Her Grace in Disgrace (The Widows of Woburn Place) (26 page)

“Andrew,
it is good to see you. How does the peerage suit you?” asked Simeon by way of
greeting.

“Honestly,
sir, at first I felt quite unsuited to it, but I believe I am finding my way. I
only wish myself back in the Surrey vicarage every other day rather than
daily,” Saybrooke said, only half-jokingly.

Simeon
chuckled which led to a fit of coughing. Andrew waited while his mentor
regained his composure and breath.

“Forgive
me,” said Simeon with a weak smile. “My mortal shell is not cooperating of
late. But, God willing that will not slow me down forever. Now, you have not
come all the way to Cambridge to listen to an old man complain about his
ailments. How can I help?”

“I
am in need of your sage advice and great wisdom, sir.”

“No
need ply me with flattery, Andrew. I am glad to give what paltry advice I am
able.” Simeon took sip from his sherry.

“As
you have mentioned, I have recently become heir to a good deal of money. I am
not fabulously wealthy like some in the
ton
, but I have far more than I
need or is good for me. I would like to take on a charity, sir.”

“I
thought you were quite active in a variety of charities and Parliament as
well.”

“While
I do try to be active in Parliament as is my duty, I do not feel that politics,
while useful and necessary, is where I want to concentrate my time. And I am
active in a handful of causes in a small way, playing cricket, reading stories
to tots, praying with the sick, sir, and that will continue, but I want to be
involved in a larger sense, make it my life’s work if that is not too dramatic
a phrase. I want to give my money, my time, and my passion to something more
than dressing well and attending
ton
events.”

“I
see. Well, I do notice that your dress is much more elegant than what I
remember. I seem to recall a good many spots on your neck cloth and waistcoat
in the past.”

“I
have also inherited a valet, sir. It makes him cry if I appear in public
looking so shabby.”

Simeon
smiled. “Ah, that would explain it. But, I still am not certain what you wish
from me.”

Saybrooke
pulled out a piece of paper and placed it on his knee. “I have brought a list
of charities and worthy causes that interest me. I have been over the list time
and again, weighing pros and cons, and I have prayed over them. Nevertheless, I
cannot seem to choose one that I can commit to whole heartedly.”

“Andrew,
my boy.” Simeon gave a Saybrooke a fatherly smile. “One does not pick out a
life’s work as if you were buying a horse at Tattersalls. Leave it in God’s
hands. It will find you.”

“But,
I would like to get started, sir. I need to get started,” said Saybrooke almost
desperately.

“And
from where does this need spring?” asked Simeon.

“I
beg your pardon, sir?” returned Saybrooke, confused.

“I
am not clairvoyant, Andrew, but it seems to me you wish to bury yourself in
good deeds, because something else is eating at you. I could be wrong, of
course.”

Saybrooke
looked at the man he held in such esteem and sighed. “You are not wrong, though
I know I am called to good works.”

“We
are, all of us, called to good works.” Simeon said no more, but waited until
Saybrooke was ready to speak. After a few moments of hesitation, Andrew
Stafford, now Lord Saybrooke unburdened himself to this godly man, as he had
done so many times in the past. “I have two passions in life; being active in
charitable causes in God’s name, and Isobel Kennilworth. The first I have
spoken of, but the second has turned out to be a truly lost cause.”

“How
so?” prompted the Vicar when Saybrooke lapsed into a brooding silence.

“She
made some rather poor choices that ended in serious and undesirable outcomes.”

“And
this has made her ineligible to you?” asked Simeon quietly.

“No!”
His vehement outburst caused Simeon to spill a bit of his sherry. “ It is my
own actions that cause me sleepless nights. I do not condone her actions, but
mine were far worse. I acted as judge and jury! I showed no mercy, when that is
precisely what God calls for and precisely what she needed. Because of my bad
behavior, despite hers, I am unworthy of her. She will not have me and I must
forget her.”

Simeon
looked at the tortured man and smiled knowingly. “Andrew, you as a former
clergyman must remember the concept of original sin?
No man can in any measure resemble the scripture saints
.
None of us deserves good things. That does not mean we should not enjoy them if
they come our way.”

“Are
you saying I should try again and offer for her?”

“No,
nor am I saying you should not,” Simeon said, leaving Saybrooke frustrated.

“I
do not know what to do. How should I proceed?” Saybrooke asked helplessly.

“Ask
God, not me. Let him guide you. Now, you know me well enough to know that I am
not speaking of a fatalistic sort of approach of sitting on one’s hands and
waiting for God to do all the work. No, get on with your life, stay active in
Parliament, get involved with your causes, but do not hide behind good works as
a shield to protect you from the other areas of your life. “

“Do
you feel I am doing that, sir?”

“Only
you know that for certain, but I charge you to be honest with yourself and
before God and it will all be made clear. Now, that is the extent of my ‘sage
advice’ for today,” Simeon said gently, but dismissively. “Let us simply drink
our sherry and visit. Have you seen Wilberforce of late? My health precludes me
from getting about much.”

“I
met with him, Clarkson and Sharp last week. After our victory in ’07 and the
abolition of slavery on our own shores, we felt that further abolishing that
evil trade in our colonies would not be difficult. It seems we have been wrong.
But we continue to promote the cause.”

The
two gentlemen talked for the better part of an hour of mutual interests and acquaintances
until Saybrooke noted Simeon’s fatigue. Saybrooke folded his paper, returning it
to his pocket and said his goodbyes to the ailing vicar. He left still not
knowing what course to take, but feeling better nonetheless.

*****

A
discouraged Isobel and Lady Whitcomb stood in front of number seventeen Hill
Street, as the footman opened the door to their carriage. They had been at the
address for less than five minutes and had learned nothing. At least nothing
helpful. They had been admitted by an ancient butler who informed them that
Miss Newsome had passed on eight months previously. When asked if he knew Lady Tyndale’s
direction, his answer was standard butler fare. “I could not say.” When pressed
further, he simply glared. In a subservient manner, of course. He began
unobtrusively ushering them to the door.

“We
would speak with your new master or mistress, then.” Isobel spoke with as much
authority as she could muster.

“Mr.
and Mrs. Meriwether are not at home,” declared the butler in his haughty tone,
inching them toward footman who stood ready to open the door.

“Well
then, we would like to ask some of the other staff. Perhaps they would know
Lady Tyndale’s whereabouts.” Lady Whitcomb tried her best to be both polite and
forceful.

“They
do not.” They had reached the door and the inflexible butler nodded his head toward
the footman who opened the door. “Good day, ladies,” the old butler said with
finality.

The
footman held out his hand to Lady Whitcomb and assisted her into the carriage.
He was about to do the same for Isobel when she heard a peculiar noise.

“Psst.
Miss…Psst.” The voice was female and sounded young. It came from behind the
coach. Isobel, curious, released the footman’s hand and walked around the back
of her carriage. There stood a young woman in a maid’s uniform. She was a
pretty young thing, if a bit thin and worn looking. And she was uneasy.

“Did
you call to me?” asked Isobel in a kindly voices.

“I
did, Miss,” the nervous girl managed.

“Why
are you hiding behind the coach?”

“I
come from the house, Miss,” the maid explained, indicating number seventeen
Hill Street. “I don’t want old Filkins seeing me. There’d be the devil to pay
if he catches me.”

“Maisie!
Why ever are you out here?” inquired the footman with a wary glance at Isobel.
“You’ll be skinned alive if Filkins sees you.”

“Well,
go and make sure he don’t!” commanded Maisie who was instantly obeyed. “He’s
sweet on me,” said Maisie by way of explanation.

Isobel
had been patient until now, standing in the dusty street, waiting, while a chit
of a maid took her sweet time getting to the point. “You wanted to speak with
me?” Isobel prodded.

“Yes,
Miss. It’s about Lady Tyndale. But, before I say anything, I’d like to know,
Miss, why is it that you want to find her?” Maisie knew she had stepped beyond
the bounds of appropriate behavior by questioning the Quality, but she stuck
her little chin out to prove her determination.

“I
want to help her. That is, if she is in need of help,” answered Isobel without
reproof.

“Oh,
but she is. We’re ever so worried about her.” Maisie pulled out a small scrap
of paper. “She’s been writing regular like since the old Tartar, I mean Miss
Newsome, cocked up her toes. But we haven’t heard from her in a few weeks. It’s
not like her.” Maisie was clearly worried.

“Does
she live far?” asked Isobel.

“Yes,
Miss” answered Maisie and Isobel sighed. She would need to travel to find
Laura, then. She  had hoped she was in London. “All the way in Lambeth she is,”
continued the  maid.

Isobel
could not help but smile. Lambeth was just south of the river Thames still
technically in London, but for this young maid it was a goodly distance. “Do
you have the exact address?”

Maisie
handed Isobel the piece of paper she had clutched in her hand. “This is her direction,
Miss. Mrs. Plimpton, the housekeeper wrote it down for you. I don’t know my
letters.” This last was admitted with embarrassment. “I’d best be getting back,
Miss.” Maisie hesitated before leaving. “You sure you mean Lady Tyndale no
harm, cause she’s a real good ‘un is Lady Tyndale.”

“I
truly want to help her,” Isobel assured the girl, reaching into her reticule.
She handed the helpful maid a guinea. “Thank you, Maisie; I am grateful for
your help.”

Maisie
curtsied and rushed into the house through the servant’s entrance. Isobel
heartily hoped that old Filkins was none the wiser. Isobel was assisted into
the coach by the love sick footman and hastily explained to Lady Whitcomb what
had occurred.

“Lambeth,
well, it should not take too terribly long to get there.” Lady Whitcomb said as
she examined the address. “Should we go now?”

“Well,
Aunt, I wonder if it is a good idea for you to go along. While it is not the
Devil’s Acre or the Rookery, it is not what you are used to, I fear.”

“Fiddle
faddle! I am going Isobel and do not try and stop me!” Lady Whitcomb was at her
most obstinate and would not be swayed, though Isobel did try.

“If
we are to go to Lambeth, though I wish you would not, it would be best for us
to bring Renfrew and Jem. Also, it might be prudent for us to change into less
eye catching apparel.” Isobel cast a glance at her aunt’s crimson and royal
blue ensemble. “I do not want to stand out.”

“Yes,
a good idea, my dear. Something quite drab would do the trick.” Isobel
fervently hoped her aunt owned such an article of clothing.

Upon
returning to 65 Woburn Place, Aunt Maude immediately went to her room to search
out something drab to wear. Before Isobel went to change, she meant to inform
Renfrew of the situation. Just as she was beginning to give Renfrew
instructions, however, she heard laughter coming from the parlor. Male and
female laughter. She entered the open door of the parlor to see Lord Charles in
his Bath chair with a large volume of some sort open on his lap. Lady Joanna
was seated quite close to him, her chair touching the Bath chair. As she leaned
forward, their shoulders brushed and Lady Joanna’s face betrayed a rosy glow. She
pointed at something as she leaned over the volume. Charles pointed at
something else and she playfully batted his hand away.

“No,
that is not a proper dairy cow, I tell you,” insisted Lady Joanna, her voice
bubbling with mirth. “This is not what you want!”

“Perhaps
not, but it is a ridiculous looking beast, don’t you think? I should have
tourists come for miles just to see my bizarre looking herd.” Lord Charles
laughed and then winced at the pain in his lip.

“I
hope I am not interrupting anything,” said Isobel acidly.

Lady
Joanna jumped from her chair, almost upending it. “Miss Kennilworth!”

“You
are indeed, Isobel. We are making Hidenwood into a dairy farm. We were just
selecting the type of cow,” Lord Charles said, his swollen smile in place.

“I
see,” said Isobel, completely mystified.