Page 22 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Twelve? Was a girl really considered old enough at twelve to be sent away to toil day and night, at the beck and call of others?
Others such as myself.
How old had the servants at Papa’s townhouse been? The housekeeper was a widow in her forties, whose barked orders could always be heard throughout the house, particularly in the early morning, just before dinner, and each time visitors were due and there was work to be done. Etty’s own maid had been only a year or two younger than Etty herself. But what of the scullery maids and chambermaids, the servants who were kept downstairs lest the sight of them offended the family they served? Yet Etty had always indulged in the fruits of their labors, such as the fire that always blazed merrily in her bedchamber when she retired. Perhaps a child of twelve had been the one to scrape out the ashes, choking on the clouds of soot, before laying the coals and lighting them then scuttling away in fear of a beating were Etty to catch sight of her and be offended by her presence?
What a spoiled, selfish creature she had been! Perhaps she still was. But, at the very least, Etty could help another young girl to atone for the many other young girls whose toil she’d taken for granted in her former life.
For, if she’d learned one lesson from her ordeal, it was that Etty Ward was going to be a better person than Juliette Howard.
And the first step was to do something good. Not right, butgood.
“Mrs. Ward?”
Etty blinked, and a tear splashed onto her cheek as the vicar’s concerned face swam into view.
“You must forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to offend or pain you.”
“You make me quite ashamed, Mr. Staines,” she said. “I should be glad to employ the girl if she’s willing, and if her family trust me to care for her.”
“I think they would,” he said, smiling. “Their son spoke highly of you, of what you said to him this morning in the churchyard. He said you gave him great comfort.”
“I only said what anyone would say to a young man grieving for his sister,” Etty said.
“That’s where I beg to differ, Mrs. Ward. Not everyone would do such a thing. Only those who understand loss, and who are kind enough to wish to ease the pain of another.” He smiled, the warmth of his eyes intensifying. “And Jimmy Gadd would not gift his sister’s rose to just anyone. I should have recognized that, and I apologize for not doing so.”
Gabriel stirred in his arms and let out a yawn.
“Ah,” he said, “I see your son is a congregant in the making, for he struggles to stifle the urge to fall asleep at the sound of my voice. He only needs to learn how to sleep without his snores echoing around the church building. Unlike old Mr. Penny.” He winked at her. “I daresay Mrs. Penny’s blushes would bespared if my sermons were a little shorter so as to maintain her husband’s attention.”
“Well, I for one would not wish to have your sermons cut short,” Etty said. “Not when you are encouraging your congregation to question themselves and to think. Far better that than a vicar who merely orders his congregants to do his bidding. I particularly enjoyed your sermon today on the need to tolerate a noisy child in church.”
“Did you?”
She nodded. “Few sermons are so…considerate.”
“Then I consider my objective achieved,” he said, “for I believe I thought of you when I wrote it.”
He approached the crib and placed Gabriel inside. The boy struggled to his feet, gripping the sides, and watched the vicar with his wide, expressive blue eyes—which, thank the Almighty, reminded Etty of her father’s, rather than Dunton’s.
“Shall I send Frannie to you tomorrow?” he asked. “I’m sure you’ll like her, but if not, I’ll pledge to clean the cottage myself. Though I might perhaps stop at sharpening your knives.”
“You’re too kind.”
“It’s not kindness,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”
His smile broadened, and his eyes gleamed with the earnestness of an innocent youth eager to please.
Then she saw it—the quality that set him apart from others.
His innocence.
In her life, Etty had only ever known one other truly innocent soul. Eleanor—the sister she had almost destroyed with her spite and jealousy. Eleanor—who had fled to this very cottage. Perhaps they had been friends, this kind, insightful man and Etty’s gentle sister.
If only Etty had been courted by a man such as him during her Season instead of making a fool of herself, trying to entrap a duke, then falling into ruination. The vicar might be a fullygrown man who would have experienced life and an education, but he was, essentially, an innocent—more innocent than she. He had yet to shed the purity of youth and become the predatory male.
And yet there was a strength about him, a strength of character radiating from his eyes. He had no need of experience, for he had insight—the ability to understand a person merely by observation.
Andrew, he’d said his name was. A rather intimate introduction, given it was the first time they’d spoken. But the name suited him.
