by Kelly Bowen
“You do regret kissing me, at least a little.” That was a worse blow than knowing she’d been intentionally embarrassed at Almack’s.
“Never.” Said with reassuring emphasis. “But I regret that I am merely the headmaster of an orphanage, that I’ve poured my wealth, such wealth as I had, into St. Jerome’s, that I could never abandon the children or entrust their welfare to strangers. I’m all they have, and I can’t turn my back on them for… mere kisses.”
A thousand retorts sprang to mind:
I am not asking you to turn your back on anybody.
Don’t entrust the children to strangers, entrust them to people who care for them as you do.
My kisses are not mere.
And yet, John was being honorable, in his way. “I did not know your personal wealth was spent at St. Jerome’s.”
“My father nearly disowned me.”
“While I esteem you all the more for your commitment.” She kissed his cheek, sat back, and promised herself that Hopewell Grange would be everything she could possibly have longed for, even if it was clear out in blasted, beautiful Surrey.
John did not want to let Ada go, but he could offer nothing to compare with the glories of Hopewell Grange. He’d made inquiries of Mr. Palmer, whose family seat was in Surrey. The Grange was a gem of a manor house set in a shining tiara of an estate.
Precisely what Ada Beauvais deserved, and exactly what would make her happy. That St. Jerome’s had benefitted from her good fortune was some consolation, but not as much as it should have been.
“Mr. Carruthers.” John bowed before a tall, dark-eyed fellow who looked to have some foreign antecedents a generation or two back. “I am privileged to accompany Miss Beauvais today in the capacity of corroborating witness. You will be very pleased to learn that she has accomplished the goal set out for her thirty days ago.”
Mrs. Carruthers’s brows rose. “Have you, Miss Beauvais? Have you really? Let’s discuss this in my office.”
“We raised the necessary sum,” Miss Ada said, preceding the gentlemen into a tidy, spacious chamber. “His lordship and I paid calls on my old schoolmates, as you suggested, Mr. Carruthers, and on his patrons. A few of them suggested others who might be generously inclined, and Lord John’s family also contributed.”
A compact ginger cat sat upon the mantel, so still John at first through it was a porcelain figure. Then the beast yawned, showing a deal of sharp teeth.
“Have a seat,” Carruthers said, gesturing to a group of chairs before an unlit hearth. “I am most delighted to hear of your success, Miss Beauvais. I must nonetheless ask for particulars, or I would be remiss in my duty to your benefactor.”
Ada settled into her chair with a rustle of skirts, delicately embroidered slippers peeking out from beneath her hems. John handed Carruthers the tally of the sum earned, and admitted to a regret: The sight of those slippers, the memory of putting them on Ada’s feet for the first time, was worth more to him than the entire fortune earned for St. Jerome’s.
John had considered, in a theoretical, wishful sort of way, if he could transition St. Jerome’s to another headmaster, but nobody came to mind. Mr. Palmer was happy to read to the children once a week—and to walk Miss Deevers home—but his ambitions lay with the church. Mrs. MacHeath was content with generalship of the quilts. She was also getting on in years, and had little patience with the children themselves.
“You have accomplished much,” Mr. Carruthers said, perusing the list John had prepared. “An impressive feat, Miss Beauvais, and I’m sure much good will result from your efforts.”
“That’s the best part,” Miss Ada said. “All I did was pay a few calls, spend a few weeks pretending I’m not socially backward, and the children’s future is secure. I own I am astonished, Mr. Carruthers, and now to think I’ll have Hopewell Grange as well seems too much.”
“You aren’t socially backward,” John retorted, “and I don’t care if I’m arguing with a lady, miss. You are an original, and to blazes with anybody who says otherwise.”
Carruthers watched this exchange with a faint smile. “Miss Beauvais, it appears you have acquired a champion.”
“St. Jerome’s acquired the champion,” John said. “I merely state the obvious.”
Carruthers passed the papers back. “While I must refine on a regrettable subtlety. Miss Beauvais you have not, in fact, achieved your objective. The total sum earned is fifty pounds short of the goal. I’m sorry.”
John was on his feet. “I checked my math several times, Carruthers. You can stow the lawyerly obfuscation. Miss Beauvais achieved her objective with fifty pounds to spare. You will prepare documents to deed Hopewell Grange to her, or I’ll know the reason why.”
Carruthers remained sitting, which was shrewd of him. Even furious, John would not strike a man who wasn’t standing.
“Please explain, Mr. Carruthers,” Ada said, sounding curiously calm. “I verified his lordship’s figures myself, and kept my own tally. I reached the same total he did.”
“The total is correct,” Carruthers said, “but money promised is not money earned. Lady Barstow’s pledge of one hundred pounds is not in hand paid, and today is the last day you had to raise that sum. A promise of funds does not meet the terms of the challenge. You could have promised to provide the entire sum at a future date otherwise, and done nothing for St. Jerome’s.”
As angry as John had been with his father, as frustrated as he’d been with his patrons, he was ten times that upset with Carruthers.
“You cannot be serious, Carruthers. Miss Ada has saved St. Jerome’s, and you are denying her the promised consideration. If I had the damned fifty pounds I’d write out a note for it now.”
“John, I cannot miss what I never had,” Ada said. “We need not take up any more of Mr. Carruthers’s time.”
Carruthers rose. “Miss Beauvais, I truly commend you for your efforts, and I will convey to my client that you exerted yourself to the utmost for the sake of St. Jerome’s. I regret I can do no more than that.”
John assisted Ada to her feet, though her composure baffled him. “We will call on Lady Barstow straightaway and obtain the damned funds, Carruthers.”
“We can’t,” Ada said. “She has left Town to take the sea air. Mr. Carruthers, thank you for your time. Please thank your client for providing me an interesting several weeks. Good day.” She curtsied to the lawyer and to the cat, then took John by the hand and led him from the office.
Chapter Six
“I cannot believe that man,” Lord John said as he and Ada waited for the empty coach to pull up before Carruthers’s office. “I cannot deuced believe him, pardon my language. To mislead you, to waste your efforts, to manipulate you into dealing with the very women who were so unkind to you in your girlhood… I have no words, Ada, other than I’m sorry.”
Ada climbed into the coach and patted the place beside her. “Thank you for that, but Mr. Carruthers did mention that I was to raise the actual money, not promises of money. I was not attending him at the time, because I did not anticipate embarking on the venture at all. As it is, I’ve never even seen Hopewell Grange. I’m only one person. What do I need with twenty-six window seats?”
Ada wasn’t dissembling or putting on a brave face. Hopewell Grange was doubtless a lovely estate, but in the past month, she’d seen a household full to the brim with noise, learning, and laughter. What was the point of having all those windows, all those acres, for only one person?
“You need the Grange because you love your privacy,” Lord John said, delivering a hard rap to the roof of the coach. “You need those windows because you will put them all to good use, growing herbs or measuring sunlight or some such. You worked for those windows.”
“I will pay taxes on those windows, too,” Ada said. “Or I would, if I owned Hopewell Grange, which I do not.” She was disappointed, but not devastated. Not even crestfallen. “Perhaps if I remain in Town, I can drop in on St. Jerome’s from time to time.�
� She was already planning on visiting Lord Bascomb, and hoped John’s sisters would receive her as well. She owed them her thanks and wanted their recommendations for modistes and milliners.
“You’re sure Lady Barstow is from home?” Lord John asked.
“She wrote me a note. She won’t be back for another fortnight.”
“Perhaps Lord Barstow might be in Town?”
“He’s with her at the seaside.” Was Lord John really so anxious to consign Ada to the wilds of Surrey? “I failed to win my challenge, but you did not fail St. Jerome’s. Let’s be proud of that.”
Some of the ire went out of him. “We came so close.”
Close to what, though? “You have your quilting teams. You have Miss Deevers not only reading to the little ones, but giving lessons in deportment to the older children. Lady Noland is offering French lessons, and Her Grace of Anselm is lending you her botanist to re-organize your gardens. I’d say we exceeded all expectations.”
Lord John took her hand and brought her knuckles to his lips as the coach drew to a halt before St. Jerome’s. The front porch was adorned with pots of salvia now. One of Mrs. MacHeath’s lady generals had made that donation.
“You are being more than generous, Ada. Uncle Bascomb is asking after you.”
God bless Uncle Bascomb. “You have a visitor,” Ada said, for an older gentleman stood at the front door, fist raised to knock. “He looks familiar.” Like a leaner version of Bascomb, in fact.
John peered through the window. “My father has come to call. Surely the realm has come to a dire pass. He will doubtless berate me for going about Town in his crested coach begging for money.”
Losing Hopewell Grange was disappointing, but Ada had gained so much: The satisfaction of assisting a worthy cause, the profound peace of having laid the past to rest, and the joy of embroidered slippers. Then too, she’d stolen a few kisses, and they were perhaps the greatest boon of all.
Lord John should have more than regular coal deliveries for all the tea he’d swilled in the past few weeks. Ada climbed down from the coach and marched up to the old fellow strutting about on the porch.
“You, my lord, have much to answer for.”
Eyebrows much like John’s drew down. “Who the devil are you?”
“I am the woman who will call you to account for sabotaging your own son,” Ada said, jabbing him in the chest with her finger. “I am the woman who has seen firsthand how hard Lord John works to provide for these children, to see them kept safe and warm and happy. I am the woman who has the honor to call him my friend, and you are the fool who hasn’t the sense to be proud of an exemplary son. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
John emerged from the coach and took the place at Ada’s side. “Miss Adelicia Beauvais, may I make known to you Pompeii, Marquess of Gandham. My lord, Miss Adelicia Beauvais.”
“Might we continue this discussion indoors?” the marquess groused. “I am unused to being harangued in the very street.”
“More’s the pity,” Ada snapped. “If somebody had done a better job of haranguing you, Lord John might not be toiling away here for years with virtually no support from the people who ought to champion his causes. You will please rectify that oversight, or I will know the reason why. Good day.”
She hurled a curtsy at the marquess and returned to the coach, proud of herself for keeping her harangue short and mostly factual.
Lord John handed her in, his expression hard to read.
“Don’t expect me to apologize,” Ada said. “I see how hard you work, I see how the children depend on you, and that man owes you his respect at least. His lack of support has made your life more difficult and somebody needed to call him to account.”
Lord John bowed over her hand. “Is that what you call it? It looked to me more like reading the old boy the Riot Act. Well done, Miss Ada.”
How she loved his smile, loved the kindness and humor that he never lost sight of for long. “You’d best go patch it up with him. Tell him I’m an original. We are given to expressing ourselves.”
Lord John leaned through the coach doorway and kissed her cheek. “You are very much an original. Thank you for everything, Ada. I will never, ever forget your determination and fortitude, and I wish you the very best in all your endeavors.”
He stepped back and the footman closed the door. The coachman signaled the horses to walk on, and then Ada was parting from the only man to win her respect and her heart, though she hadn’t even bid him a proper farewell.
“If that is the sort of company you’re keeping these days, no wonder this moldering pile is about to collapse in on itself.” The marquess waited until John ushered him into St. Jerome’s to make that observation.
“That company, sir, is the reason St. Jerome’s will still be standing twenty years from now. Miss Beauvais took it upon herself to raise money for the children, and her efforts were exceedingly successful.” On any other occasion, John would have been pleased that the marquess deigned to grace St. Jerome’s with a visit.
Now, he hesitated to take his father’s hat and coat.
“Big place,” the marquess said, glancing around. “Hard to heat.”
“But cool in the summer, spacious, and full of light. What might I do for you, my lord?”
The marquess took off his hat but didn’t pass it over. “Bascomb mentioned that you’d come calling, you and the young lady.”
“We had a delightful visit with Uncle several weeks ago.”
The marquess usually spent his afternoons in parliamentary committee meetings. A troubling thought dropped into John’s head. “Are you well, sir?”
“Well? Of course, I’m well. Don’t you offer your guests any hospitality at this establishment?”
John had just bid a too-hasty farewell to the woman who’d safeguarded St. Jerome’s future, the same woman who held John’s heart in her hands. To blazes with tea and crumpets.
“Why are you condescending to make a social call now, sir, when all of Mayfair knows you long to see St. Jerome’s close its doors?”
Cora slid down the bannister, a first in John’s recollection. “Headmaster, we have company!”
“I’m not sure we do,” John said, lifting Cora from the bannister and setting her on her feet. “I’m not sure why his lordship, after five years of all but turning his back on us, has decided to pay a call today of all days.”
The child bobbed at the knees. “I’m Cora. I haven’t had an accident for eight days, because nobody is allowed to wear my clothes or sleep in my bed but me. I don’t stink!”
The marquess looked honestly baffled, bringing to mind Bascomb’s words: Pompeii has a mortal fear of lung ailments… he fears to lose you.
“Shall we repair to my office?” John asked. “Cora, that’s enough sliding on bannisters for now, please. I’m sure you’re supposed to be in the garden with the others.”
“I had to use the close stool,” she said, grinning and twirling until her pinafore belled out, “so I wouldn’t stink.”
“Well done, child, but it’s time to enjoy some sunshine. Miss Deevers will soon be here to read and if you are all very good, she might be persuaded to read in the garden.”
“Stories!” Cora caroled, skipping off down the corridor. “I love stories!”
“What a robust child,” the marquess said as Cora’s steps faded. “She puts me in mind of your sisters.”
John took the opposite direction from Cora, toward his office. “Did they put you up to calling on me?”
“Nobody put me up to… well, Bascomb might have mentioned looking in on you.”
John ushered his father into the headmaster’s office, which had a view of the back gardens. The children were in good voice, scrabbling over a game of kickball. Normally, John would have been with them ensuring the match didn’t degenerate into fisticuffs.
He wished Ada were on hand to provide the same supervision to him and his father. “What did Uncle have to say? I’d like to make a sugg
estion regarding his situation.”
The marquess pretended to study the books on the shelves, though what Lund’s treatise on scurvy had to say to anything, John did not know.
“Speak your piece,” the marquess said, “and then I’ve a few words to impart as well.”
“Bascomb is all but housebound because of his bad foot,” John said, “but he has yet managed to find somebody in this life who cares for him, who treasurers his companionship. Because that person apparently hasn’t met your standards for who should and should not be become a member of the family, he lives in sin. What possible difference could it make to you if your brother marries his housekeeper? They love each other.”
Papa was no longer pretending to study the books. He was staring at John as if he’d never seen him before.
“The children at this orphanage have no family,” John went on. “They know better than to turn up their noses at people who offer to care for them and treat them decently. You have a brother—a dear, difficult man who yet spoke up in your defense when last I called up on him. He deserves your loyalty and support, even if you can’t see fit to offer that loyalty and support to your own son. Make peace with Bascomb, Papa, or don’t bother calling here at St. Jerome’s again. Family is as family does.”
The marquess circled his hat in his hands, he cleared his throat. He went to the window so he stood half in profile to John.
“Bascomb said that your female friend had a very salutary effect on a man’s disposition. Does she scold everybody the way she scolded me?”
“Ada Beauvais has a tender heart that’s been much buffeted by unkindness. She is nonetheless the soul of decency, though she has not the least acquaintance with dissembling. I am honored to call her my friend.”
The marquess set his hat on the desk and faced the garden. “Seems to me, if a woman makes your troubles her own and delivers a dressing down to your father for all to hear, she’s something more than a friend. I’d like to make a donation to St. Jerome’s.”
