Gareth had returned to his monologue. “This larger room is a gathering area for the women. They eat here and have their lessons here. There are also ten bedrooms that are shared, as well as a separate room for Mrs. Claxton, the superintendent. I don’t see that it is necessary for the other staff to live in. And we have our locked doors policy, as I explained.”
“Violet says she’s willing to stay, if she’s needed,” Mrs. Claxton spoke up. A large, stern-looking woman with meaty arms, she looked as if she could control an unruly mob.
“Yes, Doctor Simmons, I wouldn’t mind,” Violet piped up.
“Well,” he softened his tone, “perhaps some time in the future, Violet.”
“I couldn’t even cook porridge when I first arrived”—Molly felt the need to enlighten them with her achievements—“and now I reckon I could cook a whole roast dinner if I had to. Better ’an jellied eels any day!”
That caused a ripple of laughter.
“Molly, I don’t want to have to reprove you again. You speak when spoken to.” Gareth’s voice was firm, as if he were an army major and the women were his troops.
Averil wished she could reprove him. These women were not accustomed to rules and regulations and even the basic jobs required of them were often more than they were capable of. She thought it was better to give them some leeway, a little understanding, but Gareth was inflexible. His view was that they must abide by his rules or he could not help them. These were not matters for debate. Look at them over there, Averil thought, standing in a row by the windows, just like soldiers! Her temper flared. Gareth thought lining up like that taught them discipline but Averil knew it made them resentful. No wonder they ran away! They weren’t soldiers, they were women, and they should be treated like women.
Just then Mrs. Claxton interrupted with a request to speak to Gareth privately, and he went off with her to the corner.
Averil took a calming breath. It did no good to get cross with him. He was doing his best, she knew that, but she just wished he would allow her to have a say in the running of the Home, that he would listen to her instead of dismissing her out of hand.
“I think you have your own ideas about this place,” Lord Southbrook spoke quietly, and she realized he had been watching her with that intent gaze.
“Doctor Simmons is experienced in these matters. He knows what he’s doing,” she said, not wanting to undermine her cousin. And then she spoilt it by adding, unable to hide her irritation, “It’s just that sometimes he’s so inflexible.”
“Oh?” He smiled. “I never would have guessed.”
She smiled back. He understood, she could tell. Here, unlike Gareth, was a man who saw how matters stood.
But it would not do to take sides with a potential donor, and Averil pulled herself up. “I’m sorry. You must forget I said that. Doctor Simmons is a very capable man, and I trust him completely when it comes to the Home for Distressed Women. We are very lucky that he has chosen to dedicate his life to those less fortunate.”
“And have you also dedicated your life?”
“I . . . yes,” she said, taken by surprise. “I suppose I have made it my life’s work.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “Good heavens, really?” he drawled, as if he’d just been told something nasty. “You must be all of, eh, twenty?”
“Yes, my lord.” Averil’s chin went up defiantly as she sensed his mocking disapproval.
He stroked a fingertip along the length of his scar, and her eyes followed. That feeling was coming over her again, that uncomfortable sensation that she wasn’t quite in control of herself.
“So, Lady Averil, let me just get this right. You have perhaps another forty years to live your life? No, let’s be generous and assume you will grow into an old lady. Say, at a pinch, sixty years. Tell me, do you really intend to spend them here? I don’t begrudge you your need to save people, that is truly admirable, but surely there are people to be saved in far more interesting places than the Home for Distressed Women. Particularly as you will never be able to do things in the way you want to. Your cousin, my dear Lady Averil, will always prevail.”
Averil opened her mouth. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say but it would probably have been along the lines of “that is none of your business, my lord.” Luckily at that moment Beth cleared her throat behind them.
Averil jumped. So caught up in their conversation had she been that she had completely forgotten Beth was here. It was enough for Averil to regain her equilibrium.
“I am not a fortune-teller, my lord,” she said politely. “I cannot tell the future, but I hope I shall always do my best to help those less fortunate than myself.”
Southbrook yawned. “Of course you will,” he said, as if the whole subject bored him.
Really, thought Averil, her calm once more deserting her, he is the most infuriating man!
Thankfully at that moment Beth nudged her in time to stop her saying something she would probably later regret. Averil followed her gaze, and saw that Gareth had finished with Mrs. Claxton and was now standing by Violet, listening to her speak, his head bent lower to accommodate their difference in height. He looked . . . captivated. It was the only word Averil could think of to describe the expression on his face. She knew he was partial to Violet—and to be fair Violet seemed to have this effect on a lot of men—but he really shouldn’t show it so blatantly.
A rush of anger washed through her, followed by disappointment. Gareth was a man she’d looked up to, someone she admired despite his failings, because she’d truly believed his heart was in his work. And now here he was, goggling like a schoolboy at a pretty face. The other women must know. He must be better than this. How could they respect him if they thought he was just like all the other men they encountered on the streets? And what if the earl noticed? He had already found Gareth tedious; this might be enough to make him withdraw his support.
Just then Violet laughed at something Gareth said and he flushed a painful pink, his face going all soppy. Molly noticed that. She whispered something to her companions and they all shot him a look of contempt.
“Oh no,” Averil whispered, clutching Beth’s arm.