“This way, then.” Toby led them up a twisting flight of stairs and down a narrow corridor. A variety of unpleasant scents battled for prominence: sickness, laudanum, vinegar. Finally they emerged into a narrow ward lined with small beds on either side. In each bed lay a pale-faced, wide-eyed waif, frozen in an unnatural attitude of innocence. They wore the smug expressions of children interrupted in the midst of an illicit game and quite satisfied with their success at concealing it.
At Toby’s direction, the servant began opening the hamper. Toby strode to the center of the room, clapping his hands. “All right, children. Time for medicine.”
A chorus of groans rose up from the beds. A thin voice protested, “We already had our medicine!”
“Ah, yes. But this is a different medicine. Especially ordered by your new nurse, Miss Grayson.” He turned to Bel and gave her a frown that she immediately recognized as an exaggerated mirror of her own expression. “Don’t worry, I know she looks stern. But I promise, she’s soft as kittens inside.” He went to the hamper and pushed aside a layer of straw, then a sheet of waxed parchment. Inside, rows of pastel ices glistened like jewels. Toby lifted out two frosted glass dishes and held them out to Bel. “Here,” he whispered. “Enjoy yourself.”
Impossible man. Surely these children had other, more urgent needs he might have addressed, rather than spending money on this extravagant treat: bandages, linens, nourishing food, real medicine. But just like the children, he looked so pleased with his own mischief. And so handsome besides. Smiling, she took the ices from his hands.
“There’s my girl,” he said, giving her a little wink. A correspondingly girlish thrill swept through her. Turning, he called to the room, “Who likes strawberry?”
The resulting clamor persisted for a good quarter hour, as the ices were distributed and demolished by the eager children. Bel seated herself at the bedside of a spindly-limbed boy sporting bandages on both arms, feeding him spoonfuls of apricot-flavored ice. The rapturous expression on his face warmed her heart.
Toby joined her, sitting on the other side of the boy’s bed. “Well? Are you enjoying yourself?”
“You know I am. Thank you.”
“This ward houses the children who are nearly ready to be released. Perhaps next time we’ll visit some of the truly miserable ones. You’ll be in perfect ecstasy, I predict.”
Bel looked back at the bandaged child. He had fallen asleep, a cherubic smile on his face. “Peter Jeffers, aged nine, ward of Charlesbridge-Crewe Chimney Sweeps,” she read from a slate tacked to the boy’s headboard. “Aged nine? Why, he looks no more than five or six!”
“Underfed, most likely. Climbing boys have to be thin, or they won’t fit up the flues.”
“Up the flues? What ever do you mean, up the flues?”
“I suppose they don’t burn coal in the West Indies?”
She shook her head.
“Well, these boys, they climb up the chimneys with brushes to remove the soot. The flues are narrow and often clogged, so it’s dangerous work. This one must have suffered some burns.”
Bel noted the bandages on the boy’s forearms, and on his elbows above them, gnarled calluses with the texture of gravel. Observing the old, yellowed bruise on the child’s jaw, she whispered, “Not only burned, but beaten too.” She shut her eyes, imagining the horror of being wedged into a soot-clogged chimney two bricks wide. “And when he is healed, he will be released again to his employers? Only to be injured again, or maimed or killed? Can nothing be done?”
“There’s a society, with a ridiculously long name, devoted to replacing the climbing boys with modern machinery. My sister Augusta is a member, but thus far I think they have met with little success. Climbing boys are the traditional method of cleaning flues, and we English do cling to our traditions.”
“Traditions.” Bel spat the word. “Abominations, more like.”
“Shhh.” Toby tilted his head toward the boy, who stirred in his sleep. “You’ll wake him.”
Bel pressed her lips together, fuming in silence.
He stared at her for a moment, then leaned toward her across the bed. “Do you know,” he whispered, “that you’re uncommonly beautiful when you’re angry?”
Bel sniffed. What a time for trite compliments. “I’m not angry.”
“Ah, but you admit to being beautiful. Very good.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Cringing, she lowered her voice. “I do not admit to being beautiful, either.” Possessed of a provocative figure, perhaps. But not beautiful.
“Come now. If you will not admit to beauty, I must accuse you of dishonesty.”
“I am not dis—” She frowned and narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you teasing me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’ve gone so serious again. It’s as though the misery of the world settles on your shoulders. If I don’t tease you, I shall have to kiss you.” He flashed her a sly grin. “And we don’t want to shock the children.”
Bel’s pulse raced. It was appalling, that he could even think of kissing in a place like this. Worse, now she was thinking of it too. How his lips had felt against hers last night, the flavor of brandy in his kiss. How would he taste if he kissed her this morning? Not of brandy, surely. What a man she meant to marry—by turns insufferably vain and appallingly shallow, but so charming through it all. And so attractive … She’d been disappointed in his vanity earlier, but now Bel gave thanks for Toby’s flawed character. She might be plagued by desire for him, but at least she would be in no danger of falling in love.
“How is it you thought to bring me here?” she asked. “Surely most gentlemen don’t make it a habit to visit the children’s dispensary.”
“To be perfectly honest, it’s not at all a habit for me. I’m a governor of the facility by virtue of a ten-guinea donation, but I’ve only been here twice and I never attend the meetings. It’s actually my—”
“What is going on here?”
The double doors of the ward flung open. A hush smothered the room. Somewhere, a spoon clattered to the floor.
Bel looked up to see an elegant matron silhouetted in the door. High cheekbones lifted a face creased from decades of smiles, and her brows were thin, graceful sweeps. Her moss-green gown was exquisitely tailored, yet simple in style and topped by a dark-gray cloak and a mantle of extreme self-possession. Even the swish of her garments bespoke confidence as she strode forward to stand at the foot of the bed.
“Sir Tobias Aldridge,” she addressed him sternly. “Would you care to explain yourself?”
“Of course,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. Bel followed suit, shaking out her skirt as she stood. “But first, allow me to make the introductions. May I present Miss Isabel Grayson?
Isabel, this is Lydia, Lady Aldridge. My mother.”
Numb with surprise, Bel made an inelegant curtsy. His mother! Well, of course she supposed she’d be meeting his family soon, but she’d expected to be prepared for the occasion. Did Lady Aldridge have any idea of their engagement? She didn’t seem to, judging by the brief, indifferent glance she spared Bel.
“Mother compensates for my inattention as governor,” Toby explained. “She comes here every Thursday, when she is in Town.”
Bel looked from mother to son. Had this meeting been his entire design in bringing her here?
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Aldridge.”
Toby reached across the bed and grasped her hand. “Mother, Isabel and I are engaged. We’re going to marry in June.”
Around them, the children burst into whistles and applause. Bel looked to Lady Aldridge, steeling herself against an outpouring of displeasure.
Lady Aldridge fixed her son with a look of mock reproach. “Toby. You really are impossible.”
She turned to Bel, eyeing the empty dish in her hand and the sated child sleeping in the bed.
“Very well, I approve.” She skirted the bed and grasped Bel lightly by the shoulders before placing a kiss on her cheek. “Come to the house for Sunday dinner, dear.” She spoke over her shoulder to Toby.
“She can meet Augusta and Reginald if she comes Sunday. Of course, we’ll have to arrange a more lavish occasion than roasted chicken to draw Margaret to Town.”
“Of course,” Toby replied. “Will Fanny and Edgar make it for the wedding, do you think?”
“In June?” Lady Aldridge pursed her lips. “I should think so. The babe will be six months old by then.”
Bel watched this mother-son exchange with wonderment. The way they’d forgotten her almost instantly, just gone on discussing family matters as if she weren’t even there—it was remarkable. Her gaze fell to the maltreated urchin in the bed, then rose again to Toby’s charming, easy grin …
And suddenly, she understood.
He simply couldn’t know. Toby could view this miserable waif, feel a small, inconvenient twinge of sympathy, and then go on discussing kisses and weddings as if nothing had happened—because nothing of the sort had ever happened, to him. One had only to observe the easy, loving repartee between Toby and his mother to see it. He could not know how it felt, to be a lonely, friendless child. He would never understand what it was, to receive beatings at the hand of a trusted adult—to fear the same person he most loved in the world. No, Toby’s world was Sunday dinners with Augusta and Reginald, newborn babies with two living parents, and an efficient, gracious mother who smelled of lavender and dispensed warm kisses, never blows.
And neither he nor his mother could realize the small miracle that had just occurred, when they’d invited Bel to join them. To come by the house Sunday and dine on roast chicken, served up with dishes more exotic and tempting than any flavored ice: stability, affection, normalcy.
For the first time, Bel realized marriage meant more than choosing a husband. It meant acquiring a family.
How unexpected. How … wonderful.
Toby’s hand squeezed hers. “Are you well, darling?”
“Yes, of course.” She forced a smile. “Just… a bit surprised.”
Lady Aldridge patted her cheek, as if she knew how much Bel craved a maternal touch. “Oh, I know we can be overwhelming at first. You’ll grow accustomed to it.”
“I’m certain I will.” Bel cleared her throat. “I’m so gratified to see the good work you do here, at the dispensary. Might I accompany you on your weekly visits?”
“Isabel is devoted to charity,” Toby said.
“Well, of course she is.” Lady Aldridge gave her son a beatific smile. “She’s marrying you.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Will you take more chicken, Isabel?”
Toby gave the nearest footman a significant look. The servant immediately extended a liveried sleeve toward the domed platter.
Isabel warned him off with a little shake of her head. “Thank you, no. I am quite satisfied.”
“Are you certain?” Lady Aldridge asked. “You’ve been having dinner with us for weeks now, and you seem to grow a bit thinner every Sunday.” She turned to Toby. “You must be certain she’s eating properly. It won’t do to have her fainting dead away in the middle of your wedding ceremony.”
“No, of course not.” His sister Augusta smiled. “Imagine what the papers would say then.”
Across the table, her husband laughed. “Yes, our Mr. Hollyhurst would have great sport with that one, after what happened the last time. Betrothal to Toby would be declared a public health concern, on par with smallpox.”
“Watch yourself, Reginald,” Toby said, giving his brother-in-law a look of limited forbearance.