Page 32 of The Duke Undone

Aunt Marian laughed, a real laugh this time.

“Exactly,” she said. “Now bring this half-frozen girl a cup of tea before she expires.”

Lucy went and fetched another cup. Mrs. Cantrell had taken her seat and was sipping her own tea. Megan sat beside her. Lucy set down the cup and filled it. The tea was strong and hot. Megan took a grateful sip, but not before turning it white with milk and adding sugar until the liquid could stand a spoon. Her best meal of the day, Lucy was willing to wager. She pulled her chair closer to the other women and sat.

With the sewing machine stilled, the sound of rain was audible.

They sat for a time in silence, listening, each lost in her thoughts.

Even when she was shivering under her blanket up in her little garret room, Lucy always felt comforted by the sound of the rain falling on the roof tiles. It reminded her that she was dry and safe, that she was fortunate.

Now she wanted to crawl up over the eaves, to protect those roof tiles with her body, to hold the house together, come what may.

The door flew open. Mr. Cantrell ducked into the shop, face livid. Megan shrank back. Her father, it was widely known, made free with his fists. The girl was never easy in male company. Lucy touched her arm to let her know there was no cause for fear.

“Alvin!” said Mrs. Cantrell. “What happened? Did you find him?”

He gave her a stark look as he snatched off his hat.

“He was at the George and Dragon,” he muttered. “With a half dozen of his friends or I’d have left him bleeding.”

Here was a side of Mr. Cantrell Lucy had never seen. He’d always seemed far more reserved than his fiery Irish wife, a gentle giant. But it made sense. Mrs. Cantrell would hardly have married a man without spirit.

All at once, he seemed to remember himself. To notice he and his wife were not alone. He nodded at the rest of them.

“Not the finest day,” he said, slapping his hat against his leg. Tiny drops sprayed from it.

“Irreparable structural defects. That’s what he said. Dangerous, and pestilential, attested to by the inspector, and Dr. Jephson signed off.”

“Jephson?” asked Mrs. Cantrell.

Mr. Cantrell gave his hat a final slap. “The new medical officer for the vestry. Agrees we’re a risk to public health.”

“Lies!” Lucy crossed her arms and trapped her balled fists beneath her elbows, to keep them from flying at nothing.

“But Purcell knows—” began Mrs. Cantrell. Her husband cut her off.

“It’s beyond Purcell. We’re condemned. The Board of Works has already received an application for the leases.”

Mr. Cantrell ground his teeth so hard Lucy feared they might break.

“Purcell’s opening a coach-making workshop,” he continued at last, loosening his jaws by tugging at his beard.

“Needs extra hands, he told me, large and small. We can have work, even the babies, if we don’t fancy mending boots on the street.”

Mrs. Cantrell gave a strangled cry.

“Red pantaloons in Parliament too,” muttered Aunt Marian. Mr. Cantrell looked uneasy, no doubt suspecting the bad tidings had dislodged something in the old woman’s brain.

“The MPs win elections giving speeches on the floor about ending misery and squalor. The Lords make their names passing improvement bills. From where they sit, it’s a job well done. But from where we sit? There’s more human suffering every day.”

The firebrand, still sparking, faculties no more or less intact.

Mr. Cantrell looked relieved, but he shook his head.

“Some mean well enough. Do you remember the Duke of Weston’s speech?”

Mercifully, Mr. Cantrell took Lucy’s gasp for affirmation.