9. Chapter Nine

C lara knew well the stillness of an empty church. She’d grown up relishing the hallowed peace of the quiet echoes of whispered prayers and unspoken hopes that hung in the air long after parishioners departed. She’d walked by the pews, praying and soaking in the surge of anticipation for the lives God would change when the people once more filled the space.

Still, she was unprepared for the almost frightfully humbling awe that filled her as she arrived at St. Anne’s Limehouse. The servants had balked at the idea of bringing her here until Clara had threatened to sneak off by herself and hire a hack. She’d refused to bring her maid as she didn’t want to appear too high in the instep, but a driver and a footman were currently waiting outside the church.

She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but she’d been thankful for the footman’s presence as she’d watched the neighborhood change outside the carriage window.

At first, they’d passed through enough farmland and pasture to make her feel like she was back in the country. But the view from the actual church was nothing like the one from her father’s little parish. Large, blocky buildings could be seen beyond the rows of modest-looking terrace homes that framed two sides of the churchyard.

From the steps, she could see the tops of the masts in the nearby dock, their barren limbs poking into the sky like the broken remains of a fallen down barn. Above it all was the same sooty haze that covered so much of London. It was a desolate appearance and the warnings from the Virtuous Ladies slid in a steady stream through the back of Clara’s mind.

She walked through the front porch, marveling at the large, curving staircase she could see through doors on either side of the space. The double doors into the nave were open, and her gaze lifted to the columns of the galley and drifted down the clear glass windows as she wandered down the church aisle.

As Clara approached the middle of the church, a woman emerged from a door in the south corner. Her steps were brisk without appearing rushed and her arms were wrapped around a wooden box. A wide smile appeared on her face as her gaze met Clara’s.

“Welcome to St. Anne’s Limehouse.” She came to a stop several paces away from Clara. Her gaze discreetly dropped to glance over Clara’s ensemble. “What brings you out this way? Are you new to the area? I thought I had met all our parishioners.”

Heat burned the tips of Clara’s ears as she, too, glanced down at her skirts. Despite Mr. Lockhart’s suggestion that she wear something plainer, she’d donned her best afternoon dress along with the brand-new bonnet that had been delivered just that morning. If she’d done so while considering the chance that Mr. Lockhart might be here when she arrived, then at least she was the only one aware of it. Pride goeth before a fall, indeed.

Since her toilette couldn’t be altered now, she plastered a matching smile on her face and pushed on. “No, I’m currently living in Marylebone. I was, er, sent here.”

“I see. Of course.” She turned to set the wooden box in her arms on the wall of a nearby pew box. “I am Miss Eleanor Porter, and you are most welcome here.” She reached both of her hands out to clasp Clara’s nerveless fingers. “It is our honor to be a part of God’s graciousness.”

Clara wanted to frown at Miss Porter’s odd wording, but the awareness of her surroundings restrained her.

The young woman didn’t seem concerned by Clara’s lack of response. “Let’s step away from this echo chamber, shall we? The benches under the galleries are quite comfortable and you’ll be able to get off your feet. Do you need refreshment? Water? Tea? I have a few cakes leftover from last night.” She grinned, one side of her mouth curving a little more than the other. “Father tried to hide them, but I know where they are.”

Should Clara answer Miss Porter’s flood of questions or ask one of the dozens floating through her own head? Numbly, Clara allowed herself to be led to the side of the nave. She’d greeted many a person in church, but never in such a way.

Finally, she settled on asking the most easily grasped portion of the speech. “Father?”

Miss Porter gave a light laugh. “Forgive me. I assumed you’d have been told when you were sent to me. My father is the rector of St. Anne’s parish.”

It was the answer Clara had expected and yet somehow, she was still surprised. “Yes, I simply . . . wanted to verify.”

“I understand. We take discretion very seriously.” They sat on a bench, Miss Porter angled so that her knees brushed against Clara’s skirts. “Are you certain I can’t provide you with anything?”

“No.” Clara stopped to swallow as much to clear her head as to clear her throat. “I had tea before coming.”

“Wonderful.” Miss Porter’s eyes were kind as she once more clasped one of Clara’s hands in both of hers. “Now, we’ll be as delicate as possible for this conversation, but there are some things I’ll need to know.”

This time Clara could not prevent the frown from forming. She knew she dressed like a woman from the upper classes, but did Miss Porter think such ladies possessed a constitution so fragile that the mere thought of the less fortunate would give her a case of the vapors?

Clara pressed her lips into an expression she hoped looked more like a smile than a frown. “Truly, there’s no need for delicacy.”

Miss Porter’s surprise at Clara’s statement was evident only in the three rapid blinks she gave before responding. “In that case, perhaps you could tell me how long we have until you need to be out of London?”

It was Clara’s turn to be surprised, and she doubted she’d done as good of a job at hiding it. What had Mr. Lockhart told this woman? “I’m not certain what you’ve been told about my situation. While I’d certainly rather not be in the city, I have certain commitments I need to . . . accomplish before I can depart. That is why I am here. I was told you could provide a . . .” It was probably best not to call a woman’s life work a distraction, even though Clara had a feeling that was honestly what it would be for her. “You can provide what I need while I remain in London.”

“So you have support at home, then? That’s wonderful.”

When Clara’s frown deepened, Miss Porter pressed one hand to her throat. “You don’t? Well, we can move you into the vicarage and make you as comfortable as possible until you are ready to leave.” Miss Porter gave Clara’s hand a squeeze. “It likely won’t be the comfort you’re accustomed to, but we’ll help in any way we can until it’s time to remove you to the country.”

“I don’t . . .” Clara was so befuddled she couldn’t form a sentence. “Why would I need to leave home?” She wanted to devote her life to God’s work and use, but she’d been doing it from beneath her parents’ roof all her life. She was in a Church of England and not a Catholic establishment, wasn’t she? She wasn’t here trying to become a nun.

The clack and creak of the main door opening drew both women’s attention toward the portal that led out to the three porches making up the front of the church.

Clara was merely curious while Miss Porter’s startled expression appeared almost alarmed. She pushed to her feet, speaking to Clara in a hushed whisper. “You may hide in one of the box pews, if you wish. I shall see to whoever has arrived.”

Hide in one of the box pews? Clara was hardly ashamed to be inside a church. Her cousin’s carriage was boldly parked outside, after all. The footman had hopes that the crest on the side would prevent anyone from bothering her.

“Oh!” Miss Porter’s voice drifted into through the open nave doors. “Hugh, it’s you.”

“Of course it’s me. I always come twice a week to wind the clock.”

Clara knew that voice. She stood and followed in Miss Porter’s footsteps, a new curiosity pushing out her earlier confusion. Mr. Lockhart came here twice a week? Knew he’d be coming today, in fact? He’d sent her here on her own without a proper introduction. Tradesman or not, he should have known such behavior was unbecoming of a gentleman. She stepped into the antechamber to let him know as such.

Miss Porter was attempting to push Mr. Lockhart toward one of the staircases. When she saw Clara, her eyes went wide, and she began shoving harder.

Mr. Lockhart was indeed moving in the encouraged direction, but at a far slower pace than Miss Porter would obviously prefer. The look he gave the exasperated woman was one Clara knew well. She’d seen it on Marmaduke’s face more than once when she was pestering him.

Clara’s light giggle interrupted the scuffle and drew Mr. Lockhart’s attention to her. He turned, nearly sending Miss Porter to the floor, and gave Clara a small bow. “Miss Woodbury. I see you took my suggestion.”

Miss Porter stepped between Clara and Mr. Lockhart. “Your suggestion? You were the one who sent her here?”

Mr. Lockhart nodded. “Of course. She wanted to make an active change to her situation, and you were the only person I knew who could do so.”

“I can’t really change the situation, but . . .” Miss Porter cast a furtive glance at Clara. “You aren’t . . . That is, you didn’t . . .” Until that moment, the woman, though she appeared no more than twenty years old, had been displaying a markedly older maturity, stamped her foot in frustration. “How did you even know about it, anyway?”

Mr. Lockhart frowned. “Know what? That you aid the less fortunate? This is a church, Eleanor. If you aren’t doing such work, I’ll have to have a long discussion with Uncle Patrick.”

“Not every church treats such situations kindly, Hugh.” She took a step closer to him and attempted to whisper, but the stone walls brought her voice directly to Clara. “How are you even privy to the knowledge of her delicate condition?”

“What?” Mr. Lockhart exclaimed at the same time that Clara gasped out, “I beg your pardon.”

Miss Porter looked from one to the other, a tinge of pink slashing across her cheeks and growing into two huge dollops of red. “I, um, that is . . .” She fully turned to face Clara. “You aren’t here seeking assistance?”

“Well, no,” Clara said, still a little breathless. “I came to see if I could be of assistance.”

“Oh, dear.”

A dull throb formed in the middle of Clara’s forehead as she took a step closer to Miss Porter. “Do you mean to tell me this church runs a charity for, well . . .” Unsure how to state it properly, she simply grabbed the side of her best afternoon dress and spread the expensive skirt out. “For people like this?”

“Money doesn’t solve all the world’s problems, you know.” Miss Porter tried to give a little laugh, but it was high pitched and tinged on hysteria. Then she whirled once more toward Mr. Lockhart.

“I had to beg for weeks and weeks to be a part of the Committee. If I lose that position because of this blunder, I’m blaming you.”

Mr. Lockhart pointed to himself. “Me? I’m not the one who made assumptions.”

“You are the one who sent a lady out to Limehouse without telling me.”

“I sent a note.” Mr. Lockhart’s gaze met Clara’s over the top of Miss Porter’s head as his lips curved into a tiny smile. “And she isn’t a lady.” He gave a small shrug. “She gets somewhat churlish if you call her one.”

Clara lifted a hand to rub at the growing pain in her skull.

“Not a lady . . .” Miss Porter was once more looking back and forth between Clara and the clockmaker. “What is going on here? I never received a note from you.”

“That’s because I sent it to Uncle Patrick.”

“Father has been gone all day, visiting some of our sick parishioners.”

“Oh. Well.” Mr. Lockhart held out a hand to indicate Clara. “This is Miss Woodbury. She’s the cousin of Viscount Eversly and the daughter of a country vicar. While she’s in London for the Season, she was hoping to find somewhere to—” He circled his hand in the air as if the words were floating about, waiting for him to grab them. “To perform a few charitable works.”

Clara winced at the potential motives implied by Mr. Lockhart’s wording, but she said nothing, as what she truly wanted to do was turn the conversation back to this apparently exclusive charity Miss Porter was now assisting. Even Aunt Elizabeth couldn’t protest against Clara helping other women who at least appeared well-to-do.

“This committee,” Clara said as she stepped in front of Miss Porter. “Are they accepting new members?”

The flush that had begun to fade surged red again. “Not actively, but when they perceive people have certain attitudes, they occasionally extend an invitation. People in London gossip as often as they breathe. Finding people inclined to protect rather than vilify is a difficult and painstaking procedure.”

Miss Porter clasped her hands together. “Please don’t tell anyone I mistook you for having been sent here by them. I’d be in so much trouble with both the ladies and my father.” She swallowed visibly, her eyes growing wide and round. “Some of those ladies are terrifying.”

Clara had only been exposed to the aristocracy for a short time, but she’d already seen a few ladies, particularly some of the older, titled ones, that could certainly be intimidating if they chose to be. She’d like to think herself immune to such earthly social power, but she’d rather not test her fortitude.

“Your secret is safe with me.” Clara gave Miss Porter what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Is there, by chance, a way I could help this charity?”

While she’d never given a thought to a charity designed to aid the wealthy—and even now she struggled to imagine such a thing—it would be an endeavor that even her aunt couldn’t find fault with.

“Oh, yes!” Miss Porter’s demeanor shifted from concern to excitement at a rate that did nothing to ease the discombobulation in Clara’s mind. “Most of the charity is, er, privately funded, but there are other expenses. We at the church have been trying to cover some of them, but it is a stretch. Have you any experience raising funds?”

A sputter of laughter came from Mr. Lockhart. He pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to suppress the sound, but when he glanced at Clara, who was glaring at him with narrowed eyes, he lost the battle and nearly doubled over in laughter.

Miss Porter looked at him with a frown. “I say, you of all people know it takes funds to move forward on any endeavor.”

He waved a hand in the air. “It’s not that,” he choked out, still laughing.

Clara placed her hands on her hips. “Is there nothing in London for a gently born woman to do besides gather money?”

“Well . . .” Miss Porter blinked for a moment. “I’m certain there is, but . . . Well, I don’t know of any to point you to right away.”

“Have you no poor that need food baskets? Or children that need to be taught to read?”

“Well, yes.” Miss Porter frowned and shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Did you want to do the shopping? I confess, I don’t see how gathering the items is all that different from gathering the funds, and, well, to be frank we’d need you to peruse less . . . expensive food markets.”

Mr. Lockhart’s laughter, which had been tapering off, ramped up once more.

“Honestly, Mr. Lockhart.” Clara curled her hand into a fist to keep from shaking her finger at the man. “You were the one who told me I could find what I was looking for here, so I don’t know why you’re laughing. This muddle is at least partially your fault.”

He held up the hand that wasn’t clasping his box of tools. With his laughter under control but a wide smile still on his face, he said, “You’re both free to blame any and all of life’s problems on me if it makes you feel better. The other option would be for either of you to actually talk to the other one instead of jumping to conclusions.”

He turned to his cousin. “Eleanor, Miss Woodbury would like to be part of the interactions with the people, not the raising of the funds.”

“But we need funds.”

“I know. But don’t you also need hands?”

“Well, yes.” Miss Porter bit her lip in thought and then broke into a wide smile. “Have you time to do both?”

Clara opened her mouth to say she wanted only to be with the people, but conviction grabbed her tongue. But we need funds. That was so similar to what Mr. Lockhart had said when he spoke of the Virtuous Ladies Society for the Care of Wounded Soldiers.

She lifted her chin and folded her hands primly in front of her as another hope bloomed in her chest. If she could find a group of ton ladies that viewed charity as a more practical endeavor like Clara did, they could help her better navigate the Season. She might even find a friend or two.

“I’m certain I could find room in my schedule, particularly during the afternoons. Perhaps I could meet with this charity you can’t speak of and discuss how best to offer my services.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she felt a pang of guilt. One shouldn't have ulterior motives when doing the Lord’s work. Perhaps she should just go back to her aunt’s drawing room and sip tea.

“There’s only so much more we can do without collecting more money.” Miss Porter bit her lip and clasped her hands together so tightly the knuckles turned white.

“I’ve not much experience.” Clara tried to look confidant despite her confession. “But I could ask my aunt.”

“She can’t know what it’s for. This work requires absolute discretion.”

Considering Clara didn’t even know what the funds would be for, keeping it from her aunt wouldn’t be a problem. “If we can’t discuss the, er, charity, how do they sell subscriptions?”

Mr. Lockhart groaned. “Must you make everything complicated, Eleanor? There has to be something Miss Woodbury can do that does not require such secrecy.”

“Well, yes, but . . . Everyone can help with those. It requires a certain attitude to help with this.”

That Miss Porter thought Clara could assist in a way most other people could not was all her mind needed to shove aside that niggling idea of guilt. “I would love to help.”

Clara and Mr. Lockhart both watched Miss Porter with expectation, but she offered no additional information.

Finally, Mr. Lockhart threw his free hand into the air with a frustrated groan. “There must be someone who is currently arranging the funds for this mysterious group.”

“Of course there is.” Miss Porter rolled her eyes toward the ceiling before looking at Mr. Lockhart.

“Then introduce Miss Woodbury to that person. You want onetime donations instead of subscriptions, correct?”

“Well, yes, um, there are a series of private, er, subscriptions currently funding the bulk of the endeavor, so onetime gifts are useful.” Miss Porter fidgeted and avoided meeting anyone’s gaze.

“Then she can organize an event.” Mr. Lockhart waved a hand toward Clara as he shook his head. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, there’s a clock that a lot of people depend upon that needs winding.” After a nodding bow to each of the women, he turned and moved up the stairs.

While Mr. Lockhart made everything sound simple, Clara couldn’t help but think there were more difficult aspects he was either missing or deliberately avoiding. If it were truly that easy, every foundling hospital and orphan asylum in London would be doing it. She’d seen charity functions listed in the paper, but not very many.

“Hmph. He always thinks the solution is a simple business problem.” Miss Porter crossed her arms.

“What is he wrong about?”

She sighed. “Nothing, I suppose. And everything. Things never work in real life like they do on paper. People have a way of changing things when you add them to the mix.”

The sound of a door followed by footsteps drifted from the nave. “Eleanor? Did you change out the candles?”

“Oh!” Miss Porter jumped in surprise, then spun around in a circle. “Where did I leave them?” She frowned for a moment. “On the box pew. Pardon me for a moment, Miss Woodbury.”

Miss Porter strode quickly back into the nave, leaving Clara to mull things over on her own.

She wanted to help this charity, as much out of curiosity as a desire to be useful. The idea of possibly being welcomed into a secret society of ministry-minded ladies was also appealing.

Her aunt was certain to approve, especially if the person Miss Porter introduced Clara to was of any consequence, but the idea of sitting through more meetings like she had yesterday made her eyes cross.

There had to be another way to do it.

Her gaze drifted up the winding staircase and its graceful wooden railing, dotted every so often with a simple knob of wood to break the smooth line.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she started up the staircase he’d recently climbed. Perhaps if Mr. Lockhart thought it was so much easier than she was making it out to be, he should be the one to help her do it.