A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 7
Her lips tingled with expectation as she studied his hooded gaze. A delightful shiver quickened her pulse, and the purely sensual experience intercepted her thoughts once again, eliciting feelings that begged for something her brain could not quite grasp.
“I predict,” Meg said, jolting Kitty back from distraction, “this will be the best Christmas yet.”
Kitty dropped her eyes to her lap, praying her friend was right. If only Bart could learn to enjoy Christmas the way she and her family did. She couldn’t imagine living without the joys of family, holly and ivy, and evergreen and citrus, or being denied sweets and savories. Not to mention the new tradition of the Tannenbaum, which would be positioned on a tabletop with tinsel tassel, candles, berries, and—
“Enjoy your Christmases.” Bart placed his hat back on his head. “I, for one, think they are filled with hokum and spectacle.”
“Mr. Fernsby!” Meg cried. “Speaking in such a way is an abomination!” Tension heightened as the carriage clattered down Haymarket Street on its way to Pall Mall. “If my Papa heard—”
“But your father is not here, Meg,” Kitty said calmly, trying to be the voice of reason. “If he were, would he not encourage tolerance for someone else’s beliefs?”
“Look there!” Bart pointed to the base of a monolithic column. “We have arrived at Trafalgar Square. If you crane your neck just so, you might be able to see Lord Nelson’s memorial.”
“Extraordinary,” Kitty said breathlessly, wondering at the swift change in conversation but leaving it be. “How I wish I could have met him.”
“That would be impossible, Kitty.” Ambrose’s face went grim. “He died thirty-eight years ago.”
“I realize that,” she said, smothering a groan. She was quite aware the vice-admiral died at Trafalgar in 1805. “Haven’t you ever desired to speak to someone who’s made their mark on history?”
“Or someone who didn’t?” Bart asked, the faint twinkle in his eyes going dim. “I know exactly what you mean, Lady Catherine. In regard to Lord Nelson, he was the greatest and the worst of us—and luckier than most.”
“We won the war at sea because of him,” she said, unsure how else to respond. “What a man he must have been.” There wasn’t a soul in all of Great Britain who wasn’t grateful for Lord Nelson’s efforts in protecting England’s shores. “Surely, you agree—”
He nodded. “My grandfather served with Lord Nelson in Copenhagen.” The proud tilt to Bart’s chin provided another glimpse into his character. “He knew the admiral well.”
“How fascinating,” Meg said.
Kitty couldn’t agree more. “Can you tell us anything about the admiral as the man your grandfather knew?”
He bowed his head. “He was not without fault, and his habit of turning a blind eye when it suited him worked to his advantage.” He narrowed his eyes, focusing his next words on Kitty and Meg particularly. “I do not recommend turning a blind eye where we are going.”
“Only the dead turn blind eyes to the poor,” she said. She took Meg’s hand and squeezed it. “We have been warned about Field Lane Ragged School. Do not be concerned. We want only to be useful.” And she was determined to prove it, even if Papa asked her to discredit Bart in Ambrose’s eyes. “I am quite serious about helping in whatever capacity I may.”
“Many do not share your enthusiasm, Lady Catherine. People have come to London seeking refuge, coming from near and far because they cannot find work elsewhere.” He waved his arm dismissively as he spoke. “Imagine twenty people crammed into one room. A place where food is scarce and living conditions are deplorable . . . Some will resent your presence at Field Lane.”
Ambrose’s friend obviously knew nothing about her. “Do you doubt my fortitude?”
He removed his hat, scrubbed his fingers through his short hair, and then slapped his hat back on his head. “I’d be a fool to do so, Kitty.”
Her pulse quickened at the sound of her given name. She should protest the intimacy, but instead, the tone of his voice stroked her insides, leaving her weak-kneed and contented like a feline who had just enjoyed a saucer of cream. Still, she knew she couldn’t allow it.
“Lady Catherine will do nicely,” she tried to scold. It wouldn’t do to allow any sort of intimacy between them if she intended to be her father’s spy.
“As you wish.” His mouth turned down. “As I was saying, the poor detest pity. Take extreme care when interacting with the children at Field Lane. A man is wise to remain . . . distant. And women . . .” He shrugged. “Well, they can be—forgive me for stating the obvious—emotional creatures.”
“Compassion is a woman’s greatest strength,” Kitty managed to say as a wave of anger swept through her. She was tired of being reminded of her sex, tired of being told how to act, what to do, what to say, where she could or couldn’t go. “Without it, women would be incapable of showing the slightest kindness to those who are the hardest to love.”
Kitty couldn’t help being skeptical. Her previous suitors had treated her abominably, casting her aside when it pleased them. For reasons she couldn’t understand, men considered women a necessary evil, and the long binding shackles of marriage granted conjugal rights. Dowries seized men’s hearts and deepened their pockets. It was rare for a man to desire a woman for herself.
Good heavens! Heat bathed her face. I’m becoming as cynical as Papa!
“Ah!” Bart cut in as the carriage turned left. “Farringdon Street. It won’t be long until we reach Saffron Hill.” A shiver of anticipation washed over her. “Ladies, I ask you again to prepare yourselves for what you are about to see.”
“We are ready,” she and Meg said in unison.
It didn’t take long for the atmosphere to shift. No longer were the streets airy and open as they were in Mayfair. They were not lined with classic architecture, Grecian columns, and archways hiding manicured gardens. Here, life was a dismal, dark labyrinth where wretched, hopeless, howling, and shrieking souls scattered at a moment’s notice.
As they entered Saffron Hill, coal belched from chimneys, the soot mooring to rooftops, awnings, and windowsills. Poverty and squalor prevailed, and manure lined the streets. Costermongers plied their wares. Pedestrians and loafers shouted at passersby. Sluggish, destitute figures staggered out of public houses, and concealed entrances in buildings and alleyways. Pockmarked faces and morally depraved eyes stared at them with suspicion. Children dressed in rags seemed immune to the chaos as they roamed amid the vagabonds and filth, stray dogs nipping at their feet.
Kitty braced against a shiver and sucked in a tremulous breath. Saffron Hill was just as Bart described. It did not alter her purpose, though. She hesitated as she raised a lace handkerchief to ward off the stench, ashamed of her reaction.
How is it possible to exist in such a manner?
Amid her doubt and circumspection, the carriage continued on, clattering beneath lines of laundry stretching overhead and past souls who’d long since lost human dignity.
Mr. Fernsby’s voice interrupted her observations, each word hinting at despair. “The closer we get to Holborn, the more unpredictable life becomes.”
It was as much as she’d already guessed. Nevertheless, whatever circumstances she found herself in, she was an Egerton. Ambrose had prepared her, warning her that Field Lane Ragged School, and workhouses in the area modeled like it, were not handled the same way they were in Berkhamstead due to the influx of people who sought employment in London or were displaced by expansion.
“Holborn Union Workhouse and Field Lane Ragged School,” Bart went on, “get financial support from the government.” He regarded Kitty with no trace of his former stoicism, his sincerity piercing her soul. “Circumstances at Field Lane are not as they once were, thanks to one of the wealthiest women in England, Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts. Her endowments and support have been tireless, and she demonstrates that ambition does not differentiate between the sexes.”
The belief in such differentiation was exactly what prevented Kitty from participating in the Union Guardians. “I would very much like to meet Miss Burdett-Coutts someday.”
“Perhaps that can be arranged,” he said, a small smile curving his lips.
Blood surged from her fingertips to her toes. Imagine meeting a woman who’d already broken the barriers prohibiting women from attending union meetings. The thought dizzied her senses, and her appreciation for Bart mounted exceedingly. The pleasant way he spoke about Miss Burdett-Coutts, neither condescending nor judgmental, triggered a delicious shudder to sweep through her. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined being drawn to a man whose enthralling compassion, and gentle touch stripped her soul bare. These were not the actions of a traditional Englishman or a man Papa need fear where Ambrose was concerned, but of a man Kitty could learn to love.
Chapter Five
“You do not begrudge women their ambitions?” Kitty asked softly, her eyes narrowing.
“How would doing so benefit me?” Bart teased. Kitty caught on, her face brightening. The amusement of his companions inspired him to continue. “If a person finds their calling, that passion should be encouraged, regardless of sex.”
“Mr. Fernsby!” Meg brought a hand up to stifle a gasp, and her flush deepened to crimson.
“Don’t mind Miss Castleton.” Ambrose tapped his cane at his feet. “She censures you because her father is a vicar, not because of what she believes. She and Kitty are like-minded individuals. There will always be a divide when politics and religion, and male and female, collide. Nothing will ever change,” he said, sadness in his voice. “Society is set.”
“Not so.” Kitty shook her head. “Change is inevitable, Brother. But change is often only achieved as a result of war.”
The air inside the carriage charged with tension as Bart contemplated Kitty. He would never stop a woman from accomplishing what she wanted to do as long as it didn’t cause harm. His own mother had been a prisoner of his father’s gambling debts. He’d witnessed her vulnerability. As a boy, he’d clawed his way out of the mire and then assumed a stranger’s name at the behest of his guardian. Since then, his contempt for the very holiday in December that warmed people’s hearts made him unfit for jovial company. Even now, the cynical mask he wore felt hot and oppressive.
Miracles didn’t exist. If they did, his mother wouldn’t be dead. His boots wouldn’t be muddied. Ink wouldn’t stain his nails from the countless letters and documents he sent to Parliament in an endless pursuit of funds for the poor. And children wouldn’t be dying in the streets.
If Kitty knew of his lowly beginnings, would she despise him? She was gently bred, beautiful and supple, fresh and lively—such easy prey to spiders weaving intricate webs over Society.
“Not everyone thinks like you do, Mr. Fernsby. Many would argue that Eve acted on impulse in the Garden of Eden and cursed men for all eternity.” Kitty raised her brow as if waiting for him to dispute her words. She flashed a set of white teeth, making his heart skip a beat. “That, sir, is the battle women face each and every day.”
“Wait a minute!” Ambrose took umbrage. “Do not place me and Bart into that mold.”
“You have always been a wellspring of support, my lord,” Miss Castleton said. “There are those . . . well, my father, in particular, who would point out that Fordyce’s Sermons has much to say on the subject. I cannot, however, prohibit myself from supporting Kitty. A woman should be given leave to act upon her own aspirations.”
“A commendable attitude,” Bart said. “Everyone should have a voice, no matter their station or sex.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Ambrose interjected, “though the idea is not popular among our set.”
“And it never will be,” Bart said.
Deuce it, when will this drive to Field Lane come to an end?
“My opinions are merely my own,” he added to ease the tension, “please do not take offense.”
“None taken.” Kitty looked at him, her expression serene. “In fact, I find your opinions stimulating.”
Stimulating? Did the woman not know the words she spoke evoked images a man should not entertain in mixed company? Bart bowed his head to regain control of himself. Egerton’s acquaintances were vital, and an association with members of the ton ensured support for the Ragged Schools. Only a fool would threaten such an alliance. It simply wouldn’t do to insult his good friend’s sister or lose the Earl of Bridgewater’s backing, especially at Christmas, no matter how much he despised it.
Kitty’s intellect intrigued him. “Your forthrightness is impressive,” he admitted. “I’ve known few women in my life who possess such candor.”
“I have reason, do not doubt it.” Her eyes came alive. Shoulders thrust back, she appeared the embodiment of refined beauty.
“Reason?” He attempted to ignore his racing pulse. “What reasons could a lady of your social status have?”
“You are my brother’s friend,” she said. “As such, that relationship, and our joint efforts in feeding and housing the poor, require sincerity.” His heart began to flutter as he stared into her spirited eyes. “Allow me to confess, it is wonderful to converse with a man, other than my brother, and be able to speak of such things with the greatest convictions of the heart.”
“You speak from the heart.” He furrowed his brows, basking in prolonged anticipation.
“I do.” Kitty regarded him for several moments.
His head pounded with rebellious uncertainty as he waited for her to continue. His hands twitched.
“Face it, old chap.” Egerton guffawed, “my sister is astute.”
In conversations they’d had over the years, Egerton had praised his sister’s intelligence and humility. He was proud of her, and now Bart understood why. “I am convinced she is other things, as well,” Bart said.
A hint of a frown graced the corners of her mouth. “What other things?”
“Forgive me, Lady Catherine. I speak of life in general, nothing particularly personal. Your brother and I have debated the neglect of body and soul, as well as the seeds of ruin shackling the heart.” Indeed, his mother had paid the ultimate price. But nothing could change the past. He was well aware that change was constant. “No one can flourish and blossom if their spirit is in chains.”
Ambrose grimaced. “Have you added poetry to your list of qualities, as well?”
“No.” Bart waved off the idea. But the bald-faced lie stung since Ambrose knew Bart enjoyed a good poem. He also enjoyed good prose, and he had educated himself beyond both his uncle’s instruction and what could be obtained at Eton. His own attempts at waxing poetic had grown foul because of the barriers erected around his heart, which made verse and wit beyond his reach. He read to overcome loneliness and nourish the deficient talent that plagued him, hoping the effort would help him one day forget the horrors he’d experienced.
The carriage rolled to a stop.
“Come,” Bart said, snapping out of his stupor as the door opened and the interior flooded with gray light. He exited the coach, balancing seventeen books in one arm. “Remember what I said. I hope you will look favorably at the strides we are making here.”
The coachman arrived then stretched out his hand to assist Kitty out of the carriage.
“Thank you.” She stepped onto the street with casual elegance, dropped her hand, and then glanced away, tipping her head skyward. “Do be sure to unload everything,” she instructed the driver. “Take care with the bushels of oranges. I do not want them bruised.”
“Aye, milady,” the coachman answered.
Bart’s mouth hung agape. Oranges? Before he could stop himself, he said, “Where—”
“Berkhamstead,” she answered without missing a beat. “My father has a huge orangery there, and upon hearing of our intentions, he was most insistent that we present them to the children of Field Lane at Christmas.”
Meg took her place beside Kitty. “We have the gifts we purchased at the Burlington Arcade, too.”
“Indeed, we do.” Kitty turned a bewitching smile on him. “I know we are having a mild winter, but should the children need—”
“You are more than thoughtful, I am sure,” he answered in amazement. “Do follow me. I am suddenly eager to give you a tour of the building, and introduce you to our charges.”
“Hold where you are.” Ambrose’s voice halted them. Bart’s heart sank into his belly, and he held his breath as he glanced up. There, in his friend’s outstretched hand was a paper-wrapped book. “You forgot something.”
At first, he thought Egerton was talking to him, that he’d left one of the books on his seat. Perplexed, he counted the books in his arms, one by one. Seventeen. Then he remembered Kitty’s books.
“And no small thing it is,” she insisted as she accepted the book and clasped it to her chest. “Thank you, Ambrose. I would have never forgiven myself if I’d forgotten to donate it.”
“You are donating a book?” Bart stared at Kitty’s hands.
“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “One of the three books I purchased at Hatchard’s is for Field Lane Ragged School. Did I fail to tell you?”
“You did,” he said finding it ironic that in giving her three books, one would find its way back to its intended home. “But that is incredibly generous.”
Astounded, he lifted his gaze to hers, incapable of speech. Never, in all his days, had he felt connected to another human being more fully than he did at this moment. He wanted to take Kitty aside. He wanted to tell her how much her simple gift meant to him, to wrap his arms around her, kiss her beautiful lips, and thank her as a man properly thanked a woman.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t . . .
He quickly changed the topic. “Welcome to Field Lane Ragged School. It isn’t much to look upon, but devoted professionals have worked hard to improve the building and its interior, over and above making life here comfortable for its inhabitants. Those poor souls are not responsible for the misery that birthed them.” He failed to conceal the catch in his voice. But then someone or something shrieked a block away, making him forget his discomfort.
