The Baron and the Bluestocking (2 page)

Lady Clarice made a clucking sound and intervened in the conversation to make introductions. It transpired that the curvy blonde was a Miss Hilliard, who was to teach deportment. It was she who answered his question, “Not at all, my lord. Am I right in assuming that you are the initiator of the idea for the orphanage?”

He gave a bow. “You are correct, though you have yet to meet many of the wealthier patrons who made my dream possible. Are you looking forward to your new position?”

She smiled. “I imagine that teaching these girls will be quite a challenge. But I am up to it, I believe.”

Lady Clarice next introduced Miss Flynn, a plain female with a bit of a squint, who said, “I will teach speech and reading to the youngest girls.”

Shrewsbury privately thought that a worse example of charm and charisma could not have been found and wondered at Lady Clarice’s choice.

Miss Flynn added, “I will also teach voice to those who wish to learn to sing.”

An uncomfortable inner nudge told him he was too quick to judge. After all, these were not potential partners at a ball. They were serious teachers.

A slender, graceful redhead was introduced as Miss Jackson. “I will teach the homemaking arts, which, unlike Miss Whitcombe, I do not hold in contempt.”

“You would do so if you had been compelled to keep house for seven brothers and sisters,” said the remaining young woman, whom he now deduced to be Sophie’s acquaintance, the vicar’s daughter. Indeed, Lady Clarice presented her as Miss Whitcombe.

As she turned to face Christian, her beauty smote him at once. Smoky grey eyes smoldered as they surveyed him above the most beautiful mouth he had ever seen. Large, full, and velvety pink, it was set in a perfect oval face. “Lady Clarice,” she said, “I beg your pardon, but I prefer to be addressed merely as Miss Bouvier. In this new post, I should like to go by my mother’s name, not my father’s.”

Attempting to stifle the attraction he felt, Christian told himself he would be wise to remember this beauty was an out-and-out feminist. She had condemned poor Mary Woolstonecraft, the foremost advocate of women’s rights, for marrying. Annoyed with Sophie for not mentioning the woman’s radical views, he said in his most silken voice
,
“Ah, yes. Your mother is French, I believe. I recall that Lady Trowbridge said you were the daughter of a noble émigré? Was your mother not known by her father’s name?”

She raised her chin and looked at him, a challenge in her deep gray eyes.

He smiled. “Unless you wish to be known only by your first name, you cannot escape being known by the name of some man.”

She raised the corner of her mouth in a half smile. “Perhaps I should invent a surname. I suppose Hodge would do as well as any other. Would you care to refer to me as Miss Hodge?”

“Miss Hodge it is,” he said with a grin. Taking her hand, he raised it and bowed over it. Though she wore gloves, he felt a thrill run from his fingertips up his arm to his heart.

By Jove, she would take the ton by storm. What a shame her position in life dictates that she be beneath my serious interest.

“Now, ladies, I believe that your excellent hostess has prepared the highest of teas. I will wager she has even obtained Devonshire cream.”

“I adore Devonshire cream!” The tall goddess smiled her full smile.

He was nearly shattered by the sight. Swiftly turning to the others, he said, “I feel I should offer someone an arm, but with four such ladies as you are, I would not want to offend by leaving anyone out. I will simply follow you to the tea table.”

To his discomfiture, during tea the conversation focused on him.

“Lord Shrewsbury, you are a Whig, I think?” Miss “Hodge” asked.

“I am.”

“What is your opinion of Voltaire?” she asked.

“I believe the man to have been very impressed by England, in comparison to his native land, so of course he is dear to my heart.”

“But in neither country are women recognized as people of any particular consequence.”

He should have expected the conversation to go in this direction. What an irritating needle-wit she was! “I hold women in a position of great consequence. Without them, the generations would cease. Life would not go on.”

“You think of us as breeding stock?” Miss Whitcombe-Hodge’s nostrils flared.

“No more so than men,” he said calmly.

Miss Flynn intervened. “Are you fond of music, my lord?”

“Very fond, as a matter of fact. My closest friend recently married a woman who is an accomplished violinist. So it happens that I have become very enamored of the violin. As a matter of fact, these friends have gone to meet Herr van Beethoven in Vienna. Are you fond of Beethoven, Miss Flynn?”

“I am! But I am particularly attached to Bach’s piano concertos. They are so . . . I don’t know. They put my world right somehow. Do you think we might have a piano at the school, my lord? Music is such a civilizing influence.”

“I think that is a splendid idea. I will see to it.”

Mrs. Blakeley’s cook had made scones that melted in the mouth. She also
had
acquired Devonshire cream, along with raspberry preserves, they all discovered with no small amount of coos and delight. Shrewsbury thought he saw a naughty small girl looking out of Hélène’s eyes for just a moment, as she surreptitiously stuck a cream-laden finger into her mouth.

“Is this not a fine tea?” he asked. “Mrs. Blakeley, you are to be commended.”

All the women agreed graciously. The stout woman blushed. “You are too kind.”

Miss Flynn said, “I have never seen Whitcombe enjoy anything quite so whole-heartedly.”

The feminist’s color rose. She bit her bottom lip, then straightening, she said, “Do you know, if I were a man, and allowed to sit Parliament, I would be a Radical.” She looked at him with those enticing smoky eyes and he read a challenge there. She smiled one-sidedly, obviously having regained her aplomb. “I should extend the voting franchise to include not only men who are not property holders, but women, as well.”

Shrewsbury felt he should have been prepared for this. “You are a Utopian, I see. An idealist.”

“Merely taking the Enlightenment forward to its natural end. I feel certain Voltaire would have agreed with me.”

“You are very fond of Voltaire.”

“My papa knew him. I have studied his essays, his poetry, his plays. He was a brilliant man.”

“So were Bentham and Locke, other voices of the Enlightenment.” Helping himself to another scone, he spread preserves upon it. “Shall you be espousing your ‘enlightened’ ideas to these orphan girls? I am afraid that would be a bit beyond them, you know. They are hungry and ignorant. Until they have been filled, clothed, and educated, such things will be of no interest to them whatsoever.” Christian knew a moment’s satisfaction.

The goddess’s face fell and she made a delightful moue. “You are most likely correct,” she said. “’Tis a pity.”

Miss Hilliard spoke up. “Whatever do you want with the vote, Whitcombe? Women have enough to do, what with raising children, running the home, and making ends meet.”

Miss Jackson and Miss Flynn agreed. This began an uncomfortable argument. Lady Clarice finally spoke up. “Ladies, if you have finished your tea, we shall repair to the school and look over the final preparations.”

Lord Shrewsbury brought the pink linen napkin to his mouth.
She is a feisty one. It could prove interesting to teach a firebrand like Hélène Whitcombe to rejoice in her femininity.

{ 2 }

HÉLÈNE WAS NOT SORRY to be parted from the insolent Lord Shrewsbury as they occupied separate vehicles on their way to the school. With his heroic appearance—golden blond hair, deep green eyes, and face off of a Greek coin—he was more than a shade too sure of himself. She disliked men of the
ton
excessively. They abused their privilege and preyed on women. Especially penniless women like herself who had no protection. She knew it was his sense of privilege that had brought out the radical in her. Hélène suspected she had been insufferable.

It was but a short ride, and soon they were reunited.

“Miss . . . er . . . Hodge.” He inclined his head in greeting and then moved forward to take Miss Hilliard’s elbow as she stepped up the stairs into the school’s entrance. He guided each of the other women until they were through the door. When it was her turn to proceed, he merely followed her, thus making his disapproval of her obvious.

“Would you have the world populated only by females?” he asked.

“Of course not. But I see no reason why we should not be equal partners with men.”

The baron came to a halt. He looked at her with raised eyebrows, a speculative gleam in his eye. “What a very interesting world you have in mind. I shall have to think on your words. You have quite taken my breath away.”

“Good,” she said, full of satisfaction. “Now, allow me to acquaint you with the school you have built.” She spun around with her arms extended. “This will be our common room. We will meet here in the morning for prayers and breakfast. Lady Clarice insisted on yellow—so cheerful, do you not think so?”

He agreed.

“Through here is the reading room.” She led the way. “The younger girls will read here from eight until ten o’clock, the elders from ten until noon. Lady Clarice chose the scarlet for this room. I believe her to be very fond of decorative arts. As you can see, she has fitted us out with framed illustrations from her collection.”

“I see nursery rhymes and I see . . . surely those must be lithographs from Mrs. Radcliffe’s or Maria Edgeworth’s Gothic tales!”

“For the elder girls I will be reading them to,” Hélène said. “You disapprove of women authors?” She peered into his face and gave up the battle she had been waging with herself. She had to admit he was very, very handsome, indeed.
He probably has at least half a dozen lovers.

“I have great regard for Miss Austen and my friend, the Duchess of Ruisdell, who writes under a pseudonym,” he said. “However, I must admit that their writings would be of far less interest to your potential pupils.”

Surprised, she asked, “Have you actually read Miss Austen?”

“Indeed,” he said.

“And which of her novels is your favorite?”

“
Sense and Sensibility,
I believe. The satire was very accomplished. Very well done.”

How strange. That is my favorite as well. And for exactly those reasons. This man is full of contradictions.

All at once, Hélène decided she had been far too strident and unpleasant. “I must tell you that despite our differences, I feel that the idea to found this school was truly inspired,” she said. “Why did you do it?”

“You think me incapable of a charitable impulse?” he asked with a smile.

Hélène blushed. How ungracious she sounded! This man made her feel verbally quite inept. “Not at all. It is just that even if anyone of your station is to take note of poverty, the plight of females is sadly invisible, I find.”

His eyes turned serious. Hélène took a step back.

“I was serving as a guard over the women in the Duchess of Ruisdell’s soup kitchen for wounded soldiers in the East End, when I saw a girl of no more than ten or eleven. She was going off with a gentleman for an obvious assignation. I do not think I have ever felt such revulsion . . . or such powerlessness.” He paused, running a hand over the back of his scalp, disarranging his Brutus-cut locks. He squinted. Hélène imagined he was seeing the scene over again in his mind. It obviously tormented him. “It sickened me to such an extent that I went after the pair, ran the man off, and gave the girl three guineas. To my surprise, she subjected me to a Cockney harangue. Said the gentleman of . . . shall we say ‘unusual’ tastes was a regular customer and now he might not come back.”

Hélène stared at him for a moment. “How absolutely horrid.”

“It occurred to me that she had no other way of bringing in money. Single, orphaned females in the East End are not depraved, they simply have no skills. No profession except the oldest one.” He turned his green gaze upon her. “The answer is not giving them money. The answer is to help them to change their situation themselves. Thus the education scheme.”

She nodded her agreement.

He continued, “The Duke of Beverley had opened an orphanage where he taught East End boys to read. Why not open a school for girls?”

“I take my hat off to you, my lord. Or would if I were wearing one.” Hélène bestowed her brightest smile upon him. She felt tears burning in her eyes at the same time.

“Can it be that you look upon me with slightly less disfavor?” he asked, still maintaining his serious mien.

“Slightly less. Are you aware that the vast majority of women on these islands is illiterate?”

“That, I am afraid, is beyond my power to correct.”

“Even in Parliament? Could you not sponsor a bill for female literacy? For female education?”

“Miss . . . uh . . . Hodge, even the majority of males on these islands is illiterate. One would need to sponsor a bill for universal education. I do not think the Tories could ever support such legislation. It reeks of the French égalité and fraternité. The entrenched Conservatives are far too sensitive to revolution at the moment.”

Lady Clarice joined them from the dining room she had been inspecting with the other teachers. Evidently, she had heard his lordship’s comment, for with her usual practicality she said, “Lord Shrewsbury is right, Hélène. Such a day will come. But most likely it will not be in our lifetime. What we need is a powerful queen. That, I imagine, would make all the difference.” Hélène’s mentor smiled her cheerful smile, tilting her head to one side. She put one in mind of the first brave robin in spring. “For now, we must make a success of this school.”

“Yes,” Hélène said. “But I will not give up hope for a larger agenda.”

Suddenly, Lord Shrewsbury grinned. His eyes traversed her form and she was made conscious that he was seeing her as a woman in the physical sense. She hoped he could not see the tremor that started in her knees and traveled up her body.