The Baron and the Bluestocking

by G. G. Vandagriff

  They brought out their needles as they settled before the sitting room fire to listen to Hélène’s account of her journey. She told them first of Hatchards’ and Gunter’s, the British Museum, and her speech before the orphanage board. Then she brought crows of delight with her accounts of Vauxhall Gardens and the ball she had attended.

  “Did you dance every dance?” asked Monique. “Did you waltz?”

  “I did,” Hélène said laughing. All the confusion she had endured in London seemed to disappear in the face of her sisters’ delight. “I would wish for all of you a trip to the capital. It was different than anything I have experienced before. But even with all that revelry, I was glad to be back with my students. That is my work.”

  “Oh, but Hélène,” said Monique, “you have worked so very hard ever since Papa’s death. You deserve some joy and good fortune.”

  “I have received a proposal of marriage. I wanted to talk to all of you about it.”

  “Not from Samuel,” said Monique.

  “Yes,” she answered. “From Samuel. He is virtually certain of winning the by-election as the other candidate had withdrawn.”

  “So you would be the wife of an MP,” said Jacquie, not looking up from her sewing.

  “Yes, which means I should live in London during the Season every year. This would provide a wonderful opportunity for you girls.”

  “But you do not love him!” Monique wailed. “You cannot sacrifice your own happiness because it would be good for us.”

  “But it would be a very satisfactory arrangement,” Hélène told them, putting away her private ache. “I could continue to teach. We could build a large house, with room for all of you. I should have kind Mrs. Blakeley for a mother-in-law . . . all our money problems would be at an end.”

  “But,” said Jacquie, “you have always been against marriage for material reasons.”

  “That is right. But in this instance I would be guaranteed that Samuel would treat me as an equal, not as a pretty thing to dangle on his arm. And I hope I should have a word or two to say about the position he takes up in Parliament.”

  “That is certainly true,” said Jacquie, “but I cannot but feel you are not as enthusiastic as you seem, Ellie.”

  Little Anne-Marie said, “Did you meet someone kind and handsome in London? You are so very beautiful, Hélène.”

  “There is another possibility,” Hélène said. Briefly she discussed Lord Delacroix. “But I cannot feel anything for him. I would rather marry Samuel, I believe.”

  “I cannot see you rubbing along at all well with such a man,” pronounced Jacqueline. “He is the epitome of all you despise about the ton.”

  “But what if he should change his views?” Hélène asked.

  Jacqueline said, “I have never been in Society, it is true. But I observed many marriages in our parish. Your situations are very different. It is true that you are very beautiful, but I think this man presumes too much. I think he intends to seduce you, Hélène. Take care.”

  { 15 }

  CHRISTIAN TRIED TO OCCUPY HIMSELF with his boxing, a rousing curricle race to Richmond, and billiards at Brook’s. But these pastimes failed to fill his days to his satisfaction. He had not seen Lady Virginia since the outing to the British Museum four days ago. Wondering if that was the lack in his life, he proceeded to visit her at Rose House.

  “My lord, I was beginning to wonder if you had been called away!” she said, an unbecoming archness in her voice.

  Already, he regretted coming. “I have been frightfully busy, I am afraid. How have you been occupying your time?”

  “I have been very dull since my brother left. Mother does not care to go out when he is not here.”

  “Oh? Gone back to Dorset, has he?”

  “Oh, no. He’s gone down to Chipping Norton to visit Miss Whitcombe-Hodge. Do not spread it about, but he has very high hopes of marrying her.”

  Shock hit him full force like an arrow to his chest. Delacroix? To marry Hélène? No, it made no sense. Besides that, it was wrong. “Marrying Hélène . . . er Miss Whitcombe-Hodge? I did not realize . . .”

  “He is smitten. I have never seen him this way. He is even willing to become a Whig for her sake.” Ginny smiled, looking complacent. “I shall enjoy immensely having her as a sister-in-law.”

  Shrewsbury leapt up and began to pace, drawing his hand over the back of his scalp in agitation. “I did not realize things had been brought to such a pass.”

  “Oh, he fell for her immediately. And that is not like my brother. He is so handsome, he has females running after him in packs. He never has to exert himself at all. And making a two-day journey to a mere market town is quite beyond anything, believe me.”

  Did Hélène return Delacroix’s regard? What about the waltz we shared after I caught the man pressing his intentions on her? Did that count for nothing?

  Then he remembered how that had ended, how he had attempted to squelch the magic. Devil take it!

  “My lord? You seem quite agitated,” Lady Virginia said.

  His being was consumed with a blind desire to get to Chipping Norton. The perfect idea slid into place. He sat down and faced his hostess. “Would you and your mother care to accompany me to see our school? I should like you to see what we are trying to accomplish for these East End orphans.”

  She brightened immediately. “What a perfect excursion that would be! I can assure you on my own and my mother’s behalf that we should enjoy it immensely.”

  “We shall leave in the morning, then. Oxford is halfway. Have you ever been there?” Shrewsbury could not help but remember the last time he had been there. He and Sophie had climbed Magdelene Tower and, while admiring the view, he had tried to convince her Frank would never marry her. How could he have inflicted such pain?

  “No, I have not, and I should love to see it, for I hear the colleges and their settings are beautiful.”

  “They are, indeed. We will go in my barouche. That should offer us plenty of room. What time shall I call for you?”

  They arranged to leave at nine o’clock the following morning. Christian made his way home in a fog.

  What is wrong with me? I feel physically ill at the idea of Hélène marrying that bounder! What a recipe for disaster! She may be beneath his social consequence, but she is far above him in character. Such a marriage would be horribly unequal.

  Sitting before an empty grate in his library, he stared, but saw nothing. Hélène was against marriage. She was against the kind of careless privilege that Delacroix represented. What had happened to her principles? Was she going to desert all she believed in for the sake of a handsome face? Devil take it! Delacroix was handsome. And charming if you liked your charm oily and heavy-handed. He didn’t think Hélène would go for that type. Was she to give up the teaching she loved and disappear into deepest Dorset?

  Why do I care? Christian sat up. Can it be that I am in love with the woman? He stood and paced with great energy. Impossible! I find her guiding principles outrageous. Taking up a cricket ball, souvenir of a record-breaking at-bat, he squeezed it between his hands as he continued pacing. But if she is willing to give them up for Delacroix, would she give them up for me? He put the cricket ball back on its stand and took up an empty meerschaum pipe. No, I should never ask such a thing of her.

  Upon comparing proper, dull Lady Virginia to Hélène, he found there was no contest in his heart. It appeared to have settled on Hélène without his knowledge or consent.

  Christian resumed pacing. What was he to do now? Clearly, he could not let her marry Delacroix. At least, not unless she loved the bounder. But he kept coming back to the waltz they had shared. She could not have faked the feelings emanating from her very being. But hadn’t he as much as said they could not act on them?

  Had he forced her into Delacroix’s arms by his gross inability to recognize his feelings for what they were? He had no idea how he and Hélène would work out the issues between them, or if she was even still f
ree, or if she would have him if she were.

  When Christian went to bed that night, he still had not decided on a strategy. All he knew was that in two days, he would set eyes on Hélène again, and something had to be done.

  *~*~*

  The two days in the carriage with Lady Virginia and her mother exacerbated his anxiety in the extreme. Having made his choice, he should have somehow withdrawn his invitation to the two ladies, but he had not known how to do it without seeming rude.

  “Do you think we will have much snow this winter, Lord Shrewsbury?” Lady Delacroix asked.

  “I think it will be piled high and deep and that none of us will be able to budge from our hearth,” he replied.

  “I must say, I thought Oxford a bit of a disappointment,” Lady Virginia said.

  “And why is that?” Shrewsbury asked.

  “All the colleges looked so similar. There was no great variation in architecture to account for differences in taste.”

  “They were all built at various times during the rather lengthy Gothic period. Perhaps that accounts for it,” he said dryly. “I find it beautiful. In fact, it is my favorite city in all of Britain.”

  “Oh. But then, you are a man. You do not have the same sensitivity to beauty as a woman.”

  At this point, Christian had been ready to open the carriage door and trot alongside. How he kept a civil tongue in his head until they reached their destination, he could not have said. Especially when mother and daughter chose to wax eloquent on Delacroix’s many virtues. Chipping Norton was asleep when they arrived, but a lantern still burned outside The White Hart. Lady Virginia, upon entering the inn, asked immediately after her brother.

  “He is in our private parlor, my lady, playing cards.”

  “Will you tell him his sister and mother have arrived, please?” she asked.

  Christian, anxious to avoid any further strain on his civility, bade the ladies good evening and climbed to his room, carrying his own case. His watch told him it was nine o’clock. Too late to call on Hélène. She had to arise early in order to go to the school. It was also too early to retire, but he had no desire to visit en famille with the Mowbrays.

  Fortunately, he had brought a translation of Voltaire’s essays with an eye to comparing opinions with Hélène. Stretching out on the featherbed, he read by candlelight until his eyes tired. A check on the time revealed that it was midnight. The essays had been such a relief from two days of silly conversation that he had ingested them almost greedily.

  Undressing, he reflected upon whether Hélène’s conversation had ruined him for anyone else’s or whether he had always been an intellectual snob. Christian decided he must blame it on Hélène. And Sophie, of course. He lay awake, studying different methods for approaching Hélène, and finally decided he would let the circumstances of their first meeting dictate a course of action. Upon making this decision, he yawned and fell asleep nearly instantly.

  He woke early, washed, shaved, and dressed. It was before seven. If he hurried out to the school—they must see about naming it!—he could breakfast with the children. Leaving a note for Lady Virginia and her mother that he would be by at ten o’clock to take her to the school, Christian rode off on one of the carriage horses.

  He arrived at the orphanage just as the cowbell was being rung for breakfast. His first glimpse of Hélène came as she was breaking up a fight between two older girls who seemed to be claiming the same ribbon. Her method was to put it in the pocket of her uniform, telling them they would discuss the matter later when tempers had cooled.

  He approached her. “Good morning, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge.”

  “Merciful Heavens! What are you doing here?” Her hands flew to the no-nonsense bun on top of her head.

  As greetings went, it was not much, but to see the woman concerned about her hair when she was normally the least vain of creatures, put him in good spirits.

  “Actually, I thought you realized I am a patron of this place. I have brought Lady Virginia and her mother down for a tour to see what you are doing here. I hope to interest them.”

  Her face relaxed in relief and she took a long breath. “Thank heavens! Someone for his lordship to associate with during the daytime. Lord Delacroix grows weary of Mr. Blakeley and he does bother me so when he attends my classes.”

  Did the man’s presence make her annoyed or self-conscious? “I am at a loss as to what he is doing here,” Shrewsbury said.

  “He hopes to marry me,” she said baldly. Turning, Hélène began to walk her way through the benches, observing the girls as they ate. He followed, very glad he had already been privy to her otherwise shocking news.

  “Have you given your answer?”

  “This is not the time to discuss such things. Please stop following me about.”

  “If you will agree to lunch with me. The best food to be had is Mrs. Blakeley’s cook’s. I will see if that good lady can give us some lunch and some privacy.”

  Hélène gave a gusty sigh. “That would be quite heavenly, to tell you the truth, but what about your guests?”

  He had completely forgotten his stated reason for his visit. “I shall tell them we have school business to discuss and they can have luncheon here or at the inn with their brother.”

  “He usually brings a picnic and eats with me out in the orchard.”

  “Well, today he can host his mother and sister for a change.”

  During the next few hours, he visited with the Misses Jackson, Hewitt, and Flynn. The latter was very pleased with the new piano and looking forward to the concert on Saturday week. Shrewsbury had forgotten all about it, and was glad for another excuse to come down and meet Hélène. He solicited the teachers for their opinions upon a name for the school. They all agreed that it should be named for Lady Clarice Manton, who had been fighting for female literacy for many years, and had been so instrumental in putting Lord Shrewsbury’s plan into action.

  “It must be named for a woman, my lord,” said the tall and comely Miss Jackson. “Surely you agree with that.”

  “I do. I will put your suggestion to the board, and we will vote on it.”

  On the way back to the White Hart, he stopped by the Blakeleys.’ Mrs. Blakeley was happy to fall in with his request regarding luncheon. “I know there are not sufficient places in that school for private conversations. It really needs a larger business office. That cubbyhole is filled to the rafters with classroom preparation materials.”

  “That is another matter I shall take up with the board. We need a proper preparation room.”

  He found his guests awaiting him, along with Lord Delacroix. They appeared by their quarrelsome attitude and sour faces to have had a disagreement of some sort.

  Hesitating, he decided not to ask the cause, instead rallying them. “Let us go to the school. Lord Delacroix can probably tell you more about what goes on there than I can. I suspect he is an expert by now.” Observing the picnic basket, Christian said, “Miss Whitcombe-Hodge has told me about your picnics. However, today she and I have school business to attend to, so I shall be taking her away to lunch. It would be a perfect time for you to picnic with your mother and sister. Perhaps you need extra food before we go?”

  Looking annoyed, Lord Delacroix walked back to the kitchens, telling the company he would be gone for mere minutes. As they boarded the carriage, Lady Delacroix said, “Can you believe that troublesome baggage, Miss Whitcombe-Hodge, still has not given my son an answer to his proposal? I should think she would jump at it!”

  Shrewsbury said, “I do not believe the woman intends to marry.”

  “She is a very odd woman, indeed, from all that I can gather,” Lady Delacroix said.

  *~*~*

  “So you have been keeping Lord Delacroix on tenterhooks, I understand?” he asked Hélène while they sipped excellent broth. They had been placed in a sunny parlor that was set up for their luncheon overlooking Mrs. Blakeley’s autumn garden of many-colored chrysanthemums.

 
“It is the oddest thing,” she confided, her brow troubled. “You know how I feel about marriage for a woman such as myself.”

  “Only too well,” he said.

  “He does not agree with any of my opinions, yet he says if I marry him, he will put them forth in the Lord’s.”

  “I would advise you not to trust that man. Does not your sixth sense tell you that he is a bounder?”

  “You think so?”

  “I find him a bit too slick. And he is quite annoyed at my turning up.”

  “Yes, I did gather that. There is something else you should know. Mr. Blakeley has also proposed to me.”

  Shrewsbury closed his eyes and exhaled. This, at least, was no surprise. And she was probably far more likely to accept Blakeley’s proposal than Delacroix’s or his. He must state his case well. “For someone who is against marriage, you would seem to be inundated with suitors. I myself would like you to consider yet another future. I am the first to say that I do not know how we will work it out. But I think I have proven that I have charitable instincts where young women are concerned.”

  “You have done that, certainly,” she said.

  “And I spent an agreeable night reading Voltaire’s essays . . .”

  “Did you? How did you find them?” Her gray eyes sparkled and she smiled at him like he was a clever schoolboy.

  “Remarkable. Very prescient. I understand your preference for him.”

  She looked pleased. A servant cleared away their soup bowls and brought them partridges, green beans, and roasted potatoes.

  “There are many things on which we agree,” he said slowly, “but more, I am afraid upon which we disagree. And I have not forgotten that our estates in life are so dissimilar. I do not know that you would really know how to get on in the world of the ton.”

  Putting down knife and fork, she looked at him, her eyes bewildered. “What are you trying to say, Lord Shrewsbury?”