The Lodestone (26 page)

Cleome and Edwina delighted in each other’s company and because the younger girl had no knowledge of the charms she possessed, it only served to make her more attractive. Their budding friendship blossomed into something deep and lasting and it was this simple affection that saved Cleome from absolute boredom when the sparkle of new sights, sounds and smells began to fade and her life became routine with the waiting . . . waiting for Stoneham House to open at last.

Cleome never grew tired of listening to Edwina play the piano, and Edwina never grew tired of having philosophical discussions, far into the night, with Cleome. Educated entirely by her Uncle Oliver, Edwina was quite precocious in her pursuit of knowledge. She lived with Oliver much of the time as her overbearing mamma was always traveling, she explained to Cleome one day as they were shopping in Burlington Gate.

“She is seeking a
proper match
for me,” Edwina said. “We have a small sum to live on, thanks to my late father, who was Uncle Oliver’s brother. But Mamma is determined to find me a rich husband before I am eighteen and before our money is used up. If only I were a man, Cleome! I’d not marry at all, but travel the world writing music and giving concerts.”

It didn’t take long for Cleome to grow weary of shopping and going to teas and parties, all of which Garnett’s mother thought were a lady’s primary calling; and when Oliver invited Cleome to use his expansive library whenever she wanted, Cleome thought she had landed in heaven. She also indulged herself in the purchase of any book that caught her fancy, adding rapidly to the shelves at her little townhouse; but Mr. Landshire had volumes she never would have thought to seek out, books
so radical she would be surprised to find them in the library at Houghton Hall, among books that looked little read.

Dear Oliver! What she would have done without him these past few weeks, she could not imagine. London didn’t appeal to her as Garnett had hoped it would, and she was anxious to get back to her mother. Edwina was wonderful company, as was Oliver; but it wasn’t home. She had hoped to spend more time with Drake and that hope alone was enough to keep her in the city. But without Edwina, Oliver and the beloved books, her boredom would have given way to depression and loneliness.

“This one is rather odd,” Cleome avowed one rainy afternoon when she and Edwina were sprawled on the rug, reading before Oliver’s blazing fire. With the corner of her new lace handkerchief, Cleome wiped the dust away from the title on the worn, dog-eared pamphlet and held it out to Edwina.

“Oh, that’s the one I’ve been telling you about. I agree with most of it,” Edwina said. “Although Mamma is horrified, I assure you.”

“
The Vindication of the Rights of Women
,” Cleome read the title aloud and opened the booklet. As Edwina watched, Cleome devoured Mrs. Godwin’s words. When she had finished, the course of her life was firmly decided.

“Do you not think it terribly unfair,” she asked Edwina at last, “that when a woman marries, she loses all her property and all her rights to her husband?”

“It’s utterly despicable. Work is the only way we can be free from the whims of men and we are not, at least ladies of position are not, permitted that noble endeavor. And poor women are too enslaved by poverty to worry about anything but staying alive.” Edwina sighed, troubled. “I suppose one day, my mother will find a suitable husband for me, one who is rich enough to satisfy her. Until then, I am fortunate to have my uncle, who encourages me to learn everything I can about the music I love and the world in which I live, unjust though it may be.”

“Well spoken, my darling girl!” Oliver’s voice thundered behind them. The library door stood open and the solicitor now entered with another gentleman in tow. Both young women got quickly to their feet and Edwina ran to put her arm through Oliver’s, with Cleome following closely.

“I see you are popular with the ladies,” Oliver’s guest offered approvingly. It was impossible to detect his age, for his overall corpulence extended to his ruddy facial features, smoothing any would-be wrinkles into puffs of jocularity that bobbled mischievously upon his cheeks as he flashed them a ready smile.

“This is my good friend, William Cobbett,” said Oliver. “We must commandeer the study as I need to explain in detail the theories contained in an article I have written for Mr. Cobbett’s newspaper. But first, pray explain this radical, libertine dogma my niece has been sharing with you.”

Oliver’s eyes twinkled with amusement, and Cleome knew he was jesting; but her feelings on the subject were too deep to allow her to parry with him as had become their amiable habit.

“It is
not
libertine, my dear Oliver,” she said. “And if your sex had the common sense they so pride themselves in, it would not be considered radical. Am I not correct, Mr. Cobbett?” She knew who the newspaper publisher was and she was familiar with the causes he championed in his
Political Register
, which some called subversive.

“A fact I dare not dispute, milady,” replied Mr. Cobbett. Oliver laughed, delighted; and then he escorted Cleome and Edwina out of the library with a promise that, as soon as the manuscript was edited to Mr. Cobbett’s satisfaction, the gentlemen would be pleased to take their tea with the young ladies. How different were the small gatherings at Oliver’s home from the grand ones at the Eastons. In the former, Cleome was exposed to some of the greatest minds in London and so began to appreciate the worth of her own. In the latter, more often than not, she was subjected to the affected posturing and trite clichés of a world that had, all her life, placed itself above her.

Mr. Landshire’s brilliant, learned and witty friends were infinitely more interesting than Garnett’s fashionably bored ones. Cleome loved using Oliver’s library, for he often stopped in with any of a dozen fascinating intellectuals. She read prodigiously, sometimes taking notes, and sometimes recording in a diary her thoughts and reactions to the conversations she was privileged not only to hear, but to participate in as well. Frequent visitors to Oliver’s home were the Rosettis and their infant son, Dante. A professor at King’s College, the Italian-born Gabriel Rosetti was in political exile and he enjoyed sparring mentally with Oliver, who knew many wonderful, talented people. Wordsworth himself had graced the barrister’s table more than once, along with Robert Owen, Anna Wheeler and Elizabeth Fry, a humble Quaker woman who worked tirelessly for prison reform. In Mrs. Fry’s gentle company, Cleome and Edwina visited some women in prison; and they were horrified at the conditions the poor had to suffer for so harmless a crime as stealing a bit of bread or meat.

On many evenings, Robert Browning, a high-spirited young man who was attending the University of London in this, its first year, was there to challenge Edwina to what he laughingly called piano duels. Using Oliver’s old upright, one would finish playing any composition the other began. Mr. Browning, who was the same age as Cleome, also enjoyed reading poetry to the young ladies and Cleome had to wonder if Oliver included him in their gatherings as a possible match for herself or Edwina. Oliver wanted his niece to wed an artistic man who would understand and encourage her pursuit of music but Cleome doubted one rich enough to satisfy Edwina’s mamma could be found.

As a golden autumn gave way to the silver frost of winter, Cleome grew in spirit, knowledge and boldness, cheerfully facing each new day as she discovered the myriad possibilities before her. Drake, Oliver and Elizabeth were right. Wealth and position opened many doors and allowed a woman to make her own rules . . . as long as she did not marry.

It became increasingly more difficult for Cleome to be seen, and not heard, like some overgrown child, when there were gentlemen present at the social functions she had to endure, especially when the talk turned to politics. At one such dinner party the Eastons were hosting, someone despaired of the results of the Reform Bill, if it were indeed passed.

“Is there reason to believe it will not be?” Cleome asked, alarmed. Garnett cleared his throat and Lady Easton raised her eyebrows in warning but Cleome gave no heed. From the opposite end of the table, Drake watched, intrigued, as she continued, “Political enfranchisement and proper representation are the only means by which the working class can extricate themselves from poverty and appalling working conditions.”

“The poor are always with us, my dear,” Lord Easton said. “Naturally, we must do what we can to relieve their suffering. That’s why we have charities and generous ladies like yourself to look after them.”

“Charities help, but they are not the solution,” Oliver interjected.

“True enough,” agreed a rotund university chaplain. “There’s never enough to go around, and most poor men find it difficult to accept charity. They would rather work, and ’tis debatable whether all this infernal machinery coming in has been a blessing or a curse. It impairs the hearing, spews filth and makes young men old.”

“But new jobs have been provided for many people,” Lady Dunwelle, an obese version of Lady Easton, remarked with a nasal whine. It was a logical stand as both her husband and her father owned factories in Manchester and Liverpool.

“That may be true,” Cleome conceded. “But it has also made some kinds of labor obsolete. We are in danger of losing skills which took generations for craftsmen—and women—to develop.”

“At any rate,” Lord Easton offered, clearly trying to end to the discussion, “we may thank our government and our churches that there are many institutions to which families can turn in the face of misfortune.”

“Would it not be simpler,” Cleome went on, “and more inexpensive in the long run, to clean up the factories and pay a man a man’s wage so that his children wouldn’t have to work a fourteen hour shift but could go to school instead? Mr. Cobbett says workers produce more in a warm, clean atmosphere.”

“We have Robert Owen to thank for that foolish experiment,” Lord Dunwelle put in harshly. “It has set every idle daydreamer in the country to raving about reform.”

“And Cleome,” Lady Easton said sweetly, “you must realize—as we have come to understand through the Ladies Home Relief Society—the poor
do
have limitations.”

“You are much too young and idealistic to recognize another fact,” Lord Dunwelle added sternly. “These people are dull-witted and slow. Highly uneducable.”

“Starvation does have a way of interfering with a man’s mental processes,” Drake mused wryly.

Cleome suspected the reaction her next statement would bring but she didn’t care. “
These people
are as capable of human emotion and noble thought as any of the company gathered round this table, even if they do not have the price of a bar of soap,” she said.

Lord Easton nearly choked on his wine and Elizabeth Easton spilled hers across the snowy table linen. As a maid came to wipe up the mess, Lady Dunwelle spluttered, “Well then, miss—they could at the very least learn to wash! Clean up the factories indeed! That is utter nonsense. Our efforts would be obliterated by the odor of the workers. They must be stupid, else why would they allow themselves to be so dirty?”

“Because, milady, soap is costlier than bread,” Cleome said evenly, trying to match her temper to her muted voice. “If a man has but a ha’penny in his pocket and six hungry mouths to feed, he will buy bread. The flavor of soap is not so palatable, nor yet so filling.”

Lord Easton’s complexion was taking on a dangerously scarlet hue but he managed to keep his voice civil. “Following the baser, animal instinct of their class, Cleome, they breed prolifically, like so many rabbits—”

“Oh, Laurence—my goodness!” Elizabeth exclaimed, her voice trembling. “To be so indelicate.”

“If Miss Houghton-Parker insists upon opening the discussion to such indelicate subjects, then she must be prepared to hear the unsavory facts,” Lord Easton declared. “If these people would exercise self-control, they would not have so many offspring and could concentrate on other matters. They should follow the example of their betters.”

“Perhaps they are doing exactly that,” she replied, cool but defiant. “The resemblance the bairns of many an unfortunate maidservant bear to their mother’s masters is a shining example of the results of prolific breeding.”

Lady Easton gasped and Lady Dunwelle swooned. Drake laughed out loud and Garnett gave an embarrassed cough. There followed an uncomfortable silence, after which Lord Easton signaled his butler.

“Edwards, we’ll have cigars and brandy now,” he ordered.

“Very good, sir.”

As Edwards bowed, Lady Eason rose from the table and invited the ladies to accompany her to the parlor for sherry. Garnett shot Cleome an apologetic look as she followed the other women. Smiling proudly, Oliver went with her.

In the parlor, Cleome remained silent; and in the minimum time allowed for good manners, Oliver made an excuse about work awaiting him at home. Cleome uttered not a word until a maid entered with their wraps; and then she quickly kissed Lady Easton on the cheek and whispered, “Goodnight, Elizabeth.” With a perfunctory nod to the other ladies, she and Oliver made their escape into the cold, crisp air.

To their delight, snow was falling in a thick, white curtain. As they waited for Oliver’s carriage to be brought around, they scooped up handfuls to throw at each other, frolicking like school children let out early. They were not surprised when Drake joined them.

“I don’t know when I’ve had a more entertaining evening,” he proclaimed. “You must know, Cleome, that they are all—men and women in their separate corners—discussing you. They may never recover from the shock.”

“I don’t care,” she replied. “That people so much more fortunate than most can have so little charity in their hearts is unthinkable to me.”

As Oliver opened the carriage door and climbed in, Drake enfolded Cleome briefly in his arms. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered enticingly, brushing her cheek with his lips before he lifted her into the coach and tucked the lap robe securely around her. “Good night, my sweetling.” And he was gone.