1801

Constance closed the door to The Rose Room, declaring, "I've quite given up on them. They've been a trial all day. I had no choice but to send them outside, and I'd wager that is precisely what they wanted!"

Fiona scarcely had to ask who she meant. She only poured the tea, waiting for her mistress to begin.

Constance, The Right Honourable Lady Crewe whenever she had the rare opportunity to use the formal title, had taken to having tea with her housekeeper, Mrs. Fiona Douglass, in The Rose Room on Mondays. It had been only a half-year since Fiona had come into her employ, but Constance had often told Fiona how she had come to depend upon this hour. The object was always to properly plan the week ahead as far as meals, linens, supplies of candles, the odd formal dinner, the ever-dwindling budget, but the tea always devolved into a discussion of Lady Crewe's three children and the attendant woes.

"The bickering and the blaming and the... Ah, if only we could afford a nurse to sort out these squabbles," the woman sighed. "This is all too much for me to bear alone."

Mrs. Douglass rather wondered how her days, not to mention those of the other staff, were so full with the children if Lady Crewe was truly bearing it all alone, but she kept her counsel on that. "Surely they are all high-spirited, but all wee ones are."

"They are also terribly stubborn, quite set on having their own way. And I chose such lovely, humble names for them."

From what Lady Crewe had told Fiona, Constance Abbot came from a family with Puritans in their lineage. Though the Abbot family had been decidedly Church of England for two generations now, the lady did like the idea of virtuous names. Upon marrying William Crewe, third Baron Crewe, she convinced her ever indulgent husband to allow her to name the children after qualities she admired. Her eldest Prudence, now nine years of age, was supposed to be all that was frugal, cautious, and wise. On that last note, she couldn't complain very much, as Mrs. Douglass liked to remind her.

"The girl certainly likes to read," Mrs. Douglass said bracingly. "Why I've seen her finish a book in little more than a day and Mr. Keen is certainly impressed with her studies." She'd sometimes dined with the tutor and he'd always seemed quite sincere in his praise of the eldest Miss Crewe, especially as compared to her brother.

"Yes, but she likes to read entirely too much," Lady Crewe lamented. "I feel it's rather imprudent, if you ask me. That's not even going into the money spent on pencils, paper... She sketches all through dinner. Do you know she wants to try her hand at watercolors now? That will mean canvas, paints..."

"But surely you can afford such trifles."

"Lord Crewe certainly thinks we can. She has but to ask and he indulges her." She sighed. "And what will be left for her dowry in the end?" Even as young as her daughters were, Lady Crewe was always fearful for their future prospects. "He hasn't settled an amount and you know his family won't aid us there. Lord knows I try my best, but they still believe he's married beneath him, even compared to that harridan aunt and her cloth money."

Though Constance Crewe, before marriage, was the daughter of a gentleman with a modest estate in Cheshire, she certainly married upward in Lord Crewe, a man with a larger estate and a baron to boot. Of course, that was nothing to the seat of his family who, it might be argued, owned nearly half of Yorkshire. Much of that bounty was gained through the Duke of Dartmore's marriage to Muriel Harrod Crewe, Duchess of Dartmore, aunt to Lord Crewe, and a very indulgent great aunt to the children. Her "cloth money" had taken the Dartmore Crewes out of a level of unenviable poverty, but that didn't seem to win favor with the extended Crewes, who only gave her the barest acknowledgment.

Then again, Constance Crewe had never managed to gain favor with them, either, according to her complaints. Mrs. Douglass often wondered why that shouldn't make them closer, allied against the rest. But Constance had always sniffed at the idea. "I may not be from the most well-connected family," she'd say, "but I congratulate myself that my forebears never sullied their hands with trade."

On that note, Mrs. Douglass usually liked to keep her own counsel as well. Though she quite liked her mistress and appreciated the degree of intimacy they enjoyed, she would never truly understand the nobility and their distaste for anything that even resembled work. Her husband certainly never... Well, she kept her counsel on that subject as well. Suffice it to say, she didn't believe in a life of idleness. Her own son, Ian, had lessons with the Crewe children, but often spent his spare hours with the gardener or the coachman and she encouraged it. She didn't mean to judge the little Crewes, of course. They were fine children and always pleasant with her and her dear Ian. She couldn't have wished for a happier placement.

"Idle hands are the devil's workshop," Mrs. Douglass suggested, hoping her mistress might look on Prudence's art as a virtuous endeavor. "Doesn't The Bible say as much?"

"I'm afraid that was Chaucer. Another scandalous poet my Prudence insists upon reading. Ah, but I suppose it could be worse. Ernest is truly the hardest burden we have to bear. So ill behaved."

"Still, there's time for him."

"Not as much as you'd think, my dear Mrs. Douglass."

The Honourable Ernest Crewe had so far proved to be, at the age of seven, and possibly like most boys of seven, less than honorable. He lobbed paper balls into his sisters' hair at every lesson, Cook was positive tarts went missing every time he neared the kitchens, and poor little Charity's favorite doll was missing her head. He couldn't be called earnest, either, as the evidence was always overwhelmingly against him in each offense, yet he denied it all without a blush.

"I'll see if Ian can set him right," Mrs. Douglass tried. Although her son was a fair sight lower than the Crewe children in station, he was nearly a year older than Ernest and boys always tended to look up to their elders. She flattered herself that there was no boy worthier of looking up to than her own Ian. It had taken some time for him to adjust, of course, when they had left Scotland, and her other positions weren't nearly as tolerant of an employee who came with a child. But he was certainly doing well enough at Crewe House. Why, Mr. Keen said he was learning apace with Miss Prudence, and a full year younger, too.

"I wish you would," Constance moaned, reaching for another sandwich only to push it away. "That boy will be the end of me. The end of this house, to hear his father tell it. Ah, well. At least I have my sweet Charity."

Charity Crewe, being only five, had yet to disappoint her mother, even a mother who was so easily disappointed. She had, upon learning her name and its meaning, endeavored to be worthy of it. At the age of three, she'd taken a box of her most precious belongings to the village and, upon speaking to the children in the square, had decided who would make the best use of her blocks, her dolls, and her music boxes. At the age of four, she had done the same and also commissioned Cook to make a basket of jam tarts and date breads for her basket while the gardener, coachman, and even the butler carried last year's toys and dresses behind her. This year, she had asked for three of everything she wanted as "it was so very unfair" if she was the only girl with the latest doll or dress.

The estate wasn't doing well enough for all that but, truth be told, neither her mother nor father could see fit to refuse her. Even when she stamped her little foot, she was too precious to be denied. Even Cook, stern as she was, could scarcely begrudge the little thing an extra cake when she tilted her head just so. Therefore, when Little Charity poked her head into the study, both her mother and her housekeeper were prepared to be delighted by whatever she might say. What she did say was as delightfully silly as expected.

"I am going to marry Ian, Mrs. Douglass," she said, her little voice low and sincere.

"Are you now?" Mrs. Douglass had to smile.

Her mother chuckled. "Last week, Charity was going to marry Mr. Martin, the Baker, because his butter biscuits had raspberry jam in the middle."

"This is serious," Charity insisted, her red curls bouncing as she stomped her little foot.

"Surely," Mrs. Douglass gave her a very grave nod in return, "but I'll have you know Ian has never baked a thing."

"He's the only man who knows how to treat a fair lady. He saved me and Clarissa and everything!"

She closed the door soon after and both ladies had a hearty laugh over the idea. Later, they learned that Ian and Ernest had been playing pirates and only Ian had thought to spare the fair lady and her doll from a walk on the plank. Charity had quite liked being a fair lady and had followed Ian, even without her doll, for days now.

1806

Constance, Baroness Crewe when she was feeling official, and Mrs. Fiona Douglass took tea every Monday and never had it felt so official as this. Mrs. Douglass practically skidded past in her haste to reach the door, so serious was the matter. Punishments had been given, supper had been withheld, guilty parties had been hiding their shameful faces for hours now, but the ladies had yet to discuss it, both tied up with their own children.

It was particularly hard for Fiona. Her Ian had yet to be punished at all until just now. He'd had yet to deserve it. But Ian and Ernest had somehow ended up drunk. Yes, drunk. At the ages of twelve and thirteen, in the Earl of Stanborough's gamekeeper's cottage with the Earl of Stanborough himself, the boys had drunk themselves into a state of inebriation that had them unable to eat. Well, unable if they were allowed at meals, which they were not this evening. Still, Fiona suspected they'd be unequal to a meal in any case.

"And how is Ernest?" she said as she made her way into The Rose Room. Last she'd heard, the young man had been casting up his accounts.

"Still indisposed." Constance picked up a cheese sandwich then seemed to think better of it, pushing it away. "And Ian?"

"No better than he deserves to be, the little lout."

"Now, we mustn't blame Ian."

"Oh, yes, we must. He's older and he should know better."

"If anyone should know better it's that... that...vile... I have very little to say about that boy, or very little that's nice. I do try to be kind, and to hold my tongue when I can't, but... that young man!"

Fiona took her seat, nodding violently. For her part, she couldn't find much to say about Richard Headley, Earl of Stanborough, either - or little that she was permitted to say. He'd always tempted the boys into all kinds of mischief. Coming into his earldom hadn't made the young man better. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse. She began to understand why Prudence called him Lord Headless. "At fifteen years old, he should certainly know better," she said diplomatically.

"But how could he? His own father was a drunken lout who got himself trampled and that mother..." Constance shook her head. "It's no matter. This is no place for sympathy. This is a place for planning." She leaned forward and Fiona was sure she wasn't talking about the linen rotations or this week's dinners. "We must keep our boys away from Stanborough from now on. The girls, too." Constance sat up straight. "Truth be told, I worry most about Prudence."

Fiona tilted her head. "What did Prudence-"

"I dare say half the village is talking of it by now. I'm sure that vile earl's gamekeeper has been telling it all over for the price of a pint. I heard it from the post mistress, myself."

"What?"

"She hit him."

Fiona let out a startled laugh. "Well, someone had to and if Prudence-"

"You don't understand. She knocked him flat." Constance sighed. "I asked her about it and she said it was a method she learned from her aunt and perfected from reading several guides to pugilism. What is that girl doing with her time? Certainly not attending her dancing master or her piano lessons. What will we do when she's out?"

Fiona worried more about Ernest and Ian and what they were doing with their time than Prudence. She'd always been a dear girl and, maybe it was the Scot in her -- something she'd tried to get rid of since... Well, since she left Scotland -- but she couldn't fault Prudence for a well-placed punch.

When Lord Crewe came in, in one of his rare visits to their tea in consideration of the dramatic goings on, he seemed to be in agreement with Mrs. Douglass. "Come now, I've heard of the way he teases her. The boy was asking for one. Besides, If Ernest won't look out for himself, we should be glad Prudence will do it for him. If only she could inherit for him as well," he finished on a mutter.

Lady Crewe gasped. "I hope you don't say things like that to Prudence. That girl will never be ready to take her place in society if you keep encouraging her to be a bluestocking."

"The Blue Stockings are older than either of us, my pet, and they never did manage to rend the fabric of society. There's no harm in a girl who reads."

Constance looked like she had much more to say on the subject, so Mrs. Douglass broke in before the old argument could take hold and distract the both of them from the situation at hand. "Lady Crewe and I were just agreeing, my lord, that the boys should be forbidden from associating with Lord Stanborough in any case."

"Not sure how much good that would do." Lord Crewe shrugged. "They'll see him at school."

It was true, dash it all. The boys would be starting at Eton in autumn. 

"But we can hope they'll be too busy there to get up to much mischief," Constance suggested.

Lord Crewe only shrugged. "Well, you would think that," he said, though he didn't elaborate.

"You both should know," Mrs. Douglass began hesitantly. "I had to send Charity to her room just now."

Lord Crewe looked up. "Our Charity? Has she been having a tipple as well? And only ten?" He chuckled at the idea.

"Of course not, but she was in Ian's room, sneaking him half her supper in a handkerchief, said it was cruel to starve him to death."

Lord Crewe just laughed again. "Well, at least someone is having a grand time in all this."

"Starving him to death." Constance chuckled as well. "Our little Charity is fit for the stage."

Fiona tried to laugh along, but Charity's infatuation with her son didn't seem like such a laughing matter, the longer it went on.

1811

Mrs. Douglass was wringing her hands, waiting for her mistress, staring at her rapidly cooling tea. She'd tried to drink it, hoping it would calm her nerves, but found her throat wouldn't allow it, nor would her shaking hands.

She tried to tell herself this was nothing that couldn't be fixed and perhaps there was some way to explain it where she wouldn't find herself and her son out on their ears without a reference, even for all her intimacy with Lady Crewe. All she knew for sure was that her mistress needed to know, otherwise nothing would be done. Something had to be done before things went any further. She'd seen the danger years ago, but she always thought it was all on Charity's end. She never thought her Ian would...

Then again, nothing had happened and it wasn't too late to remedy this if she could just talk to Lady Crewe. Though she tended to be very private, there were times she felt safe confiding in her mistress -- nothing too close to the truth, just hard experiences that may or may not be her own, things that might put things in perspective when her mistress thought her husband's tendency to shut himself into his study with work was the worst thing to be borne.

This was no time for vagueness. This was a time to be out with it. Of course, she could think of no way to bring it up, not when Lady Crewe sat down, and straight away, launched into a long list of complaints about Prudence, not realizing it was her younger daughter who was most at risk of social ruin.

"...sits along the wall with the chaperones and her aunt, who just lets it happen. What was the point of sending her to London at all? Two seasons now, nineteen years old, and not even the hint of an offer. How can there be if the girl doesn't even try?"

"Yes, how?" Mrs. Douglass echoed hollowly.

"Obviously, her aunt is the wrong person to take her out in society, but what choice do we have? If only Dartmore would marry, get a nice, young, lively little wife. Surely, she could introduce Prudence to some nice young men. But he has no interest in anything but old rocks and here we are, at the mercy of that woman and her cloth money."

It was one of her mistress' long-standing complaints. Edward, the current Duke of Dartmore had been in the position since his father passed on five years ago, but he was nearly forty and there wasn't even a whisper of a match for him. His mother still kept house for him and, rumor had it, controlled the Harrod business interests as well. His only interest seemed to be in the Society of Antiquaries and unless that group was brimming with eligible women, which it was assuredly not, there was little hope for the duke to take a "lively little wife" in the near future.

Fiona only nodded, staring miserably into her cold tea. "It must be exceedingly hard."

"And it's not as if she can distinguish herself at musicales, either. She never did take to the piano. Then again, neither did Charity."

Fiona's head lifted at the name, wondering how she could possibly tell her. "Yes, Charity never did."

"Mrs. Douglass, are you ill?"

"Me?"

"Why, you've barely spoken five words together. Are you unwell?"

Mrs. Douglass wondered when she would get a chance. "I'm perfectly well. I was just thinking how hard it must be for you, with your love of music."

"It really is too tragic," Constance agreed. "When I was young, I loved nothing more than singing and playing and dancing and it caught me more attention than just Lord Crewe's, you know. It's the only way, without a handsome dowry. And Lord knows my girls don't have much in the way of useful talent. Though at least Charity dances quite well. But is it enough? Even their connection to Dartmore doesn't help, with their aunt being the only one who bothers with them."

"Yes, it's all very hard," Fiona said again, still locked in her own troubles. It was especially hard for her, since Ian had rarely given her reason to be troubled. He'd always worked hard, took advantage of the opportunities and education Lord Crewe had provided. Though it was too much to ask, she dearly wished Lord Crewe had been able to afford to send him to Oxford with Ernest if only because Ian tried so very hard not to want it. Though in a few years' time, he'd surely have a secure position here, with a steady income and funds for retirement.

It was all she could have asked for him, considering her desperate need to start over, now over ten years ago: safety and security. And now it seemed Ian was throwing all that away. A servant had no business with the daughter of the house. Though Ian insisted nothing was going on and that it certainly wouldn't happen again, how could she be sure without telling Lady Crewe and putting a stop to it?

"Well, at least Charity attends to her dancing lessons, not that she gets much occasion to dance here. We haven't given a dinner all year and, even with the village assemblies, there are at least three ladies for every gentleman. How will she be prepared to come out when the time comes?"

"Perhaps Charity should go to London," Fiona said quickly. That would be the answer. There would be no need to tell her mistress what she'd witnessed yesterday because it would be as if it hadn't happened at all.

"Charity in London? And only just sixteen? Surely she isn't ready for that."

"Yes, but you said yourself there isn't enough society here for the girls. It might do for Charity to gain some polish earlier than Prudence was started."

"The both of them are polish-resistant," Lady Crewe huffed. "But you might have something there, Fiona."

"Well, I only gained the idea from you," Mrs. Douglass insisted, knowing nothing would nudge her mistress more towards it than if she believed she'd thought of it herself. "You did say Lady Dartmore is much too old to be a proper companion for Prudence. Young girls are much more enthusiastic about balls and outings when they have another to dress and giggle with."

"If you ask me, Charity does far too much giggling. But it is a fine idea. Perhaps Charity is not so set in her ways as her sister. Perhaps there's hope for her yet."

"Indeed there is," Fiona agreed. Hope for her, hope for all of them, so long as Charity was as far from Ian as possible.