Page 88 of Miss Devoted
Michael’s first impression of Shreve was of a gloriously warm, rosy scent. The fragrance did not overpower, but rather, sent a light, luscious aroma wafting to every corner of the little parlor. The man himself stood with one of Bea’s storybooks in his hand, apparently reading by the window light.
“I am no great admirer of the social Season,” he said, closing the book and setting it on the sideboard, “but I adore the return of the light in spring. Like emerging from hibernation, though my hunger is for light, warmth, and fresh air rather than a good meal. Shreve, at your service.”
He bowed punctiliously, which a man of his rank need not have done.
“My lord.” Michael returned the courtesy, wondering if Shreve was part artist, because he was so attuned to light. “Delancey. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“No,” Shreve said, grinning like an unrepentant schoolboy, “you are not. Nobody needs a rubbishing lordling underfoot when there’s work to be done. Your cook is cursing my consequence as we speak, and you are wishing I’d find somewhere else to call.”
His lordship was blond and lanky, with the piercing blue eyes of the Saxon, and a nose that would have done a Roman emperor proud. Not a handsome man, but striking, and imbued with a restless energy even when merely perusing a storybook.
Psyche would delight to paint his portrait.
“I am curious as to what brought you to my doorstep.” Michael gestured to the two best chairs in the house. “Shall we sit?”
Shreve settled in, and something about his air turned a mere reading chair into a regal perch. “I am here to thank you,” he said, “for your bold and selfless efforts with the abandoned babies. Mrs. Buckthorn has recounted your situation to me in some detail.”
“Hazel Buckthorn?”
“She is a particular friend of mine, though you need not worry that she gossips. Neither do I, if that matters.”
Shreve was alluding to Michael’s interludes with Psyche, perhaps, of which Mrs. Buckthorn had doubtless taken notice.
“I am no longer associated with Lambeth Palace, my lord. I hope that deflates the pleasure of gossiping about me.”
Shreve shot immaculate cuffs. “Hazel warned me that you don’t put on airs, but it’s rather too late for excessive modesty, Delancey. You saved the lives of innocents, and all of London will soon be abuzz with your accomplishments.”
What did this elegant, outspoken man want? Michael cared less the longer his guest nattered on. The day was turning mild, and the park called to him.
“While I thank you for those kind words, my lord, I have no wish to be infamous.”
Shreve rose in one graceful movement. “Not infamous, Delancey.Renowned. Respected. Give it a week, and the tavern troubadours will come up with some ditty to immortalize your good deeds. London needs that. I need that.”
Michael rose as well, not only out of manners, but also because Shreve required close supervision. “You are not a foundling, my lord.”
“If I have my way,there will be no foundlings, Delancey. Why is it that our laws allow a woman—an adult in possession of her faculties—to become legally subsumed into the person of a husband, though that fellow might be an indolent, philandering dolt? She says a few words in a church, and—voilà!—she is legally reduced to the status of livestock—his livestock.”
Shreve began pacing before the hearth as if arguing before the Lord Justices sittingen banc.
“That same law,” he went on, “has no such magic when it comes to the chattel we refer to as our children. They may belong to only the family they were born into. How curious! Why not absolve orphans of their legal isolation and allow the bonds of love to rise to the stature of a legal reality? Why force those children into institutions and indentured servitude when coerced labor can never replace the comfort and joy of a loving family? The ancient Romans practiced adoption, and we certainly regard them as a society worth emulating in many other particulars.”
And worth condemning in many others. Before Shreve could take off on his next flight, Finny arrived with the tea tray, though Michael doubted the wisdom of adding any sustenance to his guest’s already prodigious energies. He nonetheless poured out, which at least motivated Shreve to return to his seat.
“I’m ranting,” his lordship said. “Hazel despairs of me.”
Michael offered the plate of shortbread. “Why rant here? I am honestly not that concerned about the legal niceties befalling abandoned children. If a family has no property, then who can inherit and under what circumstances are of no moment.”
“Pragmatic,” Shreve said around a mouthful of shortbread. “I like that. I adore it, in fact, which is why you must come to work for me.”
The shortbread was blessedly fresh. “Must I?”
“Indeed, Mr. Delancey. Lambeth let you slip through their fingers—such a pity, for them—but Hazel tells me you have yet to take another post. Work for me, Mr. Delancey, and we’ll build on the bold start you’ve made.”
Michael took a sip of tea, mostly to buy time to organize his thoughts. “Zealots worry me, my lord. My interest has been in giving unlucky infants a chance at a decent life. I am not out to save London.”
Shreve gestured with his sweet. “Save enough infants, sir, and you will have saved London. Put more children on the path to a good life, and we’ll have fewer pickpockets and sneak thieves, fewer game girls and beggars. Mind you, if a woman wants to go on the stroll, that is her business, but she should not have to choose between prostitution and starvation.”
Shreve prosed on—heexcelledat prosing on—about institutions more humane than the Magdalen houses and more forward-thinking than the foundling homes. He wanted to start with one charitable foundation, to tinker and refine until the model was getting good results, then expand. The plan would take years and involve setbacks and failures—“probably even a scandal or two to liven matters up”—but for him to do nothing about a city rife with crime and misery side by side with fabulous wealth was untenable.
