He ladled as quickly as he could.
“What’s a fancy fellow like you doing here?”
James focused on the young voice that had finally dared speak to him.
A little girl of about eight years old peered up at him, barely as tall as the table.
“Am I fancy?” he asked, his throat tightening.
She gave him a look that said while he might be fancy, he was certainly dim. “Aye, you are.”
The line had dissipated, and there was no one standing behind the little girl. She stretched her arms up, extending the bowl again. “Stew, if you please.”
James felt as if he were moving through mud as he stirred the stew, ensuring that he would give her several pieces of meat and vegetables. Her blond hair tumbled about her pert face in riotous curls.
Unlike the little girl he’d seen in the park the day before, this child was interacting with him.
A good part of him wanted to back up and head out the entrance just to get away from her. Instead he forced himself to move slowly.
“How old are you?”
She gave him another look that said he was a bit more dim-witted than she’d thought before. “I’m as old my tongue but older than my teeth.”
James smiled. “Who taught you that?”
“Me gran.”
“Is she here?”
The little girl’s face darkened. “She’s in Ireland.”
“You miss her?”
“Are you daft, mister? Of course I do.”
“But you have people here.”
“Me mam. She’s after getting a seat for me so I don’t have to eat standing up.”
“May I meet your mother?”
“What for? She’s not one of those ladies on the street.”
James blanched. How did the child know about such things?
He cursed himself for a fool. He’d seen girls as young as this one trying to offer themselves in the dark shadows of St. Giles. “No, young madam. I’d just like to meet your mother.”
She eyed him, surveying him like a costermonger carefully picking new wares. “I suppose it’s all right.”
“Good.” He placed the ladle down and then wiped his hands on a towel, feeling it was safe to leave his post for a few moments. “Shall we?”
She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve a funny way of speaking.”
He leaned down. “So have you.”
“I have not,” she scoffed.
Clutching her bowl of stew, she headed off carefully.
“Would you like me to carry that for you?”
The little girl shot him a suspicious look. “Get your own stew.”
The idea that he might need to steal a child’s food was another blow. “What’s your name?”
“Bridget,” she said over her shoulder as she balanced the bowl, which was full to the brim.
At her remarkably cautious pace, he shortened his stride considerably, surveying the multiple people sitting, looking for her potential mother.
A young woman sat on the bench, her blond hair cut short to her chin. The palms of her hands were braced against the wooden table as if they were keeping her from falling, but she bore a bright smile.
Bridget scurried up to her and put down the bowl. “This man wants to meet you, Mammy.”
Bridget’s mother lifted her head. It seemed a considerable effort.
Powers clenched his jaw. She looked as if she was working herself into an early grave.
Bridget’s “mam” eyed him carefully. “Can I help you?”
“Your daughter,” he ventured. “She’s lovely.”
Her face tensed, and she tucked her arm around Bridget. “Thank you.”
He shifted on his boots. What had he hoped to accomplish by following Bridget? The little girl clearly had no interest in him whatsoever, and he sensed the mother immediately suspected his motives. What could he say? The truth? He swallowed. Yes. The truth. “I—I had a daughter.”
Bridget’s mother stroked her daughter’s hair back from her face. “Did you, now?”
“Yes.” The word came out pained, a hoarse, choking sound.
Understanding softened the young woman’s face. “She died, did she?”
The abrupt phrasing hit him, but instead of feeling the familiar fury at his helplessness, he nodded.
“’Tis a right cruel world, this.” The young woman shook her head. “And you had the money for medicine and all?”
He stared at Bridget’s mother, who had clearly known much suffering and was now ready to offer her sympathy to him. It was almost too much. He had no idea why, but it was. “My daughter died in an accident.”
She stroked her daughter’s back. “And our Bridget reminded you of her.”
His throat tightened. “Yes.”
The young woman stuck out her frail hand. “I’m Mrs. Lafferty.”
He took the offered hand gently. “I’m James.”
She looked him up and down. “That’s not all you are, if I’d any guess about it.”
“No.” He laughed, but it was shaky. “I’m Lord Stanhope, if you must know.”
Mrs. Lafferty hugged her daughter. “We like to know the lay of how things truly are. Don’t we, lass?”
Bridget nodded as she grabbed the spoon on the table and dug into the stew.
“Slowly,” admonished Mrs. Lafferty softly. “You mustn’t forget your manners.”
James winked at Bridget. “I forget my manners all the time.”
“You’re having a go at me.” Bridget pointed her spoon at him. “Are you not?”
“Indeed, I’m not.” He glanced around and spotted Margaret helping an old man to a seat on the other side of the room. “Do you see that lady there?”
“Miss Margaret?” Bridget’s face lit up with admiration.
“Yes,” he said gravely. “She’s always having to tell me to mind my manners.”
Bridget took a large bit of stew, thinking. At last she said, “If that’s so, you should go to confession. Surely testing Miss Margaret is a sin.”
James sighed. If he went to confession, he’d be in the box for a full year, and he doubted he could do enough penance to pull his way out of hell. “I’m sure it is.”
Bridget looked down at her stew and then back up to James. “Are you sure you’re not hungry?”
“No, dear heart. I’m not hungry at all.” James reached out and patted Bridget’s hand, for the first time, not minding at all that he was suddenly reminded of the marvelous feel of his own daughter’s fingers beneath his.
• • •
Margaret couldn’t believe her eyes. Just yesterday the sight of a child playing had sent Powers halfway across London to have his face beaten in.
Today he was sitting with a little girl and her mother, chatting away.
“She looks remarkably like my granddaughter.”
Margaret twisted toward James’s father. “Does she?”
The earl picked up an empty basket from the table before them. “They’d be about of an age.”
“Has he ever talked about her?”
The earl’s face strained. “It depends on what you mean.”
“Yes?”
A sheen cooled the old man’s eyes, and he glanced away. “He blames me for her death, you see.”
“Surely not,” Margaret protested.
“Oh, he does. And he has some point, though I’ve never admitted it to him.” The earl adjusted the basket, clearly uncomfortable. “There are things I wish . . . I wish I had done differently. Still, I’m just glad he’s here.”
Margaret could scarce believe the words coming out of Lord Carlyle’s mouth. Could it be possible that both father and son were changing and growing so quickly? It almost seemed too good to be hoped for. “Thank you for coming.”
&nb
sp; He lifted his silver brows. “I thought you were mad yourself at first. I didn’t see how coming to the part of town my son had so often debauched himself in could help. But it has.”
“He needed to see others’ pain,” she said softly.
Lord Carlyle reached out and took her hand in his. “Why couldn’t he see at home that he’s not the only one? That I too have lived in pain since Sophia’s and Jane’s passing?”
She gently pressed her hand back into her father-in-law’s, amazed that at last she was beginning to feel as if this man accepted her. “That’s something you shall have to ask him yourself.”
As she stared at James across the room, she felt a moment’s fear. He was doing exactly as she wished, coming to terms with his past. And yet, as open as he was becoming, she was terrified that he would be keep asking her questions about herself, as he’d been doing. How could she keep him at bay? For if she let him in, he would surely see that she had no answers. None at all. That in truth, she couldn’t face her own memories at all. She could barely face the present and her brother’s circumstance.
At all costs, she couldn’t let him see inside her flawed soul. His recovery and her future depended on it.
• • •
Before he could give it another thought, James sputtered, “I’d like to help you. Financially.”
Mrs. Lafferty tensed, her easy smile vanishing. “No, thank you.”
James shifted on the bench, shocked by her tone. “But—”
“No, thank you,” she said, her good humor entirely gone, like summer at winter’s first chill.
“Don’t be foolish,” he protested. “You can use assistance.”
The little girl swung her gaze up and gave him a hard stare. “Don’t you say that to me mam.”
“I think you’d best go, my lord.”
He didn’t.
He couldn’t. He wanted to help them. To give them the care they so clearly didn’t have. But by offering in such a coarse way, he’d hurt the young woman’s pride.
Pride was something he understood as well as any in this place. He’d refused to acknowledge he needed help, after all. He still hadn’t been able to actually verbally ask for help. “Do forgive me. That was exceptionally rude and something someone of my thoughtless class would do. It is I who is the fool.”
The mother fiddled with her spoon, lifting it to her lips but not eating. After a moment, she pushed her bowl to her daughter.
Powers gripped the bench, his fingers digging into the wood. He savored the pierce of a splinter, praying it would help him sit through this. Praying the young woman would forgive his tremendous faux pas.
He’d made a complete mess of the situation with his own pride. Now he had to accept whatever decision she made, even if it was that he get up from their presence and never return to it. Even if he wished to know them better.
The room seemed to still and grow silent as he waited. The mother looked up, her eyes narrowing. She took her daughter’s slight arm and pulled her close, hugging her.
James swallowed, wondering where his words were. He could speak for hours and had a quip for any moment. Now? He couldn’t make his mouth move. All he felt was his heart slamming against his ribs. What if they rejected him?
The mother lifted her gaunt face. “We told ya. We don’t want any of your charity, my lord.”
He wanted to run from this woman, who was just as determined in her unyielding nature as he had been. Her refusal was just one more reminder that he had failed another mother and daughter who had needed his help in the past.
And he couldn’t help thinking that if he had just tried harder, pushed another step, and never have left his wife alone, she and his daughter would still be alive.
Christ. He could feel his damn heart cracking.
The little girl pulled away from her mother and looked up at him, her little face twisted up in question. “Are you sick, then? Is that why you let your tongue run on? You didn’t eat something spoiled? I did that once and looked as green as you. Truly, you do look sick.”
James’s eyes stung, and he had to gulp before he spoke. “I’m not well. I’ve offended you both and am so very sorry.”
The little girl frowned. “And that’s made you sick?”
James forced a smile. “Memories have made me sick, my dear.”
The mother’s anger seemed to dissipate. “You’d best stay seated, then, if you’re not well.” She hesitated, then gave a small nod. “And thank you for the apology. Must be hard for a grand man like yourself.”
“Somehow I think you’ve faced as much, if not more, hardship than I have ever seen.”
The young woman shrugged, the movement emphasizing the thinness of her shoulders. “Sure and haven’t we all stared the devil in the face?”
“That we have,” he said, feeling the smallest degree of hope that he was righting this situation. “And truly, will you except my apology? I was arrogant beyond all belief.”
A bright laugh suddenly bubbled from her throat. “That you were, but you’re forgiven. Shall we start again?”
“I’d like that very much,” he replied solemnly.
“I’m Elizabeth Lafferty and this is my daughter, Bridget.”
Bridget stuck her hand out. “It’s grand to meet you . . .”
Carefully taking the small hand in his big one, he smiled. “James. And I’m very pleased to meet you, Bridget.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Well, now that that’s out of the way. What’s a lord like you doing here? Come to win your place amid the angels?”
He laughed and shook his head. “I think I’ve permanently given up that place.”
“Ah.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling. “Well, as long as you get to heaven before the devil knows you’re dead. Nothing’s certain.”
The words sank in, and he stared at her for a moment before laughing again. Where had the gaunt woman with wary eyes gone? Her cheer lit up her face. “A good point.”
Bridget stuffed a bit of bread into her mouth, chewed quickly, then said, “You didn’t answer Mam’s question.”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m here to learn I’m a conceited, self-centered fellow.”
Bridget quirked a brow. “Did you not know that before?”
“That was an incredibly cheeky thing to say, young lady,” he replied, fighting another laugh. It was damned strange, all this laughing.
“It was,” she agreed. “Wasn’t it?”
Elizabeth Lafferty rolled her eyes. “I beg your pardon. Bridget lets anything in her head fly out her mouth. She’ll be off to confession for sure this Sunday.”
“Ah, it wasn’t that bad,” Bridget protested. “He’s smiling, after all.”
And he was. “Listen, might I call on you two later this week?”
Elizabeth hesitated, then gave him a warm smile. “It’d be a pleasure. But bring your lady friend along.”
He glanced back over his shoulder.
Margaret was bustling near the now-empty pots, organizing items to be taken back into the kitchen. Several coils of red hair teased her face. As she worked, he wondered if she knew that the soul inside of her was far more beautiful than her lovely face. And he didn’t know if he would be able to or be capable of repaying her for helping him obtain a second chance. “She’s not my lady friend,” he said firmly. “She’s my wife.”
Chapter 21
James pulled back the velvet curtain and let the gas lamp light spill over him. The warm glow danced amid the raindrops pummeling the glass. Any other day in the last years, those gas lamps would have lured him out into the night, seeking forgetfulness.
But not now. Today had been a good day. A strange day in which he’d felt adrift but also free. By focusing on Elizabeth and Bridget, he’d left his own pain behind for a few hours.
It couldn’t be that si
mple. Could it?
He scowled as he envisioned his life the way Margaret no doubt saw it for him. A life spent day in and day out in the works of doing good. Someone who might have once gained a touch of his respect but also his mockery for having no life of their own.
Could he continue to do as he had done today every day? For the rest of his life? His fingers curled against the curtain. A life of always being present, of constantly fighting back the pain and never giving in to a few moments of complete oblivion.
It was impossible. He was mad to even contemplate such a thing. Which meant really that he was still damned. Didn’t it?
How could he give up the only comfort he had known in the last years?
The door opened, brushing lightly against the carpets.
He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Margaret. His vigilant caregiver. He would break her heart, wouldn’t he? Every action he’d taken in the past indicated it.
“You seem most solemn after such a day.”
“I’m thinking of the future.”
“Ah.” Her soft step padded along the rug. “If I may?”
He kept his gaze fixed on the night. “I can hardly stop you.”
“It’s quite vulgar, what I’ve to say.”
He let the curtain go and turned. “Shock me, then.”
She stopped and clasped her hands together, a schoolmarm ready to lecture. “If one keeps one foot in the past and one in the future . . .”
He waited expectantly. “Yes? Out with it.”
Even in the bare light, he could see her blush.
She cleared her throat. “One pisses on today.”
He threw back his head and laughed. She looked so intensely uncomfortable, her shoulders square, her hands clasped, and her prim mouth pursed. How he wanted to steal that primness away from her. To yank away her need to appear perfect. “Margaret, I know you’ve heard worse, but I must admit it is surprising to hear that word come from you.”
“I decided it was worth the risk. The young lads used to say it, especially during the famine.”
“Indeed.”
She nodded, her red hair a fiery blue red in the lamplight. “You can’t live in the past and the future, otherwise you’ll never have a present.”
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