A Suitable Wife. Louise Gouge M.

be here awhile,” Mrs. Parton told them, “so you may go around to the kitchen for a bite to eat. Miss Gregory, shall we go in?”

      Beatrice followed her employer up the concrete steps to the large front door. A black-clad woman of perhaps thirty years opened it. “Welcome, Mrs. Parton. Please come in.” The matron’s eyes exuded warmth and welcome.

      In the front hall they were met by the smells of lye soap and a hint of lavender. The floor was well scrubbed, and not a speck of lint or dust lay upon the polished oak hall tree or the framed pictures that adorned the long, wide entryway.

      The matron spoke quietly to the young girl beside her, and the child hastened up the staircase. Soon the soft rumble of running feet disturbed the silence as over a hundred girls of all sizes and descriptions descended the steps and formed lines. Each girl wore a gray serge uniform and a plain white pinafore bearing a number.

      Once again Beatrice swallowed a wave of sentiment. Like these girls she had no parents, but how vastly different their circumstances were. How sad to be an orphan, a seemingly nameless child with only a number on one’s clothing for identification. Beatrice steeled herself against further emotion, for tears would not help the children and might inspire them to self-pity, an exercise she knew to be fruitless.

      A slender middle-aged matron in a matching uniform offered a deep curtsey to their guests, and the girls followed suit.

      “Welcome, Mrs. Parton.” Another matron, silver-haired and in a black dress, stepped forward. Authority emanated from her pale, lined face.

      “Mrs. Martin.” Mrs. Parton’s face glowed as she grasped the woman’s hands. “How good to see you.” Her gaze swept over the assembly. “Good afternoon, my dear, dear girls.”

      Mrs. Martin lifted one hand to direct the children in a chorus of “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parton.”

      “Children, this is my companion, Miss Gregory.” Mrs. Parton brought Beatrice forward.

      Again the girls curtseyed and called out a greeting.

      “Now,” Mrs. Parton said, “what have you to show us?” She and Beatrice sat in upholstered chairs the matron had ordered for them.

      The girls’ sweet faces beamed with affection for their patroness while they recited their lessons or showed her examples of penmanship, sewing and artwork. Mrs. Parton offered praise and dispensed many hugs as though each was her own dear daughter.

      Beatrice followed her example in commending the children. Over the next hour she found herself drawn to one in particular. Sally was perhaps fourteen years old, and Beatrice observed how well she managed the younger children. How she wished she could offer the girl employment, perhaps even train her as a lady’s maid if she was so minded. But alas Beatrice had no funds for such an undertaking.

      As they left the building, Mrs. Parton told Beatrice that the true beneficence happened later when her steward ascertained the institution’s needs and budgeted the funds to cover as many of them as possible.

      “I take such pleasure in helping them,” Mrs. Parton said on their way back to her Hanover Square town house. “Not unlike Lord Greystone.”

      “How so, madam?” Pleasantly exhausted from the afternoon’s charitable exercise, Beatrice still felt a jolt in her heart at the mention of the viscount’s name.

      “Why, he is the patron of a boys’ asylum in Shrewsbury, not far from his family seat.”

      Beatrice experienced no surprise at this revelation, for Mrs. Parton had already mentioned the viscount’s generosity. Of course she could not expect that generosity to extend to the sister of a wastrel, lest his name be tainted. She knew very little of Society, but that one lesson had stood at the forefront of her thoughts ever since she had met him the night before. Perhaps she could glean from that experience a true indication of his character. He might perform charitable acts to be seen by others, yet neglect his duty to family, as Papa had. Thus, she must do her best to ignore her childish admiration for his physical appearance and social graces.

      But somehow she could not resist a few moments of daydreaming about what it would be like to have the good opinion of such a fine gentleman.

      * * *

      Greystone longed to dig his heels into Gallant’s sides and race madly down Pall Mall. Unfortunately traffic prevented such an exercise, so he would have to find another method of releasing his anger. In his six years in Parliament, this was the first time he had stormed out in protest over the way a vote had gone, but he had no doubt it would not be his last.

      Never had he been more ashamed of his peers. Or, better said, the majority of them—those who today had rejected a measure providing a reasonable pension for wounded soldiers returning from the Continent. How did the lords expect these men to survive, much less provide for families who had often gone hungry while their husbands and fathers were fighting for England? Greystone’s own brother Edmond had been seriously wounded in America, but had the good fortune to be an aristocrat, as well as their childless uncle’s chosen heir. He now had an occupation and a home, not to mention a lovely bride. The rank-and-file soldiers had no such security or pleasures. What did Parliament expect these men to do? Become poachers? Pickpockets? Highwaymen?

      Somehow Greystone and his like-minded peers must break through the thick skulls and hardened hearts of those who regarded the lower classes with such arrogance. Almost to a man they claimed to be Christians, yet they exhibited not a whit of Christ’s charity. Then, of course, there were dullards like Melton, who sat in the House like lumps of unmolded clay, showing no interest in anything of importance, no doubt waiting until the session was over so he could return to his gambling. No matter how young he might be, how could the earl be so uncaring? And how different he was from his sister.

      Greystone had not failed to notice that Lady Beatrice appeared eager to accompany Mrs. Parton to the orphan asylum. With a wastrel brother who should be seeing to her needs, the lady no doubt had limited funds, which made her charitable actions all the more remarkable. Still, she wore a new blue day dress, which complimented her fair complexion far more than the brown gown she had worn last night. Perhaps she was better situated than it seemed. But then, why would she be Mrs. Parton’s companion, generally a paid position? Why was she introduced as Miss Gregory?

      That last question was the easiest to answer. Were he related to Melton, he would not wish for Society to know it, either. Yet dissembling could do her no good and much harm if she hoped to make a match worthy of her station. But then, it would be difficult to find a gentleman whose charitable nature matched her own who would accept such an intimate connection to Melton.

      His useless musings were interrupted when a coach rumbled past, drawn by six lathered horses and churning up dust to fill the air...and Greystone’s lungs. He fell into a bout of coughing almost as bad as those he had suffered in his nearly fatal illness last winter. For a moment he struggled to breathe as he had then, but at last his lungs cleared. Being deprived of air was a frightening matter. He coughed and inhaled several more times to recover. If he arrived home in this condition, Mother would fuss over him and send for a physician.

      His early arrival meant that the lad who watched for his homecoming would not be at the front window to collect his horse and take it around to the mews. Thus when Greystone dismounted, he secured the reins to the post near the front door. Then he took the three front steps in one leap to prove to himself that his illness had not permanently threatened his health.

      Inside, a commotion lured him to the drawing room. The furniture was covered with white linens, and Crawford the butler knelt over something on the floor. Near the hearth stood a scowling, soot-covered man in black holding a broom with circled bristles.

      “Greystone.” Mother rushed toward him waving her fan, first in front of her own face and then his. “You must leave this instant.”

      He tried to block her wild gesturing, to no avail. “What in the world?” Foolish question. Obviously the chimney sweep had come to ply his trade. But that did not answer for the two servants hovering over the object on the floor.

      “That