Warming Winter's Heart: An Historical Romance Novella Read online

  It was fine, he’d get his own back. There might be a game of cards at White’s after the meeting of the board, and Julian didn’t intend to lose.

  He raised a tea cup in salute. “Anything Allie and her godmother can do to thwart my aunt’s hopes and Lydia’s ambition, is quite all right by me, Manston.”

  Allie wrinkled her nose. “Do spare a thought for me. While you gentlemen take your leave to enjoy a productive board meeting, I shall be attending Lady Abigail’s ‘at-home’ to welcome your cousin and her friend.”

  “I’m sure a trip to the modistes, the milliners and the jewelers will provide adequate compensation,” David quipped.

  “You shall know how the day fares by the size of the bills they send you,” she parried back.

  Her husband gave a mock shudder and muttered something about bankruptcy.

  Julian observed the humorous and affectionate byplay between his friends and fought the small knot of… not jealousy, no, nothing as crass as that – but envy. How can one possibly capture and emulate that spark of romance, that togetherness he witnessed in his two friends? How could he find something like that for himself?

  As soon as it was polite, he helped himself to the newspaper and found the article he’d started reading.

  The cancer is a less obvious but no less hazardous form of industrial illness. Many dangers are more obvious to the eye. Infections from scrapes caused by rough stones inside the chimney – or even burns if the chimney itself catches alight – are manifold as these boys are often required to do their duty naked.

  Imagine the horror of being trapped in a flue, unable to stretch an arm or a leg, in near darkness and in terror of dying in such a spot? Or a child falling to his death from a great height?

  Laws are desperately needed to prevent the exploitation of children, some of whom begin their labors as young as six years old, orphans and children from the poor houses favored for their slight size.

  The worst offense of all is there is no need for children to be exploited so. Devices so invented such as the scandiscope ought to put an end to the need for such physical labor – especially under such dangerous conditions – and yet far too many of our important households give no thought to performing such a simple service.

  Julian continued to read. The writer not only implored for the improvement of the laws but called on the good citizenry of London to consider what they might do personally to alleviate the suffering.

  For there is a time to render unto Caesar, that which is Caesar’s, and that which is God’s unto God, but that ought never to mean one should favor one over the other; the world of the temporal as well as the spiritual, need to work together for the benefit of all mankind.

  Julian flipped back to the beginning of the article to find the name of the author of such impassioned prose and it was there, beneath the headline in much smaller type:

  The Nightingale.

  *

  Caroline was up and dressed at the unfashionably early hour of eight o’clock.

  She peered in on Lucas who remained fast asleep and instructed Mrs. Stewart to let him sleep for as long as he wished.

  When she had found him on the steps of St. Luke’s, he was old enough to walk but not talk beyond infantile babble. In the time since, the boy had thrived. He was an open and curious child and Caroline was delighted to see how much he had developed.

  Above all, he loved his wooden Ark and could name all the animals he stretched out in a line, placing like with like, two by two on a march toward the big boat.

  As much as she adored having Lucas all to herself, she would soon have to consider his future. He would need a tutor. He would need to be introduced into her society as well as make friends with other children his age.

  But there was the rub.

  She could not pass him off as her own child. She had been too long a widow. Yet if she announced him as a foundling then he would be forever seen as a child of charity, to be pitied, rather than a boy to be taken on his own merits.

  Caroline shook her head. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself.

  The first of her articles for The Argus would be in the morning edition. She reined in her excitement by attending to her correspondence but, after that was done, she wondered whether she ought to send one of her footmen to the newspaper vendors.

  Perhaps she would after a second cup of tea…

  A knock at the front door broke her musing. Caroline heard the familiar voice of Reverend Camp.

  She emerged from the drawing room in time to see Fordyce take a large bundle of papers from the vicar.

  “Good morning, my dear!” said Reverend Camp with warm familiarity. “I knew you’d be up and my dear wife did advise against arriving too early to your door, but I knew you would be most interested in seeing this.”

  He handed her a copy of a broadsheet. The Argus.

  “Look at the article here in the newspaper – it’s everything we’ve spoken about – the health of the chimney sweeps, the welfare of the children. It’s marvelous! And so close to Christmas, too, when people are more inclined to turn their hearts toward charity.”

  Caroline fought a racing heart. Would he recognize there was more to it than that?

  She volunteered at St. Luke’s Mission and knew the stories of many of the regulars.

  As did he…

  She said nothing but watched Reverend Camp and saw the moment he pieced it together.

  He looked again at the article, his face beaming. Then his brow furrowed in thought before his eyes slowly rose to meet hers.

  “This is your doing? You’re the Nightingale?”

  She nodded and held her breath, not trusting herself to speak.

  The reverend and his wife had been so kind, she would hate to lose their friendship. But there was so much to be done and these people and their kindly parishioners could only do so much on their own.

  Should she apologize? Attempt to explain her actions?

  A moment later, the minister blinked away his surprise and broke out into a grin.

  “Far be it for me to wave away the hand of Providence!”

  He pointed behind him, where a bemused Fordyce still held a stack of paper.

  “Your friend at The Argus has gone so far as to print pamphlets! They ask MPs and citizens alike to support new child labor laws. More than that, he appears to have delivered several hundred to parishes all across London!”

  Caroline took one from Fordyce and scanned through it. The words were hers, only in larger type, with a call to write to one’s Member of Parliament.

  “I… I don’t know what to say,” she said. “What are we going to do with all of these?”

  “I have just the suggestion,” said Reverend Camp, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I shall arrange for our party to distribute these in Hyde Park.”

  Chapter Four

  Julian looked out of the window of the second story office in the city. It overlooked a small square and men and women below went about their business, their heads down against a passing shower. It was a strange autumn this – in its dying days it was warmer than most years and wetter, too. Some said this month might be more like March than the first of December.

  The square was surrounded by trees, the foliage of which was bare for the coming winter. Yet there were still evergreen shrubs and, from his vantage, Julian could see the occasional little bird flitting over the greenery.

  The Nightingale…

  Why had the writer chosen that as a nom de plume? What meaning did it have? The birds themselves were little bigger than sparrows. In their drab, they went unnoticed most of the time and yet, when they sang, men were enchanted.

  So, it was a name picked by an educated man…

  Julian thought back to his days as a schoolboy being introduced to Greek mythology. The nightingale was said to be their muse, sometimes associated with melancholy.

  “While we wait for the new shareholder agreements to be copied, is there any new business befo
re we conclude the first Annual General Meeting of the Wheal Gunnis Copper Mining Company?”

  Distracted from his reverie, Julian turned back to the room and regarded his business partners, Phillip Gedding and David Manston.

  Julian had first met Phillip nearly two years ago. It had been by chance they were staying at the same coaching inn. Being closer in age and status than the other travelers around them, they had shared a drink and discovered they had mining in common.

  The more Phillip told him about Wheal Gunnis, his family’s worked-out tin mine at Stannum, the more certain geologist Julian had been that it was worth exploring for copper and abandoning tin altogether. He decided to risk his own money in the venture, determined to find an independent way in life and to be out from under his estranged father’s thumb.

  Julian didn’t like his old man and he certainly didn’t like the way he treated the coal miners at his family’s Yorkshire pit.

  Now that Wheal Gunnis was a success, he could afford to do things his way. Prompted by The Nightingale’s words, Julian spoke up in response to Phillip’s question.

  “There’s a matter I’d like to raise before we employ more men.” Julian had both men’s full attention. “I’d like to draw up documentation that helps protect the welfare of the miners.”

  David reached for a decanter and poured a half-measure of claret. “What did you have in mind?”

  “A prohibition on child labor,” Julian answered. “No child below the age of twelve to be employed at the mine and only youths of fifteen years or older to work below ground.”

  The viscount nodded. “I concur… and you, Gedding?”

  Phillip agreed also and instructed the secretary to write down the resolution.

  “We’ve been sharing the same manner of thoughts, I see,” said Phillip. “As you know, in celebration of our success, we’re shutting down extraction work at Wheal Gunnis from the week before Christmas until the day after the Feast of St. Stephen and paying all the workers for their time off. Well, I’d like to propose making that arrangement an annual one.”

  The “ayes” carried it unanimously.

  But, apparently, that wasn’t to be all. Phillip continued.

  “I’d like the board’s permission to endow one hundred pounds a year to pay the salary of a teacher for a school. I’ve earmarked some land and will personally pay for construction of the school building.”

  David rose to his feet, his face beaming.

  “Charge your glasses, gentlemen, I propose a toast. To the ongoing success of Wheal Gunnis and the prosperity of everyone in Stannum. I think it is safe to say, Phillip, that the salary for a teacher is approved without dissent.”

  Julian raised his glass and joined in the salute.

  A fanciful thought it was, but he was sure he could hear a nightingale outside sing her approval.

  It was early afternoon when the business of the Wheal Gunnis Copper Mining Company was concluded and the plan had been to enjoy a game of cards at White’s. However, before the three men could leave, the ladies called by the offices unexpectedly – Viscountess Carmarthen, her godmother Lady Abigail Ridgeway, Julian’s Aunt Harriet and cousin Margaret with her friend, Lydia.

  They had been victorious in their hunt for finery, judging by the unconstrained excitement of the two youngest members of the party.

  Aunt Harriet must have said something to Lydia, thought Julian. She didn’t smell like a Covent Garden opera singer today. Indeed, the girl actually managed to look demure in a modest gown topped by a light blue velvet pelisse. Harriet’s scolding of her must have been severe, indeed.

  “Good morning, Winter,” the young woman said crisply. “I trust you suffer no lingering ill effects from your mishap last night?”

  The young woman glanced sideways at Aunt Harriet and Lady Abigail. There was a small nod of approval from his aunt.

  In that case, he could give a little, too.

  “None at all, Miss Stonely, and I thank you for your kind concern about my welfare.”

  Julian addressed his next comment to cousin, Margaret.

  “How was your excursion today?”

  “Oh, it was wonderful, Cousin. I shan’t bore you with the details of ladies’ couture as I’m sure you’re not interested, but I must tell you of this most charming teahouse that gave us the most remarkable view of the streets. Lady Abigail pointed out all the important personages who came by – including some rather handsome eligibles.”

  Margaret turned to Lydia.

  “Did you not think so?”

  Lydia turned Julian’s way and regarded him a moment before turning back to her friend. “Indeed so! Lord Cavil in particular is a most striking man. I’m very grateful to Lady Abigail for the opportunity to be introduced.”

  Julian was happy to keep his counsel. If Lydia wished to employ the weapon of jealousy against him, then she was free to do so – he was immune to it. And focusing her attention on other suitable bachelors might prompt her to seek better prospects than him elsewhere.

  He rued missing the opportunity to retire to White’s for a few hours before readying himself for that evening’s engagements, but he was mindful of his duty to make Margaret and Lydia’s first foray into London memorable.

  He glanced out of the window. The morning showers had passed and the sun was out.

  “We seem to be gifted with a rare fine afternoon,” he observed. “I wonder, Aunt Harriet, if you and your charges wish to take a stroll through Hyde Park.”

  Margaret couldn’t contain her excitement at the prospect. “Oh, might we? I have so longed to see Rotten Row and all the elegant ladies and gents on their horses.”

  Lydia kept her interest tightly reined.

  “It’s still rather early in the Season. I don’t think we should see some of the leading lights of society,” she said dismissively. Margaret’s smile dimmed a little at her friend’s offhand remark.

  Julian glanced to David and Allie to see if they’d taken offence at the silly girl’s comment. As the Viscount and Viscountess of Carmarthan, they were highest ranked of all those present – including Lady Abigail Ridgeway herself, although Alexandra did defer to her godmother, as he himself had discovered was wise to do.

  Manston had elected to not hear it, while Allie lowered her head to hide a smile.

  “You won’t see but a fraction of Hyde Park this afternoon on foot,” Lady Abigail interjected. “If the weather holds tomorrow, I might arrange for a barouche to be brought out – if the young ladies are agreeable.”

  The double meaning of the woman’s words was not lost on the party. Lydia was sufficiently chastened to pretend to search for something in her reticule.

  David and Allie went home to their townhouse. The remaining group rode in Lady Abigail’s carriage to Hyde Park where they disembarked.

  Lydia’s observation may have been inept but it was astute – there was little to see at the Park Lane end of Rotten Row, the hour and the Season being too early. So, the party headed northward along the stately boulevard of trees that ran parallel to Park Lane toward the old Tyburn Road.

  “Did you know that just across the road from the park was where the Tyburn gallows were?” said Aunt Harriet. “It used to be quite the spectacle to gather and watch the condemned man make his final speech.”

  “And there appears to be some kind of to-do up ahead on the corner today,” Lydia noted.

  Julian heard the sound of singing before he could make out the words. As they drew nearer, he spotted the singers, a rather ragtag group wearing working men’s clothes. Now he could hear the carol clearly.

  God rest you merry, Gentlemen,

  Let nothing you dismay,

  For Jesus Christ our Savior

  Was born upon this Day.

  To save poor souls from Satan’s power,

  Which long time had gone astray.

  Which brings tidings of comfort and joy.

  A crowd had gathered to listen. Lady Abigail urged the party closer togeth
er, warning the ladies that cutpurses favored those distracted by entertainments.

  Others, including one tall, older man dressed in priest’s vestments, were handing out pamphlets. Julian found one pressed into his hand.

  Call on Parliament now

  To Enact reforms to end

  Child Labor

  Open your hearts

  Open your minds

  Save children from Exploitation!

  He turned it over. On the reverse was a reprint from this morning’s article in The Argus. The Nightingale’s by-line was prominent.

  He looked up once more and spotted her – the woman from last night.

  She was several yards away but there was no mistaking her. There was something about a close brush with death which sharpened the faculties.

  Today, however, she wore clothing more in keeping with the elevated station he’d suspected she owned. Her attire was well-made but not ostentatious, a maroon-colored pelisse over a forest green dress. A matching hat framed her face, and her fair complexion served as a canvas to finely drawn features.

  Muttering his excuses, Julian disengaged himself from his party and headed in her direction.

  If there was any doubt about her identity, it was vanquished when a young boy abandoned a group of his friends and ran back to this woman. It was the child he’d rescued last night

  The choir continued to sing.

  How did he feel about seeing the woman again? Julian wasn’t sure. Was he angry at her? In an odd way, he supposed he was. While she had apologized at the time, he couldn’t help a measure of annoyance at her disappearance. Was it merely the result of a satisfaction denied him to remonstrate against her carelessness and inattention?

  Or was there something more?

  At first, she did not see him approach, but as the choir reached the chorus, she turned his way.

  Recognition was instant. Julian waited for the woman to pretend the acknowledgement was an error, but she did not. She rested a hand on the child’s head and waited for him to join her.

  “Lucas,” she said softly, attracting the child’s attention. “Remember the gentleman who saved you last night? I think it would be right for you to thank him properly.”