Honourable Doctor, Improper Arrangement. Mary Nichols
were born in camp. I acted midwife on many an occasion, but my main occupation was treating the sick and wounded after the battles.’
Although Kate would not have dreamed of quizzing him as her grandmother was doing, she listened with growing admiration as he talked. If she had been a man, she would have pursued the same calling or something very like it, but such a career was not open to a woman and she had to content herself with visiting the poor and sick and taking them little comforts like food and clothing and helping them in any way she could.
‘I collect you were brought up by your uncle, is that not so?’ Lady Morland queried, changing tack suddenly.
‘Yes, my lady. Both my parents died when I was very young and he became my guardian.’
‘But you are not your uncle’s heir?’
‘I was not, but nine months ago my cousin died in a hunting accident, which has unexpectedly put me in that position.’
‘I see.’
Kate looked at him with renewed interest. She could feel for him; her own mother had died when she was seven and she knew the sense of loss never entirely went away. It might account for the bleak look she sometimes saw in his eyes.
Lady Morland was not done with him yet. ‘And do you do your work with your uncle’s blessing?’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Not exactly. He told me to go to the devil in my own way. Fortunately he is in prime kilter and I do not expect to inherit for a long time yet.’ It was a mild way of describing his relationship with his uncle, which had been, and still was, a stormy one, especially since the death of his cousin. He was expected to step into Charles’s shoes, marry an heiress and give him a brood of grandchildren. ‘You should be looking for a wife and setting up your own nursery, not taking on other people’s bantlings,’ Aunt Matilda told him repeatedly. ‘You will catch some dreadful disease, or be set upon and robbed by the very people you are trying to help…’ And that was mild compared with what his uncle said.
‘I assume from that you have not married.’
‘No, I have yet to meet the lady who will put up with my peccadilloes.’ It was his stock answer, if not entirely accurate.
‘I would not call the wish to help your fellow creatures a peccadillo, Dr Redfern,’ Kate put in. ‘It is an admirable thing to do.’
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He paused and plunged on, unwilling to continue being quizzed on the subject of marriage. ‘If you are interested in the work of the Society, there is be a lecture at Somerset House on Friday evening at eight o’clock with the object of raising funds. If you are not otherwise engaged, would you care to attend?’
‘Yes, I think I would.’
As Kate spoke, her father came into the room. He was, Simon judged, about fifty, grey-haired and dressed in the dark clothes of a cleric. Kate introduced them.
‘Oh, you are the fellow my daughter met yesterday,’ the Reverend said, shaking Simon’s hand.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What happened to the little boy she rescued?’
‘He has been taken into the Hartingdon Home. I am hoping something can be done for the family and then he can be returned to them.’
‘Kate has told me a little of the work you do,’ the Reverend went on. ‘It is a thankless task, I think.’
‘There are times when I feel despondent, but when things go well and a family thrives, then I am glad that I have done my small part in bringing it about.’
‘I think the government should do more,’ Kate said. ‘Children should not have to rely on charity for the basic things in life, like food, clothes and a home. If I had my way, ex-soldiers would have decent pensions—’ She stopped suddenly, realising she was becoming heated. ‘I beg your pardon. I am sometimes a little too forthright.’
Simon smiled, admiring her heightened colour, the brightness of her eyes and the passion with which she spoke. How he wished there were more like her! ‘I agree with you. The war has ruined so many lives—children left either without fathers or ones so badly disabled they cannot work, and mothers who must work to keep the family from starving and in the process neglecting their children.’
‘Papa,’ Kate said, ‘Dr Redfern has invited me to attend a lecture about the work of The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children on Friday evening. I have a mind to go. Would you accompany me?’
‘That is the charity Lady Eleanor is involved with, is it not?’ he asked Simon.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then I see no harm in attending. But if you are looking for a large donation, I am afraid you have come to the wrong person.’
Kate laughed. ‘One must not forget the tale of the widow’s mite. And perhaps there are other ways to help besides money, even if it is only spending a little time with the children at the Home.’
‘Kate, how can you think of anything like that?’ Lady Morland remonstrated. ‘You don’t know where they have come from. You might pick up anything…’
Kate did know where most of them came from, but she was not going to tell her grandmother about her visit to the slums. ‘Then I can help raise funds. There is no harm in that, is there?’
Simon, unwilling to witness an altercation between the old lady and her granddaughter, picked up his hat, before standing up and bowing to everyone. ‘My lady. Reverend. Mrs Meredith. I thank you for your interest.’
Kate rose to go to the front door with him; it was not their habit to ring for Susan to see callers off the premises. ‘I really would like to help you,’ she told him. ‘I am sure you will be able to find something useful for me to do.’
‘But ought you to go against your family’s wishes?’
‘Oh, take no note of Grandmama, her bark is worse than her bite. I can easily bring her round my thumb and I know my father will let me have my way; he thinks as I do. You have not seen the last of me.’
‘Then I wish you good day, Mrs Meredith. I shall look forward to seeing you at the meeting on Friday.’ He clamped his hat back on his head and strode down the path to the gate.
Kate returned to her grandmother. Her father had disappeared into his study again. ‘What a strange man,’ her ladyship said.
‘Do you mean Dr Redfern? I do not find him strange.’
‘An heir to a baron, grubbing about in the dirt, playing nursemaid to a horde of filthy children is strange, Kate, believe me. But if my memory serves me, there was a scandal there somewhere in the past, a falling out between uncle and nephew. Unless it was his cousin. I cannot be sure. I shall have to make enquiries.’
‘Why, Grandmother? Whatever it was has nothing to do with us and if he chooses to spend his time helping the poor, that is commendable, not strange.’
‘Nothing to do with us! Of course it is. If he expects to be received, then his character is important. We do not want our friends, and particularly Viscount Cranford, to think we encourage the man if he is not acceptable in polite society. And is a man who spends his time among the riff-raff in the rookeries acceptable?’
‘Grandmother, that is unfair. I did not think you were like that.’
‘If it were left to me, I would not be so particular, but others might not be so tolerant. We must be careful.’
‘Lady Eleanor seems to find him acceptable.’
‘As a working colleague, perhaps—that does not mean she is prepared to meet him socially. Your father is going to the meeting with you next week, he can question Eleanor.’
‘Grandmother, I think it is reprehensible to go behind Dr Redfern’s back like that. If he finds out, I hope he will not blame me, for I find a great