One

London, December 18, 1833

The main room of St. James’s Parish Workhouse wasn’t as grim as Noel Langston had expected. Due to the high ceiling, which was supported at twelve-foot intervals by sturdy wooden pillars, and the tall mullioned windows along the main wall, the space was both airy and well-lit. Tables and benches distributed throughout the space were occupied by one or more persons engaged in some form of labor.

The majority of the workers were female, as the primary tasks appeared to be the sewing of clothing and linens along with the carding and spinning of wool. There were, however, a handful of men, likely employed to empty and refill the large buckets of wash-water on a periodic basis. Everyone seemed to be in a state of good health, even the oldest of the inhabitants, and all were wrapped in warm woolen shawls to guard against the deep chill permeating the room. The shawls looked brand new.

He glanced at his companions, Desmond Faircloth and Arthur Cox, to gauge their assessment of the tableau. Both men bore expressions of careful neutrality, which told Noel they had the same impression he did.

Their visit had been expected, the scene staged.

Noel turned toward the matron, Mrs. Chappell, a sturdy woman in her mid-forties, and said, “I’d like to speak to some of the residents, if I may.”

Her hard eyes flickered with disapproval, but she nodded. “Of course, sir.” She gestured in the direction of the table placed nearest the window, where a half dozen women were working together to assemble items of clothing from a bolt of grey fabric. “I’m sure the ladies there would be amenable to a chat. But please don’t take up too much of their time.”

Arching an eyebrow at his friends, Noel strode across the floor to the indicated group and removed his hat. “Good afternoon,” he said, sketching a polite bow. In his experience, it was never a mistake to be courteous. “Could I trouble you to answer a few questions?”

All of the women—although the youngest looked no more than thirteen and was thus a girl—stopped what they were doing and stared at him. He wasn’t sure if their astonishment sprang from his request or his deferential attitude, but they exchanged glances with one another before nodding.

“Aye, gov’nor,” said a thin woman with a leathery complexion and a missing front tooth. “What d’ye want to know?”

He gestured around the room. “Would you say this is a typical work day here? The number of people and the types of tasks they are performing and so on.”

The woman shrugged. “I reckon so. Hard to tell the difference one day to the next, ain’t it?”

Noel repressed a sigh. These people depended on the good graces of the master and matron of the workhouse for survival. If they’d been told to put on a good show to make conditions appear less dire than they were, he could scarcely expect them to betray the truth. Especially not when the matron of the house was in earshot.

And perhaps his own history made him susceptible to claims of abuse and privation in workhouses. Here but for the grace of God went he.

If the abuse and privations were as severe as rumors had led him to believe, however, then a different approach was in order.

He gave the group his most winning smile. This particular expression tended to soften even the most recalcitrant members of the opposite sex. “I suppose it would be hard to know how many people are coming and going in such a large space,” he agreed. “But tell me, is it always this cold in here during the winter months?”

“Oh, aye,” another member of the group answered. She was short and round, but the loose folds of skin around her chin and neck suggested recent, rapid weight loss. “But we ‘ave these, don’t we?” By way of illustration, she pulled the brown woolen shawl tighter to her body.

“Yes, they look very warm. And quite new.”

“That’s because we got them this morning,” piped in the adolescent girl. Her expression was utterly guileless as she twirled to model the garment, which covered her upper body adequately but could not conceal the tattered, threadbare state of her skirt and stockings or the holes beginning to form at the toes of her too-small slippers.

There was a collective intake of breath from all the women at the table, and several of them shot furtive glances toward Mrs. Chappell. Having got at least some of what he needed to make his case as to the appalling state of the best of London’s workhouses, he nodded gravely at the child and said, “An early Christmas present, no doubt, to replace the old ones.” Turning to look over his shoulder at the stony-faced matron, he gave her the same sunny smile and went on before the girl could correct his intentional misapprehension, “’Tis the season for such munificence, isn’t it?”

Mrs. Chappell’s answering smile was as false as her generosity. “’Tis but a small price to pay to ensure our charges stay warm in the winter months.”

A price Noel felt quite certain the parish wouldn’t have paid at all had they not been informed that three members of Parliament would be visiting the workhouse a week before Christmas.

Cox met Noel’s gaze and rolled his eyes heavenward. He was no more deceived than Noel was.

But his efforts at reassuring the women who’d feared reprisals nonetheless bore fruit, for they seemed to expel a breath of relief. He decided, however, not to press his luck by asking further questions. He might elicit another careless admission that would put paid to the lie everyone was desperately trying to protect. At least, their visit meant these women were better armed against the cold. If he did or said anything to suggest he was unconvinced by the show, whoever Mrs. Chappell blamed for the failure might well be punished by the confiscation of her shawl.

Bowing again to the women, he thanked them for answering his questions and wished them a happy holiday. To his colleagues, he said, “Seen enough, gentlemen?”

Faircloth flicked his eyes around the space, as if mentally mapping everything for future reference, and then looked over at Cox for confirmation. When the other man nodded, so did Faircloth.

Noel was about to take his first step away from the table when a woman from somewhere behind him called out, “Please, sir. Wait.” Her voice was strong but not shrill, evenly pitched and melodious. Well-educated.

He checked himself mid-stride and turned in her direction. There were several benches and tables beyond the one to which Mrs. Chappell had directed him, and he scanned the crowd in search of the woman who had spoken. Fortunately, she wanted him to know who she was, for she raised her hand to draw his attention.

His first impression of her was limited by the fact that several people stood between them. She sat on a bench perhaps five feet from him and had heard the entire conversation. Like the other occupants of the room, she had one of the new woolen shawls wrapped around her torso and the top of her head was obscured by a dingy white cap. As his gaze came to rest upon her, she lifted something from her lap—an item she was meant to be sewing—and set it on the empty bench beside her.

“Yes, madam. How may I be of assistance?”

As he spoke, the people standing in his line of sight stepped aside, affording him a clearer view. At the same time, she pushed the bench and rose with some difficulty to her feet. It was then he realized two things. The first was that she was heavy with child, within four to six weeks of her confinement if he was any judge.

The second was that he knew her.

Oh, not intimately. Nor, in fact, personally, for they’d never been formally introduced. He’d seen her a grand total of three times: once late last November in a hat shop where he’d been searching for Christmas presents for a multiplicity of female relations; a second time in March when he’d gone to see Edmund and Charles Kean in King Lear at Covent Garden a few days before the former’s dramatic onstage death; and finally at Vauxhall Gardens in late May or early June. On none of these occasions had they spoken to one another, but he’d been informed of her name by one of his companions on the second and confirmed the identification on the third.

He couldn’t be mistaken, however, despite the glancing nature of their acquaintance. He would have recognized her anywhere, even with her bright red-gold hair tucked beneath a cap and her perfectly sculpted features grown hollow since last he’d seen her, for she was the only woman who’d ever made him believe in the concept of love at first sight. Not that he’d never experienced the tug of attraction to a stranger, of course, but those sensations had been weak, watery copies of the gravitational pull inspired by their three distant encounters. He’d wanted her, instantly and ardently, with a longing that defied explanation. And he would have done something to assuage those feelings—requested an introduction, at the very least—had Catriona Fergusson not been the mistress of Lord Burleigh, sitting Tory member of the House of Commons and Noel’s staunchest adversary in advancing reformist proposals to the floor.

Noel felt as if he’d been knocked alongside the head with a croquet mallet. The child she carried must be Burleigh’s; to all accounts, she’d been his paramour for over nine years, and the union was trumpeted by all who knew the pair to be the love match Burleigh’s marriage was not. Yet here she was, in St. James’ Parish Workhouse, which signified not only that her association with Burleigh had come to an end but a disastrous one. Noel could think of one reason for a man to turn out his pregnant mistress in disgrace and without upkeep, and still he couldn’t credit it.

“You may assist me,” Miss Fergusson began, “by not accepting the lies you’ve been shown and told today.” Her cultured contralto was steady and confident but rang hollowly in his ears thanks to his utter astonishment at finding her here.

Her words were punctuated by audible gasps, hisses of fury, and cries of “No, you mustn’t!” and “How could you?”

Shaking her head, Miss Fergusson said in a ringing tone, “I regret the necessity, but surely we can’t allow this sham to continue. We mustn’t think only of ourselves, but of our sisters who will continue to suffer if we don’t speak.”

Several women moved in her direction, as if to tackle her, but halted uncertainly when Miss Fergusson threw off her shawl to reveal the thin, shabby work dress and the full extent of her swollen abdomen.

“The women you see are but half of those who reside and work here on a normal day. Last evening after dinner, that woman”—here, she pointed a steady finger in Mrs. Chappell’s direction—“told those of us who look strongest and healthiest that only we were to appear for work today, while the rest would be confined to the dormitory out of sight. This morning we received these wraps and were told we would receive extra rations at dinner for the next week if we kept our mouths shut and told any visitors we’re treated well and fairly. We were also warned, should any of us speak against the parish, every one of us would lose our nice, new shawls and be put on half-rations until Twelfth Night.” She smiled serenely as her compatriots fixed her with stares ranging from bitter to hostile to horrified.

In retrospect, Noel would marvel that utter chaos did not erupt then and there. Under the circumstances, he wouldn’t have faulted any of the women had they transformed into maenads and ripped Miss Fergusson to shreds. But instead, everyone stood frozen in place, transfixed by the enormity of what she’d done.

Somehow, his wits reasserted themselves quickly enough to avert catastrophe. Miss Fergusson was educated and clever, and she must realize the parish would be unable to follow through on its threats. By revealing what the workhouse’s staff had been desperately trying to hide, she had made it impossible for them to punish anyone…at least in the short term. In fact, parish officials would now be forced to do the precise opposite to prove her allegations false. Not only were all of the women in the room safe from the consequences they feared, but those who had been kept off the floor to conceal their infirmity would likely see an improvement in their circumstances as well.

For the briefest of moments, he met Miss Fergusson’s gaze, and the understanding between them was instant and electric. She dipped her chin in acknowledgment. She knew what he was about to do and why.

Ignoring the twinge of guilt in his chest, he turned to Mrs. Chappell, whose face was an impenetrable mask. She opened her mouth to speak, no doubt to deny the charges, but Noel saved her the trouble.

“This lady must be mistaken,” he said, hating himself for the falsehood. “I’m certain that the parish chose to give the weaker, sicker workers a well-deserved respite from now through the end of the Christmas holiday, and that this good woman misunderstood an act of Christian charity. The rest…” Shaking his head as though he was saddened by Miss Fergusson’s inexplicable fabrication, he shrugged his shoulders.

“Of course she’s mistaken,” Mrs. Chappell responded hotly. “You’re quite right, Mr. Langston. We have indeed decided to give those who aren’t in the best of health the entire Christmas season off, from now until Twelfth Night.” Her eyes narrowed. “Perhaps that’s where she heard the reference to Twelfth Night, though why she would invent such a malicious lie, I cannot imagine. We keep our residents properly clothed and well-nourished. To do otherwise would be not merely unfathomable, but in direct conflict with our Christian duty.”

Faircloth, standing to the matron’s left, grimaced. Cox, by contrast, looked puzzled for several seconds, but then his expression cleared and he coughed into a hastily drawn handkerchief to cover what Noel was certain would otherwise have been laughter. Though not an amused sort of laughter.

Noel’s mouth tasted bitter, but he felt certain even his parents would approve of him lying under these circumstances, so he forged ahead. “Perhaps it’s her condition. I understand some women can become a trifle unhinged at this stage of the process.”

He felt, rather than heard, the ripple of reaction to this suggestion and knew he’d probably offended more than half the women in the room, but there was naught to be done for it.

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Chappell responded with a scowl. “Nevertheless, the parish can hardly be expected to continue supporting her, given her obvious discontentment with us. She may keep the shawl, of course, but she must seek relief elsewhere.”

Better that than remain under this roof, Noel thought. If Miss Fergusson stayed here, she would certainly suffer reprisals.

The question was, where could she go?

And then he had an idea. One so cunning and yet so righteous, he simultaneously reproached and congratulated himself.

He could marry her.