Twelve

Randolph joined the expedition to his mother’s charity school on Wednesday afternoon. As he told her, he was interested to see the place. It had been several years since he’d visited any of her projects. And since she was taking a party of ladies along, he was only too happy to act as escort. Only when he added that the school seemed to be in an iffy neighborhood did his mother comment, dryly pointing out that she often went there quite alone.

“Surely you take a footman as well as John Coachman?” he said.

“As I will on Wednesday,” his mother replied.

Randolph had had the sense to drop the subject then, before she could ask if Miss Sinclair’s presence had anything to do with his offer. Because he didn’t want to admit that of course it did. This pert young lady was occupying a large portion of his thoughts lately. He couldn’t resist a chance to spend more time in her company.

Flora came to Langford House early on the day, and they set out in the ducal carriage to pick up Miss Sinclair and, as Randolph discovered only then, Lady Hilda Stane on the way. Hilda had been allowed out of her house arrest for this unexceptionable expedition. Randolph found himself seated beside her on the rear-facing seat, directly opposite Miss Sinclair, who looked exceedingly fetching in a dark-blue pelisse and straw hat with a curled feather. To look up was to meet her blue-green gaze. Their knees touched with each lurch of the vehicle.

“Beatrice refused to come,” said Hilda. “She and Olivia are deep in some scheme. A great secret, it seems.”

She sounded sulky at the idea. Miss Sinclair looked concerned.

They drove along streets that grew narrower and shabbier. The duchess related the history of this particular school, which had been in operation for ten years. Randolph half listened. His mind would drift away on memories of music and kisses.

At last, they drove into a dilapidated square surrounded by houses that had once been grand residences, perhaps a hundred years ago. Two ancient trees in the dirt of the center marked the remains of a garden. Refuse had accumulated around them.

The coachman pulled up before a large dwelling built of red brick, surrounded by a high wall. Unlike neighboring properties, its wall was in perfect repair, and the building hadn’t been broken up into a warren of smaller units. The square wasn’t too bad, Randolph thought as he stepped down from the carriage. But through the narrow cobbled alleyways leading out of it, he glimpsed moldering slums.

A troop of ragged little boys appeared as if by magic. The coachman clearly knew them from previous visits. He deployed them around the carriage.

“It’s not always easy to find a location for my schools,” said the duchess in response to uncertain looks from Hilda and Miss Sinclair. “Some people seem to believe that poverty is contagious. Or make ridiculous complaints about morality.”

“Despite the youth of the students,” replied Flora acerbically. “It could hardly be a house for fallen women at their age.”

Miss Sinclair blinked. Hilda grinned.

“One must choose one’s battles,” said Randolph’s mother.

A hulking man appeared at the iron gate in the wall. The battered condition of his nose and ears suggested an earlier career as a prizefighter. He unlocked the gate and bowed them in with a Yer Grace. His voice was gravelly.

“All well, Hordle?” the duchess answered.

“Aye, Yer Grace. No problems.” The man’s grin revealed several missing teeth.

They walked across a narrow garden toward the house, where the door already stood open. “The locks are not so much to keep the girls in, as to shut dangers out,” the duchess said as they went through.

Verity followed the others into a large front hall with a staircase at the back. The space was painted white. Light streamed in from high windows. There were some cracks in the floor tile, but the space was very clean.

On one side stood two rows of girls in identical blue dresses with white aprons tied over the top. They ranged in age from perhaps four to fourteen, as far as Verity could judge. She was surprised to see them jostle a bit and whisper and giggle without earning reprimands from the five women on the other side of the hall. These were presumably the teachers; they looked competent and good humored.

The eldest of them, a gray-haired woman of fifty or so, came forward and curtsied. “Welcome, Your Grace,” she said.

The girls and their teachers echoed her words and movement.

“Miss Fletcher.” The duchess shook the woman’s hand and then introduced her companions. “I’m here to show off your school.”

Miss Fletcher smiled at the phrasing, but didn’t deny ownership. “And we’re happy to show it off, ma’am.”

The duchess walked over to the lines of students. “How are you getting on with the mathematics, Sally?” she asked one of the older students.

The girl, blond hair in neat braids, grinned up at her. “Better, Your Grace,” she replied. “That book you gave me helped a deal.”

“Very good.” The duchess turned to another of the taller students. “And is your embroidery still going well, Kate?”

“I sold three pieces to that grand shop you set me onto,” replied a brunette girl proudly. “I’m going to be rich, I am!”

“I can read,” piped one of the smallest in the front row.

The duchess bent to smile at her. “That’s splendid, Emily. What do you like to read?”

The child pulled back, suddenly shy. “Stories,” she murmured.

This wasn’t at all what Verity had anticipated. She’d imagined a far stiffer, more distant visit—all noblesse oblige. Perhaps influenced by her own solemn schooling, she’d expected subdued, unsmiling students. But Lord Randolph’s mother chatted easily with these girls, and they responded in kind. It was clear the duchess knew all their names and histories.

“Emily came here a few months ago from my refuge,” Flora murmured in Verity’s ear. “We could all see how intelligent she is, and she’s made remarkable progress already. I dream of sending her to one of the new women’s colleges eventually.”

“Really?” Verity couldn’t hide her surprise.

Flora acknowledged it with a nod. “It’s the way of things that most of these girls are destined for service or work in a shop,” she said quietly. “Far better than they could have hoped for without the school, but… Still, when we spot particular talents, we can nurture them.”

“You’ve joined in the duchess’s work then?”

“With delight. It’s marvelous to have the resources to really help.”

The duchess turned back and rejoined her party. They set off on a tour of the place—classrooms and dining parlor, a large comfortable room where the students could work and socialize, and cozy bedchambers. Afterward, the visitors sat down with Miss Fletcher for tea and scones produced in the cookery class.

“What do you think of our program?” the duchess asked Verity then.

“I?” She felt overwhelmed at the question.

“Well, none of us attended school,” the older woman replied, gesturing at her companions. “I had a governess.”

“As did I,” said Miss Fletcher, making Verity wonder about her history.

Hilda made a face. “I had several. This looks jollier, I must say.”

“My father taught me,” said Flora. “I never had schoolmates.”

“I did,” Lord Randolph pointed out. “Loads of ’em.”

“We are speaking of girls,” said his mother with refreshing finality. She turned back to Verity.

“This seems a fine place to me,” she said. “I admire the…feel of it.” She realized that she did have some opinions. “Do you ever take the girls out to the country? To walk in a forest perhaps. Or meet horses.” The others gazed at her. Verity felt a thread of concern. Had she said “meet horses”?

Then they began to nod. “I don’t suppose they’ve ever been out of London,” said Hilda as if the idea shocked her.

“Even an expedition to Richmond would be ‘educational,’” Flora said. She smiled at Verity. “They could look at the deer, run a bit wild.”

The duchess nodded. “A splendid suggestion. What else?”

“Do the students learn music?” asked Verity, emboldened.

“No.” The duchess looked thoughtful. “I suppose I think of it as a lady’s accomplishment rather than a practical one.”

“It can be far more than that.”

“Yes. I heard you sing.”

Verity relished the implied compliment. “Flora said you encourage talents when you discover them. You might have some natural musicians here.”

“Indeed.”

“Perhaps I could come and teach them?” Verity added.

Lord Randolph stared as if she’d said something odd. “I could, too,” he said.

“We have no male teachers,” replied his mother. “We want the girls to see women in positions of authority. Exemplars, if you will.”

He subsided, and Verity enjoyed it just a little.

The duchess seemed to come to a decision. “No. Thank you for the offer, Miss Sinclair, but the task would take more time than you imagine. And your family might not approve.” Verity was about to protest when she went on. “Also, you’ll be returning home in a few weeks. If we begin a new subject, we want to be able to continue.”

Verity had to acknowledge that point, even though home seemed like a different world to her right now.

“But perhaps you might visit again, however,” the duchess added. “And suggest the best way to organize the topic.”

“If we’re hiring a music teacher Miss Sinclair could test her capabilities,” Miss Fletcher said. “I’m no expert.”

The duchess smiled and nodded. “Very good. May we call on you for that service, Miss Sinclair?”

Assuring her that they could, Verity felt a surge of pride. She’d helped with charitable works before, of course, but she’d never been consulted with such respect.

Tea finished, they rose from the table, and the duchess said, “You’ve seen everything but the garden, Miss Sinclair. Come and take a turn with me.”

They all went out through the back entrance. The space behind the house was surprisingly large and lush, with grass and flowers and even a few trees. Hilda wandered over to examine a chicken coop. Flora took Lord Randolph’s arm and went to look at a vegetable patch, leaving Verity with the duchess. “The girls do most of the gardening,” she said. “So they are outdoors, if not in the country.”

“It’s a pleasant place,” replied Verity.

“Lacking only a stretch of water, my son James would say. Nowhere to sail even a toy boat.”

“I suppose he has been to the South Seas,” Verity said dreamily.

“He has. His wife comes from that part of the world.”

“How I envy her!” The words burst out on a tide of emotion.

“Her origins?” the duchess asked. “Her husband?”

“Her travels,” corrected Verity passionately. “We can’t even imagine all she’ll see, the unknown places she’ll explore. Like Captain Cook and Magellan and the other adventurers.”

“You’d like that yourself?”

“I’ve wanted it nearly all my life.” Verity rarely admitted her aspirations aloud. Some people mocked them; others were bewildered. But somehow the words poured out now. “To leave the familiar behind. To strike out and be bold. Every day some new sight or people or piece of knowledge.”

“Life in England bores you?” the older woman asked.

“No! I’m not some sour critic. I know I’m fortunate to have a comfortable home and all that goes with it. But I can’t help wanting more.”

“Voyages of exploration can be uncomfortable, and hazardous, according to James’s tales.”

“I’d like to hear them,” said Verity wistfully. She grew self-conscious as her surge of enthusiasm ebbed. “You must think me—”

“Rather like myself,” the duchess put in.

Verity turned to stare at her.

“I’ve always had a longing to do great deeds. Cut a swath through the world.” She smiled to herself. “That phrase makes me think of the boys playing pirate.”

“You couldn’t cut swaths once you had them to look after,” Verity said.

The older woman met her gaze. “On the contrary. Very much on the contrary, Miss Sinclair. Despite some wrong turns early on, I discovered that adventures are all around me.”

It was easy to believe that the duchess could see right through her. Verity looked away to hide her skepticism.

The others were approaching. “We should be going,” said Flora. “It’s nearly five.”

Hilda, who’d been looking bored, perked up.

The group went back inside and gathered their things. Miss Fletcher saw them to the door, and the Langford footman who’d accompanied them stepped forward to open it.

Outside, they found the coachman walking his team around the square. A few people had come out of the other houses to watch. One of the boys sat on the box beside him, beaming, while the others skipped and cavorted behind. “A moment, Your Grace,” the man called.

“We’ll come and meet you,” the duchess replied, starting off. The footman hurried ahead of her. Randolph joined the other ladies in following her.

As his mother neared the end of a cramped alleyway, a skinny, raddled woman lurched out of it, heaved the large wooden bucket she held, and threw a stream of slops into the square.

The reeking liquid caught the duchess full on, splashing her fashionable bonnet, her face, the hands she raised in belated defense, her immaculate clothing. Bits of filth hit her with a splat and slid stickily to the ground. Hilda, just behind her, caught a glancing surge that drenched her skirts.

After an eye blink of consternation, Randolph lunged forward. But it was too late. The damage had been done. The perpetrator stood openmouthed and swaying. She was very drunk, Randolph concluded.

Denizens of the square—man, woman, and boy—descended with a torrent of abuse. Tossing slops into the square was forbidden, Randolph gathered, and this was not the woman’s first offense. Only the most shocking one. The woman blinked, bared her teeth in a snarl, and began screaming curses back at them. The noise brought others to doors and windows. Hordle came barreling out of the school gate, ready to break heads. John Coachman and the footman were agape with horror. A full-fledged riot was brewing.

Randolph reached out to his mother. “My God, Mama.”

“Don’t touch me,” she replied with remarkable calm. “I’m filthy.”

The shocked look in her blue eyes belied her tone. The shouting mob pressed closer.

Miss Fletcher ran up, holding out a dampened towel. “Oh, Your Grace, I’m so sorry!”

“Not your fault,” said Randolph’s mother. She took the towel and wiped the dirt from her face.

“Come back,” the teacher urged. “We’ll run a bath and find you—”

“No,” said Randolph. “We must get her home.” She needed her own room and things, he thought. With a preemptory gesture, he got the coachman moving.

“I’ll dirty the seats,” said his mother. “They’ll be ruined.”

“No matter.” The carriage drew up beside them. Randolph held out his hand again.

“No.” She drew back. “Don’t touch me. I can get in.”

The footman had the carriage door open. Slowly, as if she suddenly felt her age, Randolph’s mother climbed up.

“You must go, too, Hilda,” Randolph said. “You need to get out of those clothes.”

Lifting her odoriferous skirts with a grimace, the girl got in the vehicle.

“I’ll go with them,” said Flora, striding past Randolph. “They should have someone to help.”

“I’ll escort—”

“I’m going. I’m accustomed to the reek of the streets. You stay and take Miss Sinclair back to her lodgings.” Flora stepped up into the carriage, pulling the door closed after her. Her clear, cool voice rang from within. “Drive on.”

Randolph pointed at the footman before he could hop on the back. “Find me a hack, Thomas.”

The young man looked around uneasily, but he didn’t balk. “Yes, sir.” Pushing through the yelling crowd, he set off.

“I wanted to help,” said Miss Fletcher, the soiled bit of toweling hanging from her hand.

“Could you send one of these boys to Langford House to prepare them?” Randolph said as they made their way back to Miss Sinclair. “A clever runner might be faster than the coach.”

“Yes, of course.” The teacher scanned the crowd. “Georgie! Georgie Finch.” She pushed through the crowd, waving at one of the boys.

Miss Sinclair was gazing at the puddle of slops with what seemed to be fascinated revulsion when Randolph joined her. He took her hand and summoned Hordle with a jerk of his head. The huge man cleared a path for them, and in a few moments they were back inside the walls of the school. Two of the teachers stood on the doorstep, distressed. Wide-eyed faces filled the windows. Randolph relaxed a bit as the gate clanged shut behind them.

“Your mother is extraordinary,” said Miss Sinclair.

“She is.” There’d never been any doubt about that.

“So many grand ladies would have collapsed in hysterics.” She gave an odd little laugh. “Adventures.”

“Mama can get through anything,” Randolph agreed. He had no fear for his mother’s state of mind. In a day or so, she’d be laughing about the incident. He was more concerned about the contents of that foul deluge.

“You did very well, too.”

Something about her tone made him smile. “Thank you.”

Miss Fletcher came through the outer gate. “Georgie swears he’ll beat the coach to Langford House.”

Randolph thanked her with a nod. He handed her a coin from his pocket. “For him when he returns.”

“You will tell the duchess how very sorry we are for this unfortunate—”

“She would never blame you,” he interrupted.

The formidable Miss Fletcher’s eyes filled with tears. “No, she wouldn’t. She’s the most admirable woman.”

“Isn’t she?” agreed Miss Sinclair.

A few minutes later, Thomas the footman returned with a hack. The crowd in the square had thinned, Randolph saw as he handed Miss Sinclair into the vehicle. He gave the driver her address and stepped up to sit beside her. Thomas found a perch at the back, and they set off.

The cab was small, a bit shabby but clean. Randolph’s knee touched Miss Sinclair’s when they clattered over some loose cobbles. Their shoulders brushed. They hadn’t been alone together since the kiss, he realized. And then all he could think of was that caress. The flowery scent she wore filled his senses.

“Your mother is quite unusual, isn’t she?” his companion said.

“What?” He pulled his mind back to the present.

She looked at him, her expression thoughtful. “She’s doing something important,” she went on. “With her schools. But great ladies often have charitable interests. It’s the way she does it.”

“The way?”

“She knew all about those girls. Every one, I wager. And she was truly interested in how they were doing.”

“She was,” Randolph agreed. He saw her point. Many of the wealthy would give to a cause when asked; few became so involved with the consequences of their donations.

Miss Sinclair turned to look at him. Her blue-green eyes were very close. And her lips—such an enticing shape, full, just slightly parted.

“You don’t find that unusual, do you?”

For an instant he thought she meant her lips. He blinked. “Ah—”

“That she should take such a personal interest. Find Sally a mathematics book, and Kate a place to sell her embroidery. I daresay she’ll send little Emily some stories.”

“You remembered their names and their circumstances,” he pointed out.

“I suppose that’s why your brothers have such striking wives,” she answered.

Randolph had missed a connection. “That?”

“Your mother’s influence.”

“She never interferes,” he said, puzzled.

Miss Sinclair seemed amused. “She doesn’t have to.”

Before Randolph could ask what she meant, the hack jerked to a stop, and they were thrown forward. Randolph put out his arm to keep her from falling, catching Miss Sinclair across the chest. Her beautiful bosom was at once soft and firm and delectable. Heat flushed through him. Their eyes met across inches. He heard her breath catch. For one aching instant he thought she would kiss him again.

Then she sat back. She cleared her throat, gripped the strap beside her as if she required support. “Have we…hit something?”

Stifling disappointment, Randolph lowered his arm. He stuck his head out the window. Up ahead, a large wagon loaded with barrels of beer was trying to enter a narrow lane. The street was blocked, and a line of carriages had formed. They couldn’t move backward or forward. A rising chorus of shouting and stamping hooves added to the usual din of the streets.

The driver looked down. “He’ll make it in a bit,” he said. “See how he backs his team? Won’t be too long.”

The turn looked impossible to Randolph, but he accepted the driver’s expert judgment. He pulled back into the carriage, and a self-conscious silence. “Wagonload of beer maneuvering,” he said.

“Ah.” Miss Sinclair held on to the strap and gazed out at a shop next to the hack. Its window displayed coal scuttles.

He had to talk. When he would so much rather have been…not talking. So, pick up where they’d left off then. Which was where? “How do you know about my brothers’ wives?”

She started but didn’t turn. “I’ve met two of them.”

“But you said ‘your brothers have such striking wives.’ As if you meant all of them.” Had she been asking about his family? He rather liked the idea.

“Olivia was telling me. She hears everything. Including a rumor that your brother James married a pirate. I liked that one.”

“Of course he didn’t—”

“I know. I don’t suppose Lord Alan dabbles in alchemy up at Oxford either.”

Randolph laughed. “He’d be livid at the very idea.”

Miss Sinclair nodded. “Olivia said his wife was an actress.”

“Her mother was.” He knew Ariel wasn’t ashamed of her lineage.

“Really?” Finally, she abandoned the coal scuttles to look at him.

“Yes.”

“And Flora studies some obscure ancient language. That’s what I meant.”

“By interesting?”

“Unusual. What other duchess would welcome such…individual females?”

“Mama looks beyond the surface.”

“I’ve seen that she does. She really listened to me.”

This was all well and good. Hopeful, even. But Randolph was ready to talk about something besides his mother. “I thought I might look into getting some instruments for the school,” he said. “They must have a pianoforte, I think. What else?”

They fell into a discussion of how best to begin musical instruction. Once again, their tastes and ideas jibed. They seemed to have a harmony of spirit in this area that matched the harmony they produced when they sang. If only it extended a bit farther, Randolph thought.

The hack jerked again and started moving. The way was clear at last, though they were moving slowly.

“I had the funniest letter from my father,” said Miss Sinclair then. “About you and the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Randolph stifled an oath. It had been too much to hope that she wouldn’t hear the story that made him appear so ridiculous, when her father was a senior churchman. “Shouldn’t they, of all people, forgive and forget,” he muttered.

“Forget that you—”

“If His Grace had changed out of his vestments, it would never have happened.” Randolph had brooded over this a bit. The archbishop had been rushing. The ram wouldn’t have mistaken his normal clothing for…something else.

“His vestments,” said Miss Sinclair.

“He presented such a…considerable expanse of white cloth.”

The hack slowed to a stop. “Here we are,” called the driver. Thomas jumped down from the back and opened the door.

Miss Sinclair hesitated as if she wanted to say more. But the footman was offering his hand. She hopped down. “Do you go to Mrs. Trent’s soiree this evening?” she asked Randolph.

“I’m promised to Sebastian,” he replied regretfully.

“Ah. Goodbye then.”

“Goodbye.”

Verity took a breath, made certain her hat was straight, and walked away. If only she’d had more time, she’d have gotten the whole story out of him. Although her father had said the tale wasn’t for her supposedly delicate ears. So perhaps not. The archbishop had presented an expanse of white vestment to what? Or who? Walking up the stairs to her bedchamber, Verity tried to imagine an ending. But she didn’t have enough information. Would Mama know? She’d ask, but she doubted it. Her mother never remembered juicy stories. It was one of the most incomprehensible things about her.

She had to discover what came next, Verity thought, taking off her bonnet and pelisse. Because she needed to know all about the man whose merest touch made her dizzy with longing. She’d very nearly kissed him again when he kept her from falling forward in the carriage. Right in public, in front of the coal scuttles.

Verity paced her room. She looked out the window, but of course the hack was gone. One topic her estimable school, and her kindly parents, had utterly neglected was physical passion. It had never been mentioned, let alone explained. Why, oh why had it come to her in the person of a country parson?