by Brooke, Meg
That occasion had been quite disastrous. Cynthia had known that she and Clarissa would cross paths again, of course. But she had hoped that it might be intentional, or at least expected. She had not had time to prepare herself for the sight of her former best friend, the girl who had smuggled fairy tales and romance novels to her in exchange for dancing lessons on the banks behind Oxford.
Clarissa had not noticed her yet; she was still speaking to Miss Chesney. Cynthia cast about, wondering if it might be possible to hide. How foolish she was being! Before he had begun teaching her to lie convincingly, her father had tried to teach her that honesty was one way to show one’s humanity. Cynthia had done nothing more than tell Clarissa the truth, though she knew it had been painful and devastating. Surely she couldn’t be angry with her still?
“Imogen!” Miss Chesney. She flitted across the small space. “How are you, dear? And Gillian. It is lovely to see you both in town...” Cynthia did not hear the rest of her speech. Her eyes had met Clarissa’s. Neither of them said anything as Miss Chesney prattled on.
“Miss Endersby?” Lady Imogen was asking. “Do you know the Countess of Stowe?”
Cynthia prepared to be cut. Now Clarissa would turn her back and walk out of the library. And Cynthia deserved it. But instead, Clarissa smiled and said, “Of course I know Cynthia. She and I were girls together. It is so wonderful to see you again. How have you been all these months?” Then her hand was reaching out and capturing Cynthia’s. She tried to return the smile. Her heart was beating in her throat.
“I am well, thank you. My congratulations on the arrival of your twins.”
Clarissa smiled blissfully. “They are perfect, Cynthia. You must come and meet them one day soon. I am at home Friday afternoons. You too, Lady Imogen, Lady Gillian.”
“Of course we shall come!” Lady Gillian cried. “How lovely! May we, Imogen?”
“Since you have already accepted, I don’t see how it can be avoided,” Lady Imogen joked. “It would be our pleasure. We must be getting Miss Endersby home now, Gillian.”
The two women moved towards the door, but as Cynthia followed them, she felt Clarissa’s hold on her hand tighten. “Please come, Cynthia,” Clarissa said. “It would mean the world to me.”
Cynthia fought back tears. “I will try,” she said. Then she rushed after Lady Imogen, who was waiting for her at the door.
“I didn’t know you knew the Countess of Stowe,” Lady Gillian said as they got into the carriage. “She is quite the intellectual, I understand.” The implication was clear.
“She is, and all on her own,” Cynthia said. It would not do for people to think Clarissa was one of her former pupils. “A genius in her own right. Lord Stowe was lucky to find her.”
“I think so, too. She is such a lovely woman,” Lady Imogen put in.
“Will you go with us to her at-home on Friday, Miss Endersby?” Lady Gillian asked. Lady Imogen shot her a disapproving glance, but she ignored it.
“I am afraid I have another appointment Friday,” Cynthia lied smoothly. “Perhaps another time. Thank you for asking.”
“Of course,” Lady Imogen said, and the relief in her voice was clear. Cynthia understood perfectly. It was one thing to be seen in a public place with her, and quite another to arrive together for an at-home. It would send the impression that Cynthia’s relationship with the Bainbridge family was closer than it really was.
She would just have to find another time to see Clarissa and apologize for nearly destroying her happiness.
SIX
January 9, 1834
At half past one, Charles rang for Partridge. “Will you show Miss Endersby up immediately when she arrives?” he asked. “And I should like a tea tray prepared as well.”
The butler did what he was extremely well paid to do: nodded and left without comment, as if he hadn’t heard Imogen preemptively scolding her brother that morning in the hall. “If Miss Endersby is not served tea this afternoon, Charles, I shall have to give you up for a Neanderthal,” she had said. Charles had promised he would be an attentive host, though privately he thought his sister might have misunderstood the arrangement he had with Miss Endersby. Still, he could not deny a desire to impress the girl. He had finished Malthus’s Essay on the Principle of Population—even the chapters she had not suggested he read—and had moved on to the Hansard, though it was slow going. He kept having to search out other volumes to help him distinguish James I from James II and the first two Georges.
He meant to do better today than he had on Tuesday, if only because there were four days between today and their next meeting, and he was sure should would assign him an even greater reading list if he wasn’t prepared.
When Partridge announced Miss Endersby at two, Charles was sitting at the great table with the Hansard before him. He rose to greet her, and she curtsied politely. “Your Grace.”
“Miss Endersby. So nice to see you again.”
She smiled weakly. She looked tired, but he could hardly comment on that, could he? “Have you finished the Malthus?” she asked, crossing to the table. It was only as she did so that he saw she was holding another book in her hands. She took off her bonnet and set it down, and he waited until she had seated herself before offering tea, just so that she would have to allow him to pour her a cup.
“I have,” he said, not asking her whether she would even like tea. Imogen had told him she did not take cream or sugar. He set the cup before her and went to pour his own. “I have several questions.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said, frowning down at the teacup.
He came back to the table and sat down. “Is he actually claiming that prosperity breeds poverty?”
“Yes,” she said. “Have you not seen, with all the wealth that has been amassed by the British Empire, that it seems as though the number of poor and indigent people grows each day?”
He had to concede that he had. It was almost impossible not to notice the people who appeared to have nowhere to go but the workhouse—especially the children.
“And yet,” she said, “it seems that many of the genteel classes do not notice the suffering of the poor. They think the solution is to force them into active professions, when of course there are not enough of those to go around.”
“I see you have an opinion on this subject,” he said, thinking again of what she had said the other day, about his obligation to use the power he now had to help those who were less fortunate. When he had gotten over the initial shock of her scolding him, he had realized that there was merit in what she said.
She looked away. “I suppose I do. But you must form your own. I would not wish to influence you.”
Was this her way of apologizing for her outburst? Once, Charles might have toyed with her, but she looked so serious that he said instead, “I’m inclined to agree with you. The workhouses may be awful enough to encourage the poor to seek employment, but those who have no other choice must suffer terribly in them. There must be...how does he put it? There must be preventative solutions. We cannot just expect these people to die obligingly and decrease the surplus population.”
“No,” she agreed. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way.”
“What I cannot understand,” Charles went on, feeling his curiosity overwhelm him, “is how he expects us to bring about such solutions without education. How can we teach the poor how to improve their quality of life without first teaching them to read and write?”
She favored him with the strangest smile. He could have sworn she looked almost proud. “I must confess those are my sentiments exactly,” she said at length. “Education is the key to many locks. But that is a great battle, far greater than the Poor Laws alone. I do not know if it is a battle we will be able to fight in our lifetimes.”
“But isn’t that the purpose of Parliament? Isn’t it our duty to fight the great fights?” he demanded, throwing her words of the other day back at her.
That cryptic smile again. “I think so,
Your Grace.”
“Well, I’m glad you agree with me at least. What have you brought today?”
She laid the book on the table. “It is Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal. Do you know it?”
He picked up the thin volume. “No.”
“Why don’t you take a look at it while I select a few other items from your shelves?” she asked.
He nodded his agreement and opened the book. In the time it took her to lay two volumes on the table, he was thoroughly disgusted. She stopped what she was doing when he threw the book down.
“This is horrible,” he said. “Is the man actually suggesting that we eat the children of the poor?”
She sat, her face grim. “Do you not think it a reasonable solution? After all, they will only grow up to populate the workhouses and prisons.”
“Every child should have hope. Every child deserves a chance, at least. And no parent would care so little for their child, or allow such a terrible thing to happen, no matter how poor or desperate they were.”
She smiled. “I am glad to hear you say that. Swift’s proposal is satire. He does not actually mean it. But you will notice the way he cleverly parrots the words of many of the leading politicians of his day to highlight their hypocrisies. Masterful work.”
He glared at the book. “Horrible, but masterful,” he managed, though inwardly he was still disgusted. Was this the sort of thing academics thought about all day? He knew that Roger Endersby belonged to debate societies and academic clubs. Did he sit in a comfortable chair somewhere calmly discussing such topics? The idea horrified him.
Miss Endersby was watching him intently. “It disturbs you,” she said at last, in such a clinically detached tone that he felt suddenly angry.
“You’re damn right it does,” he said. “I beg your pardon,” he added when he realized he had sworn.
“It’s all right. I am pleased that you find it disturbing. Would you believe there were some who actually championed the position when his writings first came out?”
He gaped at her.
“There will always be those who do what is politically expedient or fiscally prudent. I hope that you will be able to choose wisely, more wisely than they.”
“I hope so, too,” he replied. He cast one last look at the book and shuddered.
“Let’s put that away for now,” she said, “and turn to Parliamentary procedure.” But as she slid the next book in front of him, he found himself staring at her in a way she probably would have considered rude if she hadn’t been so focused on the pages.
When she had said that she hoped he would choose wisely, the strangest feeling had come over him. He had said that he hoped so, too, not just because he truly did, but because he wanted to see that delighted smile on her face again. He had the strangest desire to make her proud. Perhaps it was her gift as a teacher.
It was that moment when he realized that he was in deep danger. He had told himself he could withstand Miss Endersby’s looks, but it was her compassion and idealism that were her true beauty. How strange. He had never found such a thing attractive in a woman before, perhaps because they were always accompanied by tremendous arrogance. But with Miss Endersby there was a complete lack of pretentiousness that he found refreshing.
“Your Grace?” she asked, gesturing to one of the pages.
Charles tried to bend himself to his studies, knowing that there was little chance of him concentrating now.
Cynthia was surprised when four o’clock arrived. But she was even more surprised when the duke escorted her out himself. As he did, he put his hand on her elbow, and she fought the urge to pull away. She mustn’t alienate him, she reminded herself. It wouldn’t do for him to think she disliked him.
But as he handed her into the carriage, she reminded himself that there was a greater danger, and that she was treading precariously close to it.
Ever since that day when she had decided never to marry, she had been carefully constructing a wall around her heart. She knew there was such a thing as love, and she knew that there were men and women who felt it for each other, but she was determined never to let such an emotion make her weak, make her forget the promise she had made to herself. But it was as if someone had told him exactly what to say to make her weak at the knees. When he had said that, about the poor being educated, she had smiled rather idiotically at him—she knew he had because he had unconsciously mimicked the expression, which meant that he had noticed. Now, in the privacy of the carriage, she put her hands over her face.
“Focus, Cynthia,” she said. “There is a task at hand. It is nothing more than that.” But her words sounded hollow. This could not happen, she told herself. She would steel herself. She had four days before she would have to see him again.
As Mallory let her in, he said, “Mr. Endersby would like to see you in the study, Miss.”
Cynthia’s hands suddenly began to tremble. It was after four o’clock. Her father almost never wished to see her so late in the day—he preferred to do his shouting in the morning. So she took a deep breath and went dutifully into the study.
She stood for several moments while he finished reading an article in the paper. She had found over the years that when he wished to throw her off guard, he made her wait before his desk for as long as he could, as though she were too unimportant for him to have noticed her presence at all. But when he set the paper down she saw that it wasn’t news he had been so carefully perusing, but the scandal sheet. “‘Miss E___,” he read aloud, “Has been recently sighted in the company of the Ladies B___, most notably at Wright’s. One wonders if the Duke of D___ has also been much in her company.’ This is the third day you have come home in the ducal carriage. You have done well.” He looked up at her at last, his small eyes glittering with excitement. “Have you spent much time with him?”
He did not ask her to sit. She was forced to continue standing before his desk as if she were a girl of twelve again. “I have not, sir, though we have been introduced,” she lied, looking directly into his eyes. She had practiced doing this over and over again, until she was certain she could convince him she was telling the truth.
He seemed to accept it now. “You must see that you are able to interact with him more often,” he said. “But you must also take care to keep his sisters interested. A man like that, with younger siblings and no father, will be more interested in the wishes of his sisters. You can snare him if you try, if you are pleasant enough. Do you think you can manage such a thing?”
“Yes, Papa,” she said.
He glared at her. “You look tired. Those dark circles under your eyes make you look old. You must consider your looks. No duke will want a woman who appears older than her years, and you are already—what, twenty-five?”
“Twenty-four, Papa.”
He scoffed. “Too old. You are not trying hard enough. You could have been married by now. Martin’s daughter is married to an earl,” he added, his glare intensifying. “When I think of his child, wed to an earl, it makes me...” he trailed off. Cynthia stared at him. Was this a human emotion he was revealing? Was he feeling nostalgic? But then he shook himself out of whatever stupor he had momentarily entered. “Well. You will just have to work harder. See that you don’t disappointment me.”
“Of course, Papa,” Cynthia said, recognizing that she had been dismissed and escaping into the hall.
He would be watching her more closely now. She had known he would not fail to notice that she was returning in the duke’s carriage. It had been foolish to accept the ride, though there had really been no way to refuse without appearing impolite. She only hoped he didn’t insist on accompanying her to the ball tomorrow night. The last time he had done so, it had been a disaster. He had scolded her in the hall of the Middlebury’s mansion when she had danced with a mere mister. Fortunately only a few people had seen, and the gossip had died quickly. It could have been much worse.
She would have to be more careful in the future. At least he was leaving soo
n for a week of scholarly meetings in Oxford. She would be free of him for that long, free of his watchful, disapproving glares and his meddling. It would be easier then. She did not want him getting too attached to the idea that the duke might be interested in her, for if he did she would never hear the end of it, not even after the man was married to someone else. The rest of his life, he would remind her of how she could have been a duchess, never mind that it was not what she wanted.
Since when had he cared what she wanted? That was the great irony of her life. He had set out to create a woman who knew what she wanted and how to get it, but eventually he had lost sight of that goal. Now he cared only for the achievement of his grand ambition.
But Cynthia would see to it that he never got what he wanted, even if it took every last ounce of strength in her body.
SEVEN
January 10, 1834
“His Lordship will see you now, Your Grace,” the rather pompous-looking secretary said, inclining his head just the barest fraction of an angle.
“Thank you,” Charles said, trying to hide his smile. Lord Brougham’s staff seemed to think very highly of themselves. The young man who had brought him the message that the Lord Chancellor craved a meeting that afternoon had looked just as haughty standing in his library. Just to be difficult, Charles had said he could not possibly get to Westminster before five. The secretary had looked displeased but had gone away with the message. There were benefits to being a duke and outranking all but about forty people in the country.
Now Charles strode into the Lord Chancellor’s office. Henry Brougham, Baron Brougham and Vaux, stood beside his desk, eyes still fixed on whatever document he had been perusing. He looked up when he noticed Charles, however. “Ah, Danforth. I hope the return of the Season has found you well. How goes the battle?”
