So many of London’s lower classes lived insidiously close to the edge of ruin and poverty. They might work all their lives and still end up dying in the workhouse, as Mr. Percy had. Charles had known this fact all of his life, but knowing it was entirely removed from spending time with Edward, and also seeing his two younger siblings with very little chance for their lives to come to anything.
“I was going to send my Edward to the same shoeblack brigade after Easter.” Mrs. Percy reached over and touched her son’s hand. “He would have had to be declared homeless and destitute and live with the other dozens of boys there, and I would have sorely missed my son.” She sighed, and Charles again was touched by the look they exchanged. She would have done what was right for him even if it meant having to send him away.
“Then he found work with you, Miss Rare-Foure. Learning to make sweets seemed far more promising and safer than being out on the street cleaning and blacking men’s shoes. Some boys ain’t given a good pitch — you know, a station — and they don’t make much. And sometimes, the gentlemen don’t pay after having their shoes done. Now, that’s a tooler for you!” She nodded emphatically. Then looking directly at Charles, she said, “No offense to you, my lordship.”
“None taken, I assure you.” His valet always polished his shoes, so Charles knew he’d never bilked a young shoeblack out of his pay. “As I was saying — or I think I was, at any rate — I sit on the council of a society that helps people. There are about thirty-two members doing the work of hundreds, but they do succeed in finding affordable housing, and they raise money each month so there is usually enough to get someone on their feet. It’s considered temporary assistance, but it can get you out of a bad situation.”
“How quickly?” Charlotte asked him. “I mean, if Mr. Tufts has a temper, I wouldn’t want to wait one day too many.”
“Don’t worry about that, miss,” Edward said. “I can protect my mum.”
Mrs. Percy sniffed at her boy’s courage. “I can protect my children,” she insisted, “but I would welcome the help. When my husband died, no one at the workhouse could tell me where to go or what to do.”
Charles knew that was one of the problems. The charitable society could have the best of intentions, but if they didn’t get out into the poorest communities and offer assistance, what good would they do.
“I will go to the society’s headquarters directly,” he said, thinking of the tidy suite of rooms on Buckingham Street in the Adelphi neighborhood. “With their help, I’m sure we can find you a place to live.” And if he couldn’t, he would put them up in his own townhouse until he could.
“Edward can come back to work tomorrow,” Charlotte said. “He will have to apologize to my mother and to the places where he made deliveries, but I won’t make him pay for all the stolen confectionery. We’ll call it a lesson learned, and I shall be glad to have him back.”
Edward’s face had gone through a myriad of emotions, but at the end of it, he said simply, “Thank you.”
“I thank you too, miss,” his mother said. “And I’m sorry for selling your chocolates and such.”
“I understand why you did it,” Charlotte said.
Admiring her generosity, Charles thought he’d fallen in love with her just a little more at that moment. “We’d best be going. I need to get to the society before four.”
“I’ll see you first thing,” Charlotte said to Edward. “Mrs. Percy, you’ve raised a good boy.”
“He gets his smarts from his father,” she said, looking sad.
“Do you have enough food for your family tonight?” Charles couldn’t help asking.
“Yes.” Her voice was tight, and he figured she was holding back tears. He wanted to get out before they were shed.
“Come along, Miss Rare-Foure. My driver will think we’ve fallen asleep up here.”
“Delia!” she exclaimed. “I’m shocked she didn’t come in here and try to forcibly remove me.”
But when they returned to his carriage, they found Delia sitting on the dickey beside his coachman, so lost in laughter and chatting, neither noticed their master or mistress’s arrival.
“Perhaps a new romance has sprung up between our households,” Charlotte mused.
Charles wanted to tell her one certainly had, but it was not the time to try again to make her his own.
“Bertie, help Miss Rare-Foure’s maid down and let’s get going. You both must be sick of the view of the Aldgate pump.”
“Aye, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Charlotte was certain she would never recover the money she’d paid Mr. Tufts, but she was relieved that Edward and his mother were not dishonest people, merely desperate.
“Will you tell me the idea you want to discuss with your mother?” Charles asked, as they headed back along Fenchurch Street.
“Of course.” Charles had become practically her dearest friend, next to her sisters. “I think Rare Confectionery should have a permanent place at Covent Garden, either a stall or a cart, and Mrs. Percy can run it.”
She appreciated how he considered it, rather than dismissing it out of hand, but after a moment, he shook his head.
