A Marriageable Miss (13 page)

As it happened, Lady Isobel had counselled Helena to refrain from making any mention of the incident and, after pointing out that ‘we females have ever been obliged to accept the unac
countable proclivities of the opposite sex! It is the way of the world and, as such, is unlikely to change’, had urged her to try to put the matter out of her mind.

Which was all very well, Helena could not help thinking, as the countess’s barouche wended its way through the late-evening traffic back to Cadogan Place. Whilst it was true that the event had given her cause to view Markfield in a rather different light, she still found it difficult to visualise him in the role of out-and-out libertine. Not that she was actually conversant with the precise meaning of the term, since her entire experience in that area was restricted to what she had picked up during her occasional perusals of Lottie’s somewhat lurid taste in literature!

Nevertheless, one thing of which she was quite certain was that, having already been subjected to some rather discourteous treatment by one such rackety individual, she was quite determined never to find herself obliged to suffer such humiliating indignity again! And yet, setting aside the fact that Markfield had always treated her with the utmost respect, the rather disconcerting discovery that he was in the habit of forming associations with women such as the atrocious Lady Cummings had the effect of bringing about the most peculiar constriction of her throat, not to mention an odd stinging sensation at the back of her eyes.

Contrary to what the earl might have supposed, Helena’s education in worldly matters had not been entirely confined to her time at Miss Haversham’s Seminary for Gentlewomen. Indeed, having spent much of the past two years in constant contact with a class of individuals whose lives ran on very different lines from those of her present companions, it would have been almost impossible for her not to have picked up a certain amount of information about the parlous conditions in which these people existed. Miscarriage, rape and abortion were terms she came across on an almost daily basis and she could hardly help but be aware of the fact that the sickening bruises that appeared, with depressing regularity, on the arms and faces of the likes of Bet Mooney and Cissie Pritchard had come about as a result of the rough handling that they had received at the hands of their dockside clientele.

Unfortunately, however, whilst it was true that a good many of the ‘facts of life’ were much less of a mystery to her than might have been imagined, Helena’s understanding of what actually took place between a man and a woman was still rather vague. Added to which, since the browbeaten apathy of the women who queued at the kitchen daily bore no resemblance to the close and loving nature that had always formed part of her own parents’ relationship, she had been forced to conclude that this rather questionable type of activity must be something peculiar to the lower orders, brought about as a result of their being forced to scrape a pitiful existence in such hopeless and straitened circumstances. To discover that those whose lives lacked for nothing should also choose to indulge in these doubtful practices was quite beyond her understanding. And that Markfield, for whom she was beginning to form such a high regard, might also be included in this number was something that she could scarcely bear to contemplate. On the other hand—if her ladyship were to be believed—this type of behaviour appeared to be regarded as perfectly commonplace within their circle!

She sighed, wishing with all her heart that her mother had still been there to offer her the wise and friendly counsel that had always been of such comfort to her in the past. But then, as she strove to find some sort of answer to her quandary, it suddenly crossed her mind that perhaps Jenny Redfern, who was several years her senior and a good deal more worldly wise than she was, might be able to shed some light on the vexing subject and vowed to tackle her friend on her very next visit to Justice Walk.

Apart from the occasional comment from the countess with regard to the rather poor selection of refreshments on offer at the soirée, along with the observation that, in her opinion, one of the fiddlers had been sadly out of tune, all three passengers were singularly quiet throughout the return journey.

However, no sooner had the carriage drawn to a halt outside Helena’s house than Richard had thrown open the door and leapt nimbly down, thus enabling him to be in a position to offer his assistance to Helena well before the footman had managed to scramble from his perch.

At his sudden and unexpected action, a glimmer of amusement lit up her eyes and she might well have laughed out loud, had she not been conscious of his extremely sober expression. Thanking the countess prettily, she bade her ‘goodnight’, then, placing her hand into Richard’s, she allowed him to assist her down from the carriage.

Although he had spent the whole of the short journey from the Kettlesham mansion in Ennismore Gardens to Cadogan Place beset by the most inexplicable urge to assure Helena that any relationship that he might once have had with Lady Cummings was now over and done with, the earl still managed to retain sufficient aplomb to realise that this was hardly the moment for a discussion of that sort.

‘I should like to call on you tomorrow morning, if I may,’ he said, as he escorted her up the shallow flight of steps that led to the front door, which was opened almost as soon as his hand touched the knocker.

At his words, a wave of regret washed over Helena. ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry, my lord, but I fear that I shall be otherwise engaged until well after luncheon tomorrow.’

Although his heart seemed to drop into his shoes at her reply, the earl gave a little shrug. ‘No matter,’ he replied, carefully assuming an air of nonchalance. ‘It is of no importance.’ Pausing briefly, he then went on, ‘You will be available in the evening to attend the supper dance at Almack’s, I trust—given that Lady Jersey sends the vouchers as promised, of course.’

To his relief, she inclined her head in affirmation, saying, ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to ask Lady Isobel to send me a note advising me of their arrival and at what hour I might expect her carriage?’

‘It will be my pleasure,’ he replied, executing a swift bow then, bidding her ‘goodnight’, he turned smartly on his heel and made his way back to the waiting barouche.

As she watched the carriage disappear round the corner into Pont Street, a pensive frown appeared on Helena’s face and, for several minutes, she stood silently mulling over the possible
reasons for his proposed visit. Could he have been going to inform her of his intention to curtail their arrangement? she wondered. Or, perhaps his colourful lady friend had expressed her disapproval of his involvement in the scheme and ordered him to bring it to an end? However, having given a little more consideration to that particular option, she was obliged to concede that it was highly unlikely that anyone, either male or female, would be able to persuade Markfield into doing anything that he chose not to do.

A discreet cough from the open doorway, where Hay ward was still waiting to help her off with her evening cloak, caused her to spin round in some confusion.

‘Oh, do forgive me, Hayward,’ she said, giving him a bright smile as she stepped over the threshold. ‘I’m afraid I was miles away!’

Richard’s difficulties, it would seem, were not yet over. No sooner had he taken his seat in the barouche than his grandmother leaned forwards and, tapping him sharply on his knee with her folded fan, insisted that she should be given an explanation of his part in the ‘disgraceful display of bad manners’ that she had had the misfortune to witness at the soirée. ‘And, please don’t try to fob me off with some feeble Banbury tale!’ she begged him. ‘For I was not born yesterday, as you are well aware! Surely that dreadful creature cannot be one of your fancy pieces?’

Fixing the dowager with a steely glare, Richard took a deep breath. ‘In the first place,’ he ground out, ‘I would like to make it clear that I do not have “fancy pieces”, as you term them. Whilst it may be true that I did once number Lady Cummings among my acquaintances in the past, any such association is now at an end. Furthermore, any display of bad manners you may have witnessed was not on my part. In fact, all things considered, I believe I exercised sufficient diplomacy to defuse a situation that might well have developed into something a sight more distasteful—rather successfully, as it turned out!’

‘Humph!’ returned his grandmother, suitably chastened, but only very slightly mollified. ‘It is highly fortunate that the Ket
tlesham rout did not loom large on the social calendar. I only chose to accept the invitation because I felt that it would provide a suitably gentle stepping stone for Helena’s entry into society. I can only pray that this evening’s débâcle has done nothing to damage all our carefully laid plans!’

Ruefully echoing a silent ‘Amen’ to her prayer, Richard leaned back against the squabs and devoted the rest of the journey back to Standish House to wondering whether Helena did indeed have a prior engagement for the following morning or if it was just simply a ploy to avoid having any sort of direct confrontation with him. Given that their initially quite amicable relationship had already foundered, due to his clumsy mishandling of the situation, he could not help feeling that this evening’s unfortunate débâcle could only have worsened matters. Added to which, it was gradually beginning to dawn upon him that, despite his determination not to allow his heart to rule his head, it was beginning to look as if the damage had already been done. How to deal with this highly disturbing circumstance was yet another problem to add to his growing list!

T
he Wesleyan Chapel in Justice Walk had formerly been used as a court of law by the much revered Fielding brothers, John and Henry, for the trial and sentencing of the various felons of their day. The basement of the building, which had, at that time, been used to house those unfortunate prisoners who were waiting to be tried, was now in use as a centre for the dispensation of a daily allotment of simple provender to the neighbourhood’s growing number of homeless and destitute.

Owing to the fact that the chamber was without windows, apart from a small barred opening situated on the wall some three feet away from the entrance, it had been necessary to restrict its use to mornings only, since the elected committee in charge of the scheme had agreed that to spend even a single penny of their pitifully small resources on the purchase of candles to light up the dark and gloomy atmosphere of the room’s cavernous interior would be a shocking waste. Hence, thanks to some considerable ingenuity on the part of one of their number, the good ladies had hit on the reasonably satisfactory method of having a pair of trestle tables set up just inside the open doorway and adjacent to the small barred aperture. By positioning themselves behind these tables they managed to dole out ladles of the hearty soup that, for a suitable remuneration, was prepared on a daily basis in the
kitchens of the Swallow, a small inn across the alleyway. The barred opening, barely two feet square, also managed to serve a useful purpose, since it had been discovered that the gaps between the iron bars were just wide enough apart to enable sizeable chunks of bread to be passed through to the, seemingly, never-ending queue of ravenous clients.

Whilst the lack of light and heat did not present much of a problem at this time of the year, the working conditions gradually deteriorated as the days grew shorter. Nevertheless, there were seldom any complaints from the dedicated team of volunteers since, no matter how cold their toes and fingers grew, every last one of them was only too aware that, unlike their impoverished clientele, they had warm and comfortable homes to which they would shortly be returning following the completion of their tasks.

On Helena’s first visit to the soup kitchen, her immediate reaction to the plight of the desperate individuals who had held out their battered mugs and bowls for her to fill would have been to distribute the contents of her own purse before sending home for further supplies. Jenny Redfern, however, had very quickly prevented her from doing any such thing, warning her that, no matter how well intentioned her motives were, since she could not possibly give a share of her own largesse to every one of the waiting crowd, to single out even a few of them for preferential treatment would merely cause resentment amongst the others and could well lead to ugly scenes. In the beginning, Helena had considered this edict somewhat harsh and unfeeling, but had very soon grown to appreciate its necessity. And so, whilst it had been impossible for her not to develop soft spots for certain of the regulars over the years, both she and her cousin had learned to execute their duties with as much dexterity and benevolence as the unprepossessing conditions would allow.

Owing to the increasing press of humanity that arrived well before the kitchen was ready to begin its daily business, the alleyway, being a cul-de-sac, had been deemed too narrow to accommodate the influx of carriages that brought the volun
teers to their destination. Most of the ladies, therefore, had adopted the habit of alighting from their vehicles in Cheyne Walk and covering the remaining short distance on foot, having instructed their various coachmen to return at one o’clock to collect them.

This morning, the two girls arrived to find the basement in the usual hubbub of activity, with the same half a dozen or so of the waiting men more than willing to involve themselves in the setting up of the trestle tables and the fetching and carrying of the first cauldron of soup and the baskets of freshly baked loaves that were supplied by a nearby bakery.

‘Good morning, ladies!’ one of the men called out, as Helena and her cousin approached.

‘Good morning, Mr Corrigan!’ returned Helena, with a smiling nod. She had warmed to Rueben Corrigan from his very first appearance at the counter for, despite the man’s impoverished state, he always remained determinedly cheerful and did his best to keep himself clean and tidy. Unfortunately, due to his having walked all the way to London from Dover, following the disembarkation and disbanding of the army unit with which he had served, the soles of his boots had virtually disintegrated and, although he regularly replaced the makeshift cardboard inners, it was clear that, until he could find a way to earn some money and have his boots properly attended to, all thoughts of continuing his journey to his home in the north of England would have to be postponed.

In addition to providing a substantial meal for these unfortunates, the ladies of the trust also made it their business to seek out positions of gainful employment for as many returning ex-soldiers as they possibly could since, like Helena, most of them had lost close relatives in the war. Having already coaxed her father into taking on two fairly superfluous extra hands to help out in the garden and stables that were situated at the rear of her Cadogan Place home before Rueben had shown up, Helena continually found herself wishing that she could find some suitable employment for him, especially since he, unlike a good many others in his position, continued to make every effort to find himself work.

‘Still no luck, I take it, Mr Corrigan?’ she asked, giving him a sympathetic smile.

‘’Fraid not, miss,’ he replied, with a regretful shake of his head. ‘Heard they was taking men on at Chelsea Wharf yesterday morning but, even though I were down there well before six o’clock, the place was already swarming. In the event, it were only four they wanted so I weren’t the only one disappointed.’ Grinning ruefully, he then added, ‘Cost me my place in the queue, though, and soup were all gone by the time I got to the counter!’

Helena’s eyes filled with concern. ‘Oh, Mr Corrigan!’ she exclaimed, her tender heart aching with pity for his undeserved plight. ‘I’m so very sorry! I do wish I could find something for you.’

‘You good ladies already do more than enough for the likes of us chaps,’ he said gruffly, before hurriedly turning away to hide his embarrassment at having almost allowed his emotions to get the better of him.

Along with a good many other members of the sisterhood, Helena was of the opinion that not nearly enough was being done, by either the government or any of those institutions who, it was felt, might easily have sought to involve themselves in the plight of these sadly neglected returning heroes. It was little wonder, she thought, that so many of their number had formed themselves into troublemaking bands who seemed to have little better to do with their time than roam the countryside stirring up resentment and unrest amongst the local workers.

Well aware that, since she was a mere woman—whose opinions held no sway whatsoever—there was nothing she could do to alter this highly unsatisfactory state of affairs, Helena let out a soft sigh and, picking up a carving knife, turned her attention to slicing one of the many loaves of bread into hefty-sized chunks, this being her allotted task for the day.

Jenny, hearing the sigh, was momentarily sidetracked from her own occupation of piling the bread chunks into one of the emptied baskets, ready for the doling out that was due to start at any minute.

‘I hope that sigh doesn’t signal that this work is beginning to bore you, Helena,’ she said, casting an anxious look at her young friend.

‘Good heavens, no!’ protested Helena. ‘I was merely thinking how unfair everything is.’

‘Not everything, surely,’ laughed Jenny. ‘From what Lottie has been telling me, you and she would seem to have been leading a rather exciting life these past few days!’

‘Hectic, perhaps,’ Helena admitted, with a slight shrug. ‘But exciting, no—I wouldn’t have said so.’ Then, pausing, she eyed her friend thoughtfully. ‘However, that has put me in mind of something that I wanted to ask you—that is—’ Colouring, she bent her head back to her work. ‘Something rather odd occurred last evening and I was wondering whether you might be able to throw any light on the matter.’

‘Fire away, then,’ returned Jenny, her natural curiosity immediately aroused.

In a decidedly hesitant manner, Helena, her cheeks flushing rosily, managed to relay the somewhat puzzling events of the previous evening. At the end of her discourse, she looked across at the other girl questioningly, only to find her friend staring back at her with a rather quizzical expression on her face.

‘Her ladyship seemed keen to have me believe that such—er, activities—were quite commonplace among members of the opposite sex,’ she went on, hurriedly. ‘But, I find it hard to believe that gentlemen such as my father or your brother could ever indulge in such practices!’

Shaking her head, Jenny gave her a rueful smile. ‘They would hardly make us privy to such information even if they did, my dear,’ she said kindly. ‘I myself have learned that the way gentlemen conduct themselves when out of sight of their nearest and dearest can often be very far removed from the behaviour we normally expect of them—“deceivers ever”, as the bard was wont to say!’

Helena’s eyes widened. ‘You cannot be referring to Doctor Redfern, surely?’

‘Thomas?’ mused Jenny, with a hesitant frown. ‘Difficult to tell, as it happens. Although I doubt if he could spare either the time or the energy for that sort of amusement, his appointments
book being as crowded as it is these days. One cannot be sure, of course, for he is a man, after all is said and done! But, that apart, it surely can’t have escaped your notice that his sights are set in quite a different direction!’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you,’ returned Helena, looking puzzled.

‘You mean you haven’t noticed?’ asked Jenny, with a surprised lift of her eyebrows. Pausing momentarily to dust the flour from her fingers before moving across to the soup table to begin the lengthy business of serving the waiting throng, she cast her friend a swift sideways glance, then gave a rueful grimace. ‘Oh, dear! There I go again! Letting my over-active imagination run away with me, as usual. Pay no attention, I beg you!’

Considerably confused as to the meaning behind Jenny’s enigmatic remark, Helena was finding it difficult to concentrate on her work. Could his sister have been trying to intimate that Dr Redfern had formed some sort of
tendre
for her? she thought, as she distractedly sliced away at the crusty loaf in front of her. As though she didn’t have more than enough complications in her life already! What with the constant worry over her father’s illness, coupled with her own very mixed emotions in regard to Markfield, the mere hint of such an unwelcome situation developing involved her mind to such a degree that it was only when Lottie, who was piling loaves on to the table beside her, pointed out that the size of her bread chunks seemed to be increasing rather dramatically that she was hurriedly obliged to return her attention to the job in hand. Nevertheless, unable to ignore the fact that, this morning being a Wednesday, was also the day on which the doctor chose to attend his makeshift surgery in the inn across the alley, Helena could only hope that she had misunderstood her friend, since she was uncomfortably aware that for her to allow such a situation to develop would inevitably bring about not only the loss of her father’s physician but also signal the end of what had been, hitherto, a most enjoyable and easy-going relationship between Jenny Redfern and herself.

It had been only very recently that the doctor, now highly sought after amongst the
ton
, had elected to neglect his upper-class clientele for a few hours each week, in order to utilise some
of the valuable skills he had acquired during his time with the military, for the benefit of those who were a good deal less fortunate than his usual high-society patients. For this purpose, he had hired one of the small ante-rooms at the Swallow Inn opposite and, every Wednesday morning, now spent his time diagnosing symptoms, binding up injuries and dispensing helpful advice, along with copious quantities of free medication, some of which, he could not help feeling on occasion, were used for purposes other than that for which he had prescribed them. On the whole, however, his services were greatly appreciated by the countless number of grateful patients who queued outside his makeshift clinic every Wednesday morning for, without his selfless dedication, there was little doubt that a good many of them—the children in particular—might well have perished long ago.

At the end of each session, it had become his practice to join his sister and her friends at the chapel in order to assist them in their clearing-up exercise.

Fortunately, for Helena’s peace of mind, the pressing needs of her allotted tasks proved more than adequate to prevent her dwelling further upon Jenny’s puzzling words.

Consequently, it was not until some three hours later that, looking up from her final task of wiping down her table top, she was unable to prevent the slight flash of disquiet that ran through her when she beheld Redfern’s cheerful visage grinning at her through the bars of the opening.

‘Another busy morning, I see!’ he called as, edging his way past the trestle at the doorway, he entered the basement. ‘Word seems to be spreading. I would say that the queue was a good deal longer today!’

‘You could be right,’ sighed his sister. ‘If they keep coming at this rate, we will soon be forced to look for larger premises.’

‘Somewhere in the same vicinity, I trust?’ interjected Redfern, somewhat uneasily, as he shot a quick glance over to where Helena and Lottie were busily engaged in stacking up the empty bread baskets, ready for collection.

Following the direction of his eyes, Jenny could not help smiling. ‘We’ll need to raise a good deal more money before we can even begin to contemplate such a move,’ she pointed out, eager to reassure her brother that his weekly tête-à-têtes were not about to be suddenly nipped in the bud.