Page 5 of The Ladies Least Likely
“MostSaesonare.” Gwen reclaimed her seat. “Good thing your father, God save him, was Dutch, and the way he and your mother danced!” She winked at Cerys. “A scandal, I call it. Nothing but ankle, and your mother as light as a cloud when he twirled her.”
“Fffwt,” Dovey scoffed, for Gwen had never met Lieutenant Jan Van der Welle. But Dovey smiled at the memory of her husband, and Gwen counted it a triumph.
Cerys rested her chin on her hands. “In London there are streets with wholerowsof shops.”
“Perhaps your mother and I might take you to Bristol one day. Or Bath,” Gwen said.
“That’s asking for trouble, that is.” Dovey rose. “Come, Gwen, dearie.If Mr. Evans has done his job and borrowed a horse from the stables, I’ll help you hitch up the dog cart.”
“Mrs. Van der Welle will find that the horse is already hitched and waiting in the back court.” Evans settled himself at the smooth, scarred oaken table.
“Though he might have put it in the front drive and made it easier on a body.” As soon as they’d said their goodbyes and left the room, Dovey’s face fell into somber lines. “She’ll never see London. She’ll never be accepted among fine folk, Gwen. You mustn’t let her think she can.”
The borrowed gelding stood in harness, rolling the bit in his mouth. Gwen would take some of her home-brewed ale to the barkeep at the King’s Head in return for the use of his stables.They made most of their way on trade, and Gwen harped, her one skill, to earn coin for the things they couldn’t barter. But barter wouldn’t work with a viscount.
How much would it cost to buy their freedom? And how would she pay?
Dovey helped Gwen climb into the small cart, holding the creamy linen of her underskirt. Gwen took up the light riding whip.
“Every girl of eight should have her dreams, don’t you think? Perhaps she’ll grow up to a world where she might be exactly who she is, and loved for it,” Gwen said. Her stomach shifted, and she wished she’d eaten.
“Did you ever know such a world? Did I?” Dovey’s eyebrows lowered. “By St. David, does that man trust us to do nothing ourselves?”
“Have a care tonight, Miss Gwenllian.” Evans came forward and hung a carriage lamp on the hook beside Gwen’s seat. “You should have a moon, but you might ask them to send a boy to see you home.”
“She knows the way,” Dovey said, annoyed.
“There are greater evils than the workhouse.” Evans held the side of the cart and met Gwen’s gaze. “Don’t trade your soul on our account, Miss Gwenllian.”
Gwen read the weary resignation in his eyes. She’d never asked Evans about his history, where he maimed his leg, lost his arm. They didn’t probe one another’s private wounds. It was the one dignity they preserved in a communal space.
“You’d die in that place, and so would we all,” she said softly.
He shook his head and stepped back. “There’s worse.”
Gwen clucked the gelding into a walk, a cold claw of fear in her chest.
She would survive without a home; she had before. She and Dovey could find work. But who would hire Evans, or Tomos, orIfor? What would happen to Widow Jones and Mother Morris? Then there were the others who flowed in and out of St. Sefin’s, the broken and the hurt, the young mothers in need of shelter, patients they tended in their hospital wing, the travelers to Newport who found themselves lacking the coin or credentials to lodge in an inn but found a bed in the dormitory built for the lay sisters.
An arrogant young man had done this before, shredded Gwen’s hopes and the fanciful future she’d built. Now she had something solid, real, and warm beating hearts sheltered in it. She would not allow the Viscount Penrydd to destroy St. Sefin’s. She would do whatever it took.
“Penrydd?Course I know him! Fine chap, absolutely ripping fellow. Never turns down a bit of sport, on the field or…elsewhere.”
Calvin Vaughn trailed Gwen through the drawing room of Greenfield and leaned against the delicately painted wall as she seated herself before thetelyn,the tall Welsh harp in one corner. Lady Vaughn’s guests watched them, sharp-eyed, and Calvin peacocked in his waistcoat of bright orange silk. Calvin Vaughn, second son of Sir Lambert and Lady Vaughn, could afford the tax on hair powder.
“Going to the devil as fast as he might.” Calvin went on as Gwen pulled thetelynonto her left shoulder and adjusted her seat. “But you know how it is with those young bloods who never imagine they’ll inherit. Go a bit mad when the title and all that money lands in their lap.”
Gwen ran her fingers over the triple row of strings. “You’re friends, then? Perhaps you might put in a word for me. I want to buy St. Sefin’s from him.”
Calvin scowled. “That dank old convent? Heard things about that place.” He looked about the room, then dropped his voice. “Don’t see why you’d bury yourself in that pile when you could let a gentleman set you up in a proper establishment.”
Gwen bent her head, fumbling in her pocket for her tuning key. “St. Sefin’s is a proper establishment, Mr. Vaughn. As chaste as the old Cistercians. I can’t imagine what you’ve heard.”
Calvin snorted. “Queer goings-on, that’s what.” He crossed his arms over his chest, fixing her with his watery blue gaze. “Funny you mention him now. He’s coming here, you know. Penrydd.”
Gwen looked up to find his gaze settled on her bodice. Her heart ticked to a faster pace, fluttering beneath the lace. “To Newport? What brings him here?” Was he coming himself to turn them out?
Calvin licked his pale lips. “Ran with him in London when I was there, him and Turbeville, chap from Bristol. Invited them down for some hunting. Fought with m’ brother a few years back, Penrydd did. Hewitt’s at Acre, don’t you know, laying siege to Napoleon.”
