by Mary Nichols
‘But you are not in my employ, Mrs Meredith. You are a volunteer and can stop coming to the Home at any time you have had enough, though I should be very sorry if you did.’
‘Thank you. I shall continue to come so long as I am useful.’
He hoped she would. For the first time in years, he had met a woman he could admire and respect, who felt as passionately as he did about the world’s ills, who made no demands. She did not expect costly presents, did not spend a fortune on clothes, did not want to be taken out and about in society, did not turn her pretty nose up when he stooped to help a child or an animal in distress. Nor, he suspected, would she prove fickle and greedy. He had been in the habit of judging all women by Isobel and keeping them at a distance. Yet here he was, holding Mrs Meredith around her waist, closer than the twelve inches the waltz demanded, and enjoying every minute.
The dance came to an end, they rejoined Lady Morland and went in to supper together and the conversation turned to general topics and a little gossip. Her ladyship seemed to know everyone and kept them entertained with comments about the other guests. One young lady had had three Seasons and had still not taken on account of being so fond of horses that she smelled of the stable; another young man had gambled away his fortune and was looking for a rich wife; old Lord Marven had so many mistresses and so many offspring he had lost count and had to have his secretary keep a list of them, and so on.
‘Do you know everyone, my lady?’ he asked.
She laughed. ‘There is not much goes past me, young man, but never fear—I have heard nothing but good of you.’
‘Thank goodness for that,’ he said, laughingly affecting relief. Kate was glad her grandmother had told that little fib.
They finished their supper and then returned to the ballroom. The orchestra was taking a break and the dancing had not been resumed. Simon suggested a walk on the terrace where it was cooler.
‘You go,’ Lady Morland said. ‘I shall sit here until the music starts again.’ She picked up Kate’s shawl. ‘Better take this, you must not catch a chill.’
Simon took it from her and draped it over Kate’s shoulders, then offered his arm to escort her outside. The night air was cool, much pleasanter than the stuffiness inside. The sky was clear, its velvety darkness pricked by stars. The moon hung just above the roof tops. ‘It seems almost near enough to touch and make a wish,’ Kate said, gazing up at it.
He put his free hand over hers as it lay on his sleeve. ‘What would you wish for if you could wish for anything in the world?’
‘The same as you, I expect. An end to poverty and hunger and disease, an end to war and man’s inhumanity to man, a world where children can grow up strong and healthy. A world without cruelty.’
‘A tall order, but you are right, I wish it too.’
They strolled on in companionable silence until the strains of another waltz drifted out to them from the ballroom. He turned and held his arms out to her and without speaking she stepped into them. He guided her unerringly into the dance. It was cool and dark and they were alone, with the canopy of a star-filled sky above them and the muted strains of the music guiding their steps. It was magical.
When the music faded, they stood still, looking at each other in the semi-darkness, silent, a little breathless, unwilling to break apart. He still had hold of her hands, which he raised one by one to his lips. She felt the warm pressure on her skin and a little shiver passed through her. Was this a man who could break hearts?
The spell was broken by a drum roll sounding from the ballroom.
‘I must go,’ he said, his voice sounding a little cracked. ‘The Earl is about to address the assembly and then Lady Eleanor is planning to call for more funds. I must be at her side.’
They returned to the uncomfortable warmth of the ballroom, back to reality.
Chapter Four
Simon and Kate were in the office of the Hartingdon Home two days later when Lady Eleanor came for one of her periodic inspections. If she was surprised to see Kate there, she made no comment. She examined the accounts, the children and the home and was satisfied with what she saw, except for the overcrowding. ‘Dr Redfern, we have always said fifty was the most we could take,’ she said. ‘You have fifty-seven here.’ She tapped the ledger she had been examining. ‘And where did Annie Smith and Joseph Barber spring from?’
Simon explained about Annie and how Kate had rescued Joe from falling in the lake and how they had found his mother with a new baby, living in appalling conditions. ‘I could not leave him there,’ he said.
‘There are hundreds like that,’ she said. ‘We have to be more selective in those we help.’
Kate did not see how anyone could pick and choose. What criteria were used? How could you turn your back on any child in need? She had been going to the Hartingdon Home every day for the last two weeks and had enjoyed every minute. It gave her a purpose to her life and if, in some small measure, it meant that children would not die as George had, then it was reward enough. She loved the children and had learned to appreciate the single-minded dedication of the doctor. He worked so hard, dashing all over the metropolis on one errand or another on behalf of the children. If it was not negotiating grocery supplies, it was arguing with a haberdasher about materials for the children’s uniforms, or persuading a carpenter to knock up a few desks, or subduing his pride and going cap in hand for funds.
‘If we could only find more foster mothers, we could let some of the children go,’ Simon said. ‘But very few of the women who make a living fostering young children reach our high standards, as you know.’
‘Naturally, I know that—’
‘I could take Joe,’ Kate said suddenly. ‘We have plenty of room.’
They both turned to look at her in surprise. ‘You?’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘What do you know about looking after children?’
‘Enough, I think. I have always helped Cousin Lizzie with her four.’
‘They are not street urchins.’
‘Children are children, the world over. All they need is love and attention.’
‘And food in their bellies, clothes on their backs and strict discipline,’ Eleanor added. ‘Children, especially those who have been deprived by poverty or neglect, can be difficult to handle.’
‘I know that. I have worked with charities before and have been working here for nearly two weeks and have come to know the children.’
‘You have? I did not know that.’ She looked at Simon, one eyebrow raised in a query.
‘Mrs Meredith has been teaching them on a purely voluntary basis,’ he said.
‘So will you allow me to help you out?’ Kate asked. ‘I am sure I can manage.’
‘Oh, I am sure, you can,’ Simon said, less disparaging than Eleanor because in the past two weeks he had come to know and appreciate Kate’s qualities. ‘But really you ought to discuss it with your father and grandmother before you commit yourself.’
‘Yes, Katherine,’ Eleanor put in. ‘I cannot imagine Great-Aunt agreeing; as for your father, you know he cannot abide small children…’
Kate knew she was referring to events of eighteen years before and thought she was being unfair. ‘You are mistaken, Lady Eleanor,’ she said firmly. ‘Papa is very fond of children. He adores Lizzie’s.’
‘Yes, when he visits Mount Street and when they come to see you. An hour in their company at the most. That is not the same as having them in the house all the time.’
‘The house is big enough for little Joe not to trouble him at all. We have rooms on the top floor that have not been used since I was small and my governess taught me up there. Papa never goes there. He rarely comes out of his study during the day. I shall love having Joe.’
‘On your own head be it,’ Eleanor said, drawing on her gloves. ‘Since you seem to have taken the child’s welfare on your own shoulders and we are desperately short of good homes, I will say nothing against it. If your father agrees, that is. But please be warned, Katherine, it do
es not do to become too fond of one’s charges. They are not used to the luxury of fondness and it can spoil them.’
Kate was about to argue that fondness could never spoil a child, but decided against it. She had been right about Lady Eleanor—she was aloof and distant. It was difficult to imagine her having any softer feelings, but surely underneath that stiff exterior there was a warm heart or how could she do the work she did?
‘And do not come here to teach again,’ Eleanor added. ‘We are very particular about what the children are taught and cannot have people coming in just as they please and imbuing the children with their own notions of education. Heaven knows what radical ideas would be put into their heads.’
‘My lady,’ Simon put in, ‘Mrs Meredith is simply teaching them their letters to help me out.’
‘If you need assistance, then the Committee will decide whom to employ.’ She turned to Kate. ‘You will soon learn that looking after a child of the lower orders is as much, if not more, than you can manage. Now I must go.’ To Simon, she said. ‘And the other surplus children must be found homes, you understand.’ And with that she left.
‘My goodness, that put me in my place,’ Kate remarked as soon as she had gone.
‘I am sorry for it, Mrs Meredith, but as she is the main benefactor of the charity and can withdraw her support at any time she chooses, it would be unwise to go against her. I have been glad of your help and will be infinitely sorry to lose you.’
‘I understand. I shall be sorry not to come, but having Joe might compensate a little for that.’
‘Are you sure your father will agree?’
‘I do not see why not. After all, I shall be the one who will be looking after him.’
‘I will not try to dissuade you because I am sure Lady Morland and the Reverend will do that,’ he said. ‘But if they do agree, I want you to promise me that if Joe becomes too much of a handful, you will tell me at once.’
‘Oh, I am sure that will not happen.’ She would rather die than admit to him she could not look after one small child.
‘And another thing. Beware of becoming too attached to him—not for his sake, but your own. Always remember he is not yours and one day he will go back to his mother. Try and stay a little distant.’
‘I will try,’ she said, though she did not know if she would succeed.
‘If you are ready, I will take you home.’
‘What are you going to do about the overcrowding?’ she asked, as he conducted her out to his gig and they set off along the now-familiar route. If she wondered what people would say about her being seen so frequently in his company, she dismissed it. The drive home was something she looked forward to at the end of each day, when they would go over what had happened, the progress they had made and laugh at some of the antics of the children. She and Dr Redfern dealt so well together, it was as if she had known him all her life. They agreed on so many things and were never short of subjects to talk about. And now Eleanor had put a stop to it. She was angry, but realised there was nothing she could do about it. The Society was Eleanor’s baby and she would brook no interference.
‘I shall have to find homes for some of them. There is no immediate hurry; Lady Eleanor does not visit very often. I think she only came today to check the accounts and confirm how much money we made from the ball.’
‘It was a great success, was it not?’
‘Yes. We took nearly seven thousand pounds. We can begin looking for land and an architect. If we get the home we planned, we will be able to take more children.’ He went on to explain a little more about his plans and found in her a ready listener. She even made one or two helpful suggestions, which showed she had been paying attention.
‘The land and the plans are only the beginning, there is still a long way to go,’ he said, as he pulled up outside her house and jumped out to hand her down. ‘It all has to be maintained. We cannot rest on our laurels.’
‘I would ask you in for refreshment,’ she said, letting her hand rest in his for a moment, ‘but I think I should talk to Papa alone. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. I shall think no less of you if you find you cannot do it.’
‘You think he will say no, don’t you?’
‘I would hardly blame him.’
‘What about a little wager, then? I bet you a five-guinea donation he will agree.’
He laughed. ‘Done. It will be worth five guineas to be proved wrong.’ He lifted her hand to his lips. ‘Good day to you, Mrs Meredith. I shall wait with bated breath for the verdict.’
He watched her until she went indoors, then climbed back in the gig. If Lady Eleanor was right and the Reverend Morland disliked children, he would surely not welcome a street urchin into his home, and as her ladyship had forbidden Kate to teach at the Home, he did not have much hope of seeing her again. And that would be a terrible shame.
He was wrong. Kate was back at the Home the following morning. He was in the office puzzling over his list of foster mothers, wondering if any of them would take an extra child, when she breezed in, all smiles, and held out her hand. ‘Five guineas, Dr Redfern.’
He stood up and grinned at her. ‘You mean your father agreed?’
‘Yes. Do you know what he said—after I had pointed out the terrible fate that awaited the children if they were turned away, that is? He said, “We are put on this earth to do God’s work and if that is how you choose to do it, then I cannot condemn it.”’ She did not tell him the other arguments she had used, that she could not bear to think of any child being ill treated or neglected at the hands of an uncaring foster mother, a not-so-subtle reminder of her baby brother’s fate, which was wicked of her. She had also pointed out that he had promised to support the doctor, who was at his wits’ end not knowing what to do with all the children that needed help.
‘Good for him,’ Simon said. ‘And what about Lady Morland? What did she have to say?’
Kate laughed and then mimicked her grandmother. ‘Goodness knows what pestilence the child will bring with him. Can he speak properly? Is he even house-trained?’
He laughed; her imitation of her grandmother’s voice was uncannily accurate. ‘What did you say to that?’
‘I said Joe is not a dog, he is a little boy who is missing his mother; as for pestilence, Dr Redfern can vouch that he is clean and free of disease.’
He was still smiling. ‘Does she want that in writing?’
‘No, of course not. I told you before, her bark is worse than her bite. I would not be surprised if she rolled up her sleeves and helped. She was always there to help and comfort me when I was a child.’
He reached into the pocket of his tailcoat and took out a purse, from which he extracted five guineas. ‘Put them in the offertory box,’ she said. ‘Then tell me which children I should take.’
‘Children?’ he queried in surprise. ‘I was only thinking of Joe.’
‘He will be lonely on his own. He must have at least one playmate.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I am sure.’
It was because he did not want to give Mrs Meredith one of the worst of the children, many of whom did not know what cleanliness was and whose language was sometimes shocking, that he suggested Annie. The child came from a decent household, her father did not drink to excess and her mother had kept their home clean. Annie was unlikely to shock the elderly Lady Morland.
They went to the classroom where the children were waiting for Kate. She looked round at their bright eager faces and felt sad that she would not be teaching them again. Some of them would soon be separated and sent to foster homes. Simon had said they were careful whom they employed, but hadn’t her father also been careful? It hadn’t stopped George dying. But if she could not come here again, what was to stop her taking them home? She could not take them all, but she could manage four.
‘Four!’ Simon exclaimed when she told him. ‘Four is far too many. Joe and Annie, yes, but I cannot allow you to burden yourse
lf with more.’
‘Children are not a burden,’ she told him firmly. ‘They are a joy. We have two spare bedrooms in the attic, with two beds in each, so I can take two boys and two girls. If I had more room, I would take a dozen.’
He gave in and was even more surprised when she chose Michael and Sarah as well as Annie and Joe. Michael was already an adult in his own eyes, having had to fend for himself since he was half that age, and Sarah, though the same age as Annie, was older by far in the ways of the world. Mrs Meredith had not chosen the easiest. He tried dissuading her, but she could be stubborn when she chose and in the end he agreed. He could always fetch them back if she found them too much of a handful and it would give him a reason for calling on her. That thought brought him up short. What had happened to his resolve to keep all women at a distance?
‘Very well, I will bring them to Holles Street in two days’ time. That will give you time to reconsider, should you wish to.’
‘I will not do that, but the time will be usefully spent preparing the rooms for them.’
‘How did you arrive here?’ he asked.
‘By cab.’
‘Then I will take you home.’
Once again Kate found herself beside him in his gig. ‘I should buy a conveyance of my own,’ she said. ‘Then you would not be put to the trouble of escorting me.’
‘It is my pleasure and no trouble at all. But if you are worried about what people will say…’
‘No, why should anyone interest themselves in me? I am a widow and not under the same constraints as a girl of seventeen up for the Season.’
He still found it difficult to think of her as a widow. She was still so young and so refreshingly lovely. Although neither of them had mentioned the waltz on the terrace, he found himself going back over it again and again. What exactly had happened? Something had, he was sure. Was it that he had suddenly realised that he could put the past behind him and look at another woman without seeing the fickleness of Isobel and imagining they were all like her? Had he spoken? Had she? No, he was sure the whole episode had passed in silence. But it was a silence that spoke volumes. He found himself wishing he had met Kate before he had fallen in love with Isobel. Looking back now, he wondered if he really had been in love at all. Was the young woman who sat beside him setting him free or binding him fast?
