A Wedding In Springtime

chapter Fifteen





Genie could not stop smiling. She had worn a smile since she returned home from her walk. She had smiled through her bath, smiled through dinner, smiled through cards, and even when her aunt chastised her for smiling, she smiled back her apology. She awoke to a sunny spring day with the smile still on her face.

Everything around her was like a dream; the only thing real was Grant. He liked her. He held her. He kissed her. He really did—he kissed her. She had dreamed of being kissed someday. She did not count Ernie Walters, a precocious ten-year-old who caught her under the mistletoe.

Mr. Grant definitely counted. The way he held her, caressing her back, shot strange sensations through her. He was strong; she could feel the muscles beneath his perfectly tailored coat. But the best part about him was the way he smelled. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. It drew her to him—she wanted him, needed him. He smelled like pine and musk mixed with cheroot and whiskey, which Genie recognized sounded wretched, but on him was intoxicating.

Genie floated to the sitting room, where she was expected to keep her aunt and cousin company. She chose a comfortable chair and sighed, sitting back into the cushions. Mr. Grant. Mrs. Grant. Mrs. Eugenia Grant.

“Genie!”

Genie snapped back to the room and sat straight. Her aunt was frowning at her again, nothing new there, but Louisa was looking at her with a curious expression.

“Are you acquainted with a Mrs. Grant?” asked Louisa, giving Genie a pointed look.

Had she spoken the name out loud? Heat rose to her cheeks as she faced her aunt. “Y-yes. Mrs. Grant, an old friend I was just thinking of her. What shall we be eating tonight, Aunt Cora?”

Lady Bremerton, who prided herself on her table, could not resist launching into a detailed description of the dinner, and so the topic was changed. Halfway through the description of the lobster pâté, Genie heard a slight tapping on the window behind her. She turned and glimpsed a figure in the window before it ducked from sight.

“What was that, Genie?” asked her aunt.

“I am not sure,” said Genie, but something told her the rapping at the window was for her. Her aunt launched into details of braised ham, and Genie once again heard the furtive rapping. She did not turn around this time. She knew someone was trying to get her attention.

Her heart raced. Was it Grant? Perhaps he had returned to continue where they had left off under the tree? Genie politely excused herself and walked to the front door. She felt odd in doing so and realized she had actually never opened the front door herself.

She opened the door slowly, her heart pounding hard. Who was it? There on the front stoop was… no one.

“Can I help you, Miss Talbot?”

Genie turned with a start, putting her hand over her chest as if to keep her heart inside her rib cage. “You startled me.”

The butler said nothing, his polished, smooth exterior revealing nothing of his true emotions. “Did you wish to go out?”

“No, I thought I heard someone at the door.” It was the wrong thing to say, she knew it as soon as the words left her mouth.

The butler stood very tall and very straight, the very picture of pained pride. “I do expect I can answer the door, Miss Talbot.”

“Yes, of course you can. My mistake.” Genie hurried past the offended butler and headed back to her room. She needed to get herself under control. What was the matter with her? Mr. Grant was very diverting, and he might steal a kiss under a willow tree, but he had no intentions toward marriage. She needed to push him from her mind.

A tapping sound startled her out of her revelry, particularly since her bedroom was on the third floor. She peeked through the curtains cautiously and was relieved not to find someone hanging onto the window ledge.

Plink! A small rock bounced off her window. She flung back her curtains. Perhaps Mr. Grant had come to see her after all. Opening the window, she saw a small figure cloaked in shadows.

“Oi! Milady!” called the figure, a shape much too small to be Grant. “Dub the jigger fer me!”

“Jem?” asked Genie. Was it the young boy who had tried to steal Pen’s bandbox? “Whatever are you doing?”

“Open the side door fer me, miss!”

Genie hustled down to the servants’ entrance, being careful to stay out of sight. She opened the door and let in the errant Jem, his long hair a tangled mess, his feet still without shoes.

“I gots a message fer ya.” The lad puffed out his chest.

“Who is this from and how have you come to be a messenger?”

“I don’t know the swell. But he found me watching the house fer ya and tipped me a crown to give you this.” The urchin handed Genie a folded letter.

“Watching for me? Whatever for?”

“Yous was right nice to me,” said the lad with simple admiration in his eyes.

Genie’s heart was softened instantly to the child. Had he never known kindness? She gave him a smile and turned to the letter. The note was brief and won a smile from Genie.

“Does ya have a reply? I’m supposed to wait fer a reply.”

“Yes, tell your gentleman friend I shall meet him tomorrow. Now tell me Jem, have you eaten supper tonight?”

Jem’s eyes got large and he licked his lips. “No, milady,” he whispered.

“Let us do something about that, shall we?”

Jem followed Genie into the kitchen. At once, Genie knew she did not belong downstairs. This was the servants’ territory. Yet she knew she must feed the child, so she walked bravely into the heart of the servants’ domain.

The servants were sitting around the table having tea and biscuits. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace and a groomsman played a jaunty tune on a fiddle. Everything stopped when she walked into the room. The servants all stood swiftly to their feet.

“Please, continue, do not stand on my account,” said Genie, heat rising in her cheeks.

“What can we help you with, Miss Talbot?” asked the butler with polite disregard.

“I merely wished to ask for some supper for this boy who…” Genie was about to say he had given her a message but swallowed it back down. No one was supposed to know about that, hence the importance of using a small child instead of delivering it through the post.

“He has been a help to me. Is there some supper we could provide?” asked Genie.

No one moved, but everyone eyed the filthy creature with suspicion. “This is a Christian household, Miss Talbot,” said Mrs. Grady, the housekeeper. “That boy does not belong in a respectable house.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are right. Jem here is hardly respectable. But since this is a Christian household, should we not do our duty to feed the hungry and clothe the needful?”

“You want us to clothe him too? It won’t do no good wi’ him so filthy.”

“It would be nice to provide him with clothes too, thank you for that suggestion. Would there be anything that could be used for that purpose while we get him something to eat?”

Despite the looks of reproach sent her from the various members of the household staff, Genie stood firm. Eventually, the housekeeper relented and barked out succinct orders to have the miscreant fed and clothed. Genie insisted the boy wash his hands and face before being fed, and he surprised the company by being covered in freckles, which had been concealed by the general grime. His arms and legs were scrawny and hung loosely from his body like a limp marionette.

Jem was excited about the prospect of cold ham, bread, biscuits, and tea, eating more than Genie thought a young boy could inhale. He was less excited about putting on a pair of old children’s shoes one of the housemaids found in the attic, but quickly accepted an old coat.

“Now what are you going to do with the little heathen?” asked the housekeeper, voicing the question Genie had rattling around in her mind.

“Do you have a place to stay, Jemmy?” asked Genie.

Jem nodded his head, then shook it, then shrugged and reached for another fistful of ham.

“Well, do you or don’t you?” asked the housekeeper.

“I stay wi’ Mr. Master, if’n he don’t beat me. If’n he’s in a drubbn’ mind, I sleeps in a doorway.”

“You poor dear,” said Genie.

“Naught but a street urchin,” muttered the housekeeper, less inclined toward sympathy.

“But could we not keep him?” asked Genie.

The housekeeper crossed her arms over her generous bosom. “You would have to get permission from his lordship and her ladyship first, and I’d bet a lifetime of Sundays they will not be so inclined. He’s just a street rat. London is full of them. ’Tis sad to be sure, but there is naught we can do for him.”

Genie was committed to the path of helping her wayward street urchin, but she had to agree that Lady Bremerton was unlikely to look on Jem with anything other than disgust. Yet Genie knew she was in the right, and once she was confident in her principles, she never backed down.

“Do you have any parents or family?” asked Genie.

The child shook his head.

“Who is this Mr. Master you speak of?”

“He pays us to do things, nick stuff mostly,” said the boy, taking another hearty bite of biscuit while stuffing a few more in his pocket.

“Well,” said Genie, thinking of what to do. “Well, there is nothing else we can do—we must speak with my aunt.”

***

“Your excursion to see your betrothed has cost me my coat,” accused Grant, swirling his whiskey.

“Your coat?” asked Marchford, sitting across from him in their accustomed club.

“Was left on a damp Miss Talbot. Had twelve flaps, made by Brooks. I have a mind to ask for it back.”

“You wish to see Miss Talbot again?”

“I’d like to see my coat again.”

“She is a fine article, Grant.”

“Yes, but what is she going to do with a man’s coat? Can’t wear it. Look demmed silly on a girl.”

Marchford shook his head and went back to his newspaper. “You avoid a topic better than any man I know. Go see your Miss Talbot if you like.”

“By Jove, you’re right. Must get it back before the next storm hits.” With that dubious justification, Grant left Marchford in the club and took his phaeton to the Bremerton town house.

The Bremerton house was a fine one as houses go. Its placement, grandeur, and distinguished marks of age all heralded an established lineage. The Earl of Bremerton boasted the bluest blood in the neighborhood.

Mr. Grant, who came from his own long line of established gentry, accepted the trappings of wealth and prestige with equanimity. He was quite at home in these surroundings, everything in order, everything managed in adherence to a strict code of conduct. It was comfortable, predictable, maybe even mundane at times, but he did not fail to recognize he had a very comfortable life.

When Grant was admitted into the drawing room, raised voices were a clear sign that something in the ordered life of the respectable Bremerton household had gone seriously awry.

“Absolutely out of the question,” declared Lord Bremerton in a voice that defied response. He was an older gentleman of few words, so he expected people to heed those words once he troubled himself to utter them.

“But we cannot turn our backs on him. Why, he is only a child!” cried Miss Talbot.

Lord Bremerton was so unaccustomed to having anyone talk back to him, he opened and closed his mouth several times without saying a word.

“Yes, dear, I see that he is only a child, and these things are much too bad, but Lord Bremerton is right. We cannot allow such a creature to live in our house.” Lady Bremerton fluttered a handkerchief in front of her as if to ward away such a noxious thought.

The object of such consternation was a small, scrawny boy, with a thick crop of red hair that stuck out from his head at odd angles like a flashy porcupine. Far from being disconcerted by the conversation in which he appeared to be the primary subject, the child wandered toward the tea tray and made short work of the cakes and biscuits, eating with two hands at an alarming pace, as if he was trying to stuff as much as possible into his mouth before someone shooed him away from the food.

“This child is being used by an unscrupulous man to conduct crimes. Jem says if he cannot steal enough each day, he is beaten. Surely you cannot ask me to return this boy to such a situation,” said an impassioned Miss Talbot.

“If the boy is a thief, he should be locked in Newgate,” growled Lord Bremerton.

“But it is not his fault. Surely we must show this child Christian charity, as we are commanded in the Bible.”

At the mention of the Holy Book, Lady Bremerton put her handkerchief to her forehead and sank majestically to her couch. “Oh, Mr. Grant!” Lady Bremerton started with the sudden realization of his presence in the room. “I fear you catch us at an inopportune moment.”

“I do apologize for trespassing on your privacy, Lady Bremerton. I have come merely for the return of my coat which I neglectfully left here yesterday.”

“Mr. Grant!” Genie walked up to him flush and steady. If she were a prizefighter stepping into a mill, he would have laid his bets on her. “Do you not feel it is criminal to return a child to a life of unspeakable horror and misery?”

“Well, that does sound a trifle flat,” conceded Grant, only to be faced with a glowering Lord Bremerton.

“Flat? Why it would be unconscionable! This innocent child must be protected,” demanded Genie.

The innocent child in question was at that moment lifting the silver spoons from the tea tray and pocketing them.

“He does seem to have a tendency to steal, dear,” said Lady Bremerton with a wave of her handkerchief. “We cannot allow it in the house.”

“But only because he has never been instructed in the proper way. Now put those spoons back on the tea tray, Jemmy, there’s a good lad.” Genie beamed down at her grimy little protégé.

“He is fortunate we do not call the magistrate immediately,” said Lord Bremerton.

“Surely you would not do that,” gasped Genie.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance.” Grant stepped forward. He was the master of any difficult social situation, though this was a scene quite unknown to him. All eyes were now on him, but the only ones he saw were Genie’s bright blue ones, alive with fire and looking up at him like a hero of old.

“Perhaps I can take the lad home, find a suitable home for him.” No one was more surprised by this suggestion than Grant himself.

“Demmed fool,” muttered Lord Bremerton, but it was not him whose opinion mattered to Mr. Grant.

Genie walked up to Grant and put her hand on his sleeve. “Would you?” Her eyes were wide with hope, and a smile graced her full, rose lips. He would have said yes to anything.

“Certainly. Christian duty and all, as you said.”

“Christian duty?” said Lord Bremerton with a guffaw. “I never knew you to be one of those do-gooders, Grant.”

“Yes, but if you are inclined to take the boy, we would be most grateful.” Here, the lady of the house gave her husband a silencing glance, and his lordship caught her meaning and said no more.

“This is most kind of you,” said Genie. “Most kind.” Her eyes were a kind of liquid fire that would no doubt be the death of him.

“Yes, yes, most kind,” said Lady Bremerton with a furtive glance at the door as if calculating how quickly she could return her sitting room to rights without the unwanted presence of a street urchin.

“Now, Jemmy,” said Genie, kneeling down to speak with him eye to eye, “would you like to go with this kind gentleman? He will help take care of you.”

“He does look a flash cove, miss. Is ’e the bloke wi’ the racing phaeton I saw out the window there?”

“I believe I am that ‘bloke,’” replied Grant.

“Can I drive them bays ye’ got, guv’nor?” Jem’s eyes grew large with anticipation.

“Certainly not,” said Grant with a shudder. A child drive his bays? It was too hideous even to consider. Genie looked up at him with pleading eyes, and he fell into some alternate state of existence where he wooed debutantes, cared for the needy, and let a young thief hold the reins to his new matched bays.

“Thems fine steppers,” said Jem.

The sound of the boy’s voice broke the spell and Grant returned to his senses. “They are at that and you’re not to touch them. You may, if you are a good lad and do not squirm, sit beside me on the box.”

That was enough incentive for any young thief, and he readily agreed to follow Grant wherever he might lead. Genie deftly fished the silver butter knife and a china tea plate out of Jem’s pocket, and they were ready to go.

“Thank you again, Mr. Grant, for your kindness,” said Genie. “I suspect you and Jem will become the best of friends.”

Grant suspected that was far from the truth but smiled and said nothing. Within a few minutes, Grant was seated on his high-perch racing phaeton, a dirty child by his side. He had come for his greatcoat and to talk with a pretty girl but, through circumstances that yet eluded him, had ended up with an urchin.