by Joan Smith
“If you all think I shouldn’t tell him, then I shan’t,” Corinne said with a sniff, to conceal her vast relief.
* * *
Chapter 10
Luten had tea waiting for his friends when they returned. Knowing that Coffen would want food, he also had his chef prepare a plate of sandwiches. He had spent the morning reading notes Brougham sent him from Whitehall, but reading and adding his comments was not as absorbing as being there. He missed the thrust and parry of debate.
He found his mind wandering to the mystery of Fogg’s murder. But really it was not a very interesting murder. Fogg had seduced and abandoned some young woman whose friend or family had exacted restitution. If it had been done by duel, it would hardly have caused a ripple in society. His thoughts turned to the future, that glistened in glory before him.
First, marriage to Corinne. The wasted years of covertly coveting her, while feigning disinterest and even contempt, were gone. The memory of that offer rejected three years ago still lingered, but the anger had dissipated. His demmed pride had wasted three of the best years of their lives. Now all that was over. He could lay off the pretense of indifference and show her the depth of his feelings.
After a few moments of reveling in a golden glow, his mind returned to the other happy aspect of that future, politics. He already knew in a general way the changes he would like to institute when–if—the Whigs were brought into power. His ankle was feeling much better this morning, since Simon had put on a new bandage. He greeted his guests standing without a cane, and even took a few steps forward, drawn by his fiancée’s youth and beauty. He knew every plane and angle of her face by heart, yet when he saw her, she surpassed memory. It was the liveliness that memory failed to capture—the dancing light in her eyes, the enchanting smile that played over her lips.
“Luten! How lovely to see you walking again!” Corinne cried, and ran to place a kiss on his cheek. “When did this miracle occur?”
“I was so jealous to see you all driving off without me this morning that I decided it was time to recover. Come in, come in. I’ve had some food prepared for you, Coffen. Help yourself. And while Coffen eats, you, Prance, must tell me what you discovered at Morgate’s Home. And you, miss, shall sit beside me to keep my cup full and occasionally feed me a crumb.”
This speech was so unlike Luten’s usual cynical self that Corinne could only stare. She poured tea, Coffen placed a plate of sandwiches in front of him, and Prance outlined what they had seen, omitting any mention of Byron. When he had finished, Corinne described her and Coffen’s visit with Fanny.
Luten listened, nodding, then said, “And Fanny has, or says she has, no idea who might have killed Henry? I must admit that’s a disappointment.”
“That’s what she says,” Prance replied.
“What I’m wondering is how she heard of Henry’s death,” Coffen added. “Said she read it in a journal, but there was no journals about the place.”
“Mrs. Bruton no doubt takes one. She might have come about it in the dust bin,” Prance suggested.
Luten turned to Corinne for her opinion of Fanny.
“I thought she was a minx, but perhaps I shall get a better idea tomorrow when I return with those cast-off gowns she asked for. Neither of the two girls I saw, neither Fanny nor Beth, was very pregnant.”
Prance could not resist this heaven-sent opportunity to show off. “Pregnancy is an absolute, my dear, like virginity, or death. A woman can no more be a little pregnant than she can be a little dead. And by the by, the females I saw were all with child.”
“You know what I mean. They didn’t look pregnant.”
“Tahrsome fellow,” Coffen grumbled, and reached for another sandwich. “I think it’s pretty suspicious that there’s only two dozen girls in that whole place. Mean to take a peek around after dark tonight.”
“The more likely course, I think, is to find out who visited Henry the night he was killed, and cut off his hair and took his ring,” Luten said. “It doesn’t look as if Morgate’s Home is providing any leads.”
“Then we wasted five pounds apiece,” Prance said. “That’s what we donated to the cause.”
After a frowning pause, Luten asked, “How did you pay?”
“I happened to have five pounds on me. Paid cash,” Coffen said.
“Prance and I wrote checks,” Corinne added. “Why do you ask, Luten? Do you think there might be some irregularity about the funding?”
“It seems Henry was involved with the Morgate sect. It was he who introduced Fanny to it, and got her into that home. He was living beyond his means. He might have had his fingers in the till, though I don’t quite see how. Whom did you make the checks out to?”
“To the Morgate Home for Unwed Mothers,” she said.
“And Harper is in total charge of the place?”
“We had no way of finding that out,” Prance said.
“I believe it’s on the up and up. Didn’t Byron mention that Morgate is a real philanthropist?” Coffen said, then shut up his mouth like a trap and stiffened his whole body when he realized what had slipped out.
Prance darted in to the rescue. “Yes, I happened to meet him last night–after I brought you home, Corrie. As he was on the scene when Fogg was shot at originally, I spoke to him about this business. I was telling Coffen Byron has actually met Morgate and spoke highly of him.”
Corinne felt her cheeks grow warm, but Luten was listening to Prance, not looking at her, and didn’t appear to notice.
“You do recall the prince asked for secrecy,” Luten said with a frown. Then he continued, “Even a good man like Morgate might innocently hire a bad apple. The business could have been between Doctor Harper and Fogg. It’s one more thing to look into. Institutions of that sort often have a noble patron. I’ll make queries and see what I can discover about the financing of the place.”
“Why don’t we take the gowns to Fanny this afternoon?” Coffen said to Corinne. “You could chat up the Turk while I talk to Fanny. Bruton would know if the place has a noble patron. Might save a little time, Luten. And as I said, I want another chance to gauge the size of the place. Fanny said something about an annex. I might get the tour, as I didn’t go along with Prance and—” Prance gave a warning cough. “With Prance and Bruton this morning,” Coffen said.
Luten turned to Corinne. “Did you have anything else you had to do this afternoon?”
“Nothing urgent.”
It was settled that Coffen would call for Corinne immediately after luncheon. Prance invited Coffen to dine with him, to leave the lovers some privacy.
“Do you mind going back to the Morgate Home?” Luten asked her, when they were alone.
“No, not at all. Coffen’s seeming irrelevancies sometimes turn out to have a point. Actually, I would like to meet Beth. I feel sorry for her. She’ s young and looks–I don’ t know. Vulnerable. I mean to find a place for her after her accouchement.”
“We can send her to the Abbey, if you like. It might be well to get her out of temptation's way.” Southcote Abbey was Lord Luten’s ancestral estate in Nottingham.
The image of Beth’s pale face floated in Corinne’s mind. There was an almost childlike innocence in her expression. And sadness and fear, too. That was what tugged at the heart strings. To judge by Byron’s outburst against the families of these girls, he might have seen similar expressions on the other girls.
“I wonder how many of the girls are there because they succumbed to temptation, and how many because they were seduced by a faithless lover, or even forced by their employers, or their employers’ sons.”
“We’ll make sure she’s placed in a well-run establishment,” he said gently.
She seized his hand and squeezed it, without speaking. But her eyes revealed what was in her mind. That dear Luten was not the sort of man who would do that to a girl. A good deal of his time and money were spent trying to right the wrongs of an unfair world. In some obscure way, those girls at Morgate’s
Home made her feel guilty for having so much. She wanted to help them. And Luten had much more of life’s goods than she. Perhaps his fight for the poor was his way of salving his conscience for his inherited wealth and privilege.
“I can’t stay for luncheon today. I’ve been abandoning Mrs. Ballard shamefully. I’ll go home now and see what gowns I can spare. And I’ll send some new muslin as well. The girls make handkerchiefs and things for the bazaar.”
“You’ll come back for dinner? Ask Coffen to come as well.”
“Yes, if you like. And you had best ask Prance, or his nose will be out of joint.”
“I’ll invite him, but I daresay he’ll be hounding after Byron.” He shook his head. “Do you remember how he cursed the man, when Byron’s Childe Harold was outselling the Rondeaux?”
Again Corinne felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she just smiled. “Yes, and I remember that you bought a hundred copies of the Rondeaux as a bribe to get the book in the shop window, and made me help you burn them. I daresay you’re the only person in England, other than Prance, who has read the Rondeaux all the way through.”
“I never got past the first fifty pages. I just read the footnotes and managed to keep the conversation on them when I discussed the work with Prance.”
“It was the footnotes that I found most distracting. I must go now.”
He pulled her into his arms for a long, lingering kiss, before letting her go. The memory of that kiss echoed in her mind as she sorted through her gowns and shawls. She loved Luten to distraction, and it was foolish to keep the meetings with Byron a secret from him. Byron was fascinating, but he was fascinating in the way a blazing fire was fascinating. One could hardly take her eyes off him, but she could get badly burned if she got too close. She certainly didn’t love him. She wasn’t even sure she liked him.
She set aside a gold moire gown with a wine stain in the front that had defied Mrs. Ballard’s efforts to remove it. Coffen had spilled his wine on her at one of Luten’s dinner parties. There were yards of good material in the skirt. A yellow and green lutestring from her pre-widow days was now too youthful for her, and out of style besides. She added it to the parcel, and got from Mrs. Ballard a few ells of muslin she had set aside for making tea towels. Like Fanny, Mrs. Ballard declared that the devil found work for idle hands.
A lady’s cast-off clothing was usually considered the perquisite of her dresser but Mrs. Ballard, though hired as a companion, insisted on earning her keep and had assumed that role. Mrs. Ballard would no more wear such colorful, rich gowns than she would paint her face. She wore unrelieved black, in honor of her husband who had expired over a decade before.
Corinne took a light meal, Mrs. Ballard sat with her but could tackle no more than soup, due to her drawn tooth. Corinne convinced her to go to bed and made her own preparations for the return trip to Morgate’s Home. As she sat waiting for Coffen, she decided to write a note for Beth, in case she didn’t see her. She would just mention that if the girl required anything, she would be happy to supply it, and tell her that a position was waiting for her when she left the home.
She had not actually exchanged one word with Beth, and it was strange she felt so drawn to her. What could account for it? She glanced into the mirror as she went to her desk, and stopped, staring. Some trick of the light cast her face into shadows. For a moment, she had the strange sensation that she was looking at Beth. Was that it? That Beth reminded her of her own younger, harried self, when her papa told her she would marry Lord deCoventry?
At seventeen, with her head full of romantical notions, she had been devastated–and yet it had all turned out so well. DeCoventry was a kind, gentle man. After a while, she got over the feeling that she was merchandise. But things had not turned out so well for Beth. Fanny had said she was “not so common as most.” Was she a governess? No, a little young for that. A nursemaid, perhaps. Or just the daughter of some minor gentry family who didn’t want the disgrace of an unwed mama in their family?
A commotion at the door told her Coffen had arrived.
* * *
Chapter 11
“Did you tell him?” were Coffen’s first words when they were in the carriage.
“About Byron, you mean? No, I didn’t.”
“I would if I was you. I nearly let it out myself. Bound to come out sooner or later. If I don’t blow the gaff by accident, Reg’ll do it on purpose. Not that I mean to speak ill of the wretch behind his back. I’d say the same to his face. He can’t help himself, that’s what it is. That mean streak in him just gets him by the nose and first thing you know, the mischief is done.”
“I’ll tell him very soon. I’ve just been waiting for the proper moment.”
“The sooner the better. He’ll be mad as a hornet that you’ve kept it secret. Mean to say, that makes it look bad when it ain’t. It ain’t, is it?” he asked, piercing her with a gimlet eye. “You haven’t gone falling in love with him? Nothing to be ashamed of. He has every lady in town lashed to the mast.”
“Oh I know he’s charming, but I don’t really care a fig for him, Coffen.” He nodded, accepting it. After a moment, she said, “Fitz is making the wrong turn. He should have gone east on Piccadilly.”
“Only to be expected,” Coffen said, and rolled down the window to holler at his coachman.
After an unwanted and unintentional tour of the west end, they eventually arrived at the familiar building in Lambeth. Mrs. Bruton’s jowls firmed to perfect right angles in displeasure to see them back so soon. She stated firmly that Fanny was busy, but under Coffen’s badger-like persistence, she finally put them in the visitors’ parlor and sent for her.
When Fanny came, her eyes immediately turned to the parcel Coffen carried. “Is that the gowns?” she asked, her face glowing in anticipation.
Coffen handed it over. She placed it on the sofa table and ripped it open on the spot. “It’s just muslin!” she said, with an angry scowl.
“The gowns are underneath,” Corinne explained. “I put in the muslin for the tea towels and so on that you mentioned.”
Fanny tossed the muslin aside and rummaged down until she came to the lutestring gown. She held it up in front of her and danced to the window to catch her reflection, as there was no mirror in the room. “It’s lovely!” she cried, and darted back to pull out the gold moire.
“There’s a wine stain on the front!” she said, a frown drawing her eyebrows together.
“Yes, but yards of good material in the skirt,” Corinne pointed out.
“But the top is ruined!”
“Since it’s to be made into smaller articles, I don’t see that that matters,” Corinne said, becoming annoyed at this disparagement of her gift.
Fearing a ruckus, Coffen leapt in. “It’ll make a dandy apron or curtains,” he said, choosing these unlikely items quite at random. “Any chance of a tour of the place, Fanny?”
“Not this afternoon,” Fanny said, with a last scowl at the stained gown. “We’re expecting a call from Lord Clare.” She cited the name proudly, with a little toss of her head and a smile.
Corinne’s eyes lit up. “Is he the patron of the home?” she asked. She had met this wealthy young man-about-town at a few parties. She was frequently surprised at the generosity of the nobility, particularly that they made no show of their good deeds. Luten thought it was only the nobility’s sense of responsibility to their tenants that saved England from the sort of revolution France had suffered. Lord Clare was considered quite a dashing fellow, not at all the sort she would have suspected of secret good works. Arranging horse races and boxing matches and flirting with the ladies were his known pursuits.
“Yes, he practically runs the place,” Fanny said. “Doctor Harper does the work, but Lord Clare donates ever so much money, and oversees everything. He should be here soon.”
“Was he a friend of Henry’s?” Coffen asked.
Fanny directed a sharp stare at him. “Why do you ask that?”
“Since i
t was Henry that brought you here, I figured he might have dealt with Lord Clare.”
“It wasn’t Henry who arranged for me to come here. It was Doctor Harper. Henry didn’t know Lord Clare.”
“Oh, I see. Just wondered.”
“Would it be possible for me to see Beth?” Corinne asked.
“What do you want to see her for?” Fanny asked.
“I’d just like to talk to her. She looked–lonesome.”
“That’s her fault, isn’t it?” Fanny said with a sniff. “Thinks she’s too good for the rest of us. Lord Clare will have a word with her. He always interviews the new girls to see how they’re going on. I daresay he’ll put her in the annex, then she’ll be all right.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a carriage arriving. “That’ll be Lord Clare,” Fanny said, and hopped up to go and meet him.
Mrs. Bruton bustled out from her alcove and said, “Go back to your guests, Fanny. I’ll tend to Lord Clare.”
Fanny got her look at him all the same. When Lord Clare saw Coffen’s carriage standing in the forecourt, he asked Mrs. Bruton who was calling, and insisted on being introduced. It was not difficult to see why Fanny was enraptured by him. He was well built, with rich chestnut hair cut short and brushed forward in the stylish Brutus do. A pair of dove gray eyes lent an amiable air to a lean, aristocrat face. His jacket of blue superfine clung to his straight shoulders like the skin on a peach. A sprigged waistcoat, fawn buckskins and shining Hessians completed his ensemble.
“Lady deCoventry–you are too kind to take an interest in our home,” he said, with an exquisite bow.
She presented Coffen, who looked like a sack of rags beside the elegant young lord.
“May I ask what brought us to your attention?” He noticed Fanny then and smiled at her. She made an awkward curtsey.
