Page 7 of A Gentleman's Reckoning
“Few do,” Sacks replied, with what seemed almost a cheerful air. “He is a viscount. Has an estate in Norwich, but he was blackballed from three clubs years ago. A bit eccentric, he is—itdid not worry him a bit, and my lord befriends those who had been blackballed or barred from entering other clubs.” He paused before adding, “Provided the reason was not too shocking, mind you.”
“And he deems my reason for being blackballed not too shocking?” John asked, in spite of himself. He had a strange urge to laugh.
“I assume so. He generally has a keen eye for those he chooses to reach out to, but you’ll have to ask him that for yourself. His lordship does not confide in me.”
John felt a rush of some emotion that was too complex to identify, but it seemed to spell out hope that he might have a friend in this world. He would still need to be cautious, for he did not know who Lord Blackstone was. But it had been months since anyone had treated him with a degree of openness and decency.
“You may tell Lord Blackstone that I would be glad to meet him.”
Sacks pulled out a card from the pocket of his simple brown waistcoat. “I left my card with your servant, but I was instructed to give you Lord Blackstone’s if you agreed to it. Here is the direction to where he stays. Just hand the footman there your card and you will be admitted. Say—any afternoon next week?”
John stood. “I have started a new project but I believe I can come on Friday afternoon, once I’ve had some time to grow comfortable in my work.”
Sacks stood as well and put his hat on his head. “Then I will tell his lordship to expect you on Friday.”
Chapter Three
The idea to use some donated cloth to create curtains for the orphanage classrooms had seized Geny the night before as she was falling asleep. It would keep out the drafts while giving the drab rooms a more cheerful aspect. She was plying her needle to this end the next morning when her father entered the drawing room.
“Good morning, Eugenia.” He scarcely gave her time to respond before he said, “I came to inform you that I will be leaving for Windsor today. I will be gone for two weeks.”
“Will you?” Her disappointment at having to bear an empty house again was tempered by the knowledge that his estate was not far from Eton. Perhaps she might go with him. “Do you plan to visit Matthew then? May I accompany you? I won’t be a bother.” She hated how desperate she sounded, but the idea of being able to see Matthew was too tempting not to make the push.
“No, it is impossible. We must not allow your brother to interrupt his studies, and he will not thank you for coddling him in front of his classmates.”
“No, of course not,” she replied, cast down by the immediaterejection. Her father was likely right, even though Matthew had not managed to convince her that he was happy at school the last time he came home for break. And, she supposed, it would be best if she did not interrupt her lessons at the orphanage.
“Besides,” her father added, “I have much business to attend to. It will inconvenience me to have you at the estate.”
Geny flushed. “I see.” She should have been used to his careless barbs by now, but somehow they still stung.
Her father recommended she visit the Elgin Marbles, newly showing at the British Museum, so she could follow the latest topic of conversation in society. He then informed her that the Duke of Rigsby’s son would be coming to London, and that he expected them to meet. She must not delay in settling down before she got too old to be desirable, and the marquess was a worthy prospect. With these injunctions, he took leave of her.
She sat lost in thought, the blue hessian curtains on her lap and her industrious spirit temporarily spent. His recommendation to visit the Elgin Marbles had been benign; she never worried beforehand about what she would speak about in society. It was the knowledge that she would eventually have to endure a meeting with His Grace’s son.Lord Amherst, I think it is. All she remembered about him was that he had small eyes and fleshy jowls, and that his conversation revolved around hunting and eating. She picked up her needle again and tried to put aside the mood of despondency that had come over her.
Later that afternoon, Geny was at home and in sore need of divertissement when Margery Buxton came to visit. Margery often came on Tuesday afternoons, as her socially active mother considered the weekends to start on Wednesday evenings, and Margery required Mondays to recover from them. She wasn’t in the least bit feeble but cheerfully labeled herself a most indolent creature. Despite her declaration, Geny could rely upon Margery’s help in whatever sewing or knitting project she had decided upon for the orphans.
“I have had tea prepared,” Geny said, looking up at her friend with a smile. “And you are perfectly on time, for it is hot and brewed and ready to be poured.”
“I have exceptional timing when it comes to tea.” Margery removed her cloak and handed that to the servant, then sat on the sofa across from Geny as she removed her bonnet. The tip of her nose was still red from the cold, and her cheeks bloomed with health. Although Margery lived on the fringe of society—brought only into that august sphere by her wealth—she was universally declared a beauty, with hair so blonde it was almost white and a curvaceous figure more suited to the fashions of the last century than the clinging Grecian gowns society women wore now. Even her brown eyes were called luminous and said to be an advantage.
Geny set her sewing on her lap and reached for the teapot. Placing her fingers on the lid, she poured hot tea into a cup for Margery and one for herself. As Margery spooned two generous helpings of sugar into her tea, Geny observed her friend, a smile playing on her mouth. She had just remembered their last conversation.
“What is it?” Margery demanded once she was aware of being observed. Her voice trembled with laughter, as though she already knew what Geny was thinking.
Geny shook her head, still smiling. “I am thinking of poor Mr. Bunting, who must be nursing his broken heart.” At Margery’s indignant look, she rushed on. “I know, I know. He was not the husband for you, so I do not tease. But I have been wondering how long you will keep at arm’s length those who are smitten by you before one of them pushes through your defenses.”
“There is truly not a one who interests me,” Margery declared, stirring her tea and setting down her spoon with a flourish. “I do not wish to lose my independence. Nor do I want to marry a man who is in pursuit of another possession.”
Geny’s smile faded as quickly as it had come. In many ways, she agreed. They hadn’t spoken about marriage since the season began—only about undesirable suitors. Though she harbored similar fears to Margery, she had the desire to find a worthy husband with whom she would be comfortable and perhaps even find love. Anything must be better than the unbearable loneliness of life in her father’s house.
“You are just as aware of the risks of a poor match as I am,” Margery said, reading her mind. She reached out for her tea and this time took a sip. “I wish the world was at our feet.”
“Isn’t it?” Geny asked, thinking of the orphans who would likely prefer a life of drinking tea and doing needlework than worrying about what situation they would gain and how they would be treated there.
Margery shook her head decisively. “It is not. We are pretty birds held captive, and the dealer haggles our price. We will be sold to the highest bidder.”
“You are a poet,” Geny said. “Why accept the invitations if you feel that way?”
