though it served well to hold up her spectacles.
“Let’s use the garden,” he said. “The day is fine, and my duties will soon require me to bide there.” The name Carruthers rang a distant bell, which was a relief. Had Mr. Carruthers been a bill-collecting sort of fellow, John’s mental bells would be tolling more loudly than St. Peter’s ever had.
“This was a fine house once,” Miss Ada said, peering about as they traversed the corridor. “With some effort, it could be lovely.”
“With a lot of effort. We prefer to shine the walls with laughter and polish the floors with the joy of learning. The children all have regular chores, but they are small children and the house is quite large when viewed from the perspective of one wielding a mop.”
The house wasn’t dirty, though. Worn, tired, and aging, but not dirty.
John led his guest through the library and into the side garden. “Welcome to our humble tribute to nature.” Also to economy, otherwise St. Jerome’s would never have been able to afford kitchen spices or the simplest of medicinals.
“Somebody tends your beds conscientiously,” Miss Ada said, snapping off a sprig of spearmint. “You should group the sage, rosemary and lavender together, though, because they all prefer dry soils. Your chervil would rather be in the shade and have moist soil.” She withdrew a sealed paper from her reticule. “Mr. Carruthers’s letter.”
The missive was written on good quality paper, the wax a rich claret color.
John scanned the tidy script as Miss Ada sniffed this plant and untangled that one from its neighbor.
The news was not bad: Miss Ada was boasted ducal family connections, and had been challenged to raise money for St. Jerome’s by an anonymous benefactor. A small sum (an enormous sum by John’s lights) was in her keeping to facilitate fundraising. Further details would be forthcoming from Miss Ada if she chose to attempt the challenge. If she was successful, she’d be granted ownership of a modest country estate.
“This is most interesting,” John said. “Won’t you have a seat?”
The only place to sit was the bench the boys had built as a Christmas present for John. They reasoned he spent many hours supervising children out of doors, and at the great age of seven-and-twenty, he might well relish a place to rest his ancient bones.
The children were right, as usual.
Miss Ada took one side of the bench. “Feel free to join me. The scents here really are intriguing.” She withdrew a short pencil and a crumpled piece of paper from her reticule and scribbled something. “I felt I owed it to you and your institution to make your acquaintance. I have no ability to raise funds, my lord, nor do I aspire to acquire that talent.”
She put him in mind of Henrietta, reciting facts and allowing them to speak for themselves in all their unimpressive glory.
“May I ask how much you are supposed to raise?”
She named a sum so beyond John’s wildest dreams that if he’d coveted that much money, he would not have sought forgiveness, for surely desire of such outlandish proportions would be a product of mental imbalance.
“I can see why you are not inclined to make the attempt,” he said. “With that kind of money, I could ensure the security of every child on the premises with a significant sum left over for their siblings.”
Miss Ada scooted about on the bench. “I never said I wouldn’t make an attempt, but the matter is one of probabilities.”
He did not know another woman in all of England who used the word probabilities, much less with that much assurance. “In what sense?”
“I have a tidy sum in hand. I can simply give it to you, and then you’ll have a bit to put by. That is a certain benefit, no risk to you or to me. In the alternative, I can use that money to attempt to attract more money. Mr. Carruthers seemed to think that were I to socialize, chat up the ladies I went to school with, beg for their pin money, and exert myself to be charming, then the larger sum might materialize.”
She spoke with precision and certainty, which was at complete variance with what John expected from a proper lady. Upon closer inspection, she appeared younger than he’d first thought, and sitting beside her, he detected a faint fragrance of lemon verbena.
“And the risk involved in the latter scenario?” he asked.
She removed her spectacles and polished them on her sleeve. “The probability that I will fail at such an undertaking approaches absolute certainty.” She stared at the brick cobbles the same way Cora had stared at the floor of the foyer, as if anticipating a deserved blow.
“Why will you fail?” John asked.
She turned serious blue eyes on him. “Because I lack charm, my lord. The best governesses and masters of deportment in England were defeated by my lack of charm, and matters have only deteriorated during the geological epoch since my come out. The case is hopeless, I do assure you. I’ll have the smaller sum delivered on the first of the week.”
John could hardly fault her reasoning or her self-assessment though some sentiment lurking in her honest gaze tempted him to argue. Did she want him to meekly agree that she was without charm? Miss Ada was blunt, unconcerned with her appearance, and highly intelligent. How did that add up to a lack of charm?
And yet, the decision had to be hers.
“I will most gratefully accept any charity you care to bestow on us,” John said. “The children will remember you in their prayers and so will I.”
An awkward silence sprang up amid the sounds of a London neighborhood on a pleasant afternoon. A cart clattered past in the alley beyond the garden. Out on the street, a man called a friendly greeting in West Country accents. The sum Miss Ada offered was much, much needed, and nothing short of the very miracle John had been hoping for.
And yet… Miss Ada was not charmless any more than Cora was hopeless. John was about to render that opinion to his guest when a brisk salutation rang out over the garden.
“Good day, your lordship! Good day. A moment of your time, if you please!” Mr. Bushrod P. Hewitt let himself through the gate and churned up the walkway. “I am so glad I’ve caught you at your leisure, my lord. We have much to discuss.”
“I’ll just be leaving,” Miss Ada murmured, rising unassisted.
“Please stay,” John muttered. “He’s timed this invasion for when the children will soon be underfoot, and for that alone, I might do him an injury.”
The lady sat back down.
Chapter Two
Lord John looked familiar to Ada, though perhaps that was because he had the open, genial countenance of every country curate she’d ever met. Goodness beamed forth from him, but like the sun’s brilliance, Ada found his virtue uncomfortable to behold directly.
People that open-hearted were all but demanding to be taught hard lessons in betrayal and disappointment.
Then the portly fellow had come through the garden gate, and any trace of the friendly headmaster vanished. In his place stood a tall, determined man ready to hurl righteous thunderbolts from parapets of personal indignation.
“Mr. Hewitt.” Lord John stopped on the path and barely inclined his head. “Your timing is inopportune. Not only are the children about to have their afternoon sunshine, you find me in company with another caller. The lady has the prior claim on my attention, and you will have to make an appointment for another day.”
“Not another day. Today.” Hewitt hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his breeches. “I have been more than patient with you, my lord. I’ve written to you and left my card and written to you again. Your rent is three months past due, the coal man says he’ll extend you no more credit, and I have it on good authority that—”
“Hewitt, you will not air your grievances with me here in the open air, like a fishmonger berating his competition.”
Had Ada not heard with her own ears the frigid tone Lord John had adopted, she would not have believed him capable of such banked fury.
“Here is as good as anywhere,” Hewitt said, widening his stance. “All of London knows you couldn’t make a go of vicaring despite having a nob for a papa. Now you exploit these poor waifs, pretending to provide for them when the money goes heaven knows where, for heaven knows what. I’ve half a mind to set a parliamentary commission on you.”
Ada knew that sneering tone, knew when an insult was intended to land with maximum injury to the victim’s dignity. She came up on Lord John’s right.
“Your manners are disgraceful, Mr. Hewitt. Lord John kindly gave me a few moments of his time, and now you have interrupted. You hurl nasty threats in public, when any civilized man would never have this conversation anywhere but behind a closed door. Be off with you.”
She shooed him and he took a step back.
“And who, may I ask, are you, madam?”
“You may not ask,” Ada said. “We have not been introduced, and I am a lady. Have the grace to slink back into the alley from whence you slithered. Your business will keep until another day.”
Though his kind seldom waited an entire day to strike again. They delighted in destruction and nobody ever seemed to hold them to account.
Two small girls had come out of the building and stood holding hands further up the walk. What struck Ada about the girls was the contrast between them. One was taller, with round, rosy cheeks, a bold stare, and confident posture. The other was small, deathly pale, her gaze riveted on the walkway. Her little cheeks were gaunt, and if she had any confidence, the mildest breeze would waft it into the countryside.
“Please leave, Hewitt,” Lord John said. “I never discuss business in front of the children. They’ve faced horrors enough in their short lives without you threatening to toss them into the streets.”
Hewitt drew himself up, putting Ada in mind of a hot air balloon filling with gas.
“I would never be so unchristian,” Hewitt retorted. “They’ll go to the parish, where the proper authorities will oversee their care and education. No more of this larking about in the sun, wasting time, and cavorting the afternoon away. No more sparing the rod where these little—”
Ada marched up to him. “Go frighten some other unfortunate children, kick your hapless dog, or berate your servants, for that’s how shriveled souls like you feel important. These children are not yours to bully.”
Hewitt took another step back. “Who did you say you were?”
“You’ll find me in Debrett’s along with a large, distinguished family—just like his lordship here. They will be very interested to know what variety of charity you espouse, Mr. Hewitt, and what a sad reflection you are on your upbringing. Now, begone.”
Hewitt looked like he wanted to say more.
“If you do not quit these premises now, Hewitt,” Lord John said, “I will treat you to language unfit for a lady’s ears. You may call upon me Wednesday morning at ten of the clock, and we will discuss any arrearages you care to mention.”
Hewitt jerked down his waistcoat, an ugly yellow affair with buttons straining at their buttonholes. “You may be sure I will be punctual.”
“Delighted to hear that you can tell time in addition to frightening children,” Ada said. “The gate is that direction.”
He huffed away just as a stream of children gushed forth from the building.
When Lord John turned to greet the noisy horde, he was smiling again. “Children, good afternoon! Grant me a few minutes peace with my caller and I’ll be right with you.”
The taller girl pounded down the steps, leaving her smaller companion and joining the throng tearing and shrieking across the garden. The little girl simply stood abandoned, staring at the ground.
Nobody came over to her, nobody noticed her all alone off by herself.
“Who is she?” Ada asked.
“That is my dear Cora,” Lord John replied, his tone suggesting the child was dearly exasperating. “She’s new, and progress is often slow at first. Children like Cora have to learn how to play.”
“She doesn’t know how to play?” The scientist in Ada tried to fathom such a concept and could not. “How can a child lack a grasp of play?”
Lord John offered his arm, and Ada took it automatically. She had male cousins, and such courtesies were second nature with them.
“We take play for granted,” he said, “thinking our proper childhoods bleak and miserable because our recreation was limited by hours of instruction. Cora probably never saw a doll before she arrived here. I can tell you for a certainty that she had to be shown how to hold a pencil and what it was for. Hide and seek makes no sense to her, because hiding and remaining absolutely still and silent are necessary skills in her view, not part of a game for whiling away an afternoon.”
“And Hewitt spewed his venom where that little girl could hear every word?”
They’d reached the bench but Ada was in no mood to sit.
“He chooses his moments like a thespian. The children will be on an outing next Wednesday with their instructors. None of them will see Hewitt calling on me.”
Ada paced away from the bench.
She paced back.
She paced away, though there was no out-distancing the folly she was about to commit. “I cannot abide a bully, my lord. I cannot—I loathe bullies of every stripe. No more contemptible vermin has crawled out of the Pit since Lucifer took up residence in his feculent lair.”
His lordship remained by the bench, far calmer than he should have been while Ada was battling old wounds.
“Bullies should be held in universal disregard,” he said. “We are agreed, but rent should also be paid. Thanks to you, I can address the arrearages on Wednesday.”
“But what of the coal man?” Ada asked, gaze on the solitary child at the top of the steps. “What of the chandler, the butcher, and the mercer?”
“They can all be given some coin for the present,” Lord John said, “and I am hopeful, with Polite Society gathered for the Season, that others like yourself will be charitably disposed toward us.”
“Hope never lit a candle,” Ada muttered. “Hope does not add beef to the soup. Hope… oh, what’s the use. I must try to raise St. Jerome’s some money, my lord. I must at least try.”
Lord John’s smile was not the benediction of a godly man engaged in good works, but rather, the smile of a handsome fellow intent on excellent mischief.
“I was hoping you’d say that, Miss Beauvais. I was very much hoping you’d say that. Come, I’ll introduce you to Cora and she can show you around our garden.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ada said, “and I can see myself out. If we’re to mount a forlorn hope besieging the charitable impulses of better society, I need to do some research. I can return tomorrow afternoon, if that is convenient.”
“Come back anytime,” Lord John said. “A call from you will always be convenient.”
“Headmaster!” cried a high voice. “You have to help us choose teams!”
“You’re needed,” Ada said, dipping a curtsey. “Until tomorrow, my lord.”
He tossed her a bow. “Until tomorrow, and make no mistake, Miss Ada. You are needed too, and very much appreciated.”
Ada stalked off, for nonsense such as that merited no reply. She went back through the doors that led to the corridor rather than pass the solemn little girl standing sentinel on the steps.
“But Aunt Kitty,” Ada said, “I am to call upon people—people who move in polite circles. I haven’t any notion, not the slightest, least, scintilla of a hint of a notion, how to go about such a task.”
“Well, that is most odd,” Aunt Kitty replied. “I distinctly recall taking you with me when I paid a call on Lady Haysmith just last year.” She turned a limpid gaze on Ad
a, all innocence and charm, as usual. Kitty was only ten years Ada’s senior, but worlds more sophisticated when it came to social subtleties.
“I spilled tea all over myself.” Ada could still feel the heat scalding her through her sleeve and the mortification of having ruined yet another walking dress.
Aunt’s embroidery needle moved in a steady rhythm, unlike the beat of Ada’s heart.
“The dog bumped your arm, dearest, which is why no social call should involve canines. You can’t take one isolated incident—”
“I tripped on the carpet and fell flat on my face when we called on Mrs. Dagenhart,” Ada went on, finishing her fifth circuit of Aunt’s private parlor. “At Lady Morehouse’s soiree, or whatever it was, I caused a footman to upend a whole tray of glasses.”
“His fault, darling. It’s always the footman’s fault. Anybody who says otherwise is simply mistaken.”
Loyalty was one thing, but Aunt’s recollection went beyond fanciful.
“At Sir Bolton Chiswick’s dinner,” Ada said, “I got into an argument with Lady Ffyle. Had you not intervened, her ladyship and I would have met over pistols at dawn.”
Aunt’s needle moved in the same serene rhythm. “And had you done her an injury, every hostess in London would have cheered your success. You know how to pay social calls, Ada. If that expensive finishing school taught you nothing else, you do know how to serve tea, swill tea, and discuss tea.”
Ada came to a halt before the pier glass positioned between two sets of French doors. Everything about Aunt’s abode was light and elegant, the exact opposite of the comfy clutter Ada preferred. And yet, Aunt Kitty was her favorite relation, half doting older sister, half fairy godmother.
“I look a fright,” Ada murmured. “It’s a wonder the children didn’t run from me.”
“Which children would that be?”
“At St. Jerome’s. I visited there before agreeing to take on this challenge.” Now that Aunt had mentioned tea, Ada was hungry. “Do you suppose we might ring for a tray?”
“Two tugs on the bell pull. Tell me about the children.”
