Page 66 of Make Mine a Marquess

She found herself proud to have Lord Landon, instead of Willard, by her side.

After several long moments, Sarah gave a curt nod. “Both of ye come along then. We gather at my home. It isn’t far.”

Sarah set a brisk pace. Phoebe hurried to follow alongside her. Landon stayed by her side.

“You mentioned your home. I thought there was an established place where the women stayed?” Phoebe asked.

“There is. My home.”

“I see.” Only she didn’t. How many women were there and wouldn’t the neighbors notice? The Society for Unwed Mothers in London occupied a nondescript home in a nondescript neighborhood. Not quite the rookeries, but far from the wealthy in Mayfair.

The women were taught skills—sewing, knitting, and basic writing and arithmetic, in the hope they would be able to obtain positions with dressmakers, milliners, or as nannies.

Sarah’s dwelling was farther than the village cottages. At two stories with a first-floor addition, it was also larger. Nosy neighbors would not pose a difficulty. The home was in need of repair, at least from the outside; a shutter hung askew, the garden needed weeding, and the door had peeling paint.

“It’s not as nice as your manor, my lord, but we make do,” Sarah said as they approached.

The porch step wobbled, and the door did not close properly. Phoebe heard the faint cry of a young child inside. She glanced up at Landon. From his furrowed brow, she knew he heard the cry as well.

“Justine had her babe last week.”

The door creaked on its hinges as it swung open, then did not fully close as they stepped inside. Curious, Phoebe’s gaze scanned the room.

Dimness enveloped the parlor. Two faded mismatched sofas, one yellow and the other a striped blue, and several old wooden chairs occupied the space. Heavy drawn red drapes did little to allow the sunlight inside. Three young women sat on the blue sofa. Two of them were large with child. Another, holding a swaddled infant, stood by the fireplace. She rocked the baby and hummed in a soothing fashion.

Sarah made the introductions. “Everyone, I’m pleased to have Miss Dawson pay us a visit. The gent is Lord Landon.”

The trio of seated women gaped at the marquess. Phoebe couldn’t blame them. Standing more than six feet, with his dark hair and eyes, dressed in fine coat and polished Hessians, he was a sight.

“Hello,” he addressed the women.

“The blonde is Mary, the other two are Rachael and Becky.” She gestured to the new mother and her babe. “This here is Justine and her newborn son, Archie. We don’t use surnames here.”

The Society never used surnames, either. It was safer for the women. Most were young, unmarried girls—afraid, pregnant, and without means. Many had family, but their family members had tossed them out when they learned of their pregnancies. A few had abusive husbands or parents. Those were the most troubled of all, and they would need to take new names and build new lives. Phoebe wondered if any of the four young women seeking shelter here were in such dire straits.

As they watched, Mary reached for a basket by the sofa and began folding a baby blanket. Rachael resumed knitting a small hat. Rachael’s belly appeared bigger than Mary’s and she looked as if she would deliver any day. Becky rose to hand Justine one of the blankets from the basket.

Phoebe jumped into action and took the basket from Mary. “Let me do that.” She began folding the clean clothes and blankets in the basket.

After she finished, she looked to the women. “Now tell me what you need, and I’ll help. I’m capable of washing dirty clothes and nappies, preparing meals, and rocking babies to sleep so mothers can rest.”

The women looked at each other, then nodded. “Dirty clothes pile up and are always a chore, and Justine is exhausted. Her babe often cries, no matter how much he nurses.”

Phoebe glanced at Landon. If he appeared uncomfortable in a room with young mothers and pregnant ones, or the topic of nursing and nappies, he showed no outward distress. She couldn’t imagine her father’s reaction or Lord Willard’s. She suspected both men would flee the premises.

Justine’s baby began to fuss. “Let me.” Phoebe took young Archie from her and began rocking him in her arms. Her heart did a little leap when the baby grasped her finger. She looked up at the mother. “Please go rest.”

Justine, who had the familiar look of weariness of a new mother, eagerly obliged and hurried upstairs to rest. Meanwhile, Phoebe hummed to baby Archie.

When she looked up, she caught Landon watching her, a strange expression on his face. Heart quickening, she turned away.

Once the babe was asleep, she placed him in a basinet beside Becky. Then Phoebe perched a basket of dirty clothes on her hip and headed outside. Using a water pump and a lump of lye, she scrubbed the clothes clean, wrung them out, then hung them on a line to dry. On her way back to the house she found Landon was speaking with Sarah.

“How long has the front door not properly closed?” Landon asked.

“For too long,” Sarah said. “It let in a draft last winter.”

He’d removed his coat and waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his forearms. A streak of what looked like soot stained his starched white shirt and buff trousers. He didn’t seem to mind.