Chapter 15

It was close to noon when the men left to talk to the doctor about securing his employment. Polly arrived soon after to help me with my hair.

“How is Mrs. Brayton?” I asked.

“Still sleeping,” said the abigail. “Rags was whining at her door, so I let him in and set him up on the bed so he could have a cuddle.”

Against Polly’s better judgment, I had donned my simple brown muslin and my country bonnet. The familiarity and simplicity did my heart good, for it reminded me that there was a world beyond the sprawl of this harsh city. “For a walk in the park with my son, this is perfect,” I had answered her protestations. “Ned can do no harm to this old dress, and I shall feel quite comfortable leaving Amelia behind. At Ferndean, he and I often take rambles together.”

She sighed, and I guessed what she was thinking: That was Ferndean and this was London. But all she said was, “I believe Mr. Higgins has a surprise for you, ma’am. You’ll see it when you’re ready for your walk. Amelia’s changing Master Ned’s pinafore. Adèle is still in her room, having a grand time with some old ribbons that belong to Mrs. Brayton.”

She was right. Adèle was in her room, happily weaving the scraps of fabric through her hair. Polly had also located several of Lucy’s older court dresses, and the little French girl was in her element, trying on the finery and parading in front of the long cheval mirror in order to view the results.

“Veux-tu venir avec nous au Hyde Park?” I asked.

“Non, I have no wish to go to the park.” She pouted, so I let her be.

I was on my way downstairs when I heard Ned giggling. Looking into the entryway, I discovered that my little boy was sitting in an adorable child cart, a neat, scaled-down version of a pony cart, with tall sides and robust wheels. The tongue, which would normally have been yoked to small horses, extended far enough to provide excellent leverage so that the entire contraption could easily be rolled along the pavements.

Playing the part of both horse and driver, Lucy’s butler Higgins towed the cart first one way and then the other. Each short journey brought gales of laughter from Ned’s rosy lips.

“Where did this come from?” I reached for Ned but he scooted down into his seat, gripping the sides of the wagon firmly. Along with his father’s black eyes, my son had inherited Edward’s fierce determination.

“I commissioned a coach builder to construct one for Master Evans. Since the child has yet to arrive, I sent word that we needed a second such contraption, so each boy could have his own.”

The cart was a marvel of design, complete with a padded frame so my son could sit without assistance. The wheels rolled easily, and the bright red paint gave it a jaunty air.

I thanked Higgins profusely for his thoughtfulness.

The sky was clear; a walk would be perfect. At my direction, Higgins carried the cart and my son down the front stairs and set both on the walkway. My son regarded the butler solemnly and gestured to him, clearly indicating that he expected the butler to accompany us.

“No. Not this time, Young Master. You go with your mum, you hear? Tell those squirrels ‘hul-lo’ for me.” The butler straightened and adjusted his waistcoat. With a perfectly bland face, he said, “Master Ned has taken quite a fancy to watching a pair of squirrels down the street who like to chase each other.”

A red blush started at Higgins’s collar and spread up his neck as he bowed to me and headed back into the house, leaving me to stare in wonder at the closing door. So my son had softened the butler’s heart!

I would have to share this bit of news with Lucy. She would agree that there was magic inherent in a child’s smallest gesture. Here I’d thought that Higgins would be impervious to any sort of emotion. But I’d been wrong. The man’s austere exterior had been breached without effort by one little boy. Cook had supplied me with a bag of bread crumbs when she’d heard of our plans. The whole household had fallen in love with my boy, a situation that could only augur good tidings for Evans’s arrival.

Ned’s interests—not to mention his impact on others—had come as a bit of a revelation to me, who’d never spent much time with children so young. I found some people were charmed, others irked by Ned’s constant motion. My son’s impulse, it seemed, was to launch himself unreservedly at the world around him, with his eyes open and his hands grabbing, in a relentless attempt to experience every morsel that came his way.

With effort, I managed to roll the cart along the pavement to Hyde Park, passing a dozen large houses as we went. Along the way we passed several nannies out airing their charges. Their nods confirmed they took me as one of their own. I am sure to most matrons of my standing, my approach to childrearing was anathema, but our life in Ferndean had afforded me the luxury of spending time alone with my son. The habit of our companionship had thus been established, and rather than avoid it, I found it to be one of my life’s great joys.

Ned’s head swiveled on his chubby neck, taking in his surroundings, gazing at the fine houses with their colorful window boxes. Our progress was interrupted frequently because everything seemed to inspire my son’s delight. As I pointed out squirrels, he hooted with laughter. Even the pigeons brought a smile to his lips.

I reflected that coming to London had not been a bad idea after all . . . as long as we could avoid outings with the social set in the future.

No footpaths like this wove their way around Ferndean. The landscape there suffered from a sort of benign neglect, and many of the lanes there had become overgrown. I vowed to speak to Edward about creating an outdoor space at home where the child cart could travel. Meanwhile, I promised myself to schedule an outing like this with Ned every few days.

We’d chosen a grand time for an adventure. The park was full of pleasure seekers from every walk of life enjoying the brilliant sunshine. Couples strolled, arm in arm, up and down the footpaths. I tugged the cart to a spot by an empty bench, where Ned and I could enjoy the scent of flowers nodding at the sun.

I showed Ned how to toss the breadcrumbs to the birds. Of course, the pigeons needed no encouragement to come visit us. Once the message spread among them that we were offering sustenance, a flock engulfed our bench, their iridescent neckties of silver, blue, amethyst, and green shimmering like the glow of precious stones. But then the approaching loud voices of an arguing couple scattered the birds, causing them to fly off in a whirlwind of grays, tans, and white.

“I know you care for me—and I do not want to wait any longer. I can prove what a good wife I shall be!” A fashionable woman walked alongside a shabbily dressed man and tugged on his arm most insistently. Her voice and form suggested youth, though her face was obscured by her fashionable bonnet decked out with ribbons of every color. The man’s face, however, was quite clear to me, and his expression was one of extreme discomfort. Especially because he realized that I had overheard her protestations. His eyes caught mine, and I turned away to attend to Ned rather than share my impressions of his overwrought friend.

“Please! You do yourself a disservice in this public place.” He kept the lady at arm’s length with one hand, while in the other he carried a worn leather satchel that flapped open, exposing papers that threatened to spill on the ground. “I beg you to listen, miss. Although I hold you in the highest regard, we have no future together. I have done nothing to give you any other impression.”

“But you have! You are so kind to me. I see your affection in your eyes! And we are ideally suited. We have the same interests, and—”

“I regret that you might have misinterpreted my professional concern for a greater devotion.”

“We are meant to be together! I saw it in a dream.” The young woman’s voice became ever more strident and her gestures more animated. I felt embarrassed on her behalf—to my way of thinking, she had already exceeded the bounds of good taste. Clearly the young man did not return her affections. Why could she not see that?

“I really must go.” The man seemed quite desperate. “I am expected—”

“Hail a hackney for both of us! Mama won’t notice I’m gone. Come, it’ll be easier from the street—” and she grabbed at his arm.

But instead of following her as she tried to lead him, he loosened her hands from his sleeve. That was when he noticed his precarious satchel and started shoving the papers down deeper so they would not fall out. Even as he worked furiously to restrain them, he kept dodging her entreaties. “Please! You cannot keep following me around like this! I do not know how you came to your conclusions, and I regret any action on my part that might have encouraged you, but—”

At first, his actions struck me as ungallant, but the longer I watched them from under my old straw bonnet, the more I sensed that he was desperate. The woman was clearly refusing to listen. I lifted my head and did a quick survey. The quarrel had drawn attention: strollers turning to watch, nannies stopping prams to listen in, and couples casting glances this direction.

The woman launched herself at the man, grabbing at the collar of his jacket. “I feel your love for me with every beat of my heart! From the first moment you stepped into our parlor, I knew!”

“You are mistaken. There is no future for us. I have tried to speak kindly to you, and I abhor the fact that I might hurt your sensibilities, but you must listen to me! There is nothing between us. There never was.” He worked at her fingers to disentangle them.

“I know you care for me!” She changed her grip and took hold of one of his cuffs.

“No! I love another!” With a mighty effort, he pulled away, and with a loud rip, the fabric of his sleeve came loose. The surprise of this caught them both off-balance. Several of his papers had worked their way toward freedom again, and a couple flew out of his satchel. As he bent to retrieve them, she stepped in close, getting her face near to his.

“Who is she?”

From a near crouch, he looked up at her, pausing as he chased his papers. “Her name is Miriam Goldstein. I hope to marry her.”

Somewhere deep inside me, an alarm bell chimed. Some instinct told me the woman was marshalling her energies, but to what purpose I could not guess. I lifted Ned and pulled him close to me, shielding his face with my hands.

“Miriam?” she screamed, then slapped the man hard across the face. Her blow was so well timed and her aim was so true that he sprawled flat on his back. He stayed there for but the blink of an eye, before scrambling to his feet and running off.

The young woman’s back was still to me, but I watched as her shoulders shook. She commenced to crying, her bonnet bobbing under the weight of her emotions.

I settled Ned in the child cart and watched the woman as she cried. My heart went out to her, while my mind suggested she would be better off somewhere more private.

In the meantime, Ned had caught a pigeon feather in his pudgy hands and was examining it with studied earnestness. From deep in the pocket of my old brown muslin, I dug out my own handkerchief and walked toward the crying girl. Perhaps a kind gesture would remind the woman of how public her display really was. With one eye on my son, I extended my arm to offer up the folded square of linen. “Miss?”

When she did not respond, I tapped her on the shoulder. “Miss?”

“Don’t touch me!” With a fury, the young woman turned on me. I was shocked to recognize the mild, nearly catatonic Mary Ingram. But the recognition was one-sided. Taking in my simple brown muslin and my worn straw bonnet, Mary said, “Get away from me, you beggar woman!”