Page 18 of From Unwanted to Duchess
She was young, perhaps the same age as Frances, with dark curls and an eager expression.
“Please, do call me James. We have always used Christian names. I doubt Miss Langley will mind.”
“I do not,” Frances confirmed.
“Very well then, Charlotte, what was the question?”
“The fire at your house, how severe was it?”
He cringed inwardly. “Severe enough. Severe enough that I must continue bothering your dear aunt for shelter for another few days. Perhaps a couple more weeks.”
Frances shifted beside him, and he could have sworn she looked pained at the prospect of his extended stay.
“I see. And how did it start? Was it one of the rioters?”
He blinked, then understood. “No. Fortunately, I have not been targeted by that mob.”
“Are they so wrong, though?” Charlotte asked from behind. “After all, it is they who have suffered the most.”
James’s jaw tightened. For several weeks, riots had broken out in London with alarming regularity over the Corn Laws. That wretched legislation had been making his life a misery for the last three years, and not only his.
“Are they wrong about what?” Frances asked, turning in her seat.
“I am surprised you do not know about it, given how you pride yourself on your… humble origins,” he said, more sharply than he had intended.
She frowned, two slight lines appearing between her brows. “I beg your pardon?”
“There have been riots for the last few weeks,” Marianne explained. “Working people upset over the Corn Laws. Parliament passed legislation preventing foreign wheat from being imported until domestic wheat reaches eighty shillings per quarter.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Frances said, her voice quiet but firm. “It’s been a disaster for the working class. There are many people in our neighborhood who cannot afford bread at all. As usual, highborns make decisions that benefit themselves while harming those who already have nothing.”
“But your father is a farmer,” James pointed out, not willing to let this slide. “Surely he has benefited?”
“He has,” she acknowledged. “But there are many who live in our parish who have not. People are angry, and rightfully so.”
“Well, they have been taking their anger to Parliament,” Charlotte piped up. “Protesting and sometimes rioting. Many have been arrested. And some, after being dispersed, have gone to the homes of those who voted for the Corn Bill and attacked their property.”
“I am sure Miss Langley isn’t supportive of that as well,” James remarked, unable to keep the edge from his voice.
“I do not condone people hurting others or destroying property,” Frances said carefully. “That will not advance us as a society. However, it would be beneficial if the Lords actually listened to the poor.”
An awkward silence fell over their group. The orchestra was tuning below, discordant notes rising to their box.
“Speaking of listening,” Aunt Eugenia said brightly, “perhaps we should all be quiet and prepare to listen to the performance. The curtain will rise shortly.”
The young ladies murmured their agreement and settled back in their seats. James felt Frances shift beside him, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The gas lamps along the stage began to dim, and the audience quieted in anticipation.
But James found he couldn’t simply let the matter rest. He leaned slightly toward her, keeping his voice low enough so that only she could hear.
“You speak as though you’ve given this considerable thought.”
She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the stage curtain. “I’m from Bedfordshire, Your Grace. One can hardly avoid giving it thought when one watches one’s neighbors struggle.”
“So you’d have us throw open the floodgates? Allow cheap grain to pour in and bankrupt every farmer in England?”
Now she did turn to face him, her expression serious. “I’d have you consider that a loaf of bread is not a luxury for most of England, but a necessity. And that protecting profits for landowners by effectively starving the poor is perhaps… morally questionable.”
“How refreshingly radical,” he murmured, though he found himself more intrigued than offended. “Next, you’ll be quoting William Cobbett to me.”
“I was actually thinking of Adam Smith,” she replied, the ghost of a smile touching her lips. “But I can quote Mr. Cobbett if you prefer.”
He stared at her. “You’ve readThe Wealth of Nations?”
“My father keeps a surprisingly robust library for a country gentleman. One has to pass the winter months somehow.”
“And here I thought all country misses did was practice scales and paint watercolors.”
“And you would be quite wrong,” she said, but there was an edge to her voice now.
James would have continued the debate, but then the curtains rose, and the overture began, cutting him off. He glanced at her as she watched the stage come to life, her expression innocent and serene.
