The earl entered the large drawing room on the first floor of his ward’s London house unchanged since Mrs Bettismore’s death.
Saunton sat, his taste offended by imitation crocodile feet supporting all the furniture. He also disliked the garish depictions of ancient Egyptian life hanging on the walls, and several large, gaudy busts of pharaohs. The décor indicated the late widow’s wealth, but despite the fashionable Egyptian influence, in this room its ostentation bordered on the vulgar.
No, why mince words? It is vulgar.
He turned his attention to the reason for his visit. After consultation with the other trustees, it had been agreed Miss Carstairs should decide if her cotton mill in Lancashire should be sold.
Two footmen opened the double doors. Miss Carstairs and Mr Leigh entered and walked towards him.
Saunton looked appreciatively at the orphan. No gentleman, whose mother and sisters studied the pages of La Belle Assemble and Ackermann’s Repository, and discussed the latest fashions at length, remained ignorant about the subject. He admired the superb cut of his ward’s exquisite black crape gown, with a broad hem and her long transparent veil, which did not cover her face. Her priceless black amber jewellery added glamour to her ensemble, which some envious persons might consider ill-suited to a lady in mourning.
Although he sent a footman an hour earlier to inform Miss Carstairs he would call on her at two o’clock, he supposed she had kept him waiting while she titivated.
He stood. “Good day, Miss Carstairs. I hope I find you well.”
“Yes, thank you, my lord.” She dipped into a graceful curtsey.
He inclined his head. “If my memory is not at fault, we agreed you should call me Saunton.” Her eyes widened. “No, don’t be nervous. I am not annoyed,” he added hastily.
Her fair hair arranged in a knot on the crown of her head, apart from adorable curls that framed her face, shimmered beneath the veil.
Saunton turned his attention to the secretary, dressed without ostentation in a sober grey coat with a black armband around the right sleeve, and slate coloured pantaloons. “Good day, Mister Leigh.”
The secretary bowed. “My lord.”
Amelia waved a languid hand at them. “Please be seated.”
Supervised by Yates, footmen served sherry, a selection of small cakes and caraway seed biscuits.
“Do you require anything else, Miss Carstairs?” Yates asked.
She shook her head. “You and the footmen may leave the room.”
Eyes downcast, his ward nibbled a cake decorated with pink sugar and a candied rose petal.
“Miss Carstairs-” Saunton began.
“Yes?” she asked in a subdued voice.
He sipped some of the excellent wine. Damnation. She still seemed frightened of him despite his previous reassurances?
“After consultation with your other trustees, I have come to discuss whether your cotton mill should be sold.”
Her beautiful blue eyes widened. “Why? For my sake, my grandmother decided she should no longer be in trade.”
He sighed. Even after her death Mrs Bettismore’s decisions, opinions and strictures continued to control her granddaughter. “You are not bound by her wishes so-”
“But I cannot disobey Grandmamma,” Miss Carstairs interrupted. “She always knows…knew what should be done.”
Saunton exchanged a glance with Leigh.
His face expressionless, the secretary nodded at him. An indication to change tack?
“Should you agree to improvements to the mill, if or when you sell it, you will receive a higher price,” Saunton suggested.
“Do I need to sell it to add to my inheritance?” To conceal a yawn, she covered her mouth with her hand.
Saunton’s impulse to hold his ward’s small hand burdened by a large gold ring set with black amber surprised him.
“Miss Carstairs,” Mr Leigh intervened. “I know you don’t need to sell the mill for a higher price, but your shrewd grandmother never turned down any opportunity to add to her fortune. I think you should permit his lordship to explain why he thinks you should not part with it.”
“Very well.” Miss Carstairs nibbled more cake and drank a little sherry.
“In my opinion, it is wrong to employ young children at your mill,” Saunton commenced.
“My lord! Grandmamma believed it is better for them to work than to either starve or freeze to death.”
“A popular view, which justifies evil that needs to be rooted out,” Saunton declared in a level tone.
Miss Carstairs finished her tiny cake. “Is it less evil for them to die for want of employment?” She put the empty plate on a table at the side of her chair.
He decided flattery would please his charge. “You are an orphan whom Mrs Bettismore, a Christian woman, loved and cherished. I hope she did not take four and five-year old paupers from workhouses to slave without pay in return for cheap food and clothes.”
“No, of course not, at least, if Grandmamma did I am sure she would have paid them.”
“Mr Leigh?” Saunton asked.
“My lord, I suspect Mrs Bettismore authorised the man in charge of the day to day management to buy them from charitable institutions and did not pay the children.”
Amelia gasped. “If Grandmamma allowed him to do so and did not remunerate them I think her reasons were good.”
“Is that so? Do you think it is good for children to labour from five in the morning until six in the evening tending spinning jennies among ceaseless noise and motion?”
“Small children?” Amelia asked,
“Some of them are very young.” Had his words touched her pleasure-loving heart? “Shakespeare wrote the eye is the window to the soul. We may only judge by what we see and be judged by others for our actions.” Saunton leant forward to peer deep into her eyes. He hoped to glimpse…what?
“I suggest you model your cotton mill on Robert Owen’s in New Lanark. He provides well-built houses for his workers and schools for their children. Mr Owen does not employ children younger than ten. He believes if he treats his employees well they will work harder.” To persuade her, he decided to appeal to her vanity. “If you emulate him, you will be greatly admired. At present your mill hands are worse off than slaves in the West Indies who are valuable property to be taken good care of. Tell me who sees to the welfare of those who toil in coal mines, factories and mills and can easily be replaced if they are ill or injured too badly to work?”
Miss Carstairs frowned. “I don’t know,” she replied slowly.
He looked from Mr Leigh to his ward, whose fingers picked at a loose thread on her veil.
“It is for you to decide, but I think your grandmother would approve of the earl’s suggestions,” Mr Leigh said. “His lordship explained Mrs Bettismore’s representatives dealt with many of her affairs. If such young children were employed, perhaps she did not know. In my opinion, your grandmother, a pious Christian lady, would have approved of Mr Owen’s reforms and have decided to adopt them.”
Saunton appreciated Mr Leigh’s tact. He probably knew every detail of his late employer’s business. Saunton doubted the old lady would have been persuaded to emulate Owen, unless an Act of Parliament were passed. Although any suggestion of reform would be met with strong opposition, his determination to speak in The House about injustices suffered by the workers increased.
His ward’s hands fluttered. “Very well, Mr Leigh, if you are sure Grandmamma would approve, I shall keep the mill and authorise change.”
Disappointed when his ward showed no real interest in the children’s welfare, Saunton breathed out slowly. Every other sentence Miss Carstairs spoke, convinced him she did not realise her need to be weaned from the dead woman’s influence.
* * *
A week later, the door closed behind visitors who had paid Amelia a morning call. Most members of the ton visited Bath, Brighton or other towns by the sea in the summer. In mid-August, they flocked to the country to shoot game birds and hunt foxes. During October, they returned to London for the opening of Parliament.
Already news of her inheritance spread via unknown sources. All but the highest sticklers, flocked to her drawing room, ostensibly to offer their condolences. In fact, they considered her a prospective bride for a member of their families. Perhaps younger sons in need of a rich wife. Or mothers who wanted to recuperate fortunes husbands lost at the gaming tables and hoped she would wed one of their sons.
They would be disappointed, for she would not marry into a family, who assumed their blue blood would be an adequate exchange for her inheritance. Amelia giggled. She considered young gentlemen in the throes of calf love, who professed admiration of her beauty and whispered declarations of love, ridiculous. Their foolishness equalled some very bad poetry one of them wrote comparing her eyes to ‘twin stars twinkling adorably’. Yet amongst the dross were a few amusing, handsome gentlemen.
Mrs Deane smiled at her. “My love, you must guard your reputation. It would be fatal to give the impression you are a flirt.”
Amelia’s mouth formed the shape of an O. Before she could protest, Mrs Deane spoke again. “After luncheon, will you take the air in the park?”
Instead of replying immediately, Amelia looked out of one of the tall windows, their heavy gold silk curtains, printed with hieroglyphics and palm trees tied back. “Will the sun never shine again?” she murmured.
Mrs Deane tutted. “In time it will, but you did not answer my question.”
“I am not sure whether I shall go out. Saunton will call on me after luncheon. I don’t know how long he will stay.” She peered out of the window again. “There are dark clouds. If it is rains I shall draw in my parlour where I will receive him.”
“If you wish,” her companion replied. “But you are somewhat pale, fresh air would bring colour to your cheeks.”
Amelia hurried to a mirror afraid of her acclaimed beauty fading.? Anxious, she studied her face and pinched her cheeks to bring colour into them. Perhaps she should apply a little rouge. Even if Blythe protested, she would send her to buy some.
“Luncheon is served, Miss Carstairs, Mrs Deane,” Yates announced.
Seated in a parlour instead of the dining room where they could not converse without shouting at each other down the length of the long table, Amelia decided her cheeks were too pale. She cut a piece of tender braised mutton flavoured with onions, salt and pepper and speared it with her fork. After luncheon, she would replace her jet jewellery with black pearls, and drape the ends of her shawl elegantly over the crook of each elbow; though she did not know why, she wanted to appear at advantage to Saunton.
* * *
“The Earl of Saunton,” Yates announced.
Saunton stepped into Miss Carstairs’ parlour. In response to the pale blue and white striped wallpaper, the forget-me-not blue curtains and white woodwork, a whistle almost escaped him. Instead of more evidence of Mrs Bettismore’s outrageous choice of décor the elegant room pleased him; so did the graceful figure seated behind a large desk, spread with papers.
“Miss Carstairs.”
She stood and curtsied. “Good day, my… Saunton.” She indicated a chair upholstered in light blue chintz printed with a variety of primrose-yellow and flowers in various shades of blue.
He sat down. “I admire your parlour.”
She sat down again. “Thank you. Grandmamma and I did not share the same taste in either architecture or décor.” She peeped up at him, long eyelashes fluttering. “Do you think it would be wrong of me to redecorate the drawing room?” Colour suffused her cheeks. “Crocodile legs and pharaohs are not to my taste.”
He wanted to smile with relief. For the first time, his ward voiced her own opinion to him. “No, I don’t think it is wrong.” He chuckled. “I admit I am not particularly fond of the Egyptian style.”
Miss Carstairs released a long drawn out breath. She indicated the papers. “If you share my taste, perhaps you would tell me what you think of my designs.”
“What are they?” To indulge her, Saunton stood and walked around the desk and looked down over her shoulder.
“Drawings of new houses for the workers at my mill.”
“Some have three bedrooms, one for the parents, one for their daughters and another for their sons,” she explained, somewhat breathlessly. All of them have three rooms downstairs. One to sit in, one to eat in and a kitchen.”
“They are excellent!” he exclaimed, surprised by her talent. “You are an artist.”
She shook her head. “No, I am not but I can draw plans.”
He admired her notes and the details, the exterior of the houses and the interiors drawn in clear lines.”
“They are excellent,” he repeated.
Her forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know what the measurements should be.”
“We shall engage an architect to draw up more precise plans. After we approve of them the work may begin.”
“Oh. Thank you, I feared you might consider my ideas ridiculous. Grandmamma always said my scribblings were useless.”
Curse hard-hearted Mrs Bettismore whom he believed devoted her life to the accumulation of wealth. He pressed his lips together. Yet his ward loved her. Fiercely protective of her granddaughter, the old woman must have possessed some good qualities.
Miss Carstairs leant forward across the desk. Their faces were within inches of each other. Colour flamed in her cheeks. Her pretty lips parted.
Desire he did not want to acknowledge seared Saunton. “You should design houses to be built in a square with a garden in the centre on the land you own south of Hyde Park. If you want to, name it Bettismore Square.”
His ward clapped her hands together like one of his sisters given an unexpected treat.
“I presume you like my suggestion,” he teased, amused by her reaction.
“Oh, yes, it will be a more fitting memorial to her than the one in church. Her name will be part of London.” Amelia pushed her sketches for her mill workers’ houses aside. She picked up a pencil and began to sketch the exteriors of a row of elegant town houses.
Fascinated by her skill, Saunton watched her design large houses on the north and south. Smaller ones on the east and west. In copperplate, she made detailed notes - black doors with brass fittings and black iron railings to separate the houses from each other and the street. After twenty minutes or more, she pushed the paper towards him. “Do you like these? Of course, they are only some impromptu sketches, so please don’t think badly of my ideas. Do you think Grandmamma would have liked them?”
Yet again, a mention of Mrs Bettismore. “They are superb. May I also take these to show to an architect.”
She nodded, rolled them up and tied them with a string. “Are you here to discuss my cotton mill or some other business?”
He returned to his seat. “No, I came to ask if you have fixed your interest on one of your suitors.”
Miss Carstairs laughed. “Do you mean the poet, Lord Amesbury, whose pockets are to let, or any one of the other wastrels in need of a rich wife? Or do you think I favour Mr Wharton, the impertinent vicar in Weymouth. He declared he wrestled with his conscience. Afterwards he concluded his duty demanded he marry me so that he could lead me into Godly ways.”
“What a slow top!” Saunton laughed. “Tell me if any persistent gentlemen’s attentions annoy you. I will put a stop to them. If you meet someone you wish to encourage, remember an honourable gentleman would not press his suit without my permission to court you.”
With an unfamiliar pang, he wondered why he could not imagine her in the role of a contented, married lady. Did he not want her to be someone else’s responsibility?
“I like Lewis and Lord Davenport. Both of them are kind, considerate and amusing,” she admitted. “But, sometimes, I think there will never be a gentleman I want to wed, no matter how much I would like to marry.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You should look for more than mere entertainment in a husband.” Surely Miss Carstairs had not fallen prey to bookish Lewis with whom he attended Eton, or to Davenport, a man much older than her. Unlike Amesbury they were too rich to be considered fortune hunters. If she chose to step into the parson’s trap with either of them, he hoped she would be happy.
Miss Carstairs looked down at her hands primly folded together on her lap. “As a green girl, I only met one gentleman, whom I hoped would be my husband, but we did not marry. Afterwards-.” She shrugged.
His ward referred to him although his name remained unspoken. He sought for words to put her at ease. “I hoped to marry a lady younger than you were when, in your own words, you were a green girl. When she chose to marry a Captain in my own regiment I believed I would never want to tie the knot with any other lady.”
“Both of us were unfortunate,” Miss Carstairs said softly and looked directly into his eyes. “But who knows what our future holds.”
Saunton caught his breath. What the devil did she mean by her intent gaze and remark? Did she hope he would ask her to marry him?