Page 3 of A Gentleman's Reckoning
Geny took another sip of the sweet chocolate and wished it were tea. Charity separated the strands of her hair and pinned them in the modest, plain style Geny favored.
“Miss Buxton’s maid has gone sweet on Jimmy what works in the Buxton stable.”
“Is that so?” Geny was not particularly interested in gossip, but her maid’s was never unkind, and it soothed her to listen to someone prattle. Goodness knew the house was quiet enough in the years since her mother had died.
“’Tis. He wants to offer for her, she says, but Mr. Buxton doesn’t take kindly to his maids finding husbands.”
“Not many employers are in favor of their servants marrying.” She glanced up at Charity in the mirror, a smile hovering on her lips. “And you? Have you found a sweetheart?”
The maid returned an inelegant snort. “My lady knows I’m not likely to attract a husband.”
It was true that with her bulbous nose and thick features, Charity would easily be overlooked as a candidate for marriage,even though her spirit was beautiful. Fortunately, her maid had told her she was perfectly happy remaining single. And Geny had no desire to lose her.
Charity made quick work of her hair and helped Geny into her stays and gown. It was early enough in the spring that she put on her velvet-lined bonnet and warmer pelisse. The ride to Bloomsbury was sometimes as long as an hour when the roads were congested, and as they went, the chilly air tended to seep into the carriage. Once they were on their way, her maid fell silent, allowing Geny to entertain her own thoughts. She needed this time of solitude, for once she arrived at the foundling asylum, there would be little rest. Each week, she taught her own class and on other days assisted in others; she gently admonished younger orphans who disobeyed the rules and welcomed visitors interested in seeing how the asylum worked—or those desiring to see how their donations had been put to use.
Geny wished her father had continued his interest in the asylum, for that might have brought them closer. She believed the earl had begun it with a good heart. He staffed his house with those who had been trained in the asylum, Charity being a perfect example of this. But even before Geny’s mother died five years ago, the earl had already begun to show less interest in the orphans. After her mother was gone, he showed none whatsoever. Not only did he never step foot in it, he gave full control to his agent, Mr. Peyton, to oversee its running. Until last week, Jacob Biggs had served as steward, and when the orphanage had grown large enough, Mr. Dowling was retained as headmaster. It was he who placed the orphans who had completed their training, hiring them out to various London establishments. Everything had run smoothly until Mr. Biggs announced it was time he retired from his position as steward. Now, change was inevitable.
The carriage pulled into the covered opening of thefoundling asylum—a large, brick building with windows in every room. The structure formed a square with a courtyard in the middle, spacious enough for a stable and small garden for those being trained in the outdoor professions. Behind them, the iron gates clanged shut, and when the carriage came to a halt, Geny opened the door rather than waiting to be assisted.
The cold air assaulted her cheeks and brought with it a barely discernible smell of earth and spring. At the moment, only two boys were visible in the plot of land, crouched down in the thawing mud to weed around the shoots. Other boys were training as stable hands or as caretaker of the asylum’s small number of livestock. Charity crossed the courtyard to go to the kitchen where she would visit with old friends and assist where she could.
From inside the asylum came sounds of life as children of different ages carried on the responsibilities they were being trained for. Older girls watched over the small children and babies, learning to care for them and feed them. Others were engaged in spinning wool or needlework. Children of both sexes were employed in the kitchens and would rise to positions according to their ability. Geny’s friend Margery Buxton had told her it was all quite progressive, and she had to agree.
Simply walking through the asylum’s orderly rooms brought her satisfaction. It also consoled her, both in her ongoing grief at having lost her mother and her sorrow at bidding farewell to her ten-year-old brother, Matthew, who had returned to Eton. Or—if she were being precise—Lord Caldwell, Viscount Fernsby and heir to the Earl of Goodwin. The father Geny rarely saw these days.
She stepped into the entrance and strode toward the corridor where a group of girls in pinafores hurried forward, stifling their laughter. They nearly ran into her and stopped short, throwing their hands over their mouths to cover their exuberance.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” the girls murmured, dipping into curtsies.
“Have a care, girls,” Geny said, hiding her own amusement with a stern expression. They saw right through it, however, and she heard the escape of hushed giggles as they continued past her.
She delighted in their youthful spirit and joy, knowing they were well looked after in the asylum. They would have found little to laugh over had they been left on the streets. However, it was important to train them to be discreet if they were to be employable. The asylum must be known for the quality of its trained help so it might continue to attract donors.
Geny went into the office she shared with the head matron and set down the wicker basket she had brought with her. The head matron came from an adjoining room and dipped into a curtsy.
“Good day, my lady.” Mrs. Hastings dressed soberly, with no frills or color. Geny suspected she would have done so no matter what her station was in life, for she did not possess a ready sense of humor. The earl had approved her position, and there was no need to change it, of course. But Geny would have preferred for the children to receive more warmth from a head matron.
“Good day, Mrs. Hastings. I have brought the new stockings for the children that Miss Buxton and I made.”
“They are fortunate to have you dote on them, my lady.” She arranged the books on her desk in a neat stack. “Mr. Rowles, who has come to take over the steward’s role, is waiting to speak with Mr. Dowling.” Mrs. Hastings indicated the meeting room with a dip of her chin. “I told him he was early, and that Mr. Dowling wasn’t expected for another hour.”
Geny’s first thought was that she would regret Mr. Biggs’s departure. At the very beginning, there had been a nasty rumor spread about that the investments her father had solicited fromhis peers had not been wisely put to use. After the initial pledges, the donations had trickled down to nothing. If it had not been for Mr. Biggs’s work to disprove the rumor—and a large donation from Mrs. Buxton, the wealthy wife of a ceramics merchant—the asylum might not still be functioning. Geny had trusted Mr. Biggs with the smooth running of the asylum, and it was important to find someone equally as trustworthy.
She also wondered why Mr. Dowling was late. It had happened more than once, and she was beginning to think she should speak to him about it. Although she was a woman, and therefore stripped of the power to make decisions, shewasthe daughter of an earl. Not only that—it was her father’s asylum. That meant she could meet this Mr. Rowles and assess his qualifications for herself before Mr. Dowling made his own determination.
“I will meet Mr. Rowles.” Geny had not yet removed her bonnet or pelisse and did so now before retrieving her basket.
“You, my lady?” Mrs. Hastings sounded disapproving. “If you wish, I can accompany you.”
“Nonsense,” Geny said cheerfully. “I am not fresh out of the schoolroom. I have been accustomed to volunteering in all aspects of the asylum for the past three years, and in a limited capacity for the three years before that. Who better to meet this new hire than I, if Mr. Dowling is not here to do it?”
She walked into the next room, which was used as an informal parlor, then continued on to the larger room nestled at the end of the offices. This served as a board room or meeting place for anyone visiting on official business. Her breath had quickened from the pace she’d set, but she was also aware that the change in personnel was making her nervous. The asylum was the one place she found peace and order—where she had a part in bringing goodness and light into a shadowed, tumultuous world. Her mother had made theorphanage the bright place it was, and it was all she had left of her mother.
Geny opened the door and turned to close it behind her, hearing the chair scrape as the visitor came to his feet. She turned back just as he stood upright, and her breath left her at once.
This…this specimen of masculine attractiveness standing before her was nothing less than a gentleman of theton. Surely he must be! There was nothing flashy about his appearance—on the contrary, it could only be described as understated. Yet, it was evident in his bearing, his attire, even the jaunty expression that lurked underneath his serious demeanor. If the close fit of his coat was any indication, he was a Corinthian to boot. Surely his life must consist of clubs and…well, whatever other less savory pastimes such gentlemen engaged in, not that she would know. Thank goodness her father was above such things. And yet, if he was a gentleman, why was hehere? He would have had a formal education, but no gentleman of birth would apply for a steward’s position in a foundling asylum.
Mr. Rowles bowed. “Good day, Miss…?”
