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New York City, July 1907
The late afternoon sun poured through the open carriage window like a weary traveler anxious for a chance to rest his aching feet. Gwen Barton could relate. Her left foot throbbed inside her shoe after standing in place too long, but she felt no resentment. Not even the sticky heat outside could upset her mood. A full day of helping at Heartwell House always left her feeling tired but happy.
She brushed her errant black curls away from her dampened forehead. If her mother were here, Cornelia would insist the window shades be drawn down. But Gwen relished the slightly cooler air moving across her flushed cheeks as the carriage navigated its way toward the Bartons’ brownstone.
From the window, Gwen watched businessmen striding purposefully down the sidewalks, while clusters of women walked more sedately beneath their summer parasols, none of them with a limp. She shifted against the leather seat as the carriage turned a corner. A small boy stood there, a beggar’s cup in hand and a crutch tucked under his arm.
“Stop the carriage, please,” she called out the window. The wheels rolled forward another few yards, then the vehicle settled to a stop.
The driver appeared at her door moments later to help her out. “I’ll be right back, Jenkins. Though it’s possible we may have to return to the orphanage before continuing toward home.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss Barton,” the gray-haired man said, his eyes twinkling with understanding.
Gwen kept her steps slow, as much to disguise her limp as to avoid adding to the ache in her foot, and crossed the short distance from the carriage to the boy. “Hello there.”
“Spare a penny, miss?” He held up his cup.
Crouching down, she did her best to ignore the curious and disapproving glances she sensed from those streaming past them. “What’s your name?”
“Don’t got one,” the boy said with a shrug. He couldn’t be more than six years old, though the dirt smudges on his cheeks made it difficult to tell.
“What do your parents call you?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “Don’t got those neither. Who’s askin’?”
“I’m Gwen Barton,” she said, touching the lacy bodice of her dress with her gloved hand. “And I’d like to help you.”
Some of the toughness faded from his expression. “How?”
“My cousin runs a home near here for orphaned children.”
“I ain’t going to no orphanage.”
Giving him a nod, she straightened. “I understand. If you change your mind, though, you can earn three meals a day and a bed all to yourself at this orphanage, in exchange for doing your daily chores and some trade work.”
“Three meals?” The longing on his face squeezed at her heart. “But what could I do with this bum leg?” He jiggled the leg favoring the crutch.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Gwen leaned close to whisper, “Quite a lot, actually. I myself have a bum foot.”
“You do?” He appeared more surprised than skeptical.
Gwen lifted the hem of her skirt an inch or so, just enough for the boy to see the crooked twist of her left foot. “There’s still a lot we can do, especially with two good hands.”
She meant the words each and every time she thought or spoke them, though they didn’t always succeed in squelching her own moments of doubt. Moments when she also wondered at what she could contribute to the world and how much more that might be if her foot hadn’t been injured, or had healed properly. But her injury wasn’t void of purpose. Without it, Gwen would not have discovered her calling to aid God’s injured and orphaned lambs, nor would she have gained the compassion that flowed through her as she regarded this small boy before her.
“What do you say? I can take you to Heartwell House right now in my carriage. Dinner will be served in about an hour.”
The boy smacked his lips together as if he could smell the freshly baked bread the girls apprenticing in the kitchen had made that morning. “All righty.”
Smiling, Gwen held out her hand. He plopped his dirty palm in hers, and together they walked slowly to the waiting carriage. Jenkins didn’t bat an eye at the newcomer. Instead he assisted both Gwen and the boy inside the vehicle. His kindness, and loyal discretion, had long endeared him to Gwen.
“Back to Heartwell House, please, Jenkins.”
“Right away, Miss Barton.”
As the man shut the carriage door, the boy stared wide-eyed at the fine leather interior. “Are you rich, miss?” he half whispered, his voice tinged with awe.
“My father is.”
Although next year, if she was still unmarried at the age of twenty-one, Gwen would inherit a large sum from her fortune. And she knew exactly where the majority of it would go. She’d promised her cousin Dean Griffin and his wife, Amie, the owners of Heartwell House, that she would provide the needed funds to build another wing and employ a doctor who specialized in the treatment of childhood injuries and illnesses. Not unlike the renowned Dr. William Smithfield in London. Gwen had read every article her cousin had saved about the man’s remarkable work with restoring mobility in previously injured limbs. Hopefully she and the Griffins would be able to find someone like him here in America.
Gwen asked the boy about his family as the carriage turned around and headed back in the direction she’d come. He had been left to fend for himself after the death of his older brother the year before and couldn’t remember much about his parents. Unlike Gwen’s injury, which had been the result of a carriage accident, his had come after getting his leg caught beneath the wheel of an automobile two years ago. He thought he remembered a doctor coming by. But Gwen guessed that with little to no money, the boy and his brother had likely been left to their own devices as far as helping the leg to heal.
When they reached the orphanage, Jenkins helped them from the carriage. Gwen led the way to the front door. “You ready?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob.
“Teddy.”
“Pardon?”
The boy shot her a hesitant smile. “My brother called me Teddy. Said I had the makings of bein’ a president. Just like that Teddy fellow.”
“Teddy. I like it.” Gwen returned his smile. “And I have a feeling your brother was right.”
The boy’s entire face lit with happiness, restoring the lump of emotion to Gwen’s throat. She gave Teddy’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before opening the door. “Dean? Amie?” she called as she ushered the boy into the foyer.
“Did you forget something, Gwen?” Dean’s voice floated out from the small office to the left.
She moved to stand in the open doorway. “More like I found something.” She motioned for Teddy to come stand beside her. “This is my new friend, Teddy. Teddy, this is Mr. Griffin. As you can see, Dean, the boy is a lot like me, but he’s also confident that he can earn his keep here.”
Dean circled his desk and squatted before the boy. “Would you like to live and work at Heartwell House, Teddy?”
The boy glanced up at Gwen, then back at the man. “Yes, sir.”
“Then I’ll have my wife show you to your room before you wash up for dinner.” Dean rose to his feet. “I think peach pie is on the menu for dessert.”
The boy’s eyes bugged out, making Gwen laugh. “I ain’t never had peach pie.”
“You will tonight,” Gwen said. “I have to go now, Teddy. But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All righty. Bye, then . . . Miss Gwen.” He grinned at his little rhyme, and the gesture was almost carefree.
“You’re going to be late for your own dinner,” Dean murmured with a hint of humor as he trailed her to the main door.
“I know, I know.”
“How much longer will she indulge your work here?” Her cousin followed her out the door and onto the front step.
Gwen didn’t need to ask who he meant. “Hopefully, for a very long time. I think my mother has—blessedly—given up on my ever marrying. Especially since there are no bachelors in New York who don’t already know about my limp.”
With a shrug, she spread her arms wide as if in surrender. “My guess is she’s trying to find contentment over having only one of her two children married.”
Gwen’s only sibling and older brother, Charlie, had wed the heiress of an old New York family the year before. But even that hadn’t elevated the family to the elite status among American aristocracy that Cornelia Barton greatly desired.
“Aren’t you still heading to Newport this week, though?”
“Yes, but only because that’s what we do every summer—not because she hopes I’ll make a suitable match.”
While the Bartons might not be American aristocrats, they did follow the dictates of high society, which included summering in Rhode Island. To Cornelia’s dismay, Gwen had been as unsuccessful in securing a husband in Newport as she had in New York.
“I’m confident my mother won’t care how or where I spend my time once we return to the city in September.”
Dean smiled as he pocketed his hands. “I hope you’re right, Gwen. Amie and I greatly appreciate your help.”
With a wave goodbye, Gwen moved as quickly as her foot would allow, and with Jenkins’s help, scrambled back inside the carriage. Her tardiness would likely result in a thorough scolding. After all, married or unattached, she was still expected to conduct herself as a lady, which meant being prompt. Even the inevitability of a tongue lashing, though, couldn’t dampen her spirits. Not when she’d been able to offer real help to another human being as she had with Teddy just now. It was why she loved coming to the orphanage as often as she could. And why she would keep coming.
The only other thing that would seal this day’s perfection would be reading a new romance novel. But last night she’d finished the most recent one loaned to her by her best friend, Syble. Which meant no new book to escape into tonight. No new story that would allow Gwen to believe, if only for a time, that she too was as flawless in form as the young heroine and would soon be loved in return by the hero.
In reality, she’d endured two unsuccessful social seasons and had had her heart broken when the man she had come to care for had thrown her over for a woman who wasn’t “new money” and had no limp. But even if Gwen was still known around town as Randolph’s cast-off sweetheart, even if she ended up a spinster as her mother feared, even if she never gained back the agility in her foot, she would try not to complain. Surely there was something of value she could offer the world at large, limp or no limp. After all, she had her faith and a purpose in helping at the orphanage, as well as the relative freedom to come and go as she pleased, and for that she would remember to be grateful.
*
Gwen slipped into the house through a back entrance to avoid coming face to face with the butler. Stealth was difficult to achieve with her injured foot, but she managed to inch her way undetected to the stairs. If she could just change for dinner without being spotted first . . .
The murmur of voices coming from the parlor and not the dining room made her pause. Surely her mother wouldn’t be entertaining visitors at this hour. Gwen didn’t recall being told they were to have guests join them for dinner this evening, either.
As she hesitated beside the grand staircase, she heard footsteps nearing the parlor door. Too late, she started up the stairs.
“Gwenyth, there you are,” her mother called from below. Her tone held none of the censure Gwen had expected. “Come say goodbye to the Rinecrofts.”
Syble had been here? A flicker of disappointment at missing the chance to spend time with her friend cut through Gwen as she turned to face the small group. “I’m sorry I missed your visit. I was delayed on my way home from Heartwell House.”
“Not to worry, dear.” Mrs. Rinecroft turned and followed Gwen’s mother toward the front door.
Gwen descended the stairs to join Syble. “I didn’t know you were coming over today.”
“Neither did I.” Her best friend gave her a quick hug. As Syble eased back, she pressed a book into Gwen’s gloved hand.
Glancing down, Gwen felt a thrill of anticipation as she studied the volume. “A new romance?” she whispered.
Syble’s smile widened as she nodded. “Come along, Syble,” Mrs. Rinecroft intoned. “We shall be late for dinner if we don’t hurry.”
“I can’t wait for the trip to London,” Syble murmured softly, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement.
Gwen threw her friend a puzzled look. “Don’t you mean Newport?” Like the Bartons, the Rinecrofts were “new money,” but they also made the pilgrimage to Rhode Island each summer.
“Oh, we’ll be heading there too.”
Her confusion grew, but there wasn’t time to ask what Syble meant. The moment the butler shut the door behind the two women, Cornelia spun to face her daughter.
“I’m sorry I was not home sooner, Mother.” Better to face the firing squad outright than wait and let it spoil dinner. “I had an unexpected . . . errand . . . come up.”
To Gwen’s astonishment, her mother waved away her apology. “We need to dress for dinner. I told Cook to delay the meal by thirty minutes, but that doesn’t give us long to change.”
“How was your visit with the Rinecrofts?” Gwen asked as she trailed her mother up the stairs.
“It was unexpected and yet most . . . enlightening.”
Gwen lifted her eyebrows in bewilderment. “Oh?”
“Do you remember Clare Herschel?”
“Yes.” Clare had debuted into society the same year as Gwen and Syble. “Isn’t she in London this summer?”
Cornelia nodded. “She and her mother went for the season, but now Clare is engaged to an earl. She’ll be Lady Linwood come October.” Her smug expression almost made it seem as if she herself had orchestrated the match. “Mrs. Rinecroft and Syble came by to show me the announcement in the newspaper.”
“How . . . wonderful . . . for Clare.” Gwen liked the copper-haired heiress—Clare had always treated her kindly—and wished her well in marriage. But Gwen wouldn’t want to marry an Englishman who would expect her to live away from New York. Away from her work at Heartwell House.
Stopping outside her bedroom door, Gwen caught a calculating gleam in her mother’s brown eyes. Something more was afoot than a wedding announcement for Clare Herschel, but Gwen couldn’t ascertain what it might be.
“Is that all Mrs. Rinecroft wished to discuss?”
“Oh no, that was merely the beginning of our discussion.” Cornelia opened her own door and stepped inside. “I’ll share the rest at dinner.”
Uneasiness settled in the pit of Gwen’s stomach as she entered her bedroom. Her maid was already waiting for her, which meant that changing out of her sticky, wrinkled gown into a fresh one took little time. Gwen didn’t wish to prolong the suspense of what her mother wanted to share any longer than necessary. Still, her parents were already seated when she entered the dining room. Her father asked about her day as the servants placed dishes in front of the family.
“It went well,” Gwen answered with hesitation.
Normally, she received a sniff of disapproval or a curt remark from her mother whenever Gwen talked about the orphanage. Tonight, however, Cornelia appeared to be lost in thought, a bemused smile on her lips. The sight of it worsened the churning inside Gwen.
Silence reigned for a few minutes as they ate, though Gwen hardly tasted the normally delicious fare. At last, her mother cleared her throat and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I have wonderful news, Gwen.”
Gwen gave a mute nod before taking a sip from her glass, mentally bracing herself for whatever blow was coming. In the past, what her mother deemed as wonderful news had been far from it in Gwen’s opinion.
“You and I are going to London.”
The liquid in Gwen’s throat collided with her startled gasp and she sputtered. “W-when? What for?”
“Don’t stammer, Gwen.” Cornelia shot her a frown. “We’re going next spring, for the season, of course.”
Prickles of both heat and frost broke out on Gwen’s skin. She glanced at her father in a silent plea for help, for some protest at the outrageous plan. Gwen had no interest in experiencing another season, especially not one a whole ocean away from everything familiar to her, where her injury would invite ridicule and disdain all over again. In New York, the practice of treating her like a sideshow spectacle had faded with time and familiarity. Acceptance had never come, but at least here, society had reached the point of indifference. In London, she would have to start all over again. She wanted to beg her father to spare her that mortification. But he seemed unusually intent on finishing his dinner.
Disappointment cut sharply through her. Charles Barton would brook no argument in his daughter’s favor.
“I’ve already had two seasons,” Gwen managed to say calmly. Perhaps an appeal to logic would work this time, even if it hadn’t before. “I hardly see the point of financing a third, particularly in another country.”
Cornelia swatted away her words with an impatient hand. “No expense is too great if you can land an earl as Clare Herschel has done.”
“Miss Herschel is marrying an earl?” her father asked.
“Yes, Charles. And our daughter can do the same. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she won the heart of a duke or a marquess.” A wistful look settled onto her face. “There are yet titled Englishmen in London who don’t mind a rich American wife.”
Gwen set her napkin on the table. She couldn’t stomach another bite. Not when panic churned inside her middle. “Mother, I don’t need to marry an earl or a duke. I’m perfectly happy as I am.”
“How can you possibly know what will make you happy?” Cornelia’s gaze snapped with irritation. “As a titled lady, you won’t be barred from entering the highest echelons of society. Nothing will be withheld from you.”
“Except the full use of my foot.”
Her father winced at Gwen’s harsh tone, but her mother did not. “You know what you must do to compensate for your limp.”
Yes, she did. Gwen had heard the firm reminders dozens—if not hundreds—of times. Take small, measured steps. It will minimize your limp and keep you looking like a lady. Tell them you don’t enjoy dancing, not that you can’t dance. Never look as though you are in pain, even if you are.
“I don’t wish to go.” Gwen cringed at voicing such a vulnerable statement out loud, but it was the truth. She didn’t want to go to London or be foisted off on some Englishman with a title—provided one could even be found who would want her. More than likely, it would be another exercise in futility. Painful, boring, embarrassing futility, a world away from the orphanage, where she felt useful and valued. Her place and purpose were here.
Cornelia smiled, though it held more determination than warmth. “It will be wonderful. We’ll stop in Paris to have new Worth gowns made, and Mrs. Rinecroft and Syble will be there too.”
So that’s what her friend had meant earlier about a trip to London. Though wealthy and pretty, Syble had also struggled to find a match in New York. There was the issue of an old family scandal, the details of which Syble didn’t even know. She was also considered by many, especially men, to be far too outspoken in her opinions and independent in her thinking.
The knowledge that her best friend would be at her side brought Gwen a tiny seedling of relief. At least until her mother spoke again.
“Although, once we arrive in London, your friend will again be your greatest competitor.” Cornelia picked up her fork once more. “But I’m confident you’ll snag the better match.”
The ache in her foot felt as if it had lodged itself inside her lungs. Gwen fought for a calming breath, her mind grasping at any excuse, any reason her mother’s plans might be altered. None came.
How could her future change so drastically from one moment to the next? She knew the answer, though. At present, as an unmarried, financially dependent young lady, she was at the mercy of her mother’s whims.
She hadn’t felt this small or alone in a very long time. Not since Randolph had abruptly ended things between them.
Her fortune hadn’t been enough for him to overlook her physical shortcomings. It seemed silly to believe it would be enough for the type of gentleman her mother had in mind. And even if someone wanted her fortune badly enough to make an offer, could she bring herself to marry such a man—one who valued wealth over everything else? Would she even find a man in England who exemplified the qualities she deemed more important than a title? Qualities such as love, respect, a shared faith, a pleasing sense of humor. Not to mention a man who saw her as more than her money or her limp when he looked at her. Could a man like that be waiting for her in England?
Yes, if my life were a fairy tale.
But she’d stopped believing in fairy tales sometime during her first season. There was no dashing prince waiting to claim her as his own—there was only her quiet, ordinary, useful life that she was destined to spend alone. She’d made peace with that. And if it took going to England and enduring several months of uselessness and humiliation to convince her mother of such a thing, then that was what Gwen would do. After all, what other option was open to her until she turned twenty-one?
“Very well.” She pushed back her chair. “I will do as you ask.”
A satisfied smile lifted Cornelia’s mouth. “I’ll write your sister straight away, Charles, to see if we may stay at her London residence. Remember, Gwen, she was also an American heiress who went to England to find a husband, though she only married a baronet.” She intoned the last word as if Aunt Vivian had married a chimney sweep instead of a titled gentleman.
Gwen rose from her seat. “I’m going up to my room.”
Without waiting for a reply, she slipped out of the dining room and limped toward the staircase. Memories of her inspiring day and the new book waiting for her upstairs couldn’t dispel her sorrow and regret.
Gwen plodded painfully up the stairs, gripping the banister with a tight hand. She would need every ounce of strength she could muster if she hoped to weather another disastrous season.
A niggling of an idea made her pause and brought momentary relief to the ache inside her. If she were London-bound, then perhaps she could seek out Dr. Smithfield. Even if Gwen wasn’t successful in convincing him to uproot to America, the man might be willing to provide letters of introduction to suitable colleagues of his in the States. Perhaps he could even help her with correcting her own childhood injury. A surge of determination carried her the final yards to her bedroom.
The beginnings of a smile tugged at Gwen’s lips as she grabbed her book and sank into her favorite armchair. She might not have the power to dictate her life right now as much as she wished, and yet that didn’t mean she was helpless. Her mother might have plans for her, but Gwen wasn’t without a few of her own.