Mabel flushed, but managed a quick curtsey then stepped quickly out of Lady Bentick’s venomous rage.
Gabby reigned in her own fury with the woman and completed the introductions. “Misses Bonnet, Dibra, Appleton, Sharifi, and Botha.”
“Oh, my,” Lady Liverpool murmured. “Miss Botha, come forward, dear.”
Kadida Botha, shy and painfully thin, who wore her hair in long tiny braids to shield her face, did as asked. Her umber skin with its deep brown-yellow undertone was as beautiful as only God could create.
“Where are you from, my dear?”
“Bethnal Green,” she whispered.
“You were born there?”
“No, milady. Bambara, South Africa. But I-I lived in Bethnal Green.” Again, she whispered but her anguish was poignant.
“Ah, I see. What of your parents?”
Her eyes filled with tears, and she shook her head.
“Kadida was ripped from her parents when their village was raided,” Gabby said with matter-of-factness. “Her parents did not survive.”
Lady Liverpool’s interest was singular, and she took Kadida’s hand. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Gabby couldn’t quite contain her flinch. Kadida was exactly the type of young girl of which men felt free to exert their liberties. She had no family, no protection. Gabby had found her bloodied and bruised and ravished near Soho two weeks ago. She and Rebecca had spent hours with her, reassuring her of Hope House’s haven. There was nothing else they could do or say. Time, of course, would eventually work its magic. Currently, there was no way to tell if the girl was increasing. That, also, was something they would learn with time. “Kadida has shown great fortitude and talent with the pianoforte.” It proved excellent therapy for her as well. “We have a large music room down the hall.”
Gabby carefully studied the Prime Minister’s frail wife, looking for signs of dissention or censure, but all she could discern was compassion.
“Miss Sharifi is two and twenty. She’s an émigré from Delhi. She comes from a long line of renowned physicians who served the British Admiralty through the Carnatic and Napoleonic Wars, respectively. She assisted her family in tending to the infirm and has experience with increasing women. Her father’s recent passing left her destitute and nowhere to turn. But she has found refuge at Hope House as a place of, well—” Gabby grinned. “—hope.”
“Extraordinary,” Lady Liverpool breathed.
Despite Lena Sharifi’s smooth brown skin, her blush was instant and prominent.
Lady Bentick’s complexion, on the other hand, turned an unbecoming ruddy shade and her nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of something foul.
“Thank you, girls. You may be excused. You’ll be late for luncheon,” Gabby said.
The young women curtseyed once more and filed out.
Lady Liverpool turned sharp, assessing eyes on Gabby. “I’m quite impressed, Lady Huntley. You and the duchess of Ryleigh should be commended. I fear, however, the reality will be quite different.”
Gabby gave her a resigned smile. “Perhaps. But that does not preclude the need.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed. “Still, it is quite forward of you to include young women of such, er, diversity.”
“Rape and abuse are abhorrent, no matter your background or nationality, Lady Liverpool,” Gabby said firmly. Insistently.
Lady Liverpool rose to her feet. She gathered her gloves, her reticule. “You are indeed an avenging angel, Lady Huntley—”
Startled, Gabby’s inhale was a quick rasp. “Avenging angel?” she choked out.
“Or shall I call you the Drury Lane Defender?”
Gabby shook her head, unable to come up with anything coherent.
“I will be honored to contribute to yours and the duchess’s cause. I regret to say my assistance must be limited to monetary as my health prevents otherwise. Now, we must depart. Please, keep me updated, my dear. Lady Bentick, shall we?”
