The Baron and the Bluestocking

by G. G. Vandagriff

  His wife tapped his sleeve briskly with her fan. “You are always devising ways to put me on display. I am certain this Miss Flynn is very capable of a concert.”

  “She is partial to Bach,” Shrewsbury said.

  “The duchess is working on some Bach at the moment. It would be the very thing,” her husband said.

  “Dearest duke, I know you are partial to my playing, but there are those far more accomplished than I. This Miss Flynn may be such a one.”

  “We could make your concert an occasion, your grace,” Shrewsbury said, suddenly enthusiastic. “We could invite Miss Flynn to perform as well. The other board members could be invited to Chipping Norton for an evening. Mrs. Blakeley, who is a local patron, would provide a splendid supper afterwards, I am certain.”

  “Oh, my. I am not certain when my piece will be ready.” The duchess bit her lip. It was a little mannerism that reminded him of Sophie and caused a flash of pain.

  Ruisdell spoke. “Darling, you never think your pieces are ready. I think that is a splendid notion. It will give the board members and their wives a chance to judge how the school is doing.”

  “When shall you be prepared to perform, your grace?”

  “Oh, dear. Not for at least a month!”

  “It will give you something to work toward, darling,” her husband said. “I am an appreciative audience, but not as appreciative as you deserve.”

  A date of September fifteenth was finally settled on.

  “Now you must tell me,” Shrewsbury insisted. “Any word from Lord and Lady Trowbridge?”

  “Not since they’ve arrived in Vienna,” said Elise. “However, Sophie wrote from Paris that Gorgeous Frank bought her a trousseau, they went often to the Opera, and have shipped home some paintings. She is very happy. Especially, because she is able to walk better each day with the exercises that Frank’s doctor prescribed.”

  Christian’s heart contracted, but he said, “I am very glad.”

  They spoke about travel and the details of purchasing a piano. Shrewsbury eventually moved away, anxious to drown the ache in his heart with champagne.

  Sophie could never have been mine. Frank loved her even better than I did. He saw to the healing of her limp. He thought of taking her to meet Beethoven. That is the love she deserves. I have never learned to love like that.

  As he downed several glasses of champagne, he acknowledged to himself that his loss of Sophie had taught him a lesson. Frank had been right. Mentally, Christian crumpled his shopping list and threw it aside. He would attempt to allow himself to be surprised by love, as Frank had counseled. If he could ever get over Sophie.

  Moments after making this resolution, he was approached by his mother. “Darling Christian,” she said, reaching up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

  His mother was supremely gracious, with the beauty and skin of a younger woman, though her hair was prematurely white. She dressed with the utmost elegance—tonight being gowned in periwinkle blue silk tissue that exactly matched her eyes. He smiled at her with great affection.

  “Mama, how delightful you look.”

  “I have noticed that you are drinking an uncommon amount of champagne. Is anything amiss?”

  “Not at all. I am merely thirsty. Been riding all day.”

  She smiled in a knowing way, but did not delve any deeper. Instead she said, “I have someone I want you to meet. A very dear girl who only recently came up to Town. She was in mourning for her father until recently and was not here for the Season.”

  His mother was not in the habit of introducing him to ladies. In fact, she had never done it before.

  “We have arranged to take supper together tonight. Come to me casually in the supper room, and I will introduce you.”

  He kissed her cheek. “To tell you the truth, I am feeling quite blue-deviled.”

  “I know, dear.”

  She moved off and all at once he was virtually alone in the ballroom full of people. Even the idea of making a new acquaintance did not appeal to him.

  Why had Sophie gained such a hold over him? She was not adept at going about in society; she did not even dance. However, she was beautiful in an ethereal, innocent sort of way that tugged at his heart. And when she played her violin she became a goddess, exuding a masterful talent which changed her altogether. Dead honest, she had never led him on. She was perhaps the only woman who had ever preferred Frank to him.

  “Wool-gathering?” His friend, Charles Cozzens, had come up to him.

  “Well met, friend,” Christian said. “Tell me, who is the belle of the ball tonight?”

  “Probably the Incomparable, as usual. Lady Stephanie. Not like you to be so out of touch, Shrewsbury.”

  He picked out the woman in question from the crowd of dancers performing the minuet. As he had already known, she was slender, graceful, and blonde, with a face like a cameo. She appealed to him not at all. Which was just as well, as undoubtedly her dance card was full.

  Christian realized he felt now as he had when he was a boy and had eaten too many sweets. After Sophie, the women of the ton appeared excessively shallow in every way—in talent, in beauty, and especially in conversation. Though he had looked forward to this evening, now he only wanted to be away. It seemed as though privilege was suddenly a mire from which he had to escape before it sucked the life out of him. The idea of meeting another charming young woman of the ton increased his desperation.

  Looking for his mother in the crowd, he spotted her among the chaperone set, sitting against the wall. Would she forgive him if he left without a word? Surely he was beyond being charmed tonight. And though he had never in his life been anything but gentlemanly, this night he simply could not manage it.

  He found his way through the ballroom, through the hall, and out the door, where he called for his carriage.

  *~*~*

  Shrewsbury came down for breakfast, dreading the inevitable note from his mother, and was surprised to find that he also had one from Chipping Norton. Opening it, he was startled to see that it came from Blakeley House and the correspondent was none other than Miss Hélène Whitcombe-Hodge, as she now called herself. Whatever did she want?

  My dear Lord Shrewsbury,

  I suppose you will be very surprised to hear from me. However, I have a great favor to ask of you. I will proceed with what I hope is an adequate amount of honey. Mr. and Mrs. Blakeley’s son, Mr. Samuel Blakeley has recently been selected as a candidate in the by-election occurring here in Chipping Norton in two months. You would like him very much. He is a devout Whig. However, he is not a man of fashion by any means. In order to campaign among those who hold the voting franchise in this area, I have informed him that his wardrobe is inadequate. He needs smartening up.

  You appeared turned out as fine as five pence when I met you yesterday. Would you kindly take Mr. Samuel Blakeley under your wing when he comes to London and introduce him to your very superior tailor? I am certain you can steer him correctly in the ways of fashion. You will know the precise look he needs to cultivate.

  Please be so kind as to humor me in this notion. I would take it as a very great favor.

  Yours very sincerely,

  H. Whitcomb-Hodge

  He grinned as he read her request. So she did not find him entirely good for nothing. After his suffocating feelings of the night before, this fresh, no-nonsense communication cheered him.

  Taking up his mother’s note, Christian drew a long breath as he slit it open.

  My dear son,

  I know only something of great import could have made you break your promise to me last night. If you would remain at home this morning, I intend to call on you. Do not worry. I do not intend to reproach you.

  With love,

  Your mother

  Surprised by her understanding, Shrewsbury contemplated her visit over a light breakfast. What could she have to say to him that did not smack of reproach?

  She arrived after he had completed his toilette and found him c
omposing a letter to Miss Whicombe-Hodge in his library. He stood and came out from behind his desk.

  “Dear Christian,” she said as she approached him, holding out both her hands. He captured them and brought both to his mouth for a kiss. He then kissed her cheek. “I am so sorry, Mama. I do not know if I can even make you understand why I left last night.”

  She seated herself on the leather library sofa and patted the place next to her. Her eyes showed deep concern.

  He sat, but for a few moments did not say anything. Rising, he paced the room in front of her. “Do you never become suffocated by the life we lead? The plenty that surrounds us? The superficiality of relationships?”

  “It sounds as though you are being attacked by a Whig conscience, dear.”

  “Better than by a Tory fear of losing it all!”

  “Does this have anything to do with the orphan girl project?”

  He wondered at her prescience. “That is a good guess, Mama. But it is not only that. I find the women of the ton utterly wearisome. Most of them are concerned only with superficialities.”

  “The gentlemen are not much better,” she said.

  “True. However, I have some decent friends. Those on the orphanage board—Ruisdell, Deal, Kent, Trowbridge.”

  “Yes, they are good men. What is more, they have very compassionate and talented wives.”

  “Mama, I will be truthful with you. I feel Sophie has ruined me for any other lady. She is my ideal. I cannot imagine ever meeting anyone of her like.”

  “Lady Trowbridge is a very fine young woman. I know that you wished to marry her, and I would have been happy for you to do so. But that ship has sailed, son. You must look to the future.”

  Christian pounded his right fist into his left palm. “I do not think I will find anyone who could hold a candle to her, Mama. Certainly not among the Incomparables.”

  “I think you would like my friend Ginny. She is beautiful and intelligent. She comes from a fine family, though I must confess they are Tories. I thought you might raise her sights a little, possibly introduce her to the duchess and her soup kitchen.”

  Once again, the idea of meeting a new female only made him feel weary. “When will be the next opportunity to make her acquaintance?”

  “I am having my at home from three until five o’clock this afternoon. If you call, you will find her there, I am certain.”

  “I cannot promise that I will pursue a deeper acquaintance, but I will attend your at home.”

  “Very good,” his mother said with a smile. As she looked at him, her face softened. “You know, your father would have been exceedingly proud of you, Christian. The work you have done for those poor girls is going to be life-changing. You are making a real difference.”

  “But only for ten girls, Mama. There is so much more to do.”

  “Nevertheless, it will stand you in good stead in the Whig party.”

  “I confess that was the initial reason behind it. But Sophie changed all that. I hope I am no longer so self-serving.”

  She patted his cheek. “I must go, dear. But I shall see you this afternoon?”

  “You shall.”

  When she had left the room, he sat back down behind his desk and completed his letter.

  Dear Miss Whitcombe-Hodge,

  Your letter surprised me very much. I did not think you interested in the mundane matter of dress. However, it pleases me inexpressibly that you found my appearance acceptable.

  You are right, of course, about Mr. Blakeley. I shall be happy to introduce him to my tailor and counsel with him in all matters of sartorial elegance.

  Yours very sincerely, S.

  { 4 }

  TODAY WAS THE DAY Hélène had been waiting for. The ten orphan girls rescued from the streets of the East End were arriving in two carriages. Samuel Blakeley was at her side to witness the event. An outrider had ridden ahead to tell them that the carriages would be arriving close to five o’clock P.M.

  Distant hoof beats on the country road leading north out of Chipping Norton announced the arrivals. Hélène and Samuel Blakeley had been waiting on a bench outside the new school and orphanage.

  Hopping up, she ran up the steps and opened the door, calling to the other teachers. “They are coming!”

  Beth, Catherine, and Mary soon joined her, lining up in front of the orphanage to meet their charges. Would they be frightened?

  Ten dirty children, dressed in rags, descended slowly from the carriages. Every one of them was looking about her in suspicion. It occurred to Hélène that they probably thought they had been abducted.

  She smiled a gentle smile. “Hello, young ladies.” Since no one spoke, she broke the silence. “Welcome to your new home. I am Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. These other ladies are Miss Hilliard, Miss Flynn, and Miss Jackson. This gentleman is Mr. Blakeley. You will learn all of our names in time.”

  Their stares were uniformly blank. She wished so much she could just pull them each into her arms and give them a hug but sensed that this would be a bad idea on several levels—they were most likely completely unfamiliar with affection and would misinterpret the gesture, they were undoubtedly crawling with lice, and it would be a totally inappropriate gesture from a teacher to a student.

  Instead, she and her fellow teachers opened the doors, bade the girls sit at the desks dictated by their sizes, and sent the servants to heat the water for baths.

  As she had anticipated, the baths were unpopular, to say the least. Accompanied by their howls, the servants scrubbed each girl from the top of her matted head to the bottoms of her filthy feet. Once they were dry, open sores were treated and bandaged.

  Dressed in clean shifts and matching navy blue serge smocks with white aprons, the girls proved difficult to collar when it was time for the teachers to comb and cut their hair. Each girl had to be almost forcibly subdued, and roundly cursed her subduer in loud Cockney.

  Hélène said to her first subject. “Now, miss, your hair is so tangled that it will hurt if I comb it all out. So I am going to cut it short and you will wear this pretty frilled cap over it.”

  “Owwww!” was her reply.

  As soon as each girl was cut and capped, she was sent into the dining room, where a simple meal was laid—scones, jam, milk, chicken broth, cooked carrots, oranges, and a chocolate pudding.

  The orphans’ eyes grew round at the sight, and Hélène was heartened to watch them eating the food. She remembered too well the hunger of her recent poverty.

  “Do not eat too fast,” she warned. “You will be sick if you do. Start out with small servings. You can always go back to the table.”

  After a time, Samuel joined her in the dining hall.

  “Is it not lovely to hear the sound of all these happy voices?” she asked.

  “It sounds rather like a cattle yard,” he said. “How long do you think it will be before you can get the Cockney trained out of them?”

  She frowned. “I would not refer to them as cattle. And I do not know that they will ever speak the way we do. The good thing is that they’re happy. They were not at all certain what to think of us when we forced them into their baths.”

  “Well, it would seem you are off to a good start then.”

  “Yes, Samuel. It would seem so.”

  *~*~*

  After her duties were done, Hélène rode into town in the carriage with Beth. Catherine and Mary would take the supervision of the evening meal, prayers, and bed preparation—with the help of the cooks and chambermaids. Tomorrow the duty would fall to Hélène and Beth.

  “Have you plans with Samuel this afternoon?” Beth asked.

  “No. I must visit my sisters and see how they get on. I will only be able to visit every other day now.”

  “I feel for the poor dears,” Beth said. “Cooped up in that dreary rooming house.”

  “Yes, but it is taking all my salary to pay room and board for them. I only hope their clothes do not wear out. I must find a place to get warm things second or
even third hand before winter arrives.”

  “Will your brothers not help? Can you not write and ask them?”

  Hélène sighed. “I can, I suppose, but their wages are less than mine.”

  “Even a sixpence would be helpful. You could buy wool, and they could knit themselves caps and mittens.”

  “It would cost me that much to write to them without someone to frank my letter!”

  “Then I will donate a shilling and sixpence out of my wages, Hélène. They must have wool for scarves as well.”

  “You are a better friend than I deserve. Thank you very much, Beth.” She put her hand over her friend’s and gave it a fast squeeze. “What did you think of our orphans?”

  “They were just as dirty and ill-mannered as I expected, but we were well prepared. I think we shall go on very well. It is a deal too bad that your own sisters cannot be fed and housed as well. They are orphans, too!”

  “Ah, but we are genteel! We are expected to exist on thin air, if necessary!”

  “Yes,” said Beth. “It is a rotten lot to be poverty-stricken gentility. You are right.”

  *~*~*

  Hélène walked through the peeling green door of the rooming house, smelling the cabbage that always seemed to be boiling for dinner. She wondered whether her poor sisters ever got anything else to eat. In a basket she carried were a fresh loaf and some apples Mrs. Blakeley had sent. She was grateful indeed for the generosity of her benefactor.

  Climbing the stairs, she heard through the door on the landing the excited chatter of her three sisters. As usual, the irrepressible Monique threw open the door and gave her a mock curtsey.

  “Ah, my lady bountiful! What dost thou bring us today?” The sixteen-year-old was the beauty of the family with her naturally curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and rose-petal complexion. She was also a saucy minx.

  Hélène passed her the basket and looked around the room, while greeting Anne-Marie and Jacqueline. The two beds were made up neatly with their quilts from home, Anne-Marie’s trundle tucked away. The thin rug looked freshly beaten, the floorboards swept. Her fourteen-year-old sister was sitting up today in the room’s shabbily covered chair.