Regency Christmas Gifts (22 page)

“
I don’t,” she said. “I wish I did,
but I don’t.” She shook her head and stared out the window,
embarrassed to be so provincial, and wondering where her heart was
taking her. “I like to know my neighbors and walk when and where I
want to.”

Michael nodded and put his hand in hers, which
touched her heart. She squeezed his fingers. “Miles, I do believe
Michael and I would rather be at home.”

She glanced at Edward, noting the excitement on
his face. “You, on the other hand, would be a Londoner,” she said
to him.

“
I would,” Edward replied. “This is
exciting.”

The post rider took them to Half Moon Street,
with its row houses two and three stories high, each stoop gleaming
white, as though in competition with the house on either side. Lucy
saw Miles’s mother standing at the first floor window.

“
I sent her a quick note that you
were coming, too,” Miles told her. He leaned across Edward and blew
his mother a kiss. Lucy saw her head go back in laughter and then
she was gone from the window.

Mrs. Bledsoe opened the door herself and
ushered her little guests inside. She pulled Lucy in next, and
kissed her. Miles got a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“
Mother, these are Edward and
Michael Lonnigan, in London to seek their fortunes.”

“
You have certainly come to the
right place,” Mrs. Bledsoe said. “Bolton, show them to their room
so they can freshen up before a visit to the counting
house.”

Lucy watched the boys, seeing the understated
elegance of No. 12, Half Moon Street through their eyes—the walls
of the foyer a pale green. Instead of the fresh flowers of summer,
a Christmas wreath hung above the little table with its silver
salver where guests left their calling cards. The boys would have
no way of knowing that the charming portrait of a young girl that
smiled at them was Vivian Bledsoe at age five, painted by Thomas
Gainsborough himself.

Lucy admired the painting now, and saw the
resemblance between mother and son, standing close together in the
entranceway.

“
I’ll take them up, Mother,” Miles
said and kissed her cheek. “You can deal with our
cousin.”

“
Deal with you? My son treats you in
a cavalier way,” Mrs. Bledsoe said as they mounted the stairs more
slowly.

They went first into her private sitting room,
where tea and biscuits already waited. Lucy took off her bonnet and
fluffed her mashed hair. “Your son has been kind enough to help me
keep Christmas as Mama would have, by doing a little good. Thank
you, Vivian,” she said, accepting a cup of good green
tea.

Lucy relished the comfort of the small room,
wondering if she could make the Bledsoe home her refuge from the
trouble and anxiety of a London Season. In only a few minutes, she
spilled out her sorrow at her mother’s passing, the unwelcome
burden of a come out, and her earnest desire to keep Christmas by
helping the less fortunate.

Her cousin Vivian took it all in without
comment, edging closer on the sofa until she put her arm around
Lucy, which allowed her to rest her head against the woman’s
shoulder. “Maybe I am the less fortunate,” Lucy said. “Edward will
be apprenticed to a counting house, and Michael perhaps to a
surgeon. I’m the one with no fixed aim and purpose, beyond
protecting our cook from Aunt Aurelia.”

“
Brave girl,” Mrs. Bledsoe murmured.
“Roscoe tells me that Aurelia can be a trial.”

“
Less than you would think. I
convinced her to go home and rest, and she agreed.”

Vivian stared at her. “You have the makings of
a diplomatist. I’ll tell my son to take lessons from
you!”

“
Oh, no,” Lucy said, embarrassed but
pleased. “Miles will manage quite well on his own.” She took a turn
around the room, teacup in hand. “Clotilde is my cross to bear. She
cries and frets and I don’t understand why. She claims she is
marrying the love of her life.” She took a sip. “Cousin, how does a
lady know if she is in love?”

Lucy hated to sound so pathetic, but there was
no one else to ask. And why she was even asking, she did not know.
Thoughts became words, welled up, and escaped. Clotilde seemed to
think she was in love, but why so many tears and uncertainty? And
why did it even matter? “I am in a muddle,” she concluded, vastly
dissatisfied with herself. She sat down next to Vivian
again.

Mrs. Bledsoe pulled her close. “Lucy, I suspect
love is different for different people.”

“
For you then,” she said. “Did you
always love Cousin Will amazingly?”

“
No! I would be guilty of
prevarication if I said I did.” She patted Lucy’s hand. “I had
known him for years. My deeper feelings developed gradually, with
no trumpet fanfare or drum roll.” Her voice grew a little dreamy,
for a woman of matronly proportions and white hair, or so Lucy
thought. “One afternoon he came calling and I just looked at him
and knew. Bald hair and bad eyes and so tall and thin back then,
but I just knew.”

“
That’s no answer,” Lucy
said.

“
Yes it is, you scamp!” her cousin
said with a laugh, the spell broken. “And there is this, now that
you remind me: I began to feel uncomfortable when he was not
nearby. I still do, I suppose.”

“
I’ll just know?”

“
You will, Lucinda Danforth, you
will.”

M
iles didn’t seem surprised
when Lucy insisting on accompanying him and Edward to the
Bradfield-Ashby Counting House, which meant Michael came, too. They
piled back into the post chaise for the trip to Cornhill Road, a
part of London unfamiliar to Lucy.

Miles knew it well enough. “Now we are
officially in the City of London,” he told them all as they wove
through traffic, noise, and bad smells. “Boys like you sled down
Cornhill. See there?”

Lucy looked, too, wishing that her sledding
days weren’t over. Of course, if she married and had a little boy
or two, would her inevitable-but-right-now-unknown husband object
if she slid downhill, too? She knew Miles wouldn’t, but who could
say a husband would be as obliging as her cousin?

“
This is London’s financial
district, Edward. Take a good look,” Miles was saying. “I can see
you doing quite well here.” He pointed into the maze of buildings.
“Over there on Threadneedle Street—perhaps you can see it—is the
Bank of England. Lots of money in there. And here is the
Bradfield-Ashby Counting House.”

“
What will I do here?” Edward asked.
“I mean, if they apprentice me?”

“
Count money. Tote up long figures.
Subtract where needed. Make meticulous entries in ledgers. All
those things you enjoy,” Miles told him. “If you become really
proficient, you might find yourself giving clients advice on what
to do with their money.”

“
That’s going to take a while,”
Edward said, sounding dubious.

“
As it should. I have no doubt that
you are equal to the task.”

Lucy watched Edward’s face light up with
Miles’s praise. The fear left, leaving behind quiet
competence.

Lucy couldn’t have said if she took Michael’s
hand or he took hers, so magnificent was the Bradfield-Ashby
Counting House. Led by a young man in a dark suit, they passed
under chandeliers and down a corridor with a thick carpet and
elegant walls to the office of Mr. Solon Bradfield
himself.

More dignified than she had ever seen him
before, Miles introduced them. Both boys gave a proper bow. Michael
seated himself and continued looking around the ornate office,
while Edward focused all his attention on the man now seating
himself behind a desk carved to a fare thee well.

Edward knows exactly how important this
moment is
, Lucy thought, impressed with the same little boy
that this morning was all eyes over more bacon than he had probably
seen in years, if ever.

Miles wasted not a moment in explaining his
purpose and offering Edward Lonnigan, son of a dead artillerist in
Wellington’s Army and a seamstress in Tidwell, as a candidate for
an apprenticeship.

“
He is skilled in arithmetic and
comes here in need of future employment,” Miles concluded. “Try
him.”

The august Mr. Bradfield did precisely that.
Lucy watched, holding her breath, as he took a sheet of paper from
a drawer, pulled back his cuffs a little, and wrote three numbers
each in four lines. He handed the paper to Edward and offered him a
writing tool.

“
I don’t need that, sir,” Edward
said, as he stared at the paper.

Mr. Bradfield exchanged an amazed glance with
Miles. Lucy held her breath.

Edward took his time, then handed the paper
back. “Four thousand, two hundred and twenty-five, sir,” he
said.

Mr. Bradfield took that pencil and toted up the
numbers. “Precisely so,” he said. He wrote more numbers in five
lines, with the same result. Another sheet came out, with two long
lines. “Subtract this.”

Again Edward shook his head over the offered
pencil. Same result. Mr. Bradfield sat back in his chair with a
satisfied look on his face.

“
You weren’t bamming me, were you,
Mr. Bledsoe?” he asked, surprising Lucy by using such a cant
expression in so dignified a setting. The effect served to relieve
the tension in Edward’s high-held shoulders. He looked almost like
a little boy again. Almost.

“
I never tease about money and
numbers,” Miles said. “No more than you do, Mr. Bradfield. What say
you, sir? I am willing to stand as proxy and surety to Edward
Lonnigan, if you will apprentice him.” He reached inside his coat.
“I have a note here from his mother, giving me such permission.
Edward’s father died under the guns at Salamanca and the boy must
make his own way in the world.”

Mr. Bradfield turned his attention to Edward,
who regarded him seriously, but with no fear in his eyes. “I was an
apprentice in a counting house once,” the banker said. “I didn’t
even know my father, so you have the advantage of me, Edward.
Someone like Mr. Bledsoe here took a chance on me, too. What say
you
, young man?”

“
Aye, sir,” Edward said, his voice
soft, but with no hint of fear.

Lucy sat back in relief and gratitude as the
three men in the room—Edward seemed to grow in stature—drew up
apprenticeship papers. Her heart light, she listened as Miles
assured both Edward and Mr. Bradfield that either he or a
substitute would come by monthly for the six years of the
apprenticeship, to confirm that each party was maintaining his end
of the agreement.

“
If I see anything amiss with his
treatment, the apprenticeship ends, and so does Bledsoe money in
your counting house,” Miles said.

Mr. Bradfield gave a nod of appreciation.
Obviously the men knew each other well. “Our apprentices live in a
small house a block over on Finch Lane. A respectable widow
supervises them and provides meals,” Mr. Bradfield said. “The boys
have half Saturday and Sunday off. Edward, when the apprenticeship
ends, you will either find employment right here, or in another
counting house. Our reputation is stellar.” He said it with quiet
pride, which gave Lucy some inkling of his own hard path. Mr.
Bradfield held out the document to Edward. “Would you care to sign
this?”

“
Aye, sir,” Edward said again. He
did take a pen this time, signing his name where the banker
pointed.

Mr. Bradfield signed, followed by Miles
Bledsoe. The banker looked at the page and then at Edward. “Your
penmanship is excellent, too.”

His head held high, Edward nodded. “My da
taught me. He was an artillerist and a dab hand at letters and
numbers.”

“
Just as I would expect from an
artillerist. You were more fortunate than most,” Mr. Bradfield
said. He directed his gaze to Michael, who sat next to Lucy. “And
you, lad, are you equally adept at numbers?”

The shy boy cleared his throat. “I like
horses.”

Everyone laughed. Michael ducked his head into
Lucy’s side.

“
Until something better comes along,
we need those, too,” Mr. Bradfield told him. He stood up and
addressed Lucy this time. “My dear, take these lads around the
corner to 15 Finch Lane, if you will,” he said. “Mrs. Hodgson will
measure our newest apprentice for a suit of clothes. We like the
lads to be uniform in appearance.” A shadow crossed his face. “I
remember my own apprenticeship, Edward. I had but one shirt, pair
of knee breeches and torn stockings to my name. No one is laughed
at here. Good day to you, Miss Danforth. And you, Edward, I will
see two days after Christmas. Be prepared to work hard.”

Her heart full, Lucy led the boys from the
counting house and around the corner to a neat brick building. A
rap on the knocker produced a gray-haired woman in dark dress and
apron, who introduced herself as Mrs. Hodgson. In a matter of
minutes, the boys were enjoying gingersnaps and milk while the
housekeeper went in search of her tape measure.

“
Please, miss.”

Lucy turned her attention from the sampler on
the wall proclaiming, “
God’s will be done
,” to Michael,
gingersnap in one hand and half empty glass in the other. “Yes, my
dear?”