by Brooke, Meg
She placed one palm on his cheek. “Why do you have to be so good at that?” she asked, laughing.
“Is it inconvenient for you, my philosopher-queen?” he asked. She looked away, her countenance suddenly troubled. “What is it?”
“Clarissa calls me that,” she said, “when we are feeling gloomy. We used to have such funny names for each other, when we were girls.”
“Do you know, I think that’s the first thing you’ve told me about your childhood. I would dearly love to know what you were like as a girl.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said, her tone becoming serious. “I did not have a happy childhood, Charles.”
“I had guessed as much. I have met your father, after all.”
“It wasn’t what you think. I was very free, you know, compared to other young ladies. I had many advantages. But I don’t remember ever being happy except when I was with Clarissa.”
Was she going to tell him her great secret? He didn’t dare move or say a word.
“We were each other’s refuge, you see, when—” There was a voice in the corridor, very near the door of the box. Cynthia pulled away suddenly, just as the doorknob turned.
Imogen came in, still laughing at something Miss Chesney had said. The two young women smiled, and Miss Chesney cried, “Miss Endersby! It is so good to see you again. Tell me, are you attending Clarissa’s dinner tomorrow?”
“I am,” Cynthia said, all trace of the vulnerable woman who had been there just moments earlier gone.
“Then I shall see you there. Oh, how delightful! But I must return to our box or Leo will be missing me when the play resumes.” Then she was gone. Cynthia was already returning to her seat. Imogen shot Charles a meaningful glance, but said nothing. He took his seat next to Cynthia again, but she said almost nothing for the rest of the evening. The moment had been lost.
TWELVE
January 13, 1834
“No, not this one either,” Cynthia said, casting another gown onto the bed. Ellen sighed.
“Miss, we’ve tried seven gowns already,” she said.
In the mirror, Cynthia shot her an arch look.
“Sorry, Miss,” Ellen said.
“No, you’re right. This is foolish. It doesn’t matter what I wear.”
“It doesn’t,” Ellen agreed. “You look lovely no matter what, and I think the duke knows that.”
Cynthia blushed. “I’m not...that is, I don’t wish to please him,” she said.
Ellen smiled slyly. “Of course not, Miss. We’ve only been looking at gowns for an hour now because you love trying on clothes so much.”
They both knew this wasn’t true. Cynthia laughed. “You’re right,” she said, dropping into the chair in the corner. “Oh, Ellen, what am I to do?”
Ellen picked up one of the gowns off the bed. “It isn’t my place to say, Miss.”
“Rubbish.”
“Very well,” Ellen said, “you wish to know what I think? I think it’s not fair to deny yourself happiness for the rest of your life to spite your father. I don’t know the duke, Miss, but the servants say he is a good, honest, decent man with a kind heart, that he isn’t the rake people think he is. Perhaps you should give him a chance. Perhaps he would make you happy.”
“Do you know,” Cynthia said, “you’re the second person to say that to me in as many days.”
“Because it’s true, Miss,” Ellen said, sweeping the dresses off the bed.
She finally selected the eggplant-colored day dress she had always liked because its sleeves were simpler than the current fashion. He liked her in satin and silk—she had discovered that last night. But would he like her in faded purple? She tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter what she wore, that an enlightened woman would not care, and that a man who appreciated an enlightened woman wouldn’t either. But she knew she was wrong. It mattered to her that he found her beautiful. Her father had seen to that when he had moved to the second phase of his great experiment, forgetting his earlier rejection of corsets and curls and fine tailoring in favor of the beauty he thought she would need to reflect outwardly in order to gain the power he so valued. Still, Cynthia wanted to know that Charles found her mind beautiful as well. Not that she was thinking of accepting his proposal, of course. It was simply the gratification of his good opinion that she sought.
Rubbish, Cynthia, she said to herself as she slipped into her mantle.
Just as she was about to depart, there was a knock at the door. Mallory appeared instantly to open it, revealing Charles himself waiting on the stoop.
He stepped inside. A quick, nearly invisible nod to Mallory was all it took for the butler to disappear as quickly as he had appeared. “Good afternoon, Miss Endersby,” Charles said.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”
“I wonder whether we might not conduct our lesson this afternoon in a slightly more...intellectually stimulating environment,” he said.
“What did you have in mind?”
“The National Gallery,” he said. When she frowned, he added, “Oh, come, Miss Endersby. The National Gallery is an institution of His Majesty’s government, a thoroughly proper place to expand our minds. What do you say?”
There was something going on at Danforth House, Cynthia realized, something he didn’t want her to know about or some event at which she couldn’t be seen. He couldn’t tell her that, of course, but she thought it was especially shrewd of him to invite her to the one of the few places she had never been able to resist. “That sounds pleasant, Your Grace,” she said, and she allowed him to lead her down to his carriage.
She knew, of course. Charles had seen that almost the moment he had asked her to the National Gallery. He wondered if Imogen had told her about the at-home this afternoon. She certainly hadn’t told him, which was why he had been so surprised when bevies of eager young ladies began appearing in the hall at half past one. He had rushed down to the sitting room where Imogen and Gillian were awaiting their guests.
“Is there some sort of knitting circle of which I was not informed taking place today?”
Gillian laughed. “Don’t be silly, Charles. It’s our first at-home of the Season. Oh, you will ask Miss Endersby to come down, won’t you?”
“I don’t believe I shall,” he said through gritted teeth.
Gillian had blinked bemusedly at him, but Imogen had leaned a little closer and said softly, “Charles, I feel like an absolute cake. It didn’t occur to me until about ten minutes ago how it would look to have you and Cynthia closeted away upstairs while all these people are here. But really, it is Monday. I didn’t expect your...arrangement to be altered.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “Now I must find something else to do with her, that’s all.”
“Have you considered the National Gallery? If there’s anyone I know who wouldn’t be offended by all that naked flesh, it’s Cynthia.”
The thought of viewing naked flesh with Cynthia had been at once so terrifying and appealing that he had said, “That’s not a bad idea.” Besides, he had wanted to discuss his latest assignment outside the house, where no one would hear him if he shouted.
Now, however, it was clear that his plan had not worked as well as he had hoped. She clearly understood that there was a reason why they couldn’t go to Danforth House, though he wasn’t certain she was exactly angry about it.
“Did you read the article I left for you?”
“I did.” That morning he had discovered on his desk a copy of Blackwood’s, the staid Scottish Tory rag with its picture of George Buchanan glaring up at the reader. She had marked a specific article for him, but he had read the whole thing, feeling more and more at ease with his decision to side with the Whigs with every word. When he had finally reached the story she had marked, however, he had almost thrown the blasted thing in the fire. The article was a twisting of Mary Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Women, arguing that if women were truly free, they ought to support themselves in any way th
ey could, including selling their bodies. Since serving men was their primary purpose, the author argued, why shouldn’t women be paid for it? Was it any wonder he had felt like shouting, he asked himself. “Did you mean for me to be enraged by it?”
She shrugged.
“I was. The very idea of someone misinterpreting Wollstonecraft like that, of saying those things...it’s disgusting.”
“Of course it is,” she said. “But I wanted you to understand what some of our countrymen think of the fairer sex. If they can disparage women in such a way, it seems entirely possible for them to denigrate the poor and helpless as well.”
“I suppose you are right,” he said. The urge to shout at her was fading. “I only thought that perhaps—”
“You thought I sent it because of what you told me last night?”
“I confess the thought had occurred to me.”
She looked horrified. “Oh, Charles, I would never—I mean, it would be impossible for me to deride you for—” she paused. “What I mean to say is that I brought the magazine last night, when I came to Danforth House for dinner. I forgot that it was even on your desk until this morning, and then there was nothing I could do about it. I’m sorry if it offended you.”
“No,” he replied, “it didn’t offend me—well, it did, but not for that reason. I’m glad you sent it. Someone has to stand up for the people that magazine’s editor thinks are blights on society.”
She smiled that satisfied smile again. “I think you will make an excellent Member of Parliament, Charles.”
He shook his finger at her. “You’re not finished with me yet,” he said.
“No, indeed. Now we must move on from the philosophy and politics to something far more difficult: the people.”
“You mean the members of the House of Lords? I know most of them by sight, at least.”
“Not the Lords, Charles. The Commons.”
“The Commons?”
She nodded. “Since the Great Reform, they have a great deal more power. And success in Parliament is, unfortunately, mostly about power. You cannot simply buy a rotten borough and ram your agenda through that way any more. You may actually have to listen to a few of the unwashed masses.”
He wrinkled his nose in mock revulsion. “If I must, I must,” he said with a dramatic sigh.
“Oh, Charles, come off it. You might actually like a few of them, you know.”
“Heaven forefend!” he cried.
She actually giggled. He had always thought he hated women who giggled, but the sound that came from her lips was melodious and light-hearted and so utterly surprising that he had to smother the urge to leap across the carriage and kiss her dizzy right there in the center of Pall Mall. Fortunately, the carriage stopped and gave him an excuse to get out of the confined space.
The National Gallery, which had been endowed by the British government only ten years earlier, was housed in a tall, narrow townhouse on Pall Mall. A much larger, grander building was being erected in the newly christened Trafalgar Square, but it would not be ready to receive the burgeoning collection of paintings that had been left to or purchased by the British government for a few more years, at least. For now the collection, which had been expanded as the government continued to pay impoverished families for their artwork, was still housed here in this unprepossessing space. Charles had been to see the collection a few times, but he had never quite been able to put his finger on what it was he found so intriguing about the place.
As if she had read his thoughts, Cynthia asked as they entered the building, “Do you ever find it an odd juxtaposition, all this grandeur in such a small, simple space? Sometimes I think it is like a magic trick, the box too small to hold so much wonder, the bag that could not possibly contain a rabbit but miraculously does.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he said rather unnecessarily, holding out his arm for her. The Gallery itself appeared to be mostly empty. They progressed into the first room, which showcased two landscapes and three seaports by Claude.
“Imogen is having an at-home, isn’t she?” Cynthia asked as they stood before one of the seaport paintings.
He knew he looked sheepish as he said, “Yes. I’m sorry, I couldn’t—”
“No, it’s quite all right. It would have looked odd, having me in the library with all those women downstairs. And I couldn’t very well join them when I haven’t given you an answer yet. There would have been too many questions.”
For a long while they wandered in silence. Charles marveled at how Cynthia was able to approach everything with such singular focus, whether it was philosophy or a social event or viewing these masterpieces. She seemed wholly absorbed by the task at hand, as though she was certain that any moment the paintings would be snatched away, never to be seen again.
Then they came to a room containing only one painting, a large canvas displaying Rubens’s The Rape of the Sabine Women. As they stared at the riotous scene, he said, “I’ve never understood this painting.”
She said nothing, but he could feel her looking at him questioningly.
“The Sabine women have been living in poverty in the wilderness, and now here the Romans are, trying to give them lives of peace and safety, and they’re fighting against it.”
“Luxury and safety are not everything, Your Grace,” she said.
“You think the Sabine women cared about love?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not love, but perhaps honor. Everyone has their pride.”
“I suppose that’s true,” he said, wondering if they were speaking now of the Sabine women or of her.
“Perhaps if the Romans had also had chests full of treasure and mansions on the hills, the Sabine women would not have resisted so forcefully,” she said, smiling.
He nodded, but said nothing. The rest of the way through the Gallery he wondered whether she felt pressured to accept his suit because she knew that he could give her a life of luxury she had never imagined.
When the time came for them to leave he preceded her out of the Gallery, still feeling bemused. He stepped up to the curb where the carriage was waiting and turned to hand her in, only to find that she was no longer by his side.
She had not gone far. Beside the townhouse that held the Gallery was a narrow alley, and Cynthia had strayed a small distance into it. She was crouching low over a medium-sized bundle that sat against the building. Charles went to her and was about to ask her what she was looking at when the bundle moved.
“It’s all right,” Cynthia said, holding out a gentle hand. “I want to help.”
“Don’t neither,” said the bundle in a muffled voice. “You’ll take me to the home, that’s what you’ll do.”
“How do you know that?” she asked, tilting her head to one side a little. Charles took another step closer and glimpsed a face within the bundle. It was a child, its face so caked in grime and filth that it was impossible to tell whether it was a boy or a girl. The child was wrapped in a large, threadbare gray blanket, and Charles could see feet wrapped in rags poking out from under the hem.
“That’s what my mam told me,” the child explained, casting a suspicious glance at Charles.
“Don’t worry,” Cynthia said soothingly, “my friend and I mean you no harm. Are you hungry?”
The child stared at her, its lower lip trembling. At last there was a small nod.
“Charles,” Cynthia said, not looking up at him, “I think there was a woman selling roasted potatoes on the corner. Would you go and buy one?”
For a moment Charles was so surprised that he couldn’t move. But then he turned and walked towards the corner, glancing back quickly to make sure his driver was watching Cynthia and the child. He found the woman with her cart. “How much?” he asked, feeling in his pocket.
“Ha’penny,” the woman muttered. Charles fished a shilling from his pocket and gave it to her, taking the potato wrapped in paper from her. “Keep the change,” he said, walking away before she could even respond.
“Go slowly,” Cynthia cautioned as the child sucked in a mouthful of air around the hot potato. “It’s hot.” The girl continued to eat. “Do you have a name?” Cynthia asked, and when the girl looked up at Charles again she said, “Would you wait over there?”
Trying not to laugh, Charles went and stood next to the driver who was still waiting with the carriage. They watched as Cynthia spoke to the girl in a hushed voice and took a card from her reticule, pressing it into the girl’s hand. There seemed to be some small argument, and finally the girl got up and disappeared down the alley.
Cynthia rose rather stiffly. Charles went over to her. “I was crouching a long while,” she said, smiling wryly as she looked down the alley. “Her name is Annabeth. She’s twelve. Thank you, Charles.”
“It was nothing,” he said, staring at her. He had never quite imagined her as a charitable, caring sort of person. She struck him as so academically aloof, so removed from the concerns of the real world, that seeing her crouched over that child had been rather shocking. But it had also been endearing and humbling. He had not even noticed the child, but Cynthia had found her. “I suppose there are thousands of boys and girls like her.”
Cynthia nodded, still staring down the alley. “Tens of thousands,” she said. “I grew up so removed from poverty and want, Charles. I’m sure you did, too. Sometimes it seems as though people like that are invisible.”
“I will make sure they aren’t,” he insisted, and he meant it.
“You do know,” she said as he was handing her back into the carriage, “that it is not your wealth that attracts me.”
