Or was it the strong smell of cigars, wreathing their smoke through the air? The heavy odour of perfumes, as Denise leaned to Burke, to press her arm against his body significantly, to promise with her bright eyes some pleasure in her bedroom as soon as she could get rid of her guests.
She could give pleasure, she was experienced at it, but today it had no appeal to Burke. Marriage — to her? He must have been mad to think it. He wanted a fine wife, someone to be proud of, not a divorcée whose bed had been slept in by many of the most wealthy rakes of London. Her arm hung with jewels, gifts of her many lovers.
And he wanted a son and heir — his son, his heir, a boy whom he could be sure he had fathered! No, he could not leave Penhallow to some bastard of such a wife — if she had a child. She had been married to Huntington for some six years, and had had no child. Perhaps she was barren, for all the promise of her lush breasts and wide thighs.
Restlessly, he rose, smiled away Denise’s reproaches. “I must go on, I have much to do today,” he said. The truth was, the air stifled him, she stifled him, he must get out and walk for a time.
He strolled along the Strand again, driven by some compulsion. The idea of marriage had been unthinkable. Then it had become reluctantly necessary. Now it was becoming something to consider with some pleasure.
Only ... could he do it? Would it work out as he hoped? He thought and thought, more seriously than he had done since he had returned home, his thigh shattered, his mind close to shattered by the violence and death on the Peninsula. He had found peace at Penhallow, peace and hard work, and satisfaction in his responsibilities.
Now — the next step. Marriage, a wife, an heir...
He stopped so abruptly his nose almost hit the corner of a rough stone building. He had been strolling along, when the name caught his attention. Behind him a woman was close to bumping into him as he paused. He lifted his hat, bowed politely, she scurried past, with a slight nod.
Then he turned again to the poster that had caught his attention. Lectures it said in bold letters. On the subject of education for all children. Speakers ... He scanned over the names, all ladies. And the name that had caught his wandering, vague attention: Miss Lesley Dalrymple.
It could not be, it must be. Nobody else had that name, he felt fairly sure. And nobody else would speak in a public gathering, but that daring madcap bluestocking with red hair, that shrew, that sharp-spoken vixen, that female who wept over her nephew...
He walked into the dimly lit building, a meeting hall which usually held concerts in the late afternoon. It was about half-filled with bonneted women of all ages, and perhaps half a dozen men slumped beside their wives, sheepish in the presence of Female Lecturers.
On the platform sat Miss Lesley Dalrymple, demure in grey woollen gown, with a pelisse lined in wool and bordered in a dark fur. Her bonnet did her no justice, thought Burke with critical disapproval. Plain, with wide grey ribbons, it outlined her smooth cheeks and firm chin, a bow tied to the side under her ear.
The speaker finished, light applause came. Then the woman in charge, a tall, strong-voiced woman, introduced Lesley.
“Miss Dalrymple is well-known to you. She has spoken several times on the subject of education, and has had two articles printed in the Times on that subject. I am happy to introduce her to you today, Miss Lesley Dalrymple.”
Light applause. Burke, for some reason, clapped vigorously from his seat at the back of the room. Several heads turned, several fierce-looking females glared into the darkness where he sat, as though recognizing the presence of a hard-clapping masculine person. He subsided and sank into the hard chair.
Lesley began to speak. Her voice was musical and firm, not strong, but so clear it carried even to the back of the room where Burke sat alone.
He listened idly at first, more concerned with the way the dim candlelight glimmered in the few red-gold curls that escaped the formidable grey bonnet, the grace of her hands as she lifted them in emphasis of her thoughts. Pretty hands, delicate, yet long-fingered, only one ring on the fingers, a diamond. From whom? She was not engaged. No, the wrong hand, and he subsided again.
Finally he began to pay attention to what she said. She was speaking of education for all children.
“Not only the wealthy boys need an education,” she was saying earnestly. “Yes, they need it, to manage their fortunes, their estates, their trades. However, girls need it also. And middle-class children, and the children of the poor.
“Let us consider first the girls, those of all classes. How many of you know some poor widow, left destitute by her husband at his death? She cannot add sums, she cannot carry on his trade. Others are appointed to take care of her income. Will they cheat her? How can she know, she cannot read or write. What will happen to her children, should they choose to deceive her and take her moneys from her? To the poorhouse, go!”
Her voice rose, and some women applauded.
“I say, how much better for the female to be educated! She can assist her husband in his work, in his care of his estates. You and I know females who are more careful of the family income than their husbands. We know females who assist in running their husbands’ inns, the foreign trade, the shops, the farms. They are capable of much, without any education. How much more aid could they give, were they educated. If they could but read, write, do sums, calculate, how much help could they be to their husbands!”
Light applause.
She continued, “And those who are discarded by their husbands! We all know some unfortunate female, whose husband has run off to the navy, or worse yet been pressed. He cannot return to her. Yet their children cry for food, they freeze in winter, their small feet are bare for lack of shoes. What can she do? Some try to obtain employment. Who will employ a woman with many children to support? How many households will hire a maid whose children must hang about the back door, waiting hungrily for a meal?”
She continued, giving forceful examples in ways which roused Burke’s admiration. She could picture to them the sights they had all seen, the deserted women, the widows, the poor children bewildered by their loss. She went on to speak of wealthy women, widows, whose husbands had made wills leaving the money to someone else to take care of. A number of bonneted heads nodded again and again, yes, they knew of such matters, probably by personal experience.
Lesley spoke for some half an hour, but Burke’s attention did not waver, nor did that of the women and men in the audience. She rarely consulted the pages before her. She seemed to speak spontaneously, with such force and intelligence, that they must listen. She spoke tenderly of the children of the poor and bereaved, how they must struggle for a living, how small children were put to work in factories, or on the very streets, to beg for a few coins.
“If only there were schools for all children,” she concluded passionately. “That must be a long time in the future. For now, our course must be to educate all those around us. To educate the girls of the wealthy families, that they may learn how to handle money wisely and assist their own children to study. For those of the middle classes, all boys and girls, to read and write and do sums. And of the poor — those forgotten children, those tormented ones, who often die early — what a difference it would make if they had a school to attend, an orphanage which educated them instead of causing them to slave at some task no adult would contemplate!”
She concluded with an ardent plea for them all to speak to others, to encourage the founding of schools, to give what they could in their own homes towards the education of their children, their nieces and nephews, their cousins, the children on estates and in villages. There was strong applause when she finally finished and smiled.
Burke applauded more loudly than any of them. He was dazed. What a sweet smile she gave towards them! He was sure she could not see him in the darkness in the back of the hall. But he beamed towards the platform, so proud of her he could burst. What a lovely glowing smile, what a bright mind, what a fine speech, what a beautiful voice...
>
As the next woman rose to speak, he moved towards the door, and out again into the street. He strolled home in the dusk, thinking deeply.
He had today begun to consider the impossible. He was moving towards the once-scorned. Marriage. It was not the impossible now; it was the necessary. Not just necessary, perhaps desirable! As Burke walked to his townhouse, his mind moved much more rapidly than his brisk stride.
Yes, it would be possible. It would be probable. He must marry one day. He loved no woman. He had pushed away the thought of marriage, of the chains of matrimony, with much distaste.
Today those chains jingled with a merrier note. Marriage! He loved nobody, but Lesley ... Lesley was a lady. She was a female of consequence. She ... she was a woman of integrity! Yes, that was it. She was honest, to the point of rudeness. She was a lady of good taste and circumspection. She was discreet in company, cool to the beaux, wary of any gossip about her. She had moved in with a lady of admired gentility. True, both were bluestockings, educated, very learned. But was that so bad?
He contemplated the sacrifice he would be making. He must give up his mistresses, his gaming, if Lesley so disliked it. He must settle down on his estates, concentrate on making life pleasant for her and for their children to come.
And what about Lesley? He frowned slightly. Yes, she said she detested men, and certainly her voice had been passionate on that subject. She had bossed him about as a child, just as she bossed her own brothers, trying to force them to their studies.
Yet ... she had also protected them from the wrath of her father, urging them in the back door and up the stairs to their rooms to clean up before he found they had been swimming in the millpond instead of doing their Latin studies. She had covered up for them, though she scolded them fiercely, when they had encouraged Frank to ride a dangerous horse. What a little mother she had been to them, he thought, with an oddly tender smile.
Mother, he thought. Yes, she may not like men, but she did like children! She was motherly without being a mother. She was tenderly concerned about children. If she could be persuaded to marriage, she would make a fine mother of her own children!
Hmm, he thought, as the butler opened the door and welcomed him into the house. It might be a fine thing one day, to find Lesley waiting for him in the drawing room, with a tea tray set before her, and hot tea and brandy waiting on a cold day. A pretty smile on her lips, a beautiful gown on her beautiful limbs, her arms reaching up to hug him when he entered. Instead of the sight of his friend, the Reverend Edgar Creswick, earnestly reading a newspaper scattered over his legs and feet, heaving himself from them to say, “Burke, the battles are becoming more fierce, read these dispatches from the Peninsula...” before he was scarcely in the door!
Burke gave his hat and topcoat to the butler and excused himself for a few moments. He went up to his room, washed his hands, gazed at himself in the mirror. His dark brown eyes glowed, his hair was tossed, his cheeks were scarlet from the wind — and some emotion?
He must think about this, not dash into it. And there was Lesley to consider. How to approach her? She had not marriage on her mind, that was sure. He frowned slightly. He must get her to think of marriage, and to him ... but how? He remembered something Alexander used to say of his sister, in disgust. “If you want Lesley to do something, you must try to persuade her that the opposite is the very thing she ought to do! What an obstinate creature she is, to be sure!”
Aha, a clue out of the past, thought Burke, and clattered down the stairs to talk to Edgar about battles.
CHAPTER 4
Two days later at ten o’clock in the morning, Burke called upon Lesley Dalrymple and Mrs Meredith. They waited for him anxiously, having received his brief polite note, requesting a conference, as he said.
“Do you think he could possibly have thought of some solution?” asked Lesley anxiously, as they came down the stairs to enter the drawing room.
“I do hope so, dear. He did sound positive, don’t you think so?” encouraged Maude Meredith. She settled her grey skirts on the pale grey-blue sofa and wondered aloud, “Should we send for tea when he arrives, do you think? Does he arise early or late? Should he have breakfasted?”
“Oh, I don’t know or care,” said Lesley impatiently, walking back and forth nervously from the opened carved doors to the windows. She held back the draperies, pushed back the lace curtains, to gaze outside. “There he comes! Oh, what a splendid pair of black stallions!” she breathed in admiration.
She gazed at the fine high phaeton with yellow wheels, the spanking black pair of horses as Burke deftly drew them to a halt before the townhouse, one of a number in the row. He did drive well, handling the reins with ease and gentleness, she could tell by the way the horses tossed their heads and were not blanketed with heavy sweat.
He tied the horses at the front and tossed a coin to a small boy to watch them, giving the lad a quick grin. Then he was out of sight, approaching the front door.
A ring of the bell, the butler’s steps, their voices. Then Burke was strolling in, fine in a brown suit with amber waistcoat. His Hessian boots were polished to a splendid shine. His face was cheerful, his smile quick.
Lesley’s heart rose in hope. She clasped her hands together as he greeted Mrs Meredith and kissed her hand. He turned to her, gave her a long critical stare. What was the matter? Her curls dishevelled? Her dress not of the mode? She cared little, she liked the pale apple-green of the woollen gown, and the gold chain and locket that had been her mother’s. They clasped hands, his was cold from the weather.
Pleasantries were exchanged. Lesley seated herself, Mrs Meredith enquired if he would like tea. He nodded. “I have not eaten breakfast, I was too intent on my mission today,” he said, with a half-smile.
Mrs Meredith rang for the maid, gave directions. Lesley said, her voice throbbing with tension, “You have thought of something, I know it! Dear Burke, kind Burke, pray tell me! Have you and the solicitors thought of some way to get Sandy?”
He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on her face. “Yes, we have. But it will be difficult, Lesley, make no doubt of that. Still, with courage and intelligence, with some sacrifice and a bit of good acting, we shall manage!”
She felt startled, and tremulous. He was so grave, abruptly. There was excitement in his eyes, a sparkle she had not seen for some time. It reminded her of the days when he and Alexander had plotted mischief, at Penhallow on a hot summer day, lying back in the grass and laughing, straws in their mouths.
“Oh, what is it? What can it be?” she breathed. “I would do anything, attempt any course...”
“In time, dear Lesley,” he said, and turned the conversation quickly while the footman and the maid rolled in a silver tray of tea. Mrs Meredith poured, Burke ate and drank. Lesley sipped at her cup mechanically, gazing at him hopefully. He looked soberly smart today, his dark curls brushed à la Byron, giving him a bit of a rakish air. Yet he exuded a radiant glow of resolution.
The servants left, closing the door at Mrs Meredith’s gentle direction. Burke leaned back, set his cup in its saucer, and said, “Well, dear ladies, I have come to a conclusion, but as I said, it will be difficult. Let us first consider the reasoning. The will of Alexander states Sandy and the fortune will be in the care of the nearest married relative.”
“Yes, yes, Aunt and Uncle Stukely,” said Lesley impatiently.
“At the present moment,” he nodded. “Even should I marry — which I did consider — I would not be nearer than Sandy’s Aunt Felicia. So that would serve no purpose.”
“You ... consider marriage, Burke?” Lesley felt shocked, as though jolted by the fall of a carriage wheel. Surely he did not think of marrying that divorcée, Mrs Huntington! She was so — so unsuitable! Disgusting!
“Yes, I am considering it,” he said solemnly, and the teasing light was gone. He seemed strangely in earnest, considering the toes of his shining boots as his long legs stretched before him. “However, as I said, that would
not help. Now, let us consider Frank.”
“Frank!” said Lesley. “He is so immature, so young — and his heart is in the navy.”
“You think so?” He seemed dubious.
Lesley nodded her head vigorously. “I know so! Just think of his letters, his immature pranks, the way he acted when last home! He was up all the night, sleeping all the day, and could not be done running about London with — with loose women!” Her cheeks were flushed, she knew; she felt warm. “No, Alexander was much more mature at that age. Frank ... well, it will be years before he is able to contemplate marriage, I fear. He is a good boy, of a generous nature, but ... marriage? Not yet.”
“Then we must consider you, Lesley,” said Burke, and stared directly at her. She gave a quick movement, her hand raised slightly in protest. “You dislike men, you have had unfortunate experiences with your Uncle Stukely, with rakes who pursued you for your fortunes.”
She nodded vigorously, her suspicious gaze on him. Was he considering her as the lamb for the slaughter? Marriage? Her? He was mistaken if he thought for one moment...
Burke was going on slowly, frowning slightly. Mrs Meredith was studying her coffee cup as though it contained someone’s fortune in it.
“If you married, Lesley, you would obtain control of Sandy at once. You are twenty-four, mature, with a good reputation. The courts would not find against you, I feel sure. And you are closer in relation to Sandy than your Aunt Felicia.”
“Yes, but I —”
He waited politely, but her throat seemed to have closed up. Sandy, dear Sandy, his small thin arms about her neck, his whispers of “Take me away, Aunt Les! Take me away!”
“And you are very fond of Sandy. I recall the days when you tried to make me and Alexander and Frank toe the line, so the wrath of your father would not fall on our heads,” he said, with a slight smile. “I think you have strong feelings for children. Your mother was not strong, you tried with all your youthful energy and will to take her place with us.”
The Ruby Heart: A classic Regency love story Page 4
