“No. What would be the point? We have no manufactories here. But I do feel as if it’s my Christian duty to draw attention to the fact that the female population is outraged also.”
“Hmm. I think you should consider a reform society,” Verity had said. “I know quite a few selectees who would be more than happy to help, although I suspect they’d rather start by reforming Miss Haverstock’s Seminary.” Her sister’s face furrowed; she would need to return to school very soon. “Still, I will do what I can to continue our campaign of letter writing.” Her head tilted. “You know, I really am rather impressed, Cecy. I did not think you cared for much beyond Ned Amherst, and yet here you are, still concerned about this cause.”
Was such condescension—from her little sister, no less!—worthy of thanks? Her lips twisted, she’d murmured wryly of her obligation, and spilled her mixed-up feelings into her journal instead.
As for her mother’s accusation that she still held affection for Ned Amherst in her heart, she could not deny he still dwelt there. But his ignoring of her on Sunday had raised doubts.
He must not care for her or he would have made some sort of effort to speak to her, to at least smile. Was it finally time to let her feelings go? That question had also been inscribed in ink.
Mrs. Cherry’s cottage appeared, and she knocked on the door, which was opened by her former nurse with a broad smile.
“Miss Cecilia! Well, how lovely. Here, let me take your shawl and bonnet.”
She hung them on a wooden hat stand, from which also hung a gray coat. A man’s gray coat. A man’s gray coat that looked suspiciously like one she had seen worn by—
“Ah, Master Edward.”
Cecy started at the figure filling the back hallway. She dropped a flustered curtsy, and her gaze.
“Miss Hatherleigh. I did not know you would be here.”
“Or I you.” Heaven forbid he thought she’d followed him here! She should leave, to discourage any such notions. She turned to Mrs. Cherry, drew forth the coins sufficient for the postage to London, and in a lowered voice said, “I must repay you while I remember.”
“Oh, you needn’t have worried, miss.”
Cecy cringed. Surely he would think she’d waited and chased him here. “Nevertheless, I wanted to pay my debt, so here you are.” She dropped the coins into her hand. “Now, I must go—”
“Oh, but surely you can stay for tea? Master Edward has sent a new packet with his mother’s compliments, and we were just about to enjoy a second cup.”
“Then I shall not keep you—”
“But surely you would wish to hear about these poor little Irish children he was so good to rescue?”
Cecy’s gaze flashed to him. Yes, she did want to hear about such things.
But he only shrugged, saying he was merely in the right place at the right time, and was glad to have helped where he could.
Her chest throbbed with conflicting emotions: gladness at this demonstration of his kindness to others, pain that he obviously felt reluctance to share this with her, and had indeed only mentioned this due to his former nurse’s instigation. Clearly he had no interest in holding conversation with her, so it was best she leave.
“That is indeed a very kind thing to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She moved to retrieve her bonnet, but was stayed by the deeper voice.
“Please, Miss Hatherleigh, I do not like to think my presence has scared you away.”
“It has not,” she said, then blushed. Would he think such a pronouncement too obvious? “I simply must return home, while I’m not missed.” Or before Mama realized Cecy’s encounter with the man she’d forbidden her to see meant she had not obeyed.
He frowned, as if wondering at her haste, which allowed her to retrieve her bonnet, thank Mrs. Cherry for her service again, and hasten away.
She bit her lip, willing the pain to subside. If only she could be open with him, to not feel this surge of emotion each time he was near. Lord, help me think on other things—
“Miss Hatherleigh.”
Her feet stilled. She drew in a breath. Caught a wisp of bergamot, sandalwood, musk. Heaven help her, he smelled so good. She turned, willing her face to appear cool. “Yes, Mr. Amherst?”
“Forgive me, but I seem to have interrupted your visit with Cherry.”
“Thank you for your consideration, sir, but I assure you that you did not.”
“No?” His lips pushed to one side, his pose as casual as his attire, in his partly unbuttoned waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Now she saw him more closely, she could see the fatigue marking his face; he seemed thinner, more gaunt than she recalled.
Poor man. But she could not let sympathy get in the way of her promise to Mama. “If you’ll please excuse—”
“Miss Cecilia, please wait.”
Her mouth dried. Her name on his tongue sounded so tender. His eyes, drooping with something like sadness, arrested her. “Yes?”
“I wanted to speak with you a moment.”
Her pulse hurried in anticipation. Would he finally admit he cared?
“I wanted to thank you.”
Was that all? The disappointment heaving against her chest begged her to look away.
“I understand I’m obliged to you for your help in ensuring the gypsy was not discovered by anyone.” He smiled crookedly. “Though it raises the question how you knew he was there.”
“You told me.” Did he not remember their conversations? Her eyes blurred.
“Did I?”
She jerked a nod. She should go. This was excruciating—
“Miss Hatherleigh, please. You seem upset.”
Now he paid attention to her? What could she say? “I …” She cleared her throat. “Forgive me. I am still upset about the situation in the north.” That was true, if not entirely accurate about her immediate situation.
“I am thankful such matters receive attention even here.”
“Of course they do! How can they not? When I think of those poor people slain …” She bit her lip, turned away. “Excuse me. I must go.”
“Let me walk with you.”
Oh, how tempting was the thought! But … “No. I’m sorry.” She thought quickly. What could she say to prevent his accompanying her? Perhaps a taste of his own medicine might be in order. “Forgive me, but it appears you have not been well, and the walk might prove too strenuous.”
She winced at his look of surprise. Had the acknowledgment that she paid attention to his well-being made him aware he was in her thoughts?
“Thank you for your concern. Truth be told I have been rather run down of late.” A smile tweaked his lips. “I suppose I’m here for what’s known as a short repairing lease.”
She nodded, then took another step towards home. Home, where she might write out this encounter, and admonish herself yet again for exposing her heart to him.
“… glad to see you … wish such a thought was mutual …”
What was he talking about? She couldn’t stay to find out. The tears begging release could not be restrained much longer. “Please excuse me.”
She hastened away, pretending not to hear him when he called her name once more. She swiped at the tears, the stupid tears, praying she’d enter the house without anyone’s notice, so she could sob her pain away in her room.
Cecilia Hatherleigh’s strange reaction chased him all the way back to London, where work and news and the occasional invitation soon drowned out such ideas. Assuring his uncle he had prayed and sought God’s future, he settled back into his work with renewed vigor, his desperation to see justice encouraged by the continued outrage of the city. The newspapers had not lapsed in their coverage of the events; indeed, The Times had seen one of its reporters arrested, which, along with the news that the editor of the Manchester Observer had also been detained, only reignited passion to see justice prevail. For why would the government fear reporters, unless there existed concern that the news reported might not be what the government wished to hear?
The published letters from the populace also told of their outrage. One in particular had snagged his attention, it expressed his heart so fully.
On reading the account of the Manchester carnage in the newspapers today, I was filled with grief and outrage that such an event could occur in England in this day and age. Do we not live in a free country, in a Christian land? How can such things be permitted to occur? How can the deaths of innocents, of women and men simply gathering in peace, accomplish any good?
Good people of England, do not let this tyranny perpetuate; do not let these innocent deaths be for no cause. I urge all godly men and women to seek justice for the widows and orphans, whose only crime it is to be hungry and want fair wages from rich mill owners, and fair representation from those elected to Westminster. Surely if people are forced to bear the consequences of the government’s actions then it is only fair and right that they have some say in who is elected to make these decisions.
I beg the good citizens of England: do not let these lives be forgotten.
I remain, most truly and faithfully, C. Hattenlingh, Somersetshire.
On reading the name of the correspondent his jaw had sagged. Save for a few letters it could have been Cecilia’s name. Had she dared to write such a thing? He knew she cared about the situation in the north, yet could not quite see her blatantly disregarding her mother’s sensibilities. It had to have been someone else.
But still, such letters renewed hope that one day people might, as the author of that letter believed, seek true justice for the victims of what was now being described as Peterloo, in reference to the Battle of Waterloo four years earlier.
His days resumed their tedium, his efforts to show himself approved leading to the long hours of before, but—obeying his uncle’s wishes—he was making more of an effort to engage in social events seen key to promoting his cause. Thus it was that when an invitation to dine at Lord Fearnley’s came his way, Lionel urged him to accept, saying Mr. Whittaker would be in attendance, and Ned’s presence would be sure to show his candidature as worthy.
Ned glanced around the drawing room of the Portman Square town house. Lord Fearnley, one of Uncle Lionel’s acquaintances, had encouraged him to bring the son of “that rascal Rovingham,” whom he remembered from Cambridge days, so Ned was here on a rare night out, trying to converse and smile as he once remembered.
As the footman announced the guests, Ned found himself bracing, listening through the hubbub of conversation for the names of those of London society whom he may wish to avoid. He’d attempted a gentle enquiry of his host, but had been near instantly steered to another topic, and he’d not the fortitude to ask again. He strove to calm himself under the older man’s perusal as Fearnley commented on how alike Ned was to his father, right down to the shape of his nose, before recalling several incidents from university days that Ned would never have suspected from his quietly straitlaced father.
“It seems I surprise you,” Lord Fearnley said, a jovial expression reddening his face. “But it was all harmless fun. Did he ever tell you about the horse I once rode up the steps into Balliol?” He chortled.
Ned’s smile remained fixed, but his thoughts had flown west and 130 miles away. The story reminded him of one concerning young Verity Hatherleigh, who had been persuaded by Stephen Heathcote to ride her horse up the back stairs of Aynsley Manor. He frowned, wondering how easily her sister would be open to persuasion …
“… and then he went to the King’s Head Tavern and became as merry as a grig. I say, Amherst, you don’t appear as vastly amused as I thought you would.”
He collected himself, pushed his cheeks into a smile. “I assure you, such stories are vastly diverting.”
The footman called: “Lord and Lady Featherington, Lord Asquith, Lord Winthrop.”
Ned’s breath suspended at the last name. No. He glanced at the door, past the young couple and the older portly gentleman, to the tall blond man behind. Lord Jonathan Winthrop, the brother of Julia Hale, the lady whom he had had the misfortune of being with when he’d been shot last December. He had dreaded that their paths might cross again …
He joined the others in making his bow, relief washing through him when Lord Winthrop’s gaze passed him without a flicker. He was a little surprised, but he supposed his appearance held some difference from the last time they had met, when Ned had been lying in a hospital bed trying to explain how circumstances with the married Mrs. Hale had been so widely misconstrued. Should he approach and apologize to him again? Or was it best to leave such things in the past? He muttered a prayer for direction but did not wait for the quiet prompting of an answer. Surely apology would be a good deed he must do.
All through the meal he forced himself to smile, to converse with the charming redheaded Lady Featherington, whose guileless comments gave mind to those of Cecilia Hatherleigh. They both possessed something of innocence, something sweet, something that fired his protective instincts, although he gathered from the besotted look on Viscount Featherington’s face he would take good care of his wife.
The conversation centered around matters in the north, and Ned was often forced to grit his teeth at some of the more inane comments. Mr. Whittaker—whose acknowledgment of Ned consisted solely of a nod at the unnecessary introduction by their host—seemed particularly scathing of the “so-called rights of people to participate in such a thing. It smacks of insurrection.”
Ned opened his mouth to object when the cool tones of Lord Winthrop interjected.
“Forgive me, sir, but I cannot agree. Recent reports suggest the Home Secretary advised against any attempts to forcibly disrupt the meeting. It would seem the error in judgment lay with the soldiers and magistrates tasked with keeping order.”
“I think many mistakes were made, but I cannot like demonstrations that smack of civil disobedience.”
Ned’s teeth gritted. How he wanted to speak from his heart, to share his knowledge about such matters. But Whittaker would be sure to eye him with that look of dislike he now offered Lord Winthrop. Not that the baron seemed to mind, his expression remained calm. Perhaps his mind was on other things; he’d observed the baron surreptitiously check his pocket-watch more than once. Just then, he lifted his fair head and met Ned’s gaze, the gray-blue eyes as piercing as he remembered. The baron’s gaze narrowed, forcing Ned to dip his head, and refocus on the conversation of the viscountess beside him.
“… and it truly is a miracle, would you not agree?”
What was she saying? How should he respond? “I’m afraid I cannot know with certainty, but I do believe miracles can happen today.”
“Ah.” Her eyes sparkled. “Then you are a believer. Tell me, are you considered to be what is known as an evangelical?”
“If an evangelical is one who believes the words of the Bible are both true and applicable for today, then I suppose I must be.”
Her smile grew conspiratorial. “I am always pleased to meet someone who thinks as we do. It seems such people can be hard to find amongst the salons of society.”
“We are considered to be something of an oddity.”
“Yes. I find I must keep some of my endeavors a secret from certain members of the ton.”
“And what secretive endeavors might they be?”
“I assist my brother’s fund for providing help for returned soldiers and sailors.”
“Your brother being … ?”
“Sir Kemsley.”
“Ah.” The former naval captain whose heroics a few years ago had secured notice from the King.
“Tell me, Mr. Amherst, are you also involved in helps for the poor?”
“I am trying.” He explained a little about his endeavors for the Irish, and his interest in helping the disenfranchised and those affected by recent events in Lancashire.
“I wondered if that might be so. Well, how interesting.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, it is just that I was recently speaking with my cousin-in-
law about something very similar. Her husband is involved in politics, and it seems he has an interest in such things. Perhaps dear Henry should introduce you.”
Hope thudded within. “That would be most appreciated.”
Their conversation was cut short as Lady Fearnley indicated her desire for the ladies to go through to the drawing room. Ned joined the gentlemen in rising, then reseated himself, joining the men clustered around one end of the long table as they drank port and took snuff, both of which he politely refused.
“Come now, Amherst,” cried Lord Fearnley. “Don’t get all Quakerish with us.”
“It is not my intention to offend,” Ned replied. “I simply find I have no taste for it these days.”
The conversation returned to the Manchester situation, the descriptions far more graphic than when the ladies were present.
His neck prickled, and he glanced up to see the gray stare across the table soften a fraction. He inclined his head to Mr. Whittaker, whose eyes narrowed.
“Amherst. You are Lionel Barrington’s nephew, are you not?”
“I am.”
“Tell me, what are your thoughts on the situation in Lancashire?”
His real thoughts, or those that might see him secure a barrister position? He swallowed. “As a God-fearing man, I find I cannot help but agree with those comments in the paper that decry how these things can occur in a Christian country.”
“Exactly so, exactly so,” the graying man nodded. “It is criminal indeed that these matters got out of hand.”
“I think it criminal that a two-year-old child has died through no fault of his own.”
“Yes, well … that is true.”
“I wonder at the use of what seemed to be excessive force, when those marching possessed no weapons, and they were simply wishing to hear a person speak.” He offered a hollow smile. “Would that the lives of all men and women be valued. Imagine if all who ever attended a large gathering were deemed rabble and possessing worthless lives.”
“Like those who attend a boxing match?”
“Or even a church,” Ned suggested.
“Such gatherings are not illegal in themselves, but when it comes to the purpose of inciting violence against the King …” The older man took a pinch of snuff.
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 17
