plain country clothing. “Mais non, mademoiselle. Ze orange is not for you.” The brown-haired woman, perhaps in her mid-forties, cast a quick glance at Mrs. Parton. “For madam, of course, eet ees perfection. But mademoiselle must have ze blue, ze pink and perhaps even ze pale green to enhance her flawless complexion and beautiful eyes.”
Beatrice did not care for Giselle’s excessive flattery, but she did admire the woman’s skill, which was exhibited in lovely gowns draped over molded female forms. Beatrice longed to try on one of the exquisite dresses. Not since before Mama died had she worn such beautiful clothes, for Papa had never given her wardrobe the slightest consideration.
“Do you not think so, Miss Gregory?” Mrs. Parton’s question interrupted Beatrice’s dark musings.
“What? Oh, yes, I am certain—” She had no idea to what she was agreeing. “Forgive me. I was admiring this lovely gown.” She fingered the delicate lace edging on the low-cut green bodice of a dress on display. Without doubt, this style would demand a fichu. Her hand involuntarily went to her neckline. While her dress might be old and an unflattering color, at least it was modest.
“Then you must have one just like it, but in pink sprigged muslin. Giselle, write it down.” Mrs. Parton wagged a finger toward the modiste’s growing list. “But for now, for this afternoon, you must have something to wear. Giselle has this blue already made.” She took a walking gown from the modiste’s assistant and held it up in front of Beatrice. “What do you think?”
Beatrice embraced the Irish linen garment and stepped in front of the tall mirror. By its delicate finishing stitches she could see it had been skillfully completed, no doubt for another lady near her size, perhaps someone like her who in the end could not pay her bill. Or, more likely, some spoiled miss who thought the waistline too high for the latest style and had changed her mind, leaving Giselle with an expensive castoff no wellborn lady would have. If Mrs. Parton took Beatrice to all the promised events, she risked being seen by the lady who had ordered it. Perhaps this was a part of God’s journey for her, this stripping away of all her pride. But never mind. The people she would meet this afternoon would not judge her by her clothes.
“It is lovely. I thank you, Mrs. Parton.” After measurements were taken for her other gowns and fabrics chosen, Beatrice donned her hastily altered new dress and followed her employer out to the black phaeton.
Mrs. Parton insisted upon driving the small carriage herself, but at least a tiger and a footman sat behind them in the jump seat, which eased Beatrice’s mind. Melly once overturned his smaller phaeton while racing, and thereafter Papa had forbidden his sole heir to use the sporty conveyance. She prayed her brother had not taken up racing again, but she would not seek him out to ask him.
They wended their way through the busy streets, and Beatrice soon understood why upper-class ladies shopped before the crowds descended upon the area. The lower classes, even the women, shouted in the most colorful language she had ever heard, generating frowns from Mrs. Parton and heat in Beatrice’s cheeks. Even gentlemen in fine suits and top hats, riding excellent steeds, seemed to have left their proper manners at home, for they rode as if the streets belonged to them and berated anyone who stood in their way, again in language no one should hear, much less use.
“Well, my goodness.” Mrs. Parton waved her whip toward a wide boulevard where the crowds had thinned. “There’s Greystone. I suppose he is on his way to Parliament.”
Beatrice located the viscount among the few carriages and carts filling the street. He was the very picture of grace upon his black gelding. Her heart jolted, but she forced down her emotions. “Hmm. How interesting.” She managed to keep her tone calm as she sank back into her seat, wishing all the while the phaeton top were raised so she could hide from his view. To her horror, he spied them and turned his steed in their direction. They met at the edge of the street in front of Westminster Abbey.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” His expression appeared guarded, but he did tip his hat. Here was one gentleman who remembered his manners in the midst of all the rudeness and hubbub. “Did you complete your shopping before the crush?”
Beatrice noticed his gaze briefly touched on her new gown, and a look of approval flitted across his face. Then he frowned and gave his head a little shake, as if to snuff out any admiration. But how foolish she was. Why should she hope for his good opinion when he seemed determined not to give it? Humph. That was a favor she could easily return.
“Yes, we have finished,” Mrs. Parton said. “And now we are off to St. Ann’s. Miss Gregory has a great interest in my work there.”
“Indeed?” The viscount’s gruff expression softened. “Very admirable, Lady Beatrice.”
Beatrice’s face warmed, something she was growing tired of. At home at Melton Gardens, she had never felt so discomfited so often. Had never, ever blushed. “I thank you, sir.” She gazed upward and beyond him toward one of the Abbey’s two square spires, lest he see how his small approval pleased her. How quickly she had abandoned her resolve not to wish for his good opinion—and all against her will.
“Most young ladies I know never give a thought to orphans or any other needy soul.”
“Indeed?” Even her eyes betrayed her, turning back as if of their own accord to view the handsome viscount so grandly mounted on his fine horse. “Why, how do they occupy their days if not in service to some worthy cause?”
He shrugged. “My lady, I cannot guess. Perhaps shopping, visiting, gossiping, planning parties and balls. You have my utmost respect for your generosity.” No smile confirmed his compliment.
Once again an infuriating blush heated her face, and she waved her fan to cool it. “You are too kind, sir.”
“Not at all.” He stared at her, and for several seconds she could not move. Or breathe.
“Well, go on then, Greystone,” Mrs. Parton said. “We shall not keep you.” She waved him away. “You are excused to go solve all of Prinny’s problems.”
“Madam, if I could do that, the world would stop spinning upon its axis.” At last he smiled, then tipped his hat again. “I bid you both good day.” He reined his horse around and rode toward the Parliament building in the next block.
Beatrice still could not turn her eyes away from his departing figure. What a handsome gentleman, so refined, so considerate of his mother’s friend. But admiring him or any gentleman would bring her only heartbreak and disappointment. She must concentrate on the work ahead rather than dream of having the friendship of a gentleman who clearly did not wish to befriend her.
How annoying to realize that no matter what she told herself, her heart raced at the sight of Lord Greystone.
Chapter Three
“Here we are.” Mrs. Parton drove the phaeton through the gates of a large property into a wide front courtyard. “St. Ann’s Orphan Asylum. But it has become much more than a refuge for foundling girls.”
Eyeing the seven-foot wrought-iron fence as they passed through, Beatrice felt a shiver of dread that diminished her former anticipation. The gray brick of the three-story building added to the asylum’s foreboding appearance. This seemed more like a fortress, even a prison, than a home for children, though she approved of the tidy grounds. Unlike the street beyond the fence, not a scrap of trash littered the grassy yard, and not a single pebble lay on the front walkway.
“I delight in these visits,” Mrs. Parton said. “The children are so dear, and the matrons do such fine work in schooling them and teaching them useful skills. Most of my maids were reared and educated in this school.”
“Mama was going to bring me here.” Beatrice swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Her mother had become ill before she could keep any of her promises.
“Lady Bennington founded the institution, and your mother and I joined her some twenty years ago.” Mrs. Parton waved to the two men on the jump seat.
The tiger took charge