The Baron and the Bluestocking Page 2

  Shrewsbury felt he should have been prepared for this. “You are a Utopian, I see. An idealist.”

  “Merely taking the Enlightenment forward to its natural end. I feel certain Voltaire would have agreed with me.”

  “You are very fond of Voltaire.”

  “My papa knew him. I have studied his essays, his poetry, his plays. He was a brilliant man.”

  “So were Bentham and Locke, other voices of the Enlightenment.” Helping himself to another scone, he spread preserves upon it. “Shall you be espousing your ‘enlightened’ ideas to these orphan girls? I am afraid that would be a bit beyond them, you know. They are hungry and ignorant. Until they have been filled, clothed, and educated, such things will be of no interest to them whatsoever.” Christian knew a moment’s satisfaction.

  The goddess’s face fell and she made a delightful moue. “You are most likely correct,” she said. “’Tis a pity.”

  Miss Hilliard spoke up. “Whatever do you want with the vote, Whitcombe? Women have enough to do, what with raising children, running the home, and making ends meet.”

  Miss Jackson and Miss Flynn agreed. This began an uncomfortable argument. Lady Clarice finally spoke up. “Ladies, if you have finished your tea, we shall repair to the school and look over the final preparations.”

  Lord Shrewsbury brought the pink linen napkin to his mouth. She is a feisty one. It could prove interesting to teach a firebrand like Hélène Whitcombe to rejoice in her femininity.

  { 2 }

  HÉLÈNE WAS NOT SORRY to be parted from the insolent Lord Shrewsbury as they occupied separate vehicles on their way to the school. With his heroic appearance—golden blond hair, deep green eyes, and face off of a Greek coin—he was more than a shade too sure of himself. She disliked men of the ton excessively. They abused their privilege and preyed on women. Especially penniless women like herself who had no protection. She knew it was his sense of privilege that had brought out the radical in her. Hélène suspected she had been insufferable.

  It was but a short ride, and soon they were reunited.

  “Miss . . . er . . . Hodge.” He inclined his head in greeting and then moved forward to take Miss Hilliard’s elbow as she stepped up the stairs into the school’s entrance. He guided each of the other women until they were through the door. When it was her turn to proceed, he merely followed her, thus making his disapproval of her obvious.

  “Would you have the world populated only by females?” he asked.

  “Of course not. But I see no reason why we should not be equal partners with men.”

  The baron came to a halt. He looked at her with raised eyebrows, a speculative gleam in his eye. “What a very interesting world you have in mind. I shall have to think on your words. You have quite taken my breath away.”

  “Good,” she said, full of satisfaction. “Now, allow me to acquaint you with the school you have built.” She spun around with her arms extended. “This will be our common room. We will meet here in the morning for prayers and breakfast. Lady Clarice insisted on yellow—so cheerful, do you not think so?”

  He agreed.

  “Through here is the reading room.” She led the way. “The younger girls will read here from eight until ten o’clock, the elders from ten until noon. Lady Clarice chose the scarlet for this room. I believe her to be very fond of decorative arts. As you can see, she has fitted us out with framed illustrations from her collection.”

  “I see nursery rhymes and I see . . . surely those must be lithographs from Mrs. Radcliffe’s or Maria Edgeworth’s Gothic tales!”

  “For the elder girls I will be reading them to,” Hélène said. “You disapprove of women authors?” She peered into his face and gave up the battle she had been waging with herself. She had to admit he was very, very handsome, indeed. He probably has at least half a dozen lovers.

  “I have great regard for Miss Austen and my friend, the Duchess of Ruisdell, who writes under a pseudonym,” he said. “However, I must admit that their writings would be of far less interest to your potential pupils.”

  Surprised, she asked, “Have you actually read Miss Austen?”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “And which of her novels is your favorite?”

  “Sense and Sensibility, I believe. The satire was very accomplished. Very well done.”

  How strange. That is my favorite as well. And for exactly those reasons. This man is full of contradictions.

  All at once, Hélène decided she had been far too strident and unpleasant. “I must tell you that despite our differences, I feel that the idea to found this school was truly inspired,” she said. “Why did you do it?”

  “You think me incapable of a charitable impulse?” he asked with a smile.

  Hélène blushed. How ungracious she sounded! This man made her feel verbally quite inept. “Not at all. It is just that even if anyone of your station is to take note of poverty, the plight of females is sadly invisible, I find.”

  His eyes turned serious. Hélène took a step back.

  “I was serving as a guard over the women in the Duchess of Ruisdell’s soup kitchen for wounded soldiers in the East End, when I saw a girl of no more than ten or eleven. She was going off with a gentleman for an obvious assignation. I do not think I have ever felt such revulsion . . . or such powerlessness.” He paused, running a hand over the back of his scalp, disarranging his Brutus-cut locks. He squinted. Hélène imagined he was seeing the scene over again in his mind. It obviously tormented him. “It sickened me to such an extent that I went after the pair, ran the man off, and gave the girl three guineas. To my surprise, she subjected me to a Cockney harangue. Said the gentleman of . . . shall we say ‘unusual’ tastes was a regular customer and now he might not come back.”

  Hélène stared at him for a moment. “How absolutely horrid.”

  “It occurred to me that she had no other way of bringing in money. Single, orphaned females in the East End are not depraved, they simply have no skills. No profession except the oldest one.” He turned his green gaze upon her. “The answer is not giving them money. The answer is to help them to change their situation themselves. Thus the education scheme.”

  She nodded her agreement.

  He continued, “The Duke of Beverley had opened an orphanage where he taught East End boys to read. Why not open a school for girls?”

  “I take my hat off to you, my lord. Or would if I were wearing one.” Hélène bestowed her brightest smile upon him. She felt tears burning in her eyes at the same time.

  “Can it be that you look upon me with slightly less disfavor?” he asked, still maintaining his serious mien.

  “Slightly less. Are you aware that the vast majority of women on these islands is illiterate?”

  “That, I am afraid, is beyond my power to correct.”

  “Even in Parliament? Could you not sponsor a bill for female literacy? For female education?”

  “Miss . . . uh . . . Hodge, even the majority of males on these islands is illiterate. One would need to sponsor a bill for universal education. I do not think the Tories could ever support such legislation. It reeks of the French égalité and fraternité. The entrenched Conservatives are far too sensitive to revolution at the moment.”

  Lady Clarice joined them from the dining room she had been inspecting with the other teachers. Evidently, she had heard his lordship’s comment, for with her usual practicality she said, “Lord Shrewsbury is right, Hélène. Such a day will come. But most likely it will not be in our lifetime. What we need is a powerful queen. That, I imagine, would make all the difference.” Hélène’s mentor smiled her cheerful smile, tilting her head to one side. She put one in mind of the first brave robin in spring. “For now, we must make a success of this school.”

  “Yes,” Hélène said. “But I will not give up hope for a larger agenda.”

  Suddenly, Lord Shrewsbury grinned. His eyes traversed her form and she was made conscious that he was seeing her as a woman in the physica
l sense. She hoped he could not see the tremor that started in her knees and traveled up her body.

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “Dogmatism is not the least bit attractive.”

  She felt as though he had dealt her a blow. Tears started to her eyes again, though these were tears of humiliation. How ungallant! Ungentlemanly!

  “I do not in the least wish you to be attracted to me!” she spat before she could think. Her color rose and she tried to stare him down. But her tears fell, and she looked away.

  “Then I must beg your pardon.” He bowed his head slightly.

  Turning away, she walked shakily into the next room, where the orphans were to be taught needlework and other homemaking arts. Hélène wished ardently that the man would disappear. Pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve, she wiped her eyes.

  He came up behind her. “Honey catches more flies than vinegar, you know.”

  “Go away!” she said with a sniff. How often had her father repeated that same homily? How would this man know what it was like to be a gently nurtured, penniless female in this blighted society? As she whirled to throw this thought in his face, she found that he was escorting Lady Clarice back through the reading room and out of the school.

  *~*~*

  “What did you think of our patron?” Beth Hilliard asked her as they dressed for dinner back at the Blakeley mansion.

  “Insulting, bigoted, and altogether too opinionated,” she said, her back to her friend. Hélène bit her lip as tears started again.

  Beth laughed. “I did not think so. After all, the same might be said of you, dear. I think he annoyed you because he was so excessively handsome. Right down to that enticing dimple in his chin. You wanted him to be earnest and plain. Like the Blakeley’s son, perhaps?”

  Hélène sniffed and blew her nose. “Samuel is not plain. Just . . . ordinary. I like him very well the way he is.” Looking in the mirror, she readjusted the knot on the top of her head. It was listing to the east. “Oh, bother!” she said. “I think I shall cut off my hair!”

  “You will not!” Beth exclaimed, coming up behind her and peeping around to study her own reflection. “I will wrest the scissors from your hand myself! Your hair is glorious. It is really too bad you have determined not to marry, Hélène. A man could worship that hair.”

  Hélène felt her face color. “I do not want to place my fate in the hands of a man ever again,” she said. “My papa was good and kind. He never mistreated us in the normal way. But what kind of person leaves his family starving?”

  “I agree that was unconscionable,” Beth said. “But I do not want to marry a man solely for financial support, you know. I wish to know love. And I wish to have children.”

  “My parents were in love,” Hélène said with a note of sadness. “And they certainly had children.”

  When they joined Catherine and Mary for dinner in the dining room, they found their friends overflowing with admiration for the baron.

  “If I met that man anywhere else I would never imagine that he could have such a compassionate side,” Catherine said.

  “He is excessively handsome,” Mary said with a sigh.

  Hélène refrained from comment. What they said was true, but he was also excessively rude. “I am glad you are to have a piano at the school, Catherine. Perhaps Mrs. Blakeley will give you leave after dinner to play on hers tonight. I would dearly love to hear some Bach.”

  “Oh, yes!” said their hostess. “I would like that very much. And Samuel is to join us. He is very fond of music.”

  *~*~*

  Hélène was very happy to see Samuel Blakeley that evening. While Catherine played, they spoke in low tones.

  “There is to be a by-election in two months,” Samuel said. “I have been selected as the Whig candidate.”

  “Samuel! You have decided to stand for Parliament?”

  “Yes. Chipping Norton is becoming a Whig stronghold. It is time we should have a Whig candidate.”

  “How thrilling! If I cannot stand for election myself, the next best thing is for you to take it on. I will help in any way I can.”

  Speaking brown eyes looked into hers. “I shall have to make speeches.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  He gave a half grin. While Samuel was not as classically good looking as some people, he was not ill-looking either. In fact, the self-deprecating grin made him appear almost attractive. “Not the speech-making, but the speech-writing.”

  Was he asking her for help? “Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

  “I am hoping you will,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing it firmly.

  She hardly noticed his act, grinning in her excitement. “I shall draw up a list of topics straightaway and you can tell me upon which you would like to speak.”

  “I would be obliged to you.”

  “And you must buy some new clothes,” she said, as her mind flashed back to Shrewsbury’s attire. Hélène had noted it particularly. The man had worn a sage green jacket, a gold waistcoat, and buff-colored breeches with shiny top boots.

  “What is wrong with my clothing?” Samuel’s heavy black brows drew together in a frown.

  “It is not fashionable enough. I think you must go to a London tailor.”

  “I know nothing of fashion.”

  “You want to look elegant, but sober. Perhaps our patron, Lord Shrewsbury, could be of assistance. I will write him, shall I? He is a Whig, but of course he sits in the Lords.”

  “I do not want to look like a good-for-nothing lord on the town!”

  “Lord Shrewsbury may be a baron, but his founding of our school shows me that he is a dedicated Whig. I am certain he could be of assistance, and I think it would be worthwhile to ask him. You want to make a good impression, Mr. Blakeley.”

  He was still frowning. “I would assume that this Lord Shrewsbury made a singular impression on you today.”

  She looked down at her lap. Samuel had drawn his hand away. “He was very well dressed, but you know that I do not care for gentlemen of the ton.”

  Hélène ignored the pounding of her heart at her lie and looked up with determination into Samuel’s eyes.

  “Very well,” he said. “You may write him. I shall be glad of his assistance if you think he will give it.”

  “I have no doubt of it.”

  { 3 }

  CHRISTIAN RETURNED TO LONDON after a two-day ride. Handing Ridge his beaver and dustcoat, he asked, “Any messages? Urgent or otherwise?”

  “No, my lord. Your mother called here today, but left no message.”

  “I am sorry to have missed her. Perhaps I shall see her tonight at the Forrests’ ball. My post is in the library?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Will you ask Lathrop to prepare my bath?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Shrewsbury strode through to his library, inspected the post, and poured himself a whiskey. There was an odd letter from Grimsley, his estate manager, asking him to visit his property in Yorkshire and look into some sort of irregularity. The baron could not be bothered going to Yorkshire more than twice a year. And his next visit was not scheduled until October. Whatever it was needed to wait until then.

  Christian was looking forward to his evening, needing the company of suitable women to wipe the memory of the strident but beautiful Hélène Whitcombe from his mind. She had been far too constant a companion on the ride to Town from Chipping Norton. Her face had appeared in his mind, and his remembrance of those smoky eyes and beautiful mouth had taunted him. But then he remembered her straight unyielding form, so at odds with her sensual features. It was true that the combination of her contradictory parts was compelling, but he was determined to banish her from his mind. No future to be found there.

  Though the Season was officially over, the post contained invitations to a few balls, a masquerade, and even a Venetian breakfast. He rejoiced in the busyness that lay before him, but remembered to make a note to himself to see about a piano fo
r the orphan’s school. The duke of Ruisdell would undoubtedly provide it. He was on the board and understood well the importance of music. Sophie’s sister, the duchess, was an accomplished pianist. Perhaps she would even have some word of Sophie.

  *~*~*

  The opportunity to speak to the duke came sooner than expected when he encountered him and the duchess at the Forester’s that evening. The pair stood together at the edge of the dance floor. Shrewsbury had often remarked how singular it was that the duke and duchess remained in each other’s company whenever they were out in public. Such was not the norm at ton events.

  “Might I have a word, your grace?” he asked.

  “If you have no objection to speaking to me in the company of the duchess,” Ruisdell replied.

  “No, of course not. I have just returned from Chipping Norton where I met the new staff for the school.”

  “Oh,” the duchess exclaimed. “Did you meet my friend, Miss Whitcombe?”

  Raising his eyebrows, he said, “That, I did. Had you any idea that she has Radical sympathies, your grace?” he asked, smiling at the beautiful woman with the famous midnight blue eyes. Though she was Sophie’s sister, their appearance was as different as night from day.

  “Was she awfully tiresome?” she asked. “Be patient. I rather think that this is just a phase. She felt exceedingly helpless when her father died and she was left virtually penniless. You must know that there are not many options for a penniless woman of gentle birth in our society. Feeling helpless does not suit Hélène.”

  This was a perspective he had not fully considered. Why not? It was perfectly understandable. Still, the woman was not for him. “Yes, she was a bit tedious. But there was something else about which I wished to speak to both of you.”

  He told them of Miss Flynn and her desire for a piano.

  “Brilliant idea,” said Ruisdell. “I should have thought of it. Music is indeed a civilizing influence.” Turning to his wife, he asked, “Darling, when it has been delivered and properly tuned, shall we not go down to Chipping Norton and have you play a concert?”