He had not realized at the time who knew; other news had quickly swamped his disgrace. Then later, he’d been distracted by Julia, someone who seemed to share his sense of abandonment, and later still, society appeared to think he’d paid for his sins when the bullet had put him close to death’s door.
Guilt by association carried as much weight as the sins he’d carried out himself. The true culprits might have fled the country, but Ned felt as culpable as if he’d plunged the man into the sea himself. And while he could not make recompense to the man, and Baxter had no family to speak of, still he’d felt the burden, despite his many pleas for God’s mercy. But what if God had heard him, and had in fact forgiven him? Could it be his guilt had held him prisoner far longer than his unatoned sin? Was Lord Winthrop correct, and he needed to now forgive himself?
He walked on, towards the river. Drew in another deep breath, tinged with dust and foul sewer stink. No matter how much London tried to build new and handsome buildings, each summer gave evidence of its aged past, one that reeked with misery, contaminated by poverty and death.
His life was much the same. Trying to build a façade of responsible living, of sobriety and faith. Yet he knew just how susceptible he’d proved in the past to sin; Baxter’s death aside, his mishandling of Father’s money was proof.
He grasped the metal railings, the brown river glinting in the sun.
A guilty sinner? Or forgiven? Burdened to restitution for which he’d never make sufficient amends? Or set free? Was his life focused on good deeds? Or was he to focus on a good God?
Did God truly see him as a forgiven sinner, or a sinner who was forgiven? Which was greater in His eyes? Somehow, he felt the answer to this would dictate the rest of his life.
For they were not the same. The emphasis on one would lead to the same mistakes he’d made, always working hard to get God’s approval rather than knowing he possessed it already. Not, of course, because of anything he had done, but because of everything Jesus Christ had done. Yes, he needed to recognize his sin, but surely constant focus on such things to motivate him was not the empowering way God wanted him to live.
Was it not better to focus on the forgiveness and the Forgiver? If, instead of thinking on his sin, he thought more about what Jesus had done, would that not lead to a greater sense of freedom? Would it not lead to love, to hope, to a peace he’d never really known?
He shifted from where he was standing, blocking the pedestrians around him, and moved to a small park of trees, surrounded by a wire fence. A wooden bench beckoned him to rest. Did not God want him to focus on His provision, His empowering, His grace? To rest in His mercy?
“Forgive me.”
He swallowed. How long would he need to keep saying that? Or could he believe, once and for all, that he was truly forgiven?
Forgiven.
Forgiven.
He drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. Looked up. A small robin flew past, chattering to his mate, their flight a dance in the wind. His spirits lifted and he smiled.
The turmoil of his mind receded. The demands of his heart eased. A sense of peace washed over his soul; a sense that, yes, he truly was forgiven.
He exhaled. Savored the inner stillness.
Perhaps this rush of anxiety he’d experienced in recent weeks was not what God wanted for him, was not God’s best. Perhaps wearing himself out through trying to help others was not what God required of him. Perhaps God had other plans for him.
Could God have good things planned for him?
What would they be? A wife? A home? A family?
He exhaled. But he had no right to ask. No right to wish for anything pleasant, that would give pleasure …
Or did he?
If God had good things planned for Ned, did that not invite him to ask God for them? Or was God’s will such that this was all Ned would ever enjoy?
Another deep breath. Another long exhale.
The birds chirped, and he followed their movements dipping to the grass, where they chattered to each other, before tilting their heads to look at him.
What was it Jesus had said? “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?”
If God cared so much for tiny birds, then surely God’s blessings would be beyond mere sufficiency?
He smiled, a smile that seemed to push from his very soul. Regardless of what happened, he was going to trust God. He was going to live with faith, and not according to his fears. He would ask God for His favor, and not expect to receive His curse. He would live and perhaps one day, learn to love.
But God would have to help him.
CHAPTER EİGHTEEN
Aldershot House, Hampshire
THE CARRIAGE DREW up outside a large and imposing gray-stoned building. Three stories tall with high gables and enough glass to suggest the owners held no concerns about a window tax, the building possessed a haughty grandeur. Cecy couldn’t help but contrast its boxlike shape unfavorably to the mellow gold of Aynsley, whose lengthy façade was known throughout the southwest of England. But perhaps everyone held a preference for their own home.
The carriage steps were pulled down, and she and her mother were assisted to descend. Cecy glanced around. Autumnal color blazed through the trees, the grass holding the slight tinge of ruddiness usual for this time of year. She drew in a deep breath, the pleasant tang of smoke-laden air filling her nostrils. Truly autumn was a lovely time of year.
“Ah, Lady Aynsley, and dear Miss Hatherleigh.” Her host and hostess, Lord and Lady Aldershot, drew close, accompanied by their son, Robert, their round faces wreathed in smiles as if they were truly glad for the company. “We are so glad for the opportunity to further our acquaintance.”
Was that because they envisaged Cecy as a future daughter-in-law? She offered a suitably polite response and was soon following her mother up the stairs and inside.
Voices drifted through the vestibule, enough to suggest theirs was not the first arrival of guests for this house party. At a screech of laughter, Cecy stifled a sigh, dreading the encounter with anyone who could be responsible for such a sound.
“Now,” their hostess said, leading them to the drawing room where that laughter and conversation drew to an abrupt halt. “I believe you should know everyone.”
A round of introductions soon revealed their hostess’s assertion to be the case. The lords and ladies were many she had met during her presentation season, and she was on speaking terms—if not precisely friendship terms—with everyone.
“We anticipate a few more guests, but some of them are not able to arrive for several days. Now, we have an array of activities planned to entertain you. Of course, the gentlemen will be keen to go riding, especially as the New Forest holds quite some of the best trails in the country.”
Cecy joined the murmured approbation, though she doubted she would have much cause to ride. Verity’s envy upon finding out Cecy’s destination had been evident in her recent letter, and Cecy knew her sister would have enjoyed the hills and trails more than she. But she would not complain. She fixed her expression to one of complaisance.
“And of course, we shall be merry with the fair and the Michaelmas ball next week.”
“Wonderful,” she tried to enthuse.
A careful glance around the room showed the exact types she had believed would be invited to such a house party. People she remembered from her season whose sympathy for those affected by the Lancashire troubles would be nonexistent, their conversations instead running from gossip about royals to the latest theatre scandals to the wedded bliss—or otherwise—of those acquaintances snapped up since the last season. Knowing this party held the very real purpose of seeing several other unattached people “snapped up” or “brought up to scratch” as the vulgar put it, Cecy only hoped and prayed she would not be one of those forced to succumb. Because while the young gentlemen were uniformly polite and held varyi
ng degrees of wit and handsomeness, there were none of them who caused her heart to give the remotest kind of flutter. None, in short, who could hold a candle to the one who wasn’t there.
THAT EVENING, FOLLOWING a meal loudly lauded for the quantity and variety of its courses, the ladies retired to the drawing room to await the men’s conclusion of their consumption of port. Cecy sat next to Miss Fairley, a young lady of lesser fortune whose parents held a baronetcy somewhere in the east. She was pleasant enough, but the lack of returned questions soon made her realize this acquaintanceship would likely never warm to anything more. One-sided conversations rarely did.
A movement of seating found her sitting next to their hostess, who began to speak on matters of the next day. “It would be nice if the others were here, but I’m sure we will still enjoy our time whilst we await them.”
Cecy dared to enquire as to whom would complete the party, though she was sure she had been informed several times already.
Her hostess did not seem to mind. “Oh, young Abbotsbury, my godson, and I believe he’s bringing a guest. And Robert mentioned one of his friends may yet come, too. Really, I do not know what young people are about these days, saying they’ll do one thing and then not bothering to show up or showing up days later than they say they will. Truly, it is a mystery to me. People certainly did not behave in such a cavalier manner when I was a girl, but I suppose it is the way of the world.” She sighed, but her expression held little that might be ascribed as anger. “I do not wonder at your interest, although I’m sure none can hold a candle to my dear Robert.”
This was said with a sharp look that had Cecy reassuring her of Lord Robert’s perfect amiability. She writhed within; she had never been able to find the words of honesty that would spring to Caro’s or Verity’s lips so easily. Did striving to be polite make her a hypocrite?
“Now, remember, you do not need to stand on ceremony here. Really, we are most eager to demonstrate our hospitality, and there is no one dear Robert is so keen to impress as you, dear Miss Hatherleigh.”
Cecy gave a strained smile, before meekly agreeing to begin the musical performances when the gentlemen finally joined them.
Later, she was glad not to receive any encores, the eagerness of the other ladies to exhibit allowing her to be seated among the onlookers, although the seat next to her mother probably was not what her hostess had in mind.
“Dear Miss Hatherleigh, please, come and join us here.” Lady Aldershot motioned to the sofa space between herself and her son.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I am content.”
Mother gave a narrowed look, forcing Cecy to succumb to politeness the next time she was encouraged to alter her seat. She gritted her teeth. The next two weeks would prove of far greater challenge than she had supposed.
His decision to move into his own lodgings he suspected came as relief to Uncle Lionel, but perhaps that was just his old anxieties murmuring. He did enjoy the freedom the Aldford Street address permitted, and suspected Griffiths did also, now he needn’t share rooms with other servants. Apart from a maid who cleaned several times a week, Griffiths was his only servant, a situation that helped him feel more at ease than the many cluttering Lionel’s house.
Aunt Susannah made him promise to take his dinner with them at least once a week, and it was after one of these meals that she exclaimed, “Oh! You must forgive me for not mentioning this before. A card came for you today. From a Lord Featherington.”
Featherington … He recalled now. The man whose pretty redheaded wife had murmured something about engendering support for his cause from her cousin-by-marriage.
“He said he would appreciate your call in the morning, if that would be convenient.”
Lionel eyed him. “I did not know you were acquainted with the Marquess of Exeter’s son.”
“I’m not particularly. We met briefly at Lord Fearnley’s dinner.”
His uncle’s face held a trace of pleasure. “Sounds like that was a dinner worth attending.”
“Indeed, it was,” Ned agreed, thinking of the freedom his encounter with Lord Winthrop had led to.
“I am glad to see you making more of an effort socially. Hard work requires times of refreshing also.”
He soon made his excuses, thanking his aunt and uncle for the meal and for the collection of his mail.
At his Aldford Street address, he opened an envelope that bore the seal of Abbotsbury. Inside it contained a reminder of the invitation issued weeks ago. He’d said he would consider it; he’d barely had a chance, but perhaps if this visit to Featherington went as he hoped, he might be able to answer in the affirmative. His uncle’s appreciation of his hard work might permit another little break, and he would surely approve time spent with Abbotsbury as a connection worth cultivation. And time spent with Abbotsbury might persuade him to the benefits—and funding—of his scheme to help the poor with legal expenses …
The next day was fine, his walk through the streets bordering Mayfair as much a chance to order his thoughts as it was to gain some exercise. Life working at a desk provided few opportunities for physical activity, so he sought opportunities to do so.
He strode to the town house listed on the visiting card, his tap on the door answered so swiftly it was apparent he was expected. The hall was filled with boxes and trunks, suggesting the imminent departure of more than a few people. Precisely who the travelers were he learned through the call of an officious servant to “Mind her ladyship’s things don’t get dropped down the stairs.”
Proof of his assumptions came from the apology rendered from the butler, who encouraged Ned to enter a small drawing room with the promise to find the master “as soon as is possible, given he is soon to leave.”
This was clearly seen when Lord Featherington entered the room, his boyish countenance holding something akin to agitation. “Forgive me,” he said, drawing near, hand outstretched. “Had I known yesterday what I know today, I would have put off this interview. But my father is unwell, and we are forced to head to Devon as a matter of some urgency.”
“I can return when it is more convenient,” Ned said, refusing to sit as his host gestured.
“No, no. This is something I should have done when my wife first suggested it. I was remiss to take so long, when all it need be is a simple note of introduction.” Lord Featherington looked at him. “You may be aware that my cousin is married to Lord Hawkesbury.”
“Yes.” He’d heard about the man, but had not had the privilege of meeting one of England’s up-and-coming politicians.
“He is very busy, of course, but his compassion never fails to be stirred by those lacking privilege and wealth. In fact, these matters in Manchester have brought him back to London. My wife was most informative as to what your efforts entail, and insistent that I ensure your introduction as soon as able. To my shame it has not been until now, but here”—he withdrew a letter bound with a red seal—“I trust this will prove sufficient.”
Ned must have looked his surprise because the viscount hurried on. “It’s nothing really, just a note explaining the circumstances. But it should see you past the secretaries who so often seem designed to hinder rather than help, which can tend to impede one’s progress, especially when one has something of import to communicate.”
Ned smiled wryly. How true that proved for some of the legal clerks he worked with. “Thank you, sir.”
“No thanks necessary. I trust it will expedite matters for you.”
“I’m sure it will,” Ned said, rising to his feet. “I will not delay you a moment longer.”
Lord Featherington nodded, murmuring something about the challenges of sudden illness.
Ned offered his sympathy and best wishes, adding, “I will add your father to my prayers.”
The viscount looked touched. “Thank you.”
Ned bowed, and was soon on his way to the Palace of Westminster, prayers on his lips, letter and documents in hand.
An hour later, he was ensconce
d in a room that came under the auspices of the Home Office, his passage past a variety of undersecretaries definitely made easier by the letter the viscount had written. A letter Lord Hawkesbury now tapped on his imposing desk, his hazel eyes keenly searching Ned’s face.
“I recall now. You were involved in the Hale incident last year.” Would he never forget his shame? Ned bowed his head. “It is a time I wish I had never embarked on.”
“Many of us have had similar experiences. Thank God they can be left in the past.”
“That I do.”
“Thank God or leave it in the past?”
“I endeavor to thank God, and am working toward the other.”
“Good.” A small smile creased the other man’s lips. “Now, what is it precisely you wish for me to do?”
As succinctly as he could, Ned outlined his request, that the earl would take the time to peruse his carefully collated notes concerning those affected by unjust representation in Parliament, with a view to potentially tabling such things in Parliament when it next resumed.
“I understand that will not be for some months yet, but I thought that would give time for you to read my report, and perhaps, if you find yourself interested, then you may be so good as to permit me to introduce you to some of those who have been so affected.”
“I am interested.” His eyes glinted. “But you do understand that this is something out of my usual jurisdiction.”
“Yes.”
“But still you wish me to proceed?”
“I do not wish to place further burdens on you, my lord—”
“Any burdens I have are ones I don’t hesitate to carry.”
Ned smiled. “But I do feel it would be the godly thing to do. I … I have seen the work of Wilberforce and others and have read of their passion to see slavery abolished, and I know these matters can take far longer than we might like. But I also feel that if we do nothing, then it will take even longer for the misery to be overturned and justice to prevail.”
“Well said,” Lord Hawkesbury acknowledged with a dip of his chin. “I wonder at how such interest was ignited.”
Underestimating Miss Cecilia Page 19
