“Very well,” she said. “I suppose we can walk home when you tire of us.”
“That I shall never do,” Jem said.
As Miss Lithwick settled into the seat next to him, he surveyed her worn leather short boots, the kind a servant would wear, and the peek of calico skirts beneath a sensible woolen cloak. Plain attire, neat and serviceable, the garb of a woman of modest means accustomed to drawing no attention to herself.
With that striking profile, she ought to have attention. She ought to be in dress that showed her to best advantage. He would be doing her a service as much as helping his business.
“Tell me what your business is at the Founding Hospital.” Jem turned the horses onto Southampton Road. She could easily have walked the short distance, but he liked having Miss Lithwick beside him. She sat stiff and alert, as if she expected at any moment that something would misbehave: the horses, the traffic, him. He wondered what it would take to win her confidence.
“It is considered quite a fashionable charity,” he added. “All the ladies seem to support it in some way.”
“Is that the reason for your own interest?”
“Pax, Miss Lithwick,” Jem begged. “If you will hold off disparaging my taste, I will not presume to judge yours.”
“Oh, I expect you will judge,” she said, and cringed as a carter rolled past them with a heavy wagon, cracking a whip over his team of six. “But I can agree that we both might keep our cutting comments to ourselves.”
Miss Lithwick was not going to flirt with him, that was clear. It made Jem all the more determined to draw her out. At the gatehouse to the Hospital she gathered herself to address the porter, but the man hailed Jem first.
“Aye now, it’s Mr. Falstead! Been an age or two, it ’as. There’s no guv’ners meetin’ today, sir, so yer ’ere for a lookaround, then?”
“Hello, Silas. I am escorting Miss Lithwick this afternoon.” Jem raked his brains for the man’s last name, prepared to make an introduction, but the porter turned his genial smile on Jem’s companion.
“Ullo, miss! Look at ye in a fancy carriage this day, and with these high-steppers!” He touched the brim of his cap. “Don’t doubt as there’s a crowd waitin’ for ye. Yer one of the fav’rites, and no mistake.”
“Thank you, Silas,” Miss Lithwick said primly while Jem recovered from his surprise. “If you will turn right, milord Rudyard, my destination is there.” She pointed to the wing with the girls’ classrooms.
“But it’s their midday break,” Jem said. “They won’t resume classes until two of the clock.”
“Precisely.” She clambered out of the vehicle, not exactly with grace, as he drew to a halt. “They may disperse to their own activities during this time, and some of them use it to practice their music.”
Her maid opted to remain in the carriage and watch the fashionable folk promenading around the grand oval walk before the Hospital, so Jem followed Lucasta into the plain brick wing of the building. She tapped briskly down the broad halland entered a large, spare room crowded with girls, some of them sitting at the tables used for lessons, some perched on the window ledges, many more standing around the edges of the room, talking with animation.
When Lucasta entered, they drew to attention with a welcoming chorus. “Good afternoon, Miss Lithwick!”
“Good afternoon, girls. Do say hello to my friend, Lord Rudyard.”
“Good afternoon, Lord Rudyard,” the girls chimed, and Jem smiled uncomfortably, aware of the immediate stir at the sight of him.
Lucasta collapsed her hooped bonnet and removed her cloak, revealing a worked muslin caraco jacket over the calico petticoat he had glimpsed before. She’d achieved that same enchanting apricot color with her hair, and the jaunty chip hat, trimmed with dark green ribbon and feathers, suggested again that she liked at least for her head to be stylish. She turned and caught him staring.
“You needn’t stay, milord. We may be some time.”
Jem arranged himself against the door frame in a casual pose, aware how much taller he was than she. “I’ve no other engagements for the nonce.”
Nothing could have moved him from this spot. He was desperately curious to see what would happen next.
Several girls giggled at his remark, and at Lucasta’s annoyed expression, but they silenced when she withdrew from her cloak what looked like a long, narrow violin. “Very well, let’s proceed. Eliza, I believe it is your turn to play the pochette today?”
“Yes, miss,” came an eager voice from the back, and a young girl stepped forward. They were all, Jem judged, between the ages of eight and fifteen, dressed in dark woolen frocks with neat white aprons and caps. The girl walked to the front of the room, trailing her fingers along the tabletops as she came. Jem staredat her face. She paused next to Lucasta and turned her palms up. Lucasta laid the instrument in one hand and the bow in the other, and the girl raised the violin to her chin.
“She’s—” Jem bit off the warning. Anyone could see the girl was blind, her eyes white and scarred. Any number of diseases could have done it, as they did to so many: smallpox, scarlet fever, or a syphilitic parent were the most frequent causes.
“Becoming quite adept, aren’t you, Eliza?” Lucasta adjusted the girl’s posture with a gentle hand. “Middle C, please.”
The girl placed her fingers and played a sound. Lucasta sang the note, and Jem blinked. Her voice was as rich and clear as sunlight, and it filled the room.
The girls sang back, not all of them in tune. Lucasta sang another note, which they repeated. There followed a set of vocal exercises, ascending and descending scales, then on to patterns that to Jem sounded random, but which the class followed with ease of familiarity. As they practiced, Lucasta moved among the girls and touched them with a gentle hand, lifting chins, pushing back shoulders, and sometimes pressing on a stomach to show them where she wanted the breath to begin.
