for the entire household, but with ten children, Father had quickly seen the wisdom in having Cook prepare a small pudding for each of us. We would stand in a row, swathed in aprons, some of us tottering on stools as we dragged the long wooden spoons through the heavy batter, chanting together the traditional rhyme:
Stir up, we beseech thee,
The pudding in the pot;
And when we get home
We’ll eat the lot.
As we stirred, Aunt Hermia would peer over our shoulders, reminding us to make our wishes, and to stir from east to west in honour of the Three Kings. Then she would flap her hands, turning us from the room so she might add the charms to the puddings, a thimble for a lucky life, a ring to foretell marriage, a silver sixpence to betoken wealth to come. It was one of my favourite customs of the holiday, and not just for the festivity of the stirring-up. The puddings were heavenly, richly spiced and studded with golden raisins and currants and all manner of good things. But with Aunt Hermia in London, there was little chance the puddings had been made, and the notion of Christmas without our beloved puddings was unthinkable.
“Do not fret,” Father said with a benevolent smile. “We have had a saviour in the shape of Mrs. King. She organised the stirring-up yesterday. She even made certain there would be extra puddings for those of you come lately.”
I looked at Mrs. King who had coloured delicately, a light stain of rose across her round cheeks.
“You are too generous with your praise, my lord,” she said. But for all her modesty, it was apparent she was quite pleased to be singled out for such approbation.
“How very kind of you,” I said with deliberate sweetness, “to put yourself to so much trouble for strangers.”
If she felt the barb, she did not show it. She merely shook her head emphatically.
“Not at all, my lady. His lordship has been so kind to me, and so very good to Lord Wargrave.” She hesitated, darting a bashful gaze at her fiancé. “It was the very least I could do. The very least.”
I gave her a bland smile and was greatly relieved when the footmen stepped forward to remove the fish plates. We moved on to the next course, and the conversation turned as well. I never knew who introduced the subject, but after a moment I realised Father and Mr. Snow were engaged in a rather brisk discussion of the Gypsies.
“But surely you must see, my lord, that permitting them to camp on your land only encourages their lifestyle,” Lucian Snow was saying to Father.
Father regarded him with something akin to amusement. Father loves nothing better than a spirited debate, and I have often seen him adopt a contrary opinion in the company of like-minded people, simply for the sport of disputing with them. But on this issue, I knew his mind. He was not sporting with Mr. Snow; he was completely in opposition, and it was a position he would defend to the death, regardless of the rules of hospitality.
“Mr. Snow, are we not enjoined by the Holy Scriptures themselves to aid our brethren? Surely providing a bit of ground for their camp and a stick of wood for a fire to warm them is an act of charity.”
“A misplaced charity,” Snow replied earnestly, “for which the rest of the village will have to pay. Will you be responsible, my lord, when the shops are victims of thievery, when the farmers are victims of pilfering, when women are victims of—”
Emma gave a soft little shriek and raised her napkin to her lips. Father held up a hand. “That is enough, Snow. The Romany have camped on my lands as long as I have been lord of this manor. Never once have they repaid my hospitality with the ingratitude you have suggested.”
“Nor would they,” I put in swiftly. “To steal from their host would violate the very code by which they live their lives.”
Mr. Snow turned to me, his expression sorrowful. “Your womanly compassion does you great credit, my lady, but I am certain you would share my opinion if you understood the depths of degradation to which these poor souls must sink. But I cannot bring myself to speak of such grim particulars to a lady.”
Across from me, Brisbane continued to consume his dinner, looking supremely bored with the entire discussion. He seemed to be managing quite nicely in spite of his injury, and I wondered nastily if Mrs. King had cut his meat for him.
“What do you propose, Mr. Snow?” I asked him plainly.
Lucian Snow laid down his fork, clearly more enthused about the topic at hand than his dinner. It was a pity really. Cook had outdone herself with port sauce for the venison.
“There are those who believe that the children may be saved, my lady, if only they are removed from the influence of their parents’ savagery at a sufficiently youthful age. I am one of those. I think if the children can be taken into good Christian homes, educated, taught their letters and numbers and basic hygiene, a skill or craft by which they may earn an honest wage, their lives may be immeasurably enriched. The poverty of their vagabond lifestyle is so wrenching, so contrary to morality and civility, that a complete break is the only way to save these poor lost children.”
I blinked at him and laid down my own fork. “You advocate taking children away from their natural mothers? Away from the only family they have ever known? Mr. Snow, I cannot think that is the foundation of any useful programme.”
I was deeply conscious of the rest of the party listening to our exchange. My family were accustomed to sparring with guests; debate had always been a bit of a blood sport for Marches, and Brisbane had never turned a hair at our escapades. But I noticed out of the tail of my eye the wide-eyed curiosity of Mrs. King, and the slightly shocked expressions of Sir Cedric and his young cousin. Alessandro was diplomatically quiet, doubtless wondering if it was the habit of English ladies to brawl with their guests at table.
“My dear lady,” Snow was saying, “how can we possibly persuade them there is a better way unless they are given no opportunity to fall back on their own vile habits? I believe your own aunt, Lady Hermia, embraces a similar philosophy at her refuge in Whitechapel.”
Hoist with my own petard. It was true Aunt Hermia kept the prostitutes secluded on the premises of her reformatory until they were well on the path to decency. She feared the lure of easy money would be too strong for them when they were first applying themselves to their new way of life. But I was not about to concede the point to Snow.
“Those women are adults, sir. They choose freely to come to the reformatory. It is only in the difficult first weeks, when they are being weaned off drink and a host of other vices, that she restricts their freedoms. And they are free to leave at any time and never return.”
“My lady,” Mr. Snow replied, “I can only put to you this question—what sort of monsters must these people be to deny their children a warm and safe home, without security, without education, without Christian principles?”
“In that case, why don’t you just have done with it and drown the lot like kittens?” Plum put in. His face had gone a dull, angry red, and a lock of his hair fell over his brow. He was mightily outraged, and rather attractive with it. Mrs. King was staring at him, her expression rapt, her lips slightly parted. I could understand the allure. Plum was a very personable man, and in defence of his views, he could be as deliciously ruthless as any buccaneer. In spite of his waistcoat—turquoise-blue taffeta splashed with pink peonies—he looked rather rakish as he turned the brunt of his wrath on Mr. Snow.
I
