Elisabeth Fairchild (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

Patience was reminded of the evening Richard had taken her to Vauxhall as Pip handed her down from his coach in front of a small, whitewashed gatehouse. Before the gate hung a large cast-iron bell. It was ironic and appropriate somehow; there was resonance in the moment, a ringing echo of that other illicit coach ride in which Richard had transported her into Pip’s private world.

Now Pip carried her into Richard’s.

As her fingers slid from the hand she had so long yearned to clasp Patience stared for a moment at the neat stitching that shaped the soft, lemon-colored kid of her gloves, at the diminutive pearl mourning ring that still graced her finger. Not for Chase’s sake did she wear the thing, but for Richard’s, and every time it moved on her finger, every time she caught glimpse of her hand, there was the wink of it, and with it thought of an afternoon at Cavendish Manor playing Hazard and Chuck-a-luck.

The edge of the gold band bit into her finger when Pip clasped her hand—her dream come true. How long had she yearned for her hand to be treasured in Pip’s good-sized grasp? How many times had she imagined a clandestine carriage ride alone, his attention all for her? And yet any pleasure she might have taken in spending time alone with him was overshadowed by the intensity of her curiosity in seeing what Richard kept secret from her—here, at a foundling hospital.

The gate, the bell, the brick pile beyond, a group of lads playing—nothing seemed too objectionable. As an area for dwelling, Bloomsbury was highly regarded, a favorite haunt of writers and poets. Recent construction marked a number of desirable squares of attractive houses.

The foundling home itself was surrounded by open fields full of butterflies and daisies, sheep and cattle grazing. A pub from Queen Anne’s day squatted on the corner, the sign above its door batted by the wind. The coach driver looked as if he prepared to doze. The footman at the back of the carriage wore a bored look, and yet Patience felt as if they stepped into the forbidden—into potential scandal—she and Pip.

She knew why most young women came here. There was inherent in a home for unwanted children a private, tucked-away sense of shame and scandal. Pip felt it, too. He looked about, head high, a trifle too high. He had thought it wisest to tell her mother that he took her to the museum collection in nearby Montagu House, and Patience had not bothered to contradict him.

She hesitated to approach the gate.

“Are we to ring this?” she asked, reaching for the bell’s sturdy chain.

“Not unless you mean to leave a baby with the gatekeeper,” Pip said with an awkward laugh. He held wide the squealing, wrought-iron gate, frowning at the noise it made—or was it the thought of babies that troubled him?

Leave a baby! With the gatekeeper?

It took a moment for the enormity of such an idea to register, a moment in which her shoes carried Patience through the gate, and a warbler winged past, twittering sweetly, and ahead of them came the sound of children laughing, none of it sounding quite real, quite right, for how could unwanted children laugh?

How does a mother bring herself to do such a thing?
Patience wondered. She looked about her with fresh eyes. The smell of the breeze that batted at her careful curls seemed changed; the cry of the bird had gone plaintive.

A young woman brushed past them, rushing out of the squealing gate as Pip drew it closed, his head turning, to follow her progress, his eyes fixing on her face as if in recognition. She wore the deep green livery of a familiar household, and yet Patience could not, in that moment, place whose. The young woman’s eyes were swollen and red, her shoulders racked by sobs, and in her arms she clutched a bundle from which a thin arm stretched, baby fingers reaching up to grab the wind-flung green velvet ribbon that tied the end of her braid.

She had not the heart to leave the little one, Patience surmised as the gate clanged shut behind them. There was something triumphant in the thought, for surely it was better for a child to remain in its mother’s care than in the hands of strangers.

“Blackballed,” Pip said flatly with a shake of his head, regret darkening his eyes. “They’ve not enough room for it, there are so many. Come along now.”

On they went while Patience mulled the word about in her head.
Blackballed?

Little boys in brown wool uniforms with peaked caps and starched white collars played with sticks and hoops in the courtyard between the widespread arms of the redbrick building that was the foundling hospital.

“What do you mean, blackballed?”

Pip shrugged, as if it were no great thing. “The women draw little balls from a bin to see if their babies get in. White balls, the child stays. Black ball, the child must go.”

She could not quite fathom his meaning, so matter-of-factly did he put it.

“Unwanted even by the foundling hospital?” she asked.

“Yes. Not enough money. Never enough, if you listen to Richard.”

“And why do their mothers not want them in the first place? Their own children? Are they ill?”

He looked at her, astounded. “A few. For the most part it’s unwed mothers, servants left with child by the hands of a master—and thus no father, no food, no money.”

Hoydens
, she thought, and for the first time truly understood her mother’s lifelong concern with matters of ladylike behavior. “Oh!” she said quietly.

“I cannot think why you should wish to come here.”

She looked about them, at the boys who glanced their way in the midst of their game with curious eyes.

“I wanted to see . . .”

The brick building loomed.

“What?”

Through the windows, rows of little girls in matching brown pinafores and starched white caps bent over bits of needlework. Patience thought of the woman who had been turned away, of the baby.

“What will become of it? The baby?”

He shrugged. “She may take it home again, struggle to feed it. Then again, she may go to the Thames with it.”

She gasped. “Throw it in?”

He nodded grimly. “Like a bag of unwanted kittens. Those who haven’t the heart to drown their young leave them bundled up along the bank. Wait for the weather to take them.”

Patience had no words. She stared at the laughing lads as they scampered across the yard.

“Why did you come here, Patience?” Pip asked again.

“I wanted to see—”

“A bit of scandal?”

She made a face at him. Did he truly think so little of her? “No!” She shook her head vehemently. “I wanted to see what so impassioned Richard that he would enmesh you all in it so completely.”

Pip shrugged, paused a moment, watching the lads, as she did. “I think he hoped to sway us . . .” He shook his head impatiently. “Sway Chase, in any event, from his wild ways with women. Show him the sad outcome of his wickedness.” He turned and trotted up the little flight of steps leading to the pedimented doorway.

“Was Chase wicked?” she asked from the bottom of the steps.

Pip paused in reaching for the door latch. He waggled his brows suggestively. “Extremely wicked.”

“And did it work?” Her breath came fast in mounting the steps, as urgent as her question. “Was he deterred?”

Pip stepped back from the doorway. He studied his shoes a moment before answering, “Not Chase. Not enough that anyone would notice, in any event, but for the Christmas turkeys.”

“And you?” she dared ask, coming alongside him. “Did Richard persuade you to give up your Titian-haired dancer?”

The golden curls that kissed his forehead bobbed violently, so suddenly did he turn to look at her. “He told you?” he demanded, blue eyes flashing.

She shook her head and took a step back, startled by the heat of his anger.

“Who then?”

“You.”

“What?”

“Just now.”

His eyes narrowed, golden lashes framing a hard glitter of sapphire and obsidian. “Explain.”

She tugged at her gloves—new gloves, and the young woman with the baby had had none. “I guessed. You see, Melanie would not tell me who you were talking to at Vauxhall. Nor would Richard explain your relationship with her.”

“She saw?”

“Melanie?” They spoke as one.

“Yes.”

He looked worried, contrite.

“She told me I must ask you who she was, that it was not her business to sully an innocent mind.”

“She would leave it to me, would she?” he muttered as he held open the door for her.

With a sudden yell from the lads a runaway hoop crashed into the bottom of the steps, bounded halfway up the flight, following them, and then fell back down again with a rattle.

As if it brought with it the truth, Patience knew, suddenly, where she had seen the green livery before, the green livery that the young woman with the baby had been wearing.

She had seen it at Vauxhall, under a tree.

***

Patience was given a complete tour of the foundling home, a trek through dark hallways that smelled of beeswax, shoe leather, and chalk, hallways that filled with children of all ages when bells were rung between classes that taught the rudiments of trade: sewing and wait skills for the girls, wait skills and the figuring of money for the lads.

She tried to imagine the world bereft of these well-dressed, rosy-cheeked children, given to the Thames. It was too horrible to comprehend. She thought of her own childhood, of climbing trees, and hide-and-seek, and beating Pip at backgammon. She could see, in her mind’s eye, with fresh appreciation, the bounty of her life—of Richard’s, of Pip’s.

She thought of Chase as he had once been, older than they, but still a child—a precocious, rambunctious prankster of a child, blessed with loving parents and the privileges of wealth. Even as a child he had taken joy in pinching the cook’s buttocks and undoing apron strings, and in kissing the scullery maid under the mistletoe. How many maids had he brought to such a place? How many to the Thames?

How much it must have pained Richard. How much she understood his need to do something.

“You mentioned teas?” she reminded Pip when at last she had seen the whole, and he wondered if she were not ready to go.

“Yes.” He rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “Hungry, are you? I know just the place for fresh scones and clotted cream.”

“I did not mean tea for me, although that sounds lovely,” she said. “It is more a matter of wishing to take part in raising money for the orphans.”

“Oh! Those teas. Well, you must ask Melanie.”

“Lady Wilmington?” She was for a moment surprised, and then it all fell into place.
Of course.
“Let me guess,” she said. “Richard talked her into it.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Patience attended Lord Wilmington’s funeral less than a fortnight later, and in the days following went alone to call upon the widow Wilmington, arriving at a house swathed in black ribbons and plumes, a dark wreath upon the door. Inside, the ceiling was tented in black, the mirrors covered, the drapes drawn.

Surrounded by such reminders, Patience recalled the kindness of Lord Wilmington at Vauxhall, how readily he had welcomed her to his box, to the spot beside his chair, how jovially he had introduced her to his friends and included her in the conversation. She felt a pang of regret that she had not had a chance to know him better.

Melanie saw her in the little drawing room, the blue drawing room, whose dark, damask-lined walls had not been draped in black. The draperies at the window, which faced onto the garden, had been parted, and in the bright swath of green-tinted light, the widow looked out at a blue sky and nodding flowers.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Patience said, and with a guilty start Lady Wilmington allowed the draperies to fall back into place, hiding once again the world that strictest mourning dictated she must ignore. “I know that this time is generally reserved for visits from only the closest of friends.”

Melanie smiled at her, a brilliant flash of a smile. Like the light from the window it poured over her.

“And that is exactly what we are,” she exclaimed, descending upon her in a quiet abundance of black fabric. “We must be. You and I and Richard and Pip.” She led her to a little table set for two. “I mean to feed you cucumber sandwiches. And pineapple and melon from Wilmi’s beloved hothouses. And poppy-seed cake, and tea. And you must feed me news from the outside world. Tell me everything. Simply everything. I am starved for attention.”

Black suited the widow. She had never looked more endearing, Patience thought as she was graciously offered sandwiches and fruit at a table draped in crisp white linen, where a fine portrait of Lord Wilmington smiled down at them.

Lady Wilmington confided over lemon-scented Darjeeling and poppy-seed cakes, “It is dreadfully dull, this mourning business, with only an occasional peak at the garden. No perfume, no silks, no curls, no jewelry. I may not even occupy myself with needlework. Wilmi would laugh to see me suffer so for him, who lived only to bring me pleasure. ‘You must go dancing, or to the theater, my love. Lift your spirits.’ I can hear his voice counsel me as clearly as if he were standing in the room. He would not want me to mope or pine, not my dear Wilmi. From his deathbed he bade me not to fall into a state of melancholy, insisted I must remarry at once. I hear him laugh, for he knows it is not allowed, none of the things I like best in the world, not for another six months.”

“The time will pass more quickly than you think,” Patience assured her.

“So everyone says.” Lady Wilmington sighed. “But I find the hours drag most tediously.”

“I hope you will not mind that I’ve a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor?”

“Yes. Pip has taken me to the foundling home.”

“Pip?” She sounded vastly surprised. “He hates to go there.”

“Yes, well, I begged him. The boys sang at Chase’s funeral.”

“Did they? I am sorry to have missed that.”

“They were quite moving; they had voices like angels. Pip tells me you are active in the monthly teas that are held to raise money for the children, and I wish to help. It occurred to me I might take over some part of your duties while you are confined to mourning.”

“Oh, my dear.” Lady Wilmington leaned forward to clasp her hands, and tears glittered in the corners of her eyes. “No wonder Pip agreed to go. You are an answer to my prayers.”

***

It was six months later, at one of the foundling hospital garden teas that Patience next saw Richard, fresh out of mourning. Or rather, he saw her. She speculated later how long he had stood propped against the trunk of the oak, watching her, a look of wonder in his eyes, a wonder so strong it made her turn, the hair at the base of her neck prickling, with the feeling that she was watched.

And someone
was
watching—two someones, as it turned out. The first who caught her eye was not Richard at all, but Sophie Defoe’s stepbrother, Will. He was staring at her over the rim of a cup of tea, steam rising about his nostrils. She was reminded of the tales of dragons her father had fabricated for her as a child.

“Miss Ballard!” he said, approaching the table where she was directing several of the older orphan girls in the arrangement of cake plates and tart trays, punch bowls, tea urns, and an array of napkins and silverware. “I must say I did not expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you.”

“I lend use of my footmen and stable lads to these teas on occasion, in token contribution, for the directing of the carriages, and carrying the paintings, which tend to be too heavy for the children.” He waved toward a trio of tall footmen, who were at that moment carrying a canvas-wrapped painting through the trees toward the display area in the walnut-paneled great hall of the hospital.

“How very kind of you,” she said, and could not take her eyes off of the footmen, something familiar in them, something she could not quite place.

“I see I have been looking for you in all the wrong places.”

He meant the remark to be suggestive, even provocative, and he did not know her well enough, she thought, to take such liberties. Indeed, his suggestive tone, and the idea of looking in the wrong places, made her think of Vauxhall. And she did not want to think of that night, or what she had seen there.

“And where did you hope to find me other than in the country with my family?” She tried to sound dismissive.

“Why, Almack’s, of course, and Astley’s. Even”—his brows rose suggestively—“Vauxhall.”

Vauxhall? Why the gardens? Unless . . .

He seemed to be waiting for her to make the connection. He eyed her most keenly, something sly in the manner of his gaze.

“And why did you look for me?” she asked, while in her mind the thought ran—
He saw me at Vauxhall! That long-ago night of the masquerade. He must have!

“You intrigue me, Miss Ballard. Indeed, I am quite drawn to you.”

Her eyes were drawn again to the backs of the retreating footmen, the dark bottle green of their uniforms. She was certain he had been there, certain he had seen her, and something in his knowing frightened her.

In that moment of fear she was beset by the notion that someone watched them. The hair prickled at the back of her neck, and she turned to find a gentleman in gray, a black armband at his shoulder, leaning against one of the larger oaks, his gaze fixed on them.

A smile lifted his lips as her eyes met his. He raised his teacup in salute.

“Richard!” she cried, and without so much as a word of farewell to Will Defoe, behaving the hoyden once more, skirts flying, she ran to him, arms wide.

“Has it been six months?” she asked into his coat lapel, grasping at his armband, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Oh, how I have missed you!”

A moment’s juggling, and he tossed the spilling teacup into the grass, and then he wrapped his arms around her in a great bear hug, such as he used to give her as a child, and said, muffled, into her hair, his voice mocking, “Who are you, my dear?”

She looked up at him, surprised. “I am Patience.”

“Are you? Here? I never thought to see it.” He chuckled. “You do not look it, running to see me in such a fashion.”

She boxed his shoulder. “I have been impatient to see you again.”

“And I you.” He smiled, holding her at arm’s length, that he might look at her, that she might look into his eyes—those eyes gazed back at her with such warmth and kindness and affection it made a shiver run the length of her spine. “I did not think to find you here, of all places. Was that Sophie Defoe’s stepbrother?” he asked.

“Will?”

His brows rose in the much-missed manner they were wont to. “You know him well enough to call him by his given name?”

She shrugged. “Not really. It is just that Pip always refers to him as Will. Do you think it was terribly rude of me to run away from him like that?”

“Incredibly rude,” he agreed with a familiar teasing twist of his lips. Light fingered his hair, dappled his cheeks, kissed the tip of his nose. How new his face seemed to her, how beloved its expressions, discovered afresh.

“Tell me, what do you think of him?” she said.

His brow furrowed. “In what capacity would you have me consider the question?” When she turned a confused look upon him, he went on hastily, “More to the point, what do you think of him?”

She smiled and shrugged. “I am not entirely sure. That is why I asked you. You tend to be a good judge of character.”

He looked surprised and pleased that she should say so.

“I think—” she said, then stopped herself.

“What?”

Patience wrinkled her nose and pressed her lips together a moment before admitting, “Perhaps I ought not say what I think, for it is not a fully formed opinion.”

He looked profoundly surprised to hear her say such a thing. “You have never scrupled to tell me anything in the past.”

“No. But perhaps I should have. I would learn to be discriminate rather than blurting out my every thought and feeling, especially with you.”

His brows rose. “Why me?”

She nodded sheepishly. “My tongue knows no bounds with you. I tell you everything that flies through my head. I am not quite so forthcoming with everyone else—indeed, with anyone else.”

“Not even Pip?”

She laughed. “I cannot tell Pip my every thought. He does not listen as you do.”

He smiled—the slightest inclination of his lips. “I am profoundly flattered. Perhaps you are right not to tell me. I must trust in your heart, and intellect’s truest inclination.”

His words made a smile bloom upon her lips. No one else spoke to her like this. No one else reminded her of her heart and mind’s truest inclinations. “I have missed you,” she said.

“And I you. And now you must unburden your heart with regard to Will Defoe, if that is still your desire.”

She sighed and blurted out, “I think he must have seen us at Vauxhall last year. In fact, I am sure of it.”

“I’ve no memory of seeing him there.”

She bit into her lower lip and said, “I think he saw us run beneath the trees. You and I.”

“And why do you think this?”

“He has referred to it indirectly, and—”

“Has he?”

“Sophie insisted she had seen me before. Do you remember? The first time we met, at Almack’s.”

“You think Sophie was there as well?”

“Yes. Well, perhaps.”

“Go on.”

“I saw their servants’ livery there, beneath the trees, attached to a set of legs.”

“Legs?”

“Yes. Naked legs.”