How to Train Your Viscount

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

The instant Caro crossed the threshold of her sister’s building in St. Giles, she was enveloped in a flock of excited children. The first thing Anne had done upon marrying the Earl of Wynters at the age of eighteen was to found her very own charitable organization, the Ladies’ Society for the Relief of the Destitute. Its core mission was to establish model lodging houses for widows with young children, charging them a fair rent for a safe, clean room. As Caro had only arrived in London a few weeks ago, this was her first time visiting her sister’s establishment.

“Caro!” She turned to see her sister approaching. Anne’s husband had died in his sleep last summer, and she wore black from her slippers all the way up to the stylish capote bonnet that topped her brown hair. But her sister somehow managed to look radiant in mourning. Anne had dreamed of founding her own charity ever since she was fourteen, and here at her building, she was truly in her element, glowing with joy and enthusiasm.

The sisters hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. “I’m so excited to finally see your lodging house,” Caro said.

“I cannot wait to show it to you.” Anne gestured to the children, who looked to be around six years old. “The little ones have been practicing a song for you. And then it will be time for the midday meal—I thought you might join us.”

“I would love to,” Caro said.

The song was “Lord, How Delightful,” and the performance was indeed delightful, no less so for being a bit out of tune. Caro applauded, then they made their way to the dining hall.

She accepted a bowl of beef stew and joined a group of children at one of the long tables. She turned to the girl seated to her left, who had a long brown plait. “So, Agnes—do I have that right?” Agnes nodded. “How do you like it here?”

“’Tis wonderful, m’lady, like a paradise.”

“Agnes lived on Hopkins Street before,” an older boy with dark hair said, as if this clarified everything.

“Hopkins Street?” Caro asked.

“’Tis by the pig house,” he offered by way of explanation.

“The… the pig house?”

“They’ve cows, too,” he confirmed.

“Pigs and cows, I see. I’m sorry, I did not catch your name—”

“I’m John, m’lady.”

“Aye,” Agnes said. “The trouble was, the houses sunk over the years, so they were below ground level, ya see? So when it rained, it washed out the stockyard, and everything would come pouring straight through the front door. You ended up with this great flood of—”

“Oh, my gracious!” Caro cried, comprehending. She gave a nervous laugh. “Well, I’m glad you’re no longer living there, Agnes.”

“Me, too, m’lady. Although me aunt Beth and three of me cousins moved into those rooms. ’Twas better than their old place.”

Caro did not dare imagine what their previous rooms must have been like if a room that flooded with pig excrement was a step up in the world. “How I wish your cousins could come live here, too.”

“Lady Wynters is trying to find a place for them,” Agnes said, slurping a bite of soup.

Caro shook her head and turned to a little boy with blond curls. “And what is your name?”

“Timothy, m’lady.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Timothy. How long have you been living here?”

“Two weeks.”

“How do you like it so far?”

“I mean, I do like it here. I don’t mean to complain.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “If ye’ll excuse me, I think I’ll see if there’s any more bread.”

Once Timothy was gone, John leaned forward. “Timmy don’t mean to sound ungrateful. His father died the month before last, and he hasn’t adjusted yet.”

“Oh, dear!” Caro said. “How I wish I had not questioned him. I did not realize his wound was so recent.”

John made a dismissive sound. “You couldn’t have known. ’Tis hard for Timmy to think about his father, on account of his death being a bit”—he stared off into space, as if searching for the right word—“gruesome.”

“You—you don’t say.”

“Aye, he worked in the mill. His sleeve snagged on the buckle of one of the straps. Ripped his left arm clean off at the shoulder, and he bled to death right there on the floor.” John shook his head. “You know, the usual sort of thing.”

Caro found she was quite incapable of saying anything in return. She was having difficulty comprehending a world in which having your arm ripped off was “the usual sort of thing.” “How terrible,” she finally managed.

John nodded. “Aye. Lady Wynters don’t want none of us children working in the mills. We go to school during the day, and not just to learn reading—writing, too, and maths. She got my big brother apprenticed to a shipwright, and I mean to follow him in a few years. You make a good living as a shipwright, you do.”

“I think you have the makings of a fine shipwright, John.”

“Thank you, m’lady. She’ll find something good for Timmy in a few years, too,” John said, taking a spoonful of his soup.

And so the luncheon proceeded. Caro discovered that each of Anne’s little charges had a horrible story to share, about how their fathers were killed in action against the French, or pulled into some sort of machine at work, or had succumbed to their taste for gin. She came to understand that their mothers had been unable to earn enough to feed and shelter their children, in spite of working themselves to the bone. Most of the children told these stories unflinchingly, even though every one made Caroline want to cry.

How trivial her own problems—a stolen bauble and a man who had once insulted her—now seemed. Caro vowed to speak to her sister about ways she could help. Now that she understood the trials these children had faced, she could not stand idly by.