London, May 1848
The city was crowded, hazed with coal smoke and full of the clattering din of wheels over cobblestones. It was so different from Crete that Caroline felt utter relief, even through the weariness of travel. She almost felt she had dreamed her time away—almost, except for the leaden weight she carried where her heart used to beat. The constant ache made her wish she had never left London, never met the dark doctor with his haunted eyes, never let him enfold her in his arms.
The trip back to England had taken a lifetime. They had stopped three days on Malta, where Maggie was completely involved in founding the Valletta Children’s Home. Not only had she secured permission for the orphanage, but several prominent local families had committed funds for its construction. She had engaged another companion and a secretary, and it was clear she would remain on Malta for some time yet.
It also had not escaped Caroline’s notice that the handsome older captain, attaché to the governor there, had become a valuable ally to her friend—and more, if their shared smiles were any indication. The particular looks she caught between them made her feel hollow and weary.
There had been nothing to keep her on Malta. It was a relief to board the sailing steamer and continue the sad journey home.
Thank heaven for Pen. She had proven a perfect traveling companion, full of enthusiasm for each new sight. She had helped Caroline muster a smile and the energy to rise from her narrow bed each morning. And though she caught the girl giving her thoughtful looks, Pen did not pry, and for that she was grateful.
Perhaps someday she would be able to speak of Alex, to think his name without it piercing her soul. But not now. Not for a long time yet.
Now, finally, they were back in England. Home. As she and Pen disembarked, she saw the familiar figure of Uncle Denby making his way to them through the crowds at the dockside, trailed by two footmen.
“Caroline, my dear.” He folded her into a warm embrace of welcome. “I am relieved to have you home safe at last.”
She let herself lean against him a moment, but the time had passed when she could take a child’s comfort in his steady presence.
“Uncle, it’s so good to see you. Let me introduce Miss Penelope Briggs, of whom I wrote you. She is my new companion and secretary, and doing splendidly at both.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” Uncle Denby took Pen’s hand and pressed it between his own. “We owe you a debt of kindness for helping Caroline. You are most welcome to stay with us at Twickenham House, if you would.”
Watching him, Caroline felt a pang of memory. This was the man who had taken in two bereft children years ago and had unstintingly made them feel a part of the family. She and her brother owed him much for that kindness. It pleased her to see him treat Pen so, and at the same time she was washed in a thin melancholy. She was grown, changed—seeing Pen’s grin of delight only underscored the fact. Uncle Denby and Twickenham House could no longer be the refuge they once were.
“Come, my dears. Home awaits. Along with a large pile of correspondence for you, Caroline.” Her uncle waved them toward the waiting carriage emblazoned with the earl’s coat of arms, while the footmen loaded their trunks. “I have no doubt you will want to freshen up and get settled.”
“Good thing I have my new secretary at hand to assist me.” Plunging into a mountain of letters and invitations actually sounded appealing. She was ready for something to occupy her hours.
The carriage pulled up before the warm grey stone of Twickenham House, the familiar sight easing something within her. The entry was spacious and filled with light, and the butler, Jenkins, seemed pleased to see her, in his usual reserved fashion. Mrs. Beale, the housekeeper, was waiting by the stairs to reassure Caroline that her rooms were in order—and yes, they had received her letter and had all in readiness for Miss Briggs as well. Caroline thanked her, then led Pen up to the family wing and her new room, just down the hall.
“Let me wash up,” Caroline said. “Then I’ll rejoin you and show you a bit more around the house.”
Her own rooms seemed familiar, yet strange—smaller, the colors more subdued than she recalled. But they had not changed. She had. The paintings on the walls, the patterned carpet under her feet reminded her of who she had been before. She wished she could slip back into that old self and let Crete fade like a sail receding on the horizon, until finally it was gone. She sighed and closed the door gently behind her.
Pen was ecstatic over her room. “Caro! This is too grand for me—but isn’t the sitting area lovely? And the bed…” She bounced down on it to show her appreciation. “I’m certain I will sleep exceptionally well.”
“If you need anything, make sure to ask Mrs. Beale. Or ask me—I am two doors down. And,” she paused for a moment to make sure she had Pen’s attention, “I want to remind you once more about my cousin Reggie.”
The girl sobered. “I will be on my guard. Is he really so terrible? He is your cousin, and your uncle’s son, and you and your uncle are two of the kindest people I have ever met.”
“Well, perhaps not terrible, but you cannot trust anything he tells you, and he is prone to underhanded tricks and bullying to get his way. And his rows with Uncle. Well, just stay out of his way as much as you can.”
Pen nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“The fact is…” Caroline bit her lip. She disliked airing the family’s problems but the girl had to know for her own protection. “He can be utterly charming at times—but that is when you need to be most on your guard. If he seems a delightful fellow, then you can be certain he is up to no good. Luckily he doesn’t come here often. He keeps rooms in St. James Square and doesn’t call unless he wants something. Usually more money from Uncle.”
“Then he’s one member of the family I will not look forward to meeting. But what about your brother and his artist wife? I hope they will visit soon.”
Strangely, Caroline did not. Or perhaps it was not so strange. James would be able to sense right away that something was troubling her, and she would not—could not—discuss it with him.
Last year he had returned from his travels and she had known immediately that something had happened—something that very nearly broke his heart. She had coaxed the story out of him, and it had all come out right in the end, but…She felt a bitter laugh edge her throat. Some things one could not talk about with one’s brother. Not and expect him to remain rational.
“Lily is with child,” she deflected Pen’s hopes, “and James is very protective. I don’t think he will let her set foot outside Somergate anytime in the next two months.”
The things left unsaid in their letters gave her the impression Lily’s pregnancy was not progressing as smoothly as it ought. She felt guilty for being relieved that it kept James at his wife’s side. But truly, he needed to be with Lily, and it was better for everyone if Caroline kept out of his way.
“We can visit them after the child comes,” she said. “And we’ll be busy ourselves—the days will pass in no time.”
Despite her words, she feared the days would not pass quickly at all. But at least she was back in grey England, where she could not watch the sun scraping imperceptibly across the sky. Two months until she saw James, maybe more. Long enough for the memory of Crete to become just another place she had visited. And Alex? She closed her eyes.
“Yes, we have so much to do.” Pen’s voice was bright. “I want to learn everything I can and be the best secretary you’ve ever had.”
Caroline opened her eyes again. “Then let me show you where I do my work. We can investigate the rumored mound of correspondence waiting. That is, if you are ready.”
“Of course.” Pen jumped up and brushed at her skirts, suddenly transforming into a more serious version of herself. “Are there invitations to balls?”
“Probably.” Caroline led the way down the hall to the room she had appropriated years ago as her study. “Balls, and meetings, and picnics, and—well, I’ve been expected back in London for weeks now. I daresay we’ll find all of that waiting. The Season has begun and there’s no telling what I’ve missed. Oh my.”
She halted at the door and stared at the papers covering her desk. It was a mystery how none of the stacks of correspondence had yet slid onto the floor, they were piled so high and precariously.
Pen burst out laughing. “Caro! It will take us months to get through all of this. My goodness.”
“Well.” She went to the bell-pull. “I’ll have them send up some tea. There must be some sort of organization to it.”
Indeed, she was correct. The piles at the close end of the desk were most recently received, according to the housekeeper, who accompanied the maid with the tea trolley.
“Thank you, Mrs. Beale. Then that is where we shall begin.”
Two hours later Caroline looked up from another invitation to a musicale since past, and stretched. “Put those down, Pen. I’m sure there’s nothing pressing in that last stack.”
“What about this?” The girl held out an envelope. “From the Ladies’ Auxiliary. Aren’t they the ones who fund the Twickenham School?”
Caroline opened it and scanned the contents, her stomach tightening as she read. “Pen, you found this one just in time. They are having a board meeting tomorrow to discuss the funding of their various projects, including the dispensary.” Or not, if the letter she had received on Crete had been any indication. She wished the hastily scribbled postscript from Mrs. Thorne had been less vague.
“Tomorrow! Goodness, Caro, you almost missed it—and Mrs. Farnsworth isn’t even in England to attend.”
She dearly wished Maggie were here. The older woman excelled at navigating the political waters and was a forceful advocate for the dispossessed. Well. She would simply have to rise to the occasion.
“It may be a difficult meeting.” Caroline bit her lip. “Do you recall the letter from the board I received on Crete? I’m not entirely certain the dispensary project has full approval.” How would she be able to explain to Maggie if it failed?
“Will I be attending, too?” Pen looked a bit pale at the thought.
“Of course. I need my secretary with me.” And the support of knowing at least one other person in the room was fully in agreement with her.
The girl’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh goodness. What shall I wear?”
“Your blue wool gown will do perfectly for the meeting. And the charity luncheon afterward.”
Pen shook her head. “What a ninny I am. I’d forgotten about that already, and here I thought I was keeping track of engagements for you.”
“It was one of the first letters you opened, and that was ages ago. But it’s vital we attend Lady Wembley’s charity luncheon. Everyone in society who even pretends to a cause will be there, as well as those who actually do champion various projects.” She set the rest of the letters aside. “Let’s leave these until tomorrow. Or the next day—as tomorrow is proving to be rather full of engagements.”
~*~
Caroline glanced about the meeting room, hoping to catch sight of her friend Mrs. Thorne. She was more unsettled than she would have liked to admit but kept a confident smile on her face, for Pen’s sake. Still, she would very much like to know the circumstances that had caused the matron to advise Caroline’s immediate return to London—a return that had been impossible at the time.
“Oh my,” Pen said in a low voice. “Look at that hat. I’ve never seen anything remotely like it.”
Caroline followed the girl’s gaze to where a particularly high contraption featuring artificial grapes and crimson plumes graced a lady’s head. “Countess Dunleigh is known for her fashionable flair. If you look closely you’ll probably find a stuffed bird in there somewhere as well.”
Pen’s eyes widened as she continued to gaze at the admittedly eye-catching headwear, but Caroline’s attention shifted as she spotted Mrs. Thorne approaching.
“Miss Huntington,” the older woman said, her pale blue eyes alight with pleasure, “how very good to see you have returned from your travels. Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you. But you must tell me—what is happening with the funding of the Twickenham School’s dispensary?”
“I would be happy to acquaint Mrs. Farnsworth and yourself with the details, but we must be quick about it. The meeting is about to commence.” She blinked. “Where is Mrs. Farnsworth?”
“On Malta, establishing an orphanage there.”
“How unfortunate.” Mrs. Thorne shook her head. “The dispensary project has been pushed aside by Lady Hurston, who is instead advocating we build a fountain in St. Giles. I’m afraid her idea has met with a great deal of approval—and with each success, the plans grow more elaborate. And expensive.”
Caroline clenched her fingers together. “I know Lady Hurston has been exceedingly generous to the Auxiliary, but to throw over something so important—”
“Ladies! Attention please—this meeting is now called to order,” the secretary raised her voice.
The room flurried into motion as the attendees found seats in the rows of chairs facing the long table. Caroline, flanked by Pen and Mrs. Thorne, found a place near the front. The chairs were as uncomfortable as ever, and she had to school herself to keep from leaning restlessly forward.
The iron-haired chairwoman nodded as the room quieted, then gestured for the secretary to proceed. A brief summary of their agenda followed, and it was with a mixture of relief and dread that Caroline heard project funding would be addressed first.
“We are pleased,” the chairwoman said, “to announce that the Ladies’ Auxiliary will be a major supporter of the grand memorial fountain proposed by Lady Hurston. At this time she will unveil the architectural plans.”
Amid scattered applause the lady rose and unrolled a drawing. “The fountain will show Neptune astride four spouting porpoises. Water will jet from his eyes and ears, falling from the upper basin here”—she pointed—“down to the second tier, where mermaids frolic. They, in turn, will pour water from decorated urns into the bottom tier, where it will cascade munificently over the carved fishes.”
Murmurs of “truly inspiring” and “hear, hear” rose from the crowd as Lady Hurston rerolled the plans and took her seat, looking more than a little smug. A pity her violet gown made her complexion so sallow.
“Very good,” the chairwoman said. “Are there any questions at this time?”
“Yes.” Caroline stood, frustration vibrating through her. “At the meeting in February there was unanimous approval for a dispensary project at the Twickenham School. Will we be able to go forward with that commitment and finance this ambitious fountain project as well?”
“Miss Huntington.” The chairwoman’s voice was dry. “With Mrs. Farnsworth and yourself on an extended absence from the country, the board felt it advisable to pursue projects whose advocates were more consistently present at our meetings.” She peered down her thin nose at Caroline, then shot a look at the preening Lady Hurston.
Calm. Caroline drew in a breath. She must remain collected and rational. Surely she could make the board see sense. “So you are diverting funds from ill children to build this…fountain? Please explain to me what benefit, what service, such a thing could possibly—”
“Morale, my dear girl,” Lady Hurston said, her voice as cloying as overripe plums. “And beautification. I’m sure a lady of your breeding understands the importance of the arts, even for the downtrodden.” Her tone made the insult all too clear.
Caroline set her teeth. “Lady Hurston. Members of the board. I agree the less fortunate classes deserve art and beauty—of course they do. But even more they deserve food and shelter. And adequate medical care. It is difficult to appreciate the finer points of a fountain when one is too exhausted, or hungry, or coughing so violently—”
“We take your point,” the chairwoman said. “However, the decision has been made. We’ve had ample time to consider during your absence, and the membership supports this course. The notoriety this project will bring us will benefit our organization for years to come. There will even be a plaque listing the names of all our members in good standing.”
“But…” Good heavens, this was dreadful. Caroline swallowed, trying to think of something, anything, she could say to convince them. She sent a quick glance at Mrs. Thorne, whose eyes were full of rueful sympathy.
“No doubt you will be able to secure other sources of funding.” The chairwoman gave her a smile that was likely meant to be benevolent, but held little warmth. “And we are not withdrawing all our support of your laudable school. Now that you have concluded your travels, we have no doubt a young woman of your resources will be able to find additional funding.”
The implication she ought to marry and use her husband’s money was not lost on Caroline. Just like the simpering Lady Hurston, whose husband’s very generous allowance seemed to have given her a free hand over which projects the board would approve—and which it would not.
She straightened her back. “Thank you for your consideration, and your ongoing support of the Twickenham School.” She nodded stiffly at the chairwoman and let her gaze skim right over Lady Hurston. A lady of her breeding, indeed.
“Do let us know how the project proceeds for you,” the chairwoman said, already turning her attention to the papers in front of her. “The next meeting on our agenda concerns the efforts of Miss Wimpsey….”
Caroline sat, swathed in heaviness. The rest of the meeting hardly penetrated her awareness as thoughts churned and tumbled in her mind. She had to find a solution—some other source of funding. Maggie would be so disappointed.
Finally the meeting ended, and she was more than glad to leave the stuffy rooms and insincere condolences behind. The rain outside mirrored her mood perfectly. She put up her umbrella and stared into the street, barely registering Pen at her elbow. If only she had not insisted they go to Crete. If only she had returned earlier.
The dispensary project had lost its place to a ridiculous fountain. Neptune with water spouting out his ears—of all the idiotic, goose-headed ideas.
“I can see why, though,” Pen said, and Caroline realized she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
“Why?”
“A fountain is much easier, Caro. They don’t have to face the fact that people are suffering and they ought to do something about it. Instead they can argue over angels versus cupids, marble or granite. It’s much more comfortable.”
Caroline paused and looked at her young friend. “That’s very perceptive of you. I daresay none of those women have ever lacked for comfort.” She squeezed her fingers tightly around the umbrella handle. “If only they could see the need, realize how much it is in their power to help. And their advice to me…”
“What did that mean? About you being a woman of resources?”
“Oh, Pen.” A painful laugh edged her throat. “They were telling me to find a husband.”
The girl was silent a moment, clearly turning the notion over in her mind. “Well, don’t worry. Something will work out. Things usually do. Although”—she glanced up at the low clouds sending their insistent drizzle over the city—“I do wish it would stop raining.”
“It will, on and off. It’s spring, after all. Haven’t you noticed the blossoms on the cherry trees outside Twickenham House?”
“Yes—and I’m glad you have, too. Here’s the carriage to take us to the luncheon. Are you sure you want to attend, Caro? After that dreadful meeting?”
“I do—I have to. Who knows, maybe we will find some kind benefactor there who cares more for children than fountains.” She stepped into the carriage and settled herself on the chilly seat.
It was possible. Lady Wembley’s luncheon featured the most active charitable members of Society. Alliances were made and broken, new ideas were speculated about, and a general sense of self-congratulation infused the annual event. Of course there would be serious benefactors there, the kind who enjoyed the recognition and attention their philanthropy bought them. She should see this as an opportunity not to be so beholden to the Ladies’ Auxiliary and its capricious patronage.
Caroline, with Pen at her heels, entered the ballroom-turned-tearoom at Lady Wembley’s town house and glanced at the gathering. Most of the people she had expected to see—but there, seated at one of the center tables, was a new addition, surrounded by eager supplicants. He was unfamiliar, although there was something arresting about that wealth of blond hair, the elegant features….
He lifted his head as if sensing her regard, amusement in his striking green eyes as he nodded to her, ever so briefly, before returning his attention to the elderly woman seated on his right.
“Do you know him?” Pen asked, clearly having noted the gesture as well. “He is exceptionally handsome.”
“I don’t, but I have a feeling we’ll make his acquaintance soon enough.” She nodded as their hostess bustled up. “Lady Wembley looks eager to tell us more.”
Indeed, the first words out of the matron’s mouth confirmed it. “Hello, Miss Huntington, I am so pleased you could come. And look who is here! Viscount Keefe. What a coup—he is one of the most sought-after bachelors of the Season. And he chose to come to my charity luncheon. Can you imagine?”
“I can, since he is sitting right there. But has he any interest in charitable work?”
Caroline supposed he must—a gentleman would not willingly attend this luncheon otherwise. Though there were many ladies present, there was a noticeable lack of young, unmarried ones of the type she supposed a bachelor viscount would prefer. And the food was always wretched.
“You may ask him yourself,” said Lady Wembley, towing her forward. “It’s high time old Mrs. Sparrowford gave up her spot. She’s been monopolizing the poor boy for the last quarter hour or more. Here we are.” She halted beside the elderly woman’s chair and cleared her throat loudly. “Look who’s here—it’s Miss Huntington, returned from her travels. May I introduce you? Viscount Keefe, Miss Caroline Huntington.”
The gentleman rose immediately and bowed over her gloved hand. “A pleasure.” He smiled directly at her, his look warm and engaging.
If she still had a heart, Caroline’s would have fluttered, but as it was, she simply smiled in return. Anyone who could endure Mrs. Sparrowford for that long surely had something to recommend him.
“May I offer you my chair?” he asked. “I’d be happy to fetch you a glass of lemonade. And your charming companion as well.” He turned and favored Pen with a smile. “If you would care for some refreshment, I stand at the ready.”
Likely he was only trying to escape Mrs. Sparrowford, but the thought of some tart-sweet lemonade was appealing. And the eye rolling and head nodding Lady Wembley was performing behind his back surely signified she approved as well.
“Thank you,” Caroline said. “That would be lovely.”
“Your servant.” He inclined his head and headed for the refreshment table.
“Such a charming young man,” Mrs. Sparrowford said in her reedy voice. “So kind and agreeable. Why I—”
“Oh, look,” Lady Wembley said, taking the elderly woman’s arm. “Isn’t that your cousin Violet? Come, we must say hello.” She hoisted Mrs. Sparrowford from her chair and steered the old woman away. As the two departed, Lady Wembley gave Caroline a significant nod, then shot a glance to where Viscount Keefe was returning with the lemonades.
Pen stifled a giggle. “She’s not terribly subtle, is she?”
“A confirmed busybody.” Caroline turned as the viscount arrived. “Ah, thank you, my lord. May I offer your chair back? I would offer you a dance as well, were this the right venue for it.”
“You think I’m showing my ballroom manners too much?” He smiled at her. “Perhaps not the right thing for a luncheon, but when faced with a pair of lovely ladies, I’m afraid reflex kicks in. My apologies. And no, you may not offer my chair back. Please sit, both of you.” He waved to the two empty chairs beside them.
Pen lifted her glass, then let out a little cry of dismay. “Oh dear, how clumsy of me! I’ve spilled lemonade on my dress. Do excuse me while I go freshen up.” She turned a too-innocent expression on Caroline and made a half curtsey to the viscount. “Begging your pardon.”
Oh, the schemer. Caroline watched her go, torn between irritation and amusement. It seemed her friend was in the same camp as Lady Wembley, determined to thrust her and Viscount Keefe together, though Pen’s motives were probably far more mercenary. Surely the viscount was here to look into becoming a patron of some cause—if he was not one already.
She took the chair he indicated and set her lemonade on the table. “I admit, I don’t think I’ve seen you moving in charitable circles before, Viscount Keefe.”
He took the other chair. “I’ve only recently begun doing so. There’s a significant inheritance coming to me, and it seems a shame to just fritter it away on idle amusements when something more meaningful could be accomplished. This has been a most”—he glanced about the room, crowded with knots of well-dressed women—“edifying experience. I’ve found out a great deal about many different charitable efforts.”
The poor man. “I hope you don’t feel too much the fox, with hounds baying at your heels. Sometimes those of us who feel passionately about our causes become rather…tedious in our conversation.”
“I doubt I could ever find you tedious, Miss Huntington, particularly if you were speaking with passion.”
Heavens. She had grown unaccustomed to the flirtations of the ton during her travels. And now that she had the knowledge to interpret such innuendos, it was difficult to feign unawareness. She took a sip of lemonade.
“You might change your mind, my lord, if I began speaking passionately about the Twickenham Boarding School—how the young women who have graduated from there have gone on to become outstanding citizens who benefit their community in ways too innumerable to list.”
She watched to see if his attention would waver, but he returned her gaze, listening with a calmness and an apparent sincerity that surprised her. His fingers traced idle circles on the tabletop as he nodded to her. “Do go on.”
“Viscount Keefe, if you could only walk the halls of the school and see what a beneficial place it is. The pupils—orderly, clean, and well nourished. The teachers and headmistress—firm but compassionate. I only wish there were room for more children. When I see the ones on the street, begging, hungry, ill…It breaks my heart that we cannot help every one. I’ve often thought if we could provide day classes, and competent medical care for them, a dispensary…” She glanced down at her hands, then back up to his green eyes. “But you see, I have grown enormously tedious.”
He leaned forward. “On the contrary. I see you are a soul who feels deeply for others and has the courage and intelligence to do good in this world.”
Heat flared against her cheeks at his praise—far more effective than the idle flattery he had practiced earlier. She indicated the gathering about them. “Miss Burdett-Coutts has any number of estimable projects in hand, and there are others here working on behalf of those less fortunate.”
He glanced about the room, then settled his gaze on her again. “Yes, but are their causes any more deserving than yours?”
“No.” She straightened. “The Twickenham School, a dispensary—they are every bit as deserving.”
“Miss Huntington.” He had a very charming smile. “Would it be too forward of me to ask if I could see this school of yours? I would like to hear more of your plans and see for myself what you have accomplished—and perhaps speak further of your dispensary project.”
Gladness kindled inside her, the first spark she had felt for what seemed a grey eternity. “You would?” She tried not to let her voice sound too eager. “I would be pleased to arrange a tour.”
“Where might I find your direction?”
“Twickenham House, in Mayfair.”
He nodded. “I should have guessed as much. You are kin to the Earl of Twickenham?”
“He is my uncle. But, my lord, I’m so pleased you are interested in my work.”
“I am indubitably interested.” His smile thawed her a fraction more. “May I call upon you Wednesday?”
“I…yes. That would be most agreeable.”
“Then I look forward to continuing our conversation, Miss Huntington.” He stood. “And now, if you will excuse me, I will bid farewell to our esteemed hostess.” He made her a bow, clear green eyes never leaving her face. “Thank you for being such a bright spot in my afternoon.”
Caroline watched as he made his farewells to Lady Wembley and moved with surprising nimbleness through the knots of ladies until he gained the doorway. He looked back, held up a hand in parting, as though he had known she would be watching, and slipped away.