Saving the Marquess: Book 1.

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Happily Ever After book Mihwa Lee
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Saving the Marquess

Mihwa Lee

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Copyright © 2023 by Mihwa Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the
prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission
requests, contact www.mihwawrites.com.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No
identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or
should be inferred.
Book Cover by Bradley C. Ford

3rd edition 2023

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 Contents

Prologue
1. 1822: Age twenty-four years
2. The Beginning
3. Lullingstone Castle
4. The Master
5. The Library
6. The First Argument
7. The Fall
8. 1801: Age three years
9. The Unlikely Spies
10. The Old Cricket Inn
11. The Soiree
12. The First Encounter
13. 1804: Age six years
14. The Accident
15. The Illness
16. The Demon
17. 1812: Age fourteen years
18. The Lie
19. Arthur’s Kindness
20. Longing
21. The Supper
22. The Lecture
23. The Warwick Ball
24. The Hilltop
25. 1816: Age eighteen years
26. Regret
27. The Confrontation
28. The Plot
29. Estrangement
30. 1814: Age sixteen years
31. Cameron’s Visit
32. Reunion
33. After the Opera
34. Long Night
35. The Letter
36. The Annulment
37. The Test
38. Jealousy
39. Serendipity
40. The Rescue
41. Meeting Again
42. Home Again
43. A New Beginning
Also By the Author

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 Prologue

1822: Age twenty-four years - Cambridge

I fgrounds
Alexi were a proper young lady, she would not be wandering the college
on her own so late in the evening, risking her good name and her
father's reputation. Yet there she was, walking briskly as she stared at the
worn toes of her boots. The darkness beyond the small circle of light
conjured her childhood terrors. She had lost the track of time again in her
pursuit of forbidden scholarship.
While neither a student nor official assistant to her father at Cambridge,
she immensely enjoyed slipping into classrooms full of men, huddling in
the flickering candlelight and straining to hear every clipped syllable. But
she knew she couldn't continue any longer. The discontented voices of male
students were becoming louder of late, and she did not wish to jeopardize
her father's position as a professor by flaunting social mores. Not especially
when her father's illness was provoking whispers of doubt in his
competence.
As her empty stomach grumbled, she quickened her pace. Her mouth
watered at the thought of bread pudding waiting for her at home.
Unbuttoning her pelisse in the uncommon warmth for the season, she
maintained focus on her footsteps, avoiding gazing into the shadows.
A startled cry from the forest jolted Alexi from her thoughts. Registering
a woman's shriek, her body seized her before her mind could react. She
raced toward the scream without thinking, dropping her satchel of books on
the ground and simultaneously picking up a broken tree branch on the way.
She held tightly to the lantern.
Alexi ran as fast as she could until she saw a man holding a woman from
behind, breeches pulled down past his knees. The milky white skin of the
woman’s legs glowed in the lantern light.
Overwhelmed by shock and indignation, Alexi let out a roar of fury.
“Unhand her this instant, you brute!” She wildly swung the branch at the
man.
The wide-eyed woman squirmed free and backed up. Appearing more
afraid of Alexi than the man, she bolted into the darkness.
"Stop!" the man shouted after her in vain. “You owe me five schillings!”
Whirling on Alexi, he cursed violently, "Confound it all! Look what
you’ve done!”
She quickly turned her head to the side, avoiding the view while he
pulled up his breeches.
He advanced menacingly.
“A ravisher! A debaucher! Help!” she screamed, but the empty night
offered no salvation.
She steadied her voice despite the dread spreading within.
"How dare you prey upon the defenceless!"
When he stepped forward, she swung again.
"Stay back, scoundrel!"
"Put that down before you take my eye out!" he yelled.
"It would serve you right!”
She steadied the stick before her, hoping it appeared a stronger defence
than it felt.
"Tell me your name this instant!" she demanded, striving to steady her
voice.
 She did not expect him to surrender his name, but distraction might give
her time to study his features in case she needed to identify the villain later.
Unfortunately, the lantern only cast dancing shadows across his finely
structured face, obscuring much to her frustration. She discerned dark
brooding eyes that glinted with malevolent purpose. His jaw was sharp,
without a shadow of stubble. Had he shaven before going on the prowl this
night?
The glow revealed surprisingly straight, white teeth contrasting his vile
speech. She longed to distinguish his countenance fully, yet light and
shadow served only to underscore the threat of his strong form.
He smirked, taking another brazen step nearer.
"Why ever would I give you my name unless you wished to scream it in
ecstasy?"
Panic threatened to rattle her brain as she studied his tall, imposing frame
and muscular build. Without that rush of righteous fury, she would never
have dared challenge such a brute. A discarded Cambridge cape lay on the
ground behind him.
Though her pulse raced wildly, she ordered him in a tone of false
authority, "Sir, do not dare move nearer! I am withdrawing now.”
She retreated a few small steps, praying she appeared more confident
than she felt.
“Do as I command, and you shall keep both eyes.”
The villain laughed as she retreated slowly. "You are hardly in a position
to make threats.”
He pursued her with a mocking leer at his mouth, but his eyes stayed
intensely focused on her.
“If you think I am bluffing, you are gravely mistaken!” she screamed,
keeping the stick aimed at him. Her hands shook, but she steadied them
through sheer will.
"What exactly do you think you saw?" he asked, trailing her. His eyes
glinted like a predator toying with cornered prey.
 "You were assaulting an innocent woman! It’s punishable by law!" she
accused, raising her chin defiantly.
"The lass is hardly innocent. I was doing my civic duty by providing
employment. You owe me five shillings for chasing off my lady-bird."
Amusement lurked at the corner of his mouth.
Incensed, she shot back, "You owe me compensation for the time I have
squandered coming to that woman's aid. Desist pursuing me at once!"
“Compensation? You have an inflated opinion of your worth.”
He eyed her tattered gown, somehow crumbling her pride and confidence
in the process.
“What business had you with a woman of ill repute? Have you no
mistress to meet your needs?”
She glanced at the fine cambric of his shirt, the well-made boots.
“I am a man who craves variety upon my plate. Too much of the same
fare breeds only discontent.”
His meaning was unmistakable.
“You are a vile rake!” Anger raised the pitch and volume of her voice.
"And you play a lively scold. I begin to enjoy our sport," he said in a
rumbling baritone, his cultured voice incongruously melodic given his
crude intentions.
He checked his advance abruptly. A shiver went down her spine as his
eyes glided over her form from head to toe.
"You're a pretty thing," he said softly.
“Sir, you could not begin to afford my price!” she spat, thankful her voice
did not tremble.
“Clever girl. You drove off the competition under the guise of being a
good Samaritan.”
Her mind worked frantically to find a way to flee, but it seemed futile.
The man’s stallion legs would easily outpace her.
 Her heart drummed a frantic beat as he closed the last of the distance
between them.
“As you will not repay my shillings, you must provide the service
yourself.”
His eyes fixed on her, devouring her with their insolence.
“If you were paying her as you claim, why did she scream?”
Alexi attempted to distract him while clasping the stick till her knuckles
blanched.
“Because a squirrel ran over her fingers,” he said.
“Her ... fingers?” she repeated, her mind becoming preoccupied by how
that was possible.
Noticing her bewilderment, he added, “I had her against a tree. I'd gladly
demonstrate if you stop that coy act.”
Her cheeks burned at the visual image floating in her mind.
“Then why did she run away?” she stammered, throat gone dry.
“Because you were swinging that stick like a madwoman!”
Then, to her horror, her back met resistance—a brick wall behind her.
Intently studying her countenance, he placed his hands on either side of her
head, fencing her in. She heard naught but the thunder of her pulse.
As she raised her stick in desperate defence, he wrested it from her grasp
with one swift movement.
His voice was warm and beguiling like a lover's whispers. It was jarring
to hear his voice utter, “You are very brave to aid a stranger and risk
becoming the victim yourself.” The fresh scent of soap washed over her,
further tossing her into a mangled mess of thoughts and emotions. “A crown
for your gallantry,” he said in a hushed tone. “I’ll do all the work.”
“How … dare you,” she whispered, her voice fractured by fear and
confusion. She scraped her nails across the rough brick behind her, seeking
any weapon.
“Name your price,” he said, his meaning unmistakable.
 His hips pinned her to the wall, his muscular thighs easily immobilizing
her slight frame. Through the flimsy fabric of her dress, she felt the searing
warmth of his torso pressed against her. The buttons of his waistcoat dug
into her ribcage with each breath as he shifted even closer.
Turning her face away in fruitless resistance, she felt his large hand graze
her neck, brushing back the dark strands of hair that encumbered him from
touching her bare skin. The combined impressions overwhelmed her—hard
planes of his body constraining soft curves of hers, his raw masculinity and
the delicate movements of his fingers, his elegant looks incongruous with
his rough speech.
She squeezed her eyes shut and silently repeated a psalm though the
words jumbled meaninglessly against her hammering pulse. His was an
imposing, commanding presence that both menaced and thrilled some
traitorous part of her.
“I’m no such woman,” she asserted, willing courage to her words.
“You’re not?” He eyed her sceptically.
“Nay. Step aside this instant and grant me passage."
She shoved at his chest with all her feeble strength.
“What are you doing wandering here unescorted at this late hour?” Then
a knowing smile spread over his chiseled features. “Ah, I see now. A savvy
merchant, demanding high compensation.”
Alexi was about to scream with frustration when he removed a one-pound
note from his pocket and held it aloft. Her eyes widened at the small fortune
fluttering before them. She couldn’t look away.
“One pound for a kiss,” he proposed, voice husky.
Alexi stared at the banknote. It was worth two weeks of exhausting
tutoring duties. New books, a stylish bonnet ... Still, she forced herself to
shake her head.
“Two pounds,” he pressed, adding another note to sweeten the deal. “Just
a kiss. Nothing more shall be required of you. I swear it.”
 The rough brick scraped her back through her worn dress as his body
pinned hers. Emboldened by the fluttering notes, she countered with sudden
audacity, “Three pounds.”
Amusement played about his lips. Eyes glinting, he drew out a third note
and held it teasingly close to her face.
Snatching her prize, she shoved the notes and shame deep into her
pocket.
Slowly, he dipped his head toward her. As the stranger's tall, lean frame
surrounded hers, all sensible thoughts fled, leaving only her thundering
pulse.
His nearness drowned her senses until he seemed to be her entire world.
She inhaled the faint scent of bay rum emanating from his skin, the fresh
soap mingling deliciously. He was refined and clean, belying the violence
that had marred their meeting. Strands of his dark disheveled hair grazed
her cheek with startling softness. His warm breath washed over her flushed
skin as their faces hovered mere inches apart, his striking countenance
dominating her vision.
Alexi wondered despairingly how she would breathe when his lips met
hers, with her breath already catching so sharply in her throat. His presence
permeated the very air she struggled to draw into her lungs. All sights and
sounds faded until only he remained. She prepared to drown in fathomless
ink-dark eyes that glinted with illicit intent.
The hard ridge of his erection beneath the thin fabric of his breeches
lightly brushed against her stomach as he shifted his hips to kiss her. Her
cheeks burned instantly from embarrassment. Once his mouth captured
hers, she was unable to pull away.
His lips were impossibly soft, caressing hers with unexpected tenderness
that belied his looming presence. Alexi's eyelashes fluttered helplessly
despite wanting to find him repulsive. Her lips slowly yielded to his and
surrendered. A strangled sound escaped her.
When at last he withdrew, the night air felt wintry on her flushed skin.
His gaze fixed on her eyes, then drifted longingly to her parted lips.
 “I’ve never turned an innocent into a strumpet before,” he said.
She gasped in horror as mortification flooded through her veins.
Wrestling free, she fled into the shadows, the gentle timbre of his insult
chasing her all the way home.

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 Chapter One

1822: Age twenty-four years

Lullingstone Castle

S hadows flickered across the study walls as candlelight danced erratically.

It barely illuminated the dark wooden shelves and aging leather-bound
volumes. At the large oak desk, a tall figure hunched over a ledger, his eyes
blank in the dim light.
His broad shoulders appeared sturdy enough to bear the weight of all the
tomes surrounding him, but they sank under the long-hidden secrets. His
jaws tightened as a wayward strand of hair fell across his furrowed brows.
Known until recently as the Honourable Arthur Redesdale, he now wore
mourning black with the Salisbury crest stitched near his breast for a father
he did not grieve. The late Lord Salisbury's tyranny was no more, yet no
lightness came to Arthur's soul. Instead, bitterness rose like bile in his
throat, a smothering shroud of memory that would haunt him all his living
days. And if luck did not favour him, he would become him.
The shadows seemed to close in as Arthur brooded, the sparse candlelight
waning. Each flicker of the fragile flame threatened to plunge him into
darkness, both within and without.
Hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor before the study door burst
open, causing Arthur to look up. His secretary, Martin, rushed inside. His
face was flushed as he announced between panting breaths, "It's a girl! Both
mother and babe are well!"
Despite the doctor's warning of grave peril, the mother and child were
unscathed. Arthur's initial sigh of relief soured swiftly, curdling into anger.
His hands involuntarily clenched.
"Shall I fetch the child for you to see, my lord?" Martin tentatively
inquired.
"No. I shall view her another time. What is the infant called?" Arthur
clipped.
"Elizabeth, I believe."
"Elizabeth," Arthur murmured, the name bitter on his tongue.
An uneasy pause hung in the air before the marquess broke it with a quiet
command.
"Send them off with haste. Ensure no trace remains of their presence
here."
Martin shifted on his feet.
"The coach awaits, but the young man seems to be having doubts. He
wishes—"
Arthur silenced him with a sharp look.
"I care not. Just see that it's done."
With a murmur of assent, Martin withdrew. Alone again amidst flickering
shadows, Arthur absentmindedly fidgeted with the family crest on his coat.
The title of Marquess of Salisbury sat like a physical weight upon his chest,
a joyless marker of prestige. He inhaled deeply but found no relief in his
lungs.

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 Chapter Two

The Beginning

Winter 1828

lexi ..."
"A Five-year-old Mary's tiny voice was scarcely audible over the
drumming rain. Standing on her tiptoes, she tried in vain to catch her
governess’ attention while her brothers yelled and roughhoused. Alexi's
thoughts were far away to a rainy day much like this one. She recalled the
solemn faces, her father’s gut-wrenching sobs, and her mother's lifeless
body.
"Alexi!"
Mary insisted, giving Alexi's skirt a determined tug.
Startled from her reverie, Alexi looked down.
"Yes, Mary?"
"You said I could play after the spelling," the girl reminded her.
Alexi managed a smile.
"You've worked very hard. You deserve a reward."
Mary’s face lit up.
“I want to play backgammon with my brothers!”
Alexi glanced over at the twins, who were trying to feed the checkers to
each other.
“I’ll teach you myself during the next break,” she promised.
 Mary yelped and bounced with infectious excitement when a stern voice
interrupted.
"Miss Addington." Ms. Harringsworth, her employer's stern lady's maid,
stood in the doorway. "Lady Flemington wants to see you."
Alexi stifled a sigh.
"Right this instant?"
"Yes, that is why I've come now instead of later," the maid said
condescendingly.
"I was going to begin the children's literature lesson. Can it not wait?"
When no gesture of concession came from Ms. Harringsworth, Alexi
approached the boys.
“John, Liam, whoever teaches Mary backgammon while I'm gone doesn't
have to tidy this room for a week.”
Two hands shot up, voices clamouring over each other. With a knowing
look at their delighted sister, Alexi left to face her employer. The sounds of
laughter behind her lifted her spirit a little.
Mrs. Harringsworth charged down the corridor as if she was fleeing a
battalion, finally skidding to an abrupt halt outside the drawing room.
Within it, Lady Flemington sat near the crackling flames. The red and
orange flames sharply contrasted to her ladyship's icy gaze.
"Alexi," she drawled with an audible sigh.
"Yes, Aunt Audrey," Alexi replied, ignoring the purse of the older
woman's lips. Were it not for the periodic reminder of their relationship, her
aunt would have withheld her wages many times over.
Lady Flemington looked her up and down with a grimace before letting
out another exaggerated sigh.
"You look more like a raggedy kitchen maid than a governess of a
reputable household."
Lady Flemington took a crisp handkerchief and daintily dabbed at the
corners of her mouth. Alexi envisioned herself snatching the handkerchief
from her aunt's hands to wipe away her scowl. Instead, she lowered her eyes
to survey her own tattered dress and scuffed boots.
"I don't have the funds for new attire. If only you would pass on your old
dresses to me …” she trailed off, sensing her aunt's annoyance.
"We pay you plenty for the occasional new frock. People must assume we
take advantage of you," Lady Flemington exclaimed. "What would the
Marquess of Salisbury think?"
 Alexi looked up sharply. Years of survival as the guardian of her broken
family had refined her instincts to trouble. Her warning bells rang at the
mention of the notorious rake.
"Why do you mention Lord Salisbury?" Her voice strained with
suspicion.
Lady Flemington busied herself with nibbling biscuits, chewing
ponderously before finally answering, "Lord Flemington has arranged for
you to work weekends as a governess for the marquess. It’s a small favour
among friends."
Alexi stared, dumbfounded. Her uncle's friendship with a marquess was
news to her. But her mind was on more pressing news.
"The Marquess of Salisbury?" she blurted in dismay. "Aunt Audrey, have
you lost your senses? I cannot work for that despicable rake!"
Lady Flemington's eyes narrowed.
"Don't be a fool! He will pay handsomely for the privilege. It may benefit
you to know an influential man like him."
Alexi gaped at her aunt's madness.
"How would having his illegitimate child benefit me? I've heard the vile
rumours. He'll force me to wed some stranger and give up my baby. I refuse
to go anywhere near that man!"
"Reliable sources say he provides well for the child's future," her aunt
countered. "For someone of your station, it could be fortuitous."
Realization shadowed Alexi's intelligent eyes.
"This insistence on acquainting me with Lord Salisbury ... you're aiming
to be rid of us before Father's health declines further. May I remind you that
you haven't given us a penny we haven't earned?"
"How dare you suggest such a thing! I only aim to secure your future. But
you're too stubborn to see reason."
She fixed Alexi with an imperious glare.
"You will go to Salisbury's beginning this weekend. Being near him as he
contemplates marriage could prove beneficial. His wealthy friends will also
get a glimpse of you. Who knows what fate may bring?"
Alexi was tempted to lash out, but she had nowhere to go if she were
shown the door.
"I have decided. Refuse, and you'll no longer work in this house either!"
Lady Flemington barked.
 A wave of fury swept through Alexi, but she held her tongue. With no
connections to vouch for her, no other household would accept an attractive
young governess. The bitter realities of being a woman left her cornered.
For now, she had no choice but to bend to her aunt's will. She only prayed
her own virtue and wits could navigate the viper's nest she was being forced
into.
Lady Flemington's face became scarlet as she snapped open her
handkerchief in agitation. She waved it vigorously like a battle standard.
Alexi internally braced herself, for she knew that gesture all too well.
Accede or risk having a book hurled at her or worse, have her wages
suspended.
Schooling her features into a mask of deference, Alexi bowed her head.
"I shall accept the position, my lady."

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 Chapter Three

Lullingstone Castle

Winter 1828

L ullingstone Castle loomed large even from a distance. It was an

imposing edifice perched amidst rolling valley hills. Its soaring towers
were visible for miles before the meticulous gardens came into view. Neatly
trimmed topiaries and acacia trees boasted the estate’s immense wealth.
Alexi took in the grandeur with unease from her rickety hired wagon as it
rattled down the poplar-lined lane. When, at last, it lurched to a stop, a
footman materialized to assist her descent. Setting foot on the gravel
carriageway, she shuddered, overcome with foreboding. After today, her life
might never again be the same.
Alexi climbed the imposing front steps, feeling small and exposed. She
rapped on the towering door with a bracing breath, the sound echoing
across the silent courtyard.
After an endless moment, the door creaked open. A distinguished butler
loomed disapprovingly while scrutinizing Alexi down his long nose.
“May I help you?” he intoned.
Alexi summoned all her courage. “I’m Miss Brown, the new weekend
governess.”
The butler raised one eyebrow impossibly high.
“Servants’ entrance is on the east side,” he said briskly.
 Alexi straightened her spine.
“As the granddaughter of Viscount Sidmouth, I shall enter as a lady.”
The butler hesitated, then wordlessly stepped aside. Alexi entered, fear
mixing with defiance. He then disappeared, leaving her standing to wait for
someone to appear.
Alexi was often perplexed about her status in polite society. She was
proud to be the daughter of a professor and the Honourable Agnes
Addington. She also had the distinction of having a viscount as her late
grandfather. It had broken her mother's heart when he disowned her for
marrying a penniless professor.
As her footsteps echoed across the cavernous entrance hall, she admired
the sparkling chandelier and a beautifully carved table. Equally comfortable
above and below stairs, Alexi floated in a vexing social limbo. But she
possessed her dignity and wits. No matter the reception of this new
household, her worth would not be defined by their perceptions.
The castle was eerily quiet, as if it were vacant. She keenly felt the
absence of laughter or conversation in the household. Servants hurried by
without acknowledgement, leaving Alexi adrift. Lady Flemington’s home
was unkind, but at least there were signs of life within it. Here, only
oppressive stillness filled the air, as if the very walls were holding their
breaths.
She didn't know if she should stay or run while she had the door in sight.
This ominous place surely contained dungeons and torture chambers filled
with anguished souls. She worried she was destined to join them.
After an eternity, the housekeeper appeared and brusquely introduced
herself as Mrs. Witherby before leading Alexi down a maze of twisting
corridors. Alexi despaired at navigating this vast tomb of a house. Each turn
took her farther away from the promise of escape.
Finally, Mrs. Witherby stopped, gesturing towards an imposing door.
Alexi inhaled deeply. The moment had arrived.
Wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt, she steeled her nerves to face the
notorious Lord Salisbury himself. She prayed that her courage would not
falter before the infamous rake. This was probably the first of many trials in
this den of secrets. She silently vowed to endure them with an unbroken
spirit. With her chin up, she stepped forward to meet her uncertain fate.
But instead of the marquess, the room contained two resting children.
Alexi's tension melted into pure delight as a young girl of about six bolted
from her cot and threw her arms around her waist. Caught off guard, Alexi
laughed and returned the enthusiastic embrace. She planted a kiss atop the
child's head.
"This is Elizabeth," the housekeeper said with a smile. "She's rather free
with her affections. The boy is Edward. He's eight years old. They're your
charges this weekend."
She went on to explain their schedule in detail.
Alexi studied the children thoughtfully. If they were Lord Salisbury's
illegitimate children, they lived largely unknown to the world. They were
unable to claim their father's name and were unlikely to inherit. Hot anger
simmered in Alexi's chest at such injustice. These darling innocents are
being punished due to their parents’ thoughtlessness and society's harsh
prejudices.
Mrs. Witherby brusquely nudged Alexi out of the room before Elizabeth
could embrace her further. The housekeeper was a stern woman in her late
forties, moving with crisp efficiency as if time were a scarce commodity.
"I'll show you to your bedchamber. You must remain in the east wing
unless you're in the library for lessons," she instructed over her shoulder.
"Do not disturb his lordship or Lady Salisbury."
"Lady Salisbury?" Alexi repeated, hoping the marquess had reformed his
rakish ways.
Mrs. Witherby swiftly crushed that flicker of optimism.
"The Dowager Marchioness. She resides in Bath."
The housekeeper's measuring gaze perused her.
"Will I be meeting the marquess?" Alexi asked hesitantly.
"Most likely not. Not unless his lordship requests your company which he
won't," Mrs. Witherby said.
Relief swept over Alexi as the housekeeper led her upstairs. She would
not need to contend with the notorious lord of the castle. Her task was but
to teach two delightful children and keep far from the master. With renewed
optimism, she followed Mrs. Witherby through the labyrinth of corridors.

After she received her first wage that doubled her income, the weekend
position became far more enjoyable. She endured her aunt through the
week, then headed for Lullingstone at dawn each Saturday. She was then
rewarded by Elizabeth and Edward’s joyful laughter filling the galleries.
Even the maids' silence seemed less ominous now. Mrs. Witherby and
Mr. Harrison tolerated her presence well enough. The butler may even have
even smiled at her one rainy afternoon. Most importantly, Alexi could
finally afford books and delicious treats to nourish her beloved sister,
Emma.
One sunny morning, Emma held her new book on astronomy with
bounding steps on their way to the bakery. Alexi's heart filled with
happiness as she witnessed her sister's glee. She pretended to eat the tart
they shared, encouraging Emma to take large mouthfuls befitting a starving
creature.
Emma was a wispy thing, a full head shorter than Alexi. She had the
gangly frame of a child despite nearing twenty years. Her colouring differed
too with light brown hair and blue eyes contrasting Alexi's dark locks and
olive complexion.
Alexi's heart twinged, remembering those early years after their mother's
death. Emma had always been nose-deep in books and oblivious to survival.
Alexi had held her when she missed their mother, spoon-fed her while she
read, and fended off her tormentors.
Now they giggled together, picturing the fastidious butler waltzing solo in
his office. There were many speculations as well about why Mrs. Witherby
kept a bottle of gin in her drawer.
"I think it’s calming for her nerves before she scolds a maid. She is a kind
woman,” Alexi said.
“Or it belongs to Mr. Harrison, judging by his dancing feet,” Emma
opined.
“Perhaps she needs to imbibe because of Mr. Harrison’s dancing," Alexi
offered with a laugh.
“Or to soothe her heart because she longs for him,” Emma said with her
hands over her heart. “They’re perfect for each other. Don't you agree?
They have a rebellious side but are soft under their stiff exteriors."
Alexi gawked at this comment. “They’ve been labouring for decades in
the same household.”
Emma pretended mock sadness.
"Oh, it is tragic how little you know about matters of the heart, my dear
sister."
 "All matters of the heart you claim to know are theoretical, sister."
Emma was not dissuaded. "Everything begins as theories until proven.
Mrs. Witherby and Mr. Harrison may perceive each other under new light in
a new environment.”
"Shall I kidnap them and lock them up in a barn? Mayhap I should take
them to the village festival?" Alexi suggested.
"Ooh, how intriguing. Maybe if we arranged a private meeting with gin to
loose their tongues, we could learn if they harbour affections for each
other."
"I dare say such machinations would require more effort than I can spare.
I might devote my energy to securing a suitable husband for myself," Alexi
replied.
"Speaking of which, I happened upon Lord Salisbury today," Emma
mentioned.
Alexi wondered why her sister would connect her future husband to that
scoundrel but held her tongue. There were more important questions to be
tackled.
"You encountered the marquess? Pray tell, where was this meeting?"
"I attended the parliamentary session and Lord Salisbury serves as the
Speaker of the House," Emma said.
"Is that so? I confess, I am wholly uninformed of his political career."
Emma cast a reproving glance.
"Ought you not take an interest in the affairs of the master you serve?"
Alexi waved a dismissive hand.
"His reputation as a rake tells me enough of the man's character."
"Have you met his lordship yourself?" Emma pressed.
"I have not. He remains but a ghost, which suits me perfectly well."
Emma's frown carved a line between her brows.
"Though whispered to have ruined several young ladies, he champions
the Reform Bill to promote equal representation. I find it strange that a
rogue who takes advantage of the weak can be noble in politics."
Alexi pondered this contradiction in silence. She finally responded,
"Perhaps he promotes causes to craft an image in public, whilst privately
indulging his baser appetites. He need not believe in his policies, only
support those with power."
"You do not think his political convictions reveal his true character?"
Emma suggested hopefully.
 Alexi sighed, having no such illusions.
"No, I think not. He merely hides his depravity to further his ambitions. I
know a maid whose sister was ruined by his whims. He shall pay any price
to sate his desire. Only desperate women work for him because others fear
the damage to their prospects."
"How disheartening," Emma replied, her youthful optimism deflating. "I
had hoped a gentleman of such charisma would prove himself no rake, at
least not a horrible one."
She rested her chin pensively upon her hands as Alexi cradled the warm
coffee cup. They both ruminated on the perplexing contradiction that was
Lord Salisbury. He was the paragon of moral politics by day but
transformed into a predator without scruple by night.

The ostentatious looking glass, framed in gleaming oyster shells, glittered

as it caught the morning light. Alexi could scarcely believe such opulence in
her room: chandeliers throwing rainbows, luxuriant rugs caressing her toes,
and masterworks adorning every wall. However, guilt swiftly tempered her
awe, reminding Alexi of her father and Emma's humble wooden shack.
A sharp rap at the door tore Alexi from her musings. Mrs. Witherby
entered without waiting for a reply, leaning heavily against the wall as she
fought to catch her breath.
"Lady Flemington is calling on you most urgently," she panted, poorly
disguising her irritation at being sent to summon Alexi in such haste.
"Mrs. Witherby, you appear unwell. May I suggest you take a moment to
rest?" Alexi inquired, extending her arm to guide the housekeeper to a chair.
She waved aside Alexi's concerns.
"I shall manage well enough. It'd be best not to keep your aunt waiting."
The housekeeper's meaningful tone told Alexi to expect little joy from
this visit.
Trepidation nipped at Alexi's heels as she traversed the imposing gallery.
Before the footman could announce her, she slipped inside, finding the
formality unnecessary to receive her aunt. But to her shock, an unfamiliar
gentleman sat opposite Lady Flemington, resplendent in a black coat
embroidered with a noble crest.
 Alexi froze as he adjusted in his seat, a large diamond winking at his
cravat. Though she could not discern his words, an aura of arrogant
command suffused him. Beside such finery, her frayed green frock and
scuffed boots looked all the more pathetic. Embarrassment washed over her,
but she staunched it swiftly. She would not be made to feel inferior, no
matter how he looked down at her with his gaze.
He was a fine package indeed. The blend of masculinity and menace was
intoxicating. Tamping down her flustered thoughts, Alexi moved forward,
refusing to be cowed. Handsome or not, she knew predators by their fangs,
and this nobleman had the reek of corruption about him. Taking a deep
breath, she braced to greet her new master.

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Four

The Master

Winter 1828

T heattention
stranger turned his head just enough to meet her gaze, drawing her
to the sturdy column of his neck. His penetrating amber eyes
glinted like jewels. He reclined against the cushions, exuding languid ease.
Not a muscle twitched as he watched her approach. He was a lion observing
a prey already trapped in his lair. Why would he exert himself when she
must inevitably come to him?
Irritably, she noted her heartbeat quicken as her gaze traced his wide
mouth, shapely and well-defined. A rogue he may be, but she was not
immune to masculine beauty. As he gestured, a bold golden signet ring
caught the light, adorning a hand that knew hard work and power. Vigour
pulsed from him in waves, accentuating his air of danger.
He made no move to stand in courtesy as propriety dictated, clearly
deeming her unworthy of such effort. Instead, Lord Salisbury stretched his
long legs before him, immaculate boots gleaming like a prized stallion's
hide. His heavy-lidded stare grew more assessing with each step, which
made her painfully aware of her every movement.
Something in her discomfort must have shown as his bored mask shifted
into wry amusement. As she locked eyes with his mocking gaze underneath
the unruly brown locks, a strange feeling of familiarity distracted her. That
and the intensity of his scrutiny made Alexi nearly forget how to put one
foot after the other. She focused on slowing her strides, denying him the
satisfaction of seeing her flustered.
As she drew nearer, he pinned her with a cool appraisal. She assessed him
brazenly, noting his strong jaws and the pulse at his temple. Then his eyes
crinkled at the corners as a grin spread across his face.
"It's you ..." Alexi murmured, frown lines marring the space between her
brows as the shameful memory of that illicit night flooded through her once
more.
She recalled his malice-laced caress, the cruel rustling of banknotes
stuffed defiantly into her ragged pocket even as indignity crimsoned her
cheeks. His words had hollowed out those last vestiges of dignity, crushing
her spirit more deeply than she reckoned possible and sinking her into
despair’s fathomless pit. She had been a fool, allowing his silver tongue and
hypnotic eyes to slash through her very soul for a measly three pounds.
As she took in his proud form, the broad shoulders and chiseled features
that still haunted her restless dreams, confusion and longing also stirred
within her breast alongside the rage and humiliation. His handsome façade
appeared cracked, hinting at some profound shift harboured in the shadows
of his countenance that gave her pause. The reckless fire, the taunting
amusement ... both seemingly tempered by an awakened conscience or self-
reckoning. She discerned no trace of the callous young aristocrat who had
derided her principles. In his place stood a complex man who set her shame
and yearnings crashing together once more with disorienting force. She
could not tear her gaze away, held captive by her own flurry of regrets,
questions and stifled desires.
"Ah, there you are, Alexi," Lady Flemington exclaimed with a taut smile.
Her aunt’s discomfort was evident as Alexi's gaze flicked between her aunt
and the man who was still insolently sprawled before them.
Lady Flemington fluttered in embarrassment at Alexi’s manners, or a lack
thereof.
"Do greet your aunt properly, child. I've traveled all this way to see you."
Alexi leaned down to dutifully kiss her aunt's cheek.
"Please accept my apologies, Aunt."
"I requested an audience with Lord Salisbury, and he was kind enough to
grant me one. My lord, allow me to present my niece, Miss Alexandra
Addington. She is the new governess at your service."
 Alexi corrected crisply, "I am Miss Alexandra Brown." Disregarding her
aunt's irritated look, she added, "Addington was my late mother's maiden
name."
The man seemed to relish this display. He likely found her assertiveness
amusing from one so far beneath him. And one whose dignity he had
trounced.
Reclining deeper, he subjected Alexi to a thorough perusal, as if pricing
livestock at the market. Her face heated as the memory of their kiss invaded
her thoughts.
"Have you taken any eyes out of gentlemen lately, Miss Brown?" he
asked languidly, the grin still adorning his face.
"No, my lord. However, I sense that is about to change."
The man chuckled.
Alexi reluctantly took a seat, resenting the butterflies swirling traitorously
in her belly as she observed his athletic frame. He wore his dark hair longer
than was fashionable, augmenting his roguish aura. Unlike most gentlemen,
he lacked any softness. Instead, he possessed a rugged, haunted quality
usually earned through years of hardship. Underpinning it was an innate
refinement in every fiber. Alexi wondered what travails had hardened a
nobleman so.
As if sensing her assessment, his eyes gleamed from his shadowed face.
They seemed to bore through to her innermost thoughts, and Alexi
suppressed a shudder. His lips curved subtly and settled crooked and almost
taunting, as if discerning her unease. She felt like a lamb before a beast,
knowing her looming torment would not be brief. No, it would be enduring
with one cruelty inflicted slowly after another.

The slender woman approached warily like a stray cat in an unknown

territory. She behaved as if she was expecting him to pounce at any
moment. Her drab green frock concealed more than it revealed, which left
her curves to his imagination. The proud tilt of her chin and a flash of
defiance in her eyes were familiar. Intelligence and hatred oozed from those
dark pools, a refreshing change from the usual simpering ladies paraded
before him.
 Innocent but wild. She would kick and claw when cornered. However,
she was clever enough to realize the futility of resisting. Then she would
negotiate and yield. She had done just that, had she not?
The dormant memory struck him with a dizzying force. He had thought
about the audacious girl and their foolish kiss for days afterwards. Their
brief kiss had been chaste, child-like in innocence, but he had glimpsed the
fire burning within her defiance. He had felt the usual swell of guilt as he
did when stealing a kiss from an untarnished young lady such as herself.
But he had been disturbed for days by her shattered gaze just before she
gathered her skirts and darted off into the night.
She had poked a needle-size hole between his soul and conscience, a tiny
fissure, yet one allowing his principles to seep out no matter how he tried
stemming the tide. No amount of brandy, pilfered snuff or cards had
enabled him to stop dwelling on angry eyes that saw through aristocratic
airs. The wretched night had infected his days with remorse. It had
transformed drizzly nights into ones swirling with memories of her faded
cotton dress and fierce demand for justice. She had awakened his
consciousness, and he had cursed her even as he longed to understand.
Up close, he recognized her mouth from six years ago, the mouth that had
him stroking himself a dozen times afterwards. Bare of any paint or tint, her
lips needed no enhancement. Full and naturally crimson, they appeared
perpetually swollen from the most ardent kisses. He had fantasized about
that too.
Though her features were lovely, her face had become almost gaunt. It
was obvious she had fallen on hard times. She did not seem the type to
allow her aunt to offer her to the wolves had she had the choice. Those large
brown eyes could drown a man, their silent challenge igniting his blood.
Dangerous waters indeed, Arthur thought as vertigo swept him. Reflexively,
he donned his mask of haughty scorn, the safest defence when at risk of
capsizing.
Arthur noted the wariness in her eyes as she bobbed a grudging curtsy.
He was glad to see he had not broken her spirit completely that night. She
seemed as untamable as before beneath her deferential air. It took him a
moment to note the severe bun restraining her dark tresses. It was a pity, but
no one was flawless. She still possessed the deportment of a goddess
condescending to play a governess.
 As she stood scrutinizing him with her back rigid, Arthur mulled her over.
Most women quaked under his gaze. Did she wear such sternness as armour
against unwelcome advances? The armour had hardened over the years, he
observed. Or had she fallen?
No, he concluded. Beneath that show of courage, she was anxious as a
doe, chest heaving, and hands fretting unseen.
Arthur smiled to himself for this second chance. He did so relish hunting
fierce creatures who answered the call of instinct. Surely, that must be why
he felt a tiny root of delight sprouting in his reluctant heart. And he always
ran down his quarry in the end.
He would not lose her this time. For now, he would observe and learn her
ways. When the moment came, she would find these games ended at his
pleasure, not hers.

Alexi took a seat opposite the man, pressing her hands beneath her to still
their trembling. Her odd behavior did not escape Lady Flemington, though
she held her tongue for now.
"I've not had the pleasure of meeting Miss Brown until today," he
drawled. "I was unaware our new governess was your kin, Lady
Flemington. You have my gratitude for the recommendation."
Lady Flemington preened.
"You can be assured, my lord, the children will thrive under dear Alexi's
tutelage. Were you aware she is the granddaughter of Viscount Sidmouth?"
The man’s brows rose a fraction.
"I was not."
"Indeed. My dear sister Agnes passed when Alexi was but twelve. Oh,
she was such a beauty. Alexi is the image of her mother."
The nobleman surveyed Alexi dubiously, as if failing to discern this
professed beauty. She had to resist the urge to tap her foot in irritation.
"Alexi, let his lordship properly see your lovely face. Reveal the
blessings God has granted you, child."
"I am no prize heifer at a market, Aunt," Alexi retorted sharply. "I doubt
the children care a whit what I look like."
 Lord Salisbury smirked; his arms crossed as he resumed his brazen
survey.
"You are indeed past your prime. Are you not, Miss Brown?"
Alexi shot him a withering glare, only increasing his amusement. Lady
Flemington tutted anxiously.
"Must you spew fire at every turn? A match is not beyond hope if his
lordship would make an introduction," the woman said in a buttery voice.
Alexi stiffened. "I've no wish to wed some pompous fool who squanders
his inheritance, nor do I require assistance securing a husband."
Lady Flemington looked at her niece, horrified. "You cannot play a
governess forever. You require a good match or a patron to provide for you
and your family."
"A patron?" Alexi cried. "How could you suggest such a thing to your
niece?"
Lord Salisbury frowned pensively.
"She seems rather ... high-spirited. Most men do not care for that in a
mistress."
“Well, I do not care for an obnoxious—"
"Mind your tongue, Alexi!"
To her astonishment, Lord Salisbury smiled. "Do not distress yourself,
Lady Flemington. I find your niece's impertinence rather amusing."
His eyes glinted with mischief.
"Please forgive her outburst, my lord," Lady Flemington implored. "For
all her fire, Alexi is quite clever and competent." She leaned in and
whispered, "And she's still untouched, I might add."
"Aunt!" Alexi cried, aghast. "Have you no shame?"
Lady Flemington waved her off.
"Alexi is devoted to her ailing father. He's alive because of her and her
sister's care. Emma is a brilliant girl and a hard worker, too."
"Leave Emma out of this!" Alexi shouted. "I'll not tend to his lordship's
nursery, nor train him on using the chamber pot!"
At this, Lord Salisbury let out a great bellow of laughter, rendering them
both speechless.
"As entertaining as this has been, Lady Flemington, I'm afraid I must take
my leave," he said, rising. He towered over Alexi, looking down with an
insolent smile.
 Her eyes glared up unflinchingly, her straight spine firmly glued to the
chair.
"I believe Miss Brown would make a most exciting mistress, should she
fail at her governess duties," he said before sauntering out of the room.
Alexi took a calming breath, simmering at the marquess' intolerable
insult. She refused to accept this passive fate, allowing him to disparage her
so. But first, she must confront the true orchestrator of this humiliation.
She rounded on her aunt, eyes blazing. "How could you speak of me in
such crude, demeaning terms?"
Lady Flemington lifted her chin. "And how can you be so ungrateful?
Lord Salisbury could elevate your prospects enormously."
Alexi gaped, appalled.
"You discussed my virtue as if I’m a hawking ware! With a stranger!
What have I done to deserve this insult?"
Lady Flemington bristled. "What are you going on about? Why wouldn't I
seek a nobleman's favour for my kin?"
"Am I to be traded for your gain?" Alexi spat.
"Such ingratitude! I act only for your benefit. Soon none will have you
but doddering lechers. Lord Salisbury is exceedingly eligible. You could
rise high with his patronage."
Alexi laughed bitterly. "You care nothing for me or my future. Only how
it might profit you and Lord Flemington."
"Our success ensures yours," her aunt insisted indignantly. "Is it wrong
that I try so hard for this family?"
"Would you want the same for your grown daughter?" Alexi challenged.
Lady Flemington faltered. "Well ... that would be different, of course."

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Five

The Library

Spring 1829

T hewoodmoment the library doors opened, that beloved bouquet of aging

and vanilla enveloped Alexi like a warm embrace. Row upon row
of stately oak shelves stood guard over centuries of collected knowledge.
Heavy velvet drapes loomed, shielding the venerable tomes from sunlight's
destructive caress. Although the curtains created dusky gloom, Alexi felt
her spirit brighten, tension loosening its grip. Here, among leather bound
sentinels, she could finally breathe freely.
She spun slowly, her head thrown back, remembering hours spent in the
hushed Cambridge library with her father. Women were forbidden, of
course, but the clerks had indulged two inquisitive girls. Now, once again,
that sense of refuge returned.
Her fingers trailed across the shelves, inhaling the soothing scent of
parchment and ink. She located the political section, all twelve shelves of
them. Alexi murmured each title under her breath as she searched for
volumes relevant to the Reform Bill.
Absorbed in her quest, she failed to hear the approaching footsteps until a
pointed throat-clearing shattered the silence.
Alexi yelped and spun around to find a diminutive but finely dressed
man, surveying her through narrowed eyes. His lavender cravat and white
coat were immaculate with his brown hair neatly combed back. Though his
expression was grave, she detected kindness behind it.
"Please forgive me if I startled you," he said with a bow. "Mr. Martin
Crane at your service. I’m his lordship's secretary. I've come to retrieve
some materials, but you seemed quite engrossed. Might I ask what you
were searching for?"
"Miss Alexandra Brown, the new governess," she returned, curtsying. "I
wished to learn about his lordship's Reform Bill."
Mr. Crane's brows furrowed slightly. "The children seem a bit young for
politics ..."
She laughed. "While it might be helpful for putting them to sleep, it is for
me. I wish to better understand my employer."
The secretary's eyes widened appreciatively. "That's an admirable
initiative, Miss Brown. Few take such interest in their lord's affairs. I'm
afraid there's little of use here, but I could procure an old draft of the bill."
"I'd be much obliged, sir." She asked eagerly, "Will there be any
publications issued prior to the parliamentary session?"
Mr. Crane smiled. "You're familiar with the parliamentary process, then?"
"Only a little from my father's teachings. Professor Zachary Brown? Do
you know his work in ethical philosophy and political theory?"
"But of course!" Mr. Crane exclaimed. "A brilliant mind, but I've not seen
any new publications in some time ..."
Alexi's smile faltered, old grief rising as she admitted, "My father has
suffered poor health since my mother passed."
Mr. Crane's expression softened with sincerity. Clasping his hands, he
offered gently, "You have my deepest condolences, Miss Brown. I
suspected tragedy had delayed Professor Brown, for he was truly devoted to
his work."
Drawing closer, he continued, "There remains no voice more esteemed on
issues of morality and justice."
Alexi brightened at his kind words. "You honour him with your
sentiments. Thank you."
Mr. Crane nodded graciously. "If you are eager, I could inquire if his
lordship would permit you to review the latest draft of the Reform Bill. He
has been quite open discussing it with other members."
Alexi hesitated. "Would he not think it forward, a woman inquiring after
politics?"
 "On the contrary," Mr. Crane assured. "This bill concerns rights for all
citizens, regardless of sex. His lordship would be pleased by your interest."

It would require little effort for Arthur to dispatch investigators to unearth

Miss Brown's full history: her origins, family, past lovers, how she came
into Lady Flemington's service. But that implied investment … even
sentiment. She was destined merely for his bed, not his name. Why should
her past signify when her future would be fleeting?
Idly tossing an apple, Arthur ambled to Martin's office, finding his
secretary fastidiously examining the painstakingly written pages of the Bill
he laid out to dry. Once confident that the ink was dry, he shook off the
powder from the paper and gathered them by the corners.
"I couldn't handle butterfly wings with more care, Martin," Arthur
remarked, biting into the apple.
"You could if you were the one writing until your fingers blistered,"
Martin said without looking up.
Arthur raised a brow. "It surprises me you would gather the pages before
your requisite twelve hour drying period. What is prompting such haste?"
"I'm preparing a copy for Miss Brown," Martin replied tersely, peering at
one of the pages. "We met in the library. She's eager to learn about her
employer's political stance."
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "How strange that my governess would take an
interest in my politics."
Martin met his gaze disapprovingly.
"Perhaps because she's an intelligent woman of principle. Evidently, she
is unaware you're a scoundrel." Remembering himself, he appended, "My
lord."
Arthur chuckled in response. So, his little governess was a bluestocking.
Of course, she was. They met on Cambridge campus after all. He would
need to discern just how deep her interest went ... and how it might serve
his aim of bedding her.
Arthur studied his secretary while taking another leisurely bite.
"Martin, might you be sweet on our new governess?"
 Martin recoiled, cheeks flushing. "I take offence at your crass insinuation
regarding Miss Brown! I merely respect that she strives to understand her
employer, even though it will do her no good."
Arthur chuckled, unruffled by the rebuke. "I can see that you hold her in
high esteem, so I shall ignore your offending remarks for now. However,
even you must admit your behavior is unusual. Do you remember when you
caused me to be late for a conference with His Majesty? All because the ink
on the proposal had been drying for ten hours. Why the sudden rush to
share the documents before the ink fully dries?"
Martin shrugged. "I suppose I value enlightening Miss Brown over
appeasing His Majesty, seeing that she is the daughter of Professor Zachary
Brown."
Comprehension dawned on Arthur. "Ah, I had not made the connection."
His secretary hesitated before saying emphatically, "She is Professor
Zachary Brown's daughter, my lord."
The warning in his tone was unmistakable. "Yes, I believe you've
mentioned that," Arthur drawled slyly.
Martin's face reddened. "She's an innocent beauty, and I know your habits
with beautiful women."
Arthur feigned ignorance. "Beautiful, you say? I hadn't noticed."
"Leave her be," Martin implored.
"My thoughts regarding Miss Brown are nothing but virtuous," Arthur
avowed, placing a hand over his heart.
Martin huffed in exasperation. "And I’m carefree. I love the opposites
game. Don’t you?”
"Tell me, since you believe to know me so intimately. What else do you
see?"
"She will not suffer any fools, including you. It bodes poorly because she
is the challenge you would love to overcome. So, I beg of you to leave her
be."
"Now that you mention it, I believe she is exactly the diversion I've been
seeking."
"My lord!"
"Her guardian has already offered her to me as a mistress. I may accept."
"She is Professor Brown's daughter!" Martin's face resembled a ripe but
bruised peach.
"So, you keep repeating." Arthur faked a yawn.
 "You ought to court eligible ladies and produce an heir!"
At this, Arthur could not feign nonchalance. He rolled his eyes. "When
I'm stricken in years, I'm sure I can snap my fingers and some foolish
woman will come along to marry my money and title."
"Don't you wish to see your sons grow, my lord?" Martin pressed. "You're
thirty-five. Soon, you'll need minding like a child yourself. Would you
really leave your legacy to that oaf cousin of yours?"
Arthur waved off his concerns. "Let me worry about that."
"I have and look where it's gotten you. Nowhere," Martin declared. "I'm
accepting every social invitation this season until you're wed."
Arthur's eyes flashed with anger. "Do so and I'll stuff their ridiculous
feathers down those mothers' throats as they parade their daughters like
rotting meat!"
"They've no choice when marriage is women's sole path to security.
Could you blame them?" Martin countered.
"That should not stop them from reading a book and holding a
scintillating conversation."
Martin threw up his hands. "Why do I bother when you've no intention of
marrying?"
"If you’re already aware, why do you pester me every season?"
"Because no matter what you believe, you must produce an heir!"
"If you want me to produce an heir, bring me a heartless woman like
Mother, who cares not about her husband's neglect and mistresses. You
know I'm unsuitable for matrimony. The family curse saw to that."
"When will you face your issues like a man instead of hiding behind
excuses?"
"How dare you!" Arthur roared.
"I dare because no one else will!" Martin shouted. "You cower like a boy
when it comes to affairs of the heart! When will you face your demons?"
Arthur trembled with suppressed fury. Then, with a clenched jaw, he
turned on his heel, boots hammering the floor as he stormed off. The echo
followed him down the corridor, nearly drowning out Martin's parting
words.
"You cannot run forever!"

OceanofPDF.com
 Chapter Six

The First Argument

Spring 1829

T rue to his word, Mr Crane delivered a copy of the Reform Bill for
Alexi's perusal. She pored over it meticulously, making detailed notes as
she analysed the proposed changes. But the more she understood, the more
Lord Salisbury's motives seemed murky.
To Alexi, morality was simple. People were either decent or deplorable.
She categorized everyone into clearly defined boxes, finding comfort in that
predictability. Lord Salisbury's glaring contradictions refused to be
contained, threatening the order she clung to.
Either his politics were virtuous, or his debauched lifestyle defined his
character. Both could not coexist in her black-and-white worldview. One
must be the truth, the other a cunning facade. But which? The uncertainty
ate at her.
"I'm flattered to be the subject of such intense scrutiny," came an amused
voice from overhead, jolting Alexi from her thoughts. She looked up to find
Lord Salisbury's tall frame silhouetted by sunlight, his smile flashing from
the shadows.
"My lord," she murmured.
She rose swiftly, pressing a hand to her galloping heart as she dropped
into a curtsy. Lord Salisbury surveyed her with palpable interest.
 "So absorbed in my genius, you didn't hear my approach?
Understandable, I suppose."
Alexi straightened, meeting his taunting gaze audaciously. Wisdom urged
her to hold her tongue, but she had never been one to follow its counsel.
"Or perhaps I was preoccupied with your deficiencies … my lord."
At this, his lordship's face opened in a wide grin.
"Is that so? Please enlighten me. Where have I strayed?"
Alexi eyed him warily, suspecting a trap. But Lord Salisbury simply
settled on the bench and crossed his long legs, boots still muddied from
riding. His eyes shone brightly beneath the delicate lacework of a shadow
cast by budding branches.
"Come now, Miss Brown," he goaded when she didn't respond. "Would
you prefer to continue ogling my handsome face rather than engage my
brilliant mind?"
Alexi gaped, torn between mortification and incredulity. She perched on
the opposite end of the bench and folded her hands primly on her lap.
"It shall not take long for me to grasp the extent of your intellect," Alexi
mumbled under her breath.
His wicked grin returned. “Splendid. That leaves ample time for you to
admire my other estimable attributes."
Outraged heat flooded her cheeks. "That’s hardly an appropriate
conversation for a gentleman to have with a lady!"
One of his brows quirked up. "Even for lovers?"
"Wh-what?" Alexi spluttered.
"We are well acquainted, are we not? To know how one tastes …" His
gaze drifted down to her parted lips then back to her round eyes. "I admit it
may take time before our relationship sees its full bloom—"
With her hands on her cheeks because she couldn't find a hole to crawl
into, she stuttered, "D-don't be ludicrous! That was six years ago, and it was
as chaste as a kiss could be. Juvenile, truth be told. There is nothing
between us except for you being my master."
"Ah, yes. I do like to dominate …"
His stare bore into her intently although his smile fanned her emotions at
the moment. Alexi rose hastily.
"The children likely await me by now."
"Evasion yet again." He said to her back as she began to walk away.
"You're not being completely honest. Very well, I shall unravel your secrets
through other means."
Desperate to escape but fearing his meaning, Alexi halted. Facing away
from him, she pleaded, "Please, my lord. Allow me to perform my duties as
a governess and nothing more."
His smooth baritone voice cut through the breeze. "I'm afraid I cannot do
that. You intrigue me, Miss Brown."
"All women intrigue you."
"True but especially the ones I have corrupted."
Reliving her shame, Alexi turned around slowly. Lord Salisbury was
peering at her notes in his hand. Then he looked up with a strange
expression on his face. Was he surprised? Angry?
Taking a calming breath, she said, "My lord, I really must return."
Alexi waited in taut silence until finally, he extended his arm and offered
her notes. She approached him cautiously and snatched the papers away as
if avoiding a viper's sting. Dipping the quickest of curtsies, she whirled
around and strode off.
Her stomach dropped into the pit when she heard his footsteps echoing
behind her. The man had the right to use the same door to enter his home,
she reasoned.
The rogue’s arrogant voice halted her.
“Are you married?”
She was tempted to lie, but keeping up with her lies would become a
chore. Without glancing in his direction, she replied, “No.”
“Do you have a betrothed or a beau?”
“No.”
"I see that life has not been kind to you, Miss Brown, and I'm sorry for
it."
Alexi frowned. Was he mocking her because she was unwed?
"Not because of a lack of offers."
"Who has offered for you? Would I know them?"
Was that jealousy she detected in his tone? Of course, not. Why would he
be? She shook off her thoughts.
"Some."
"Why did you not accept?"
"I did not like any of them." She picked up her skirt and hastened her
steps.
"Are you saying you'd only marry for love?"
 "Not at all. I'd marry for mutual admiration, respect."
Alexi stopped just outside the nursery. She turned to face him and startled
at his nearness. She could smell the fresh scent of his shaving soap, make
out the individual weave of his soft wool coat … feel his warmth upon her
cheeks. His presence engulfed her like it did so long ago. She focused on
his cravat.
"I'm beginning to think," he rumbled in a low voice, "your aunt offered
you to me as a threat to you. Marry or she'll throw you to the wolves. Am I
correct?"
She nodded wordlessly, not daring to look up at him. That had not
occurred to her so muddled were her thoughts by anger. It made sense,
however. Her aunt wouldn't actually mean to sacrifice her family's
reputation. Besides, the woman must have known she wouldn't accept such
degradation. She'd rather sweep chimneys than to sell her body.
Lord Salisbury blew a whistle. "Why do you stay in her employ, Miss
Brown? You're well educated and capable of acting with propriety if
necessary."
She looked up and realized her error. His gaze sucked her in. She looked
away.
"I must go," she curtsied hastily and left him in the hallway.

Arthur stared at the closed door to the nursery, deep in thought. What was it
about this woman? His body was set ablaze by the mere sight of her. Six
years later, the distant memory took its shape and lodged firmly in his core.
By all rights, he should feel offended and indignant for her refusal to
submit. Well, there it is, the answer to his question.
Even when she had so boldly accepted the three pounds, it had not felt
like submission to him. It had seemed like a negotiation, the lesser of two
evils. She had had no choice. He was fairly certain she wouldn't have
withered away even if he had forced her affection. He was a despicable
swine for tormenting her so. He felt the buds of respect take root.
Her incisive notes had also surprised him. She was right. He was ignorant
of his own biases, blind to what he did not know. To introduce fresh
perspectives and credibility, he needed someone unlike himself on his team.
Were women permitted, he would engage Miss Brown in a heartbeat
although she would prove far too distracting.
Now he understood her tolerance for her dreadful relations. Their home,
however stifling, offered security. But in capturing his notice, she had
stepped into the lion's den. For try as he might to ignore it, she sparked his
imagination in ways no other woman had. He found himself akin to her
presence. Soon, he'd be searching for her, longing to uncover more of her
like a schoolboy. She would make his tedious life infinitely more
pleasurable.
Somehow, he must contrive to keep her close at hand. Common sense
demanded that he keep his distance from the children's governess. But when
had he ever heeded sense and logic? No, he would not so easily relinquish
this new source of fascination. He did so relish the thrill of the chase.

As vexing as Lord Salisbury was, Alexi appreciated the extra income the
position provided. Given their last heated exchange, she half expected the
encounter to have cost her the position. Her suspicion was confirmed when
she was summoned upon arrival on Saturday morning.
Knocking briskly, she found Mrs. Witherby writing diligently in a ledger.
Without glancing up, the housekeeper informed her, "You shall work here
seven days a week now."
"I beg your pardon?" Alexi blurted. "This is the first time I've heard of
this. My aunt had said nothing."
"His lordship has decreed it," the housekeeper replied.
"I cannot stay the entire week. My cousins need me. I must speak with his
lordship directly."
Mrs. Witherby set down her quill. "Lord Salisbury predicted you'd say
that. You'll find him at the stables." She then placed a beautiful box on the
desk. "And you are to wear this. Your current attire does not reflect your
position as the governess in a prestigious household."
Inside was a green satin dress, cut low and snug through the bodice. It
would preclude binding her chest and reveal far more than Alexi preferred.
Seething, she grabbed the box.
How dare he dictate her wardrobe!
 She would obey but intended to give the arrogant man a blistering piece
of her mind.

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK

BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE, VOL. 75, NO. 462,
APRIL 1854 ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.
 BLACKWOOD’S

EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCLXII. APRIL, 1854. Vol.

LXXV.

CONTENTS.

The Commercial Results of a War with Russia, 381

The Puppets of all Nations, 392
The Quiet Heart.—Part V., 414
Chronological Curiosities: What shall we Collect? 426
The Reform Bills of 1852 and 1854, 441
The Blue Books and the Eastern Question, 461
Life in the Sahara, 479
The Cost of the Coalition Ministry, 492
 EDINBURGH:
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, 45 GEORGE STREET, AND 37
PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON;

To whom all communications (post paid) must be addressed.

SOLD BY ALL THE BOOKSELLERS IN THE UNITED KINGDOM.

PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBURGH.

 BLACKWOOD’S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.

No. CCCCLXII. APRIL, 1854. Vol. LXXV.

THE COMMERCIAL RESULTS OF A WAR

WITH RUSSIA.

After the enjoyment of nearly forty years of peace, during which

two generations of men, whose fate it was to live in more troublous
times, have passed to their account, we are entering upon a war
which will inevitably tax all the energies of the country to conduct it
to a successful and honourable conclusion. The enemy against whom
our arms are directed is not one whose prowess and power can with
safety be slighted. A colossal empire possessed of vast resources,
wielded by a sovereign of indomitable character and vast ambition,
who has for years been collecting strength for a gigantic effort to
sweep away every barrier by which the realisation of that ambition
has been impeded, is our opponent. The issue to him is most
momentous. It is to decide whether he is hereafter to be a controlling
power in Europe and Asia, to rule absolutely in the Baltic, to hold the
keys of the Euxine and the Mediterranean, and to push his conquests
eastwards, until he clutches Hindostan,—or to be driven back and
confined within the limits of the original empire which Peter the
Great bequeathed to his successors. Such a struggle will not be
conducted by Russia, without calling forth all the vigour of her arm.
An issue so far beyond her contemplation as defeat and extinction as
a first-rate power in the world, will not be yielded until she has
drained her last resources, and exhausted every available means of
defence and procrastination. Russia possesses too in this, the climax
of her fate and testing-point in her aggressive career, a mighty source
of strength in the enthusiasm of her people, whom she has taught to
regard the question at issue between herself and Europe as a
religious one, and the war into which she has entered as a crusade
against “the infidel” and his abettors. The result may be seen in the
personal popularity which the Emperor enjoys, and the ready
devotion with which his efforts are aided by the Christian portion of
the population of his empire.
On the other hand, Great Britain enters into the struggle with
every recognised prestige of success in her favour. She has, as her
active ally, the greatest military nation in the world, whose soldiers
and sailors are about, for the first time for many centuries, to fight
side by side against a common enemy. Little as we are disposed to
decry the strength of that navy which Russia, by her wonderful
energy, has succeeded in creating during the past few years, it would
be absurd to compare it with the magnificent fleets which England
and France combined have at present floating in the waters of the
Black Sea, and about to sail for the Baltic. A comparison of our
monetary resources with those of our opponent would be still more
absurd. Another feature in our position as a maritime country at
present, is the vast facilities which we possess, by means of our
mercantile ocean steamers, of transporting any required number of
troops to the locality where their services are required, with a
rapidity and comfort never dreamt of during the last European war.
A veteran of our Peninsular Campaigns, witnessing the splendid
accommodation provided in such noble vessels as the Oriental
Company’s steamer Himalaya at Southampton, the Cunard
Company’s steamer Cambria at Kingston Harbour, Dublin, and the
same Company’s steamer Niagara at Liverpool, and acquainted with
the fact that each of these vessels was capable of disembarking their
freight of armed men within five or six days of their departure hence
in any port of the Mediterranean, must have been struck by the
marked difference between such conveyances and the old troop ships
employed in former days. Moreover, there is scarcely a limit to the
extent of this new element of our power as a military nation. We
enter, too, upon the approaching struggle with Russia backed by the
enthusiastic support of all classes of our population. It is not
regarded with us as a religious war, or one into the incentives to
which religion enters at all. It is scarcely regarded by the mass as a
war of interest. With that sordid motive we cannot as a nation be
reproached. It is felt only that an unjust aggression has been
committed by a powerful state upon a weak one; that the tyranny of
the act has been aggravated by the gross breaches of faith, the glaring
hypocrisy, amounting to blasphemy, and the unparalleled atrocity,
by which it has been followed up; and that we should prove ourselves
recreant, and devoid of all manhood, were we to stand tamely by and
see a gallant people, differing though they do from us in religion,
overwhelmed by brute force, and exterminated from the face of
Europe by such butcheries as Russia has shown us, in the memorable
example of Sinope, that she is not ashamed to perpetrate in the face
of the civilised world, and in the name of Christianity.
There is one consideration, however, connected with the present
warlike temper of our population, which cannot with safety be
permitted to escape remark. We have already stated that two
generations of men have passed away since this country was in actual
war with an enemy in Europe. The bulk of the present race of
Englishmen have never experienced the inconveniences, and
occasional privations, which attend upon war even in countries, like
ours, which are happily free from the affliction of having an armed
enemy to combat upon its own soil. We believe most firmly that we
are not a degenerate people. We see evidence of this in the ready zeal
with which large numbers of our hardy and enterprising youth are
everywhere flocking to be enrolled under the flag of their country,
both for land and sea service. We trust that this feeling will endure,
and that we shall be found willing to bear up cheerfully under any
temporary sacrifices which we shall be called upon to make; but we
cannot blind ourselves to the fact that a great change has taken place
in our social condition, in our traditionary instincts, in our pursuits,
and in our institutions, during the forty years of peace which we have
enjoyed. We have become more essentially a manufacturing and
commercial people. A larger number of our population than formerly
are dependent for their daily bread upon the profitable employment
of capital in our foreign trade. The more extensive adaptation of
machinery to manufacturing processes of every kind has led to the
aggregation of large masses of our population in particular districts;
and such masses, ignorant as we have unfortunately allowed them to
grow up, are notoriously subject to the incendiary persuasions of
unprincipled and bad men, and have been sedulously taught that
cheapness of all the necessaries of life can only be secured by
unrestricted communication with foreign countries. Moreover, we
have had a large infusion of the democratic element into our
constitution. Our House of Commons no longer represents the
yeomanry and the property classes of the country; but, instead, must
obey the dictates of the shopkeeping and artisan classes of our large
towns. It is no longer the same body of educated English gentlemen,
whose enduring patriotism, during the last war, stood firm against
the clamours of the mobs of London, Manchester, and other large
centres of population, and turned a deaf ear to the persuasions of
faction within its own walls; but a mixed assemblage of a totally
opposite, or, at all events, a materially changed character, so far as
regards a considerable number of its members. We have in it now a
larger proportion of the capitalist class—men suspected of being
rather more sensitively alive to a rise or fall in the prices of funds,
stock, railway shares, &c., than to any gain or loss of national
honour; more wealthy manufacturers, who would be disposed to
regard the loss of a fleet as a minor calamity, compared with the loss
of a profitable market for their cottons, woollens, or hardwares; and,
lastly, more Irish representatives of the Maynooth priesthood, ready
to sell their country, or themselves, for a concession to Rome, or a
Government appointment. The honourable member for the West
Riding—Mr Cobden—showed a thorough appreciation of the
character and position of a portion of the House, and of his own
constituents, when he wound up his speech on the adjourned debate
upon the question of our relations with Russia and Turkey, on the
20th ult., with these words, which deserve to be remembered:—“He
would take upon himself all the unpopularity of opposing this war;
and, more than that, he would not give six months’ purchase for the
popularity of those who advocated it on its present basis.”
Under such circumstances it is material to examine what is the
amount of interruption to the commerce of the country, which may
be assumed as likely to occur, as the result of a state of war with
Russia. What, in other words, is the amount and the nature of the
pressure, to which the masses of our population may be called upon
to submit, to prepare them for the purposes of those persons—
happily few in number at present—whose voice is for peace at any
sacrifice of the national honour, and any sacrifice of the sacred duties
of humanity? We shall perhaps be excused if we examine first the
nature of the pressure which is relied upon by such persons; and we
cannot exemplify this better than by a quotation from the speech
already referred to by the same Mr Cobden—their first volunteer
champion in the expected agitation. The honourable gentleman
remarked:—

“He could not ignore the arguments by which they were called upon by
honourable and right honourable gentlemen to enter into a war with Russia. The
first argument was one which had been a dozen times repeated, relative to the
comparative value of the trade of the two countries. We were to go to war to
prevent Russia from possessing countries from which she would exclude our
commerce, as she did from her own territory. That argument was repeated by a
noble lord, who told the House how insignificant our trade with Russia was,
compared with that with Turkey. Now, that opinion was erroneous as well as
dangerous, for we had no pecuniary interest in going to war. Our interests were all
on the other side, as he was prepared to show. The official returns did not give him
the means of measuring the extent of our exports to Russia, but he had applied to
some of the most eminent merchants in the City, and he confessed he had been
astonished by the extent of our trade with Russia. He used to be told that our
exports to Russia amounted to less than £2,000,000. Now, Russia was still under
the Protectionist delusion, which had also prevailed in this country in his
recollection. (A laugh.) Russia still kept up her protective duties upon her
manufactures, but he would tell the House what we imported from Russia, and
they might depend on it that whatever we imported we paid for. (Hear, hear.) He
had estimated the imports from Russia as of much greater value than most people
thought, and he was under the impression that they might amount to from
£5,000,000 to £6,000,000 per annum. Now, here was a calculation of our imports
from Russia which he had obtained from sources that might be relied upon,—
 Estimated Value of Imports from Russia into the United Kingdom.
Tallow, £1,800,000
Linseed, 1,300,000
Flax and hemp, 3,200,000
Wheat, 4,000,000
Wool, 300,000
Oats, 500,000
Other grain, 500,000
Bristles, 450,000
Timber, deals, &c., 500,000
Iron, 70,000
Copper, 140,000
Hides, 60,000
Miscellaneous, 200,000

£13,020,000

Now, last year our imports from Russia were larger than usual, and another
house, taking an average year, had made them £11,000,000. In that calculation,
the imports of wheat were taken at £2,000,000 instead of £4,000,000, and that
made the difference. He was also credibly informed that Russian produce to the
value of about £1,000,000 came down the Vistula to the Prussian ports of the
Baltic, and was shipped thence to this country; so that our imports from Russia
averaged about £12,000,000 sterling per annum, and included among them
articles of primary importance to our manufactures. How was machinery to work,
and how were locomotives to travel, without tallow to grease their wheels? (A
laugh.) Look, too, at the imports of linseed to the value of £1,300,000. No persons
were more interested than honourable gentlemen opposite in the reduction of the
price of the food of cattle. Then take the articles of flax and hemp. There were
districts in the West Riding which would suffer very serious injury and great
distress if we should go to war and cut off our intercourse with Russia. (Hear.)
Even with regard to the article of Russian iron, which entered into consumption at
Sheffield, he was told it would be hardly possible to manufacture some of the finer
descriptions of cutlery if the supply of Russian iron were interfered with.”

We shall not here take the trouble of criticising Mr Cobden’s

figures, but take them as they stand, although they are exaggerated
enough. His argument is obviously, that we must submit to any
amount of aggression which Russia may choose to make upon
neutral countries, and even upon our own Indian possessions,
because that country supplies us yearly with thirteen millions’ worth
of raw materials and food! The same was the humiliating position
which the men of Tyre and Sidon, as recorded in Scripture, occupied
towards Herod, when “they came of one accord to him, and having
made Blastus, the king’s chamberlain, their friend, desired peace,
because their country was nourished by the king’s country.” How,
asks Mr Cobden, is machinery to work without tallow to grease the
wheels? We are to have an anti-war cry from the farmers for the lack
of Russian linseed; the West Riding of Yorkshire is to be stirred up
into insurrection by the want of flax and hemp; and the fine cutlers
of Sheffield cannot get on without the £70,000 worth of iron which
they import from Russia! The main reliance of the peace-at-any-price
party, we have no doubt, rests upon the probability of high prices of
food, and their hope of producing in the minds of the masses the
impression that the cause of those high prices is mainly the
interruption of our usual imports of grain from the Russian ports of
the Baltic and the Black Sea.
It is rather singular that it should not have struck so astute a man
as Mr Cobden, that Russia is very likely to feel the loss of so excellent
a customer as England appears to have been to her, quite as much as
we are likely to feel the want of her tallow, her flax and hemp, her
linseed, or even her wheat. The vendor of an article is generally the
party who feels most aggrieved when his stock is permitted to
accumulate upon his shelves. The Russian landowners cannot very
conveniently dispense with the annual thirteen millions sterling
which they draw from this country. Mr Cobden may depend upon it
that, if we want it, a portion of their growth of staple articles will find
its way to this country, through intermediate channels, although
Russian ships no longer gain the advantages derived from its
transport. The fact, however, of our absolute dependence upon
Russia for these articles is too palpably a bugbear, either of Mr
Cobden’s own creation, or palmed upon him by his friends, the
“eminent merchants of the City,” to be worthy of serious notice, did it
not betray the direction in which we are to look for the agitation, by
which that gentleman and his friends hope to paralyse the hands of
Government during the coming crisis of the country.
 In the effort to form a correct estimate of the extent of interruption
to our commerce to be anticipated from the existence of a state of
war between this country and Russia, we must have, in the first
place, reliable facts to depend upon, instead of the loose statements
of Russian merchants, who are, as a class, so peculiarly connected
with her as almost to be liable to the imputation of having Russian
rather than British interests nearest to their hearts. We have a right
also to look at the fact that, so far at least as present appearances go,
Russia is likely to be isolated on every side during the approaching
struggle, her principal seaports, both in the Baltic and the Black Sea,
to be commanded by the united British and French fleets; whilst that
produce, by the withholding of which she could doubtless for a time,
and to a certain extent, inconvenience our manufacturers and
consumers, may find its way to us either direct from Russian ports in
neutral vessels, or through those neighbouring countries which are
likely to occupy a neutral position in the quarrel. We have also to
bear in mind that, with respect to many of the articles which we have
lately been taking so largely from Russia, other sources of supply are
open to us. It is remarkable to observe the effect produced by even
temporarily enhanced prices in this country in extending the area on
every side from which foreign produce reaches us. A few shillings per
quarter on wheat, for example, will attract it from the far west States
of America, from which otherwise it would never have come, owing
to the inability of the grower to afford the extra cost of transport. All
these considerations have to be borne in mind; and although it will
perhaps have to be conceded that somewhat enhanced prices may
have to be paid for some of the articles with which Russia at present
supplies us, we think we shall be enabled to show that the
enhancement is not at all likely to be such as to amount to a calamity,
or cause serious pressure upon our people.
Before proceeding further, it may be desirable to explain the mode
in which our trade with Russia, both import and export, is carried
on. Russia is, commercially, a poor country. The description of her
given by M‘Culloch, in an early edition of his Dictionary of
Commerce, published two-and-twenty years ago, is as appropriate
and correct as if it had been written yesterday, notwithstanding the
vast territorial aggrandisement which has taken place in the interim.
Her nobles and great landowners hold their property burdened by
the pressure of many mortgages; and they are utterly unable to bring
their produce to market, or to raise their crops at all, without the
advances of European capitalists. These consist chiefly of a few
English Houses, who have branch establishments at St Petersburg,
Riga, and Memel on the Baltic, and Odessa on the Black Sea. The
mode of operation is the following. About the month of October the
cultivators and factors from the interior visit those ports, and receive
advances on the produce and crops to be delivered by them ready for
shipment at the opening of the navigation; and it is stated that the
engagements made between these parties and British capitalists have
rarely been broken. This process of drawing advances goes on until
May, by which month there are large stocks ready for shipment at all
the ports, the winter in many districts being the most favourable for
their transport. The import trade is carried on in a similar manner by
foreign capital; long credits, in many instances extending to twelve
months, being given to the factors in the interior. A well-known
statistical writer, the editor of the Economist, Mr John Wilson, in his
publication of the 25th ult., says, upon the subject of the amount of
British capital thus embarked in Russia at the period when her
battalions crossed the Pruth: “The most accurate calculations which
we have been able to make, with the assistance of persons largely
engaged in the trade, shows that at that moment the British capital
in Russia, and advanced to Russian subjects, was at least
£7,000,000, including the sums for which Houses in this country
were under acceptance to Russia.” We can perfectly believe this to
have been the fact, under such a system of trading as that which we
have described. We can believe, too, that a considerable number of
British ships and sailors were at the same time in Russian ports, and
would, in case we had treated the occupation of Moldavia and
Wallachia by Russian troops as a casus belli, very probably have been
laid under embargo. We could sympathise with those “persons
largely engaged in the trade,” in rejoicing that, as one effect of a
temporising policy, the whole of this capital, these ships, and these
sailors, had been released from all danger of loss or detention. But
we cannot bring ourselves to consider it decent in a gentleman
holding an important office in the Government, whilst admitting, as
he does, that we have been bamboozled by Russian diplomacy, to
point triumphantly to this saving of “certain monies”—the property
of private individuals, who made their ventures at their own risk and
for their own profit—as in any sort balancing the loss of the national
honour, which has been incurred by our tardiness in bringing
decisive succour to an oppressed ally. Ill-natured people might
suggest a suspicion that Mincing Lane and Mark Lane had been
exercising too great an influence in Downing Street. And the public
may hereafter ask of politicians, who thus ground their defence
against the charges of infirmness of purpose and blind credulity, or
“connivance,” as Mr Disraeli has, perhaps too correctly, termed it,
upon this alleged saving of a few millions of the money of private
adventurers—Will it balance the expenditure of the tens of millions
of the public money which the prosecution of this war will probably
cost, and which might have been saved by the adoption of a more
prompt and vigorous policy in the first instance? Will it balance the
loss of life—will it support the widows and orphans—will it lighten by
one feather the burden upon posterity, which may be the result of
this struggle? It would be a miserable thing should it have to be said
of England, that there was a period in her history when she hesitated
to strike a blow in a just cause until she had taken care that the
offender had paid her shopkeepers or her merchants their debts! We
pass over this part of the subject, however, as scarcely belonging to
the question which we have proposed to ourselves to discuss.
Our imports from Russia, upon the importance of which so much
stress has been laid, were in 1852 as given below, from official
documents. We have ourselves appended the value of the various
items upon a very liberal scale; and we may explain that we select
that year instead of 1853, for reasons which we shall hereafter
explain.
 Quantities of Russian Produce imported into Great Britain during
the year 1852.
Corn, wheat, and flour, qrs. 733,571 value £1,540,499
Oats, „ 305,738 366,855
Other grain, „ 262,348 327,935
Tallow, cwts. 609,197 1,187,700
Linseed, and flax seed, &c. qrs. 518,657 1,125,000
Bristles, lbs. 1,459,303 292,000
Flax, cwts. 948,523 1,897,046
Hemp, „ 543,965 861,277
Wool (undressed), lbs. 5,353,772 200,390
Iron (unwrought), tons 1,792 17,920
Copper (do.), „ 226 20,000
Do. (part wrought), „ 1,042 120,000
Timber (hewn), loads 28,299 94,800
Do. (sawn), „ 189,799 759,196

£8,810,618

We have taken for the above estimate the prices which prevailed in
the first six months of 1852, after which they were raised above an
average by peculiar circumstances. The year selected, moreover, was
one of larger imports than usual of many articles. For example, our
imports of Russian grain in 1852 amounted, in round numbers, to
£2,235,300 sterling, against only £952,924 in 1850. Yet we have less
than nine millions as the amount of this vaunted import trade from
Russia, the interruption of which is to be fraught with such serious
consequences to our internal peace, and to the “popularity” of the
liberal representatives of our large towns.
But fortunately for the country, and rather mal apropos for those
who would fain convert any diminution of our supplies of produce
from Russia into the ground of an anti-war agitation, we have
succeeded in procuring from that country during the past year
supplies unprecedented in quantity. The following have been our
imports from Russia in 1853, as compared with the previous year:—
 Corn, wheat, and flour, qrs. 1,070,909 against 733,571 in 1852.
Oats, „ 379,059 305,738
Other grain, „ 263,653 262,238
Tallow, cwts. 847,267 609,197
Seeds, qrs. 785,015 518,657
Bristles, lbs. 2,477,789 1,459,303
Flax, cwts. 1,287,988 948,523
Hemp, „ 836,373 543,965
Wool, lbs. 9,054,443 5,353,772
Iron, tons 5,079 1,792
Copper (unwrought), „ 974 226
Copper (part wrought), „ 656 1,042
Timber (hewn), loads 45,421 28,299
Timber (sawn), „ 245,532 189,799

If mercantile opinions are at all to be relied upon, these extra

supplies ought to have a tendency to bring down prices, which the
prospect of war has enhanced beyond what existing circumstances
seem to warrant, even presuming that we had no other dependence
than upon Russia for the articles with which she has heretofore
supplied us. For example, we have paid during the past year, if we
take present prices, for our imports of wheat alone from Russia,
about £6,470,000 sterling, whereas, at the prices of the early part of
1852, we should have paid for the same quantity of wheat just half
the money. And at the present moment, and since war has been
regarded as inevitable, we have had a downward tendency in all our
principal markets. It has been discovered that we hold more home-
grown wheat than was anticipated; and, with a favourable seed-time
and a propitious spring, hopes are entertained that we shall not in
the present year be so dependent upon the foreigner as we have been
during that which has passed. Tallow also is an article for which we
have been lately paying the extravagant prices of 62s. to 63s. per cwt.
In the early part of 1852, the article was worth about 37s. 6d. for the
St Petersburg quality. No English grazier, however, ever knew
butcher’s meat or fat at their present prices; and a propitious year for
the agriculturist will most probably bring matters to a more
favourable state for the consumer.
 It is not, however, true that a state of war with Russia can shut us
out from our supply of the produce of that country. It will come to us
from her ports, unless we avail ourselves of our right to blockade
them strictly, in the ships of neutral countries. A portion of it—and
no inconsiderable portion—will reach us overland, Russia herself
being the greatest sufferer, from the extra cost of transit. There can
be no doubt of every effort being made by her great landowners to
make market of their produce, and convert it at any sacrifice into
money; for it must be borne in mind that they are at the present
moment minus some seven or eight millions sterling of British and
other money, usually advanced upon the forthcoming crops. We
need scarcely point at the difficulty in which this want must place
Russia in such a struggle as that in which she is at present engaged.
The paper issues of her government may for a time be forced upon
her slavish population as money. But that population requires large
imports of tea, coffee, sugar, spices, fruits, wines, and other foreign
products; and it is not difficult to predict that there will be found few
capitalists in Europe or Asia, willing to accommodate her with a loan
wherewith to pay even for these necessaries, much less to feed her
grasping ambition by an advance of money for the purchase of
additional arms and military stores. Moreover, we are not by any
means so absolutely dependent upon Russia for many of the
principal articles with which she has heretofore supplied us, as
certain parties would wish us to believe. We could have an almost
unlimited supply of flax and hemp from our own colonies, if we
chose to encourage the cultivation of them there. In the mean time,
Egypt furnishes us with the former article; and Manilla supplies us
with a very superior quality of both. Belgium and Prussia are also
producers, and with a little encouragement would no doubt extend
their cultivation. Our own colonies, however, are our surest
dependence for a supply of these and similar articles. An advance of
seeds and money to the extent of less than one quarter of the sums
which we have been in the habit of advancing to the Russian
cultivator, would bring forward to this country a supply of the raw
materials of flax and hemp, which would be quite in time, with our
present stock, to relieve us from any danger of deficiency for at least
a season to come. With respect to tallow, we have a right to depend
upon America, both North and South, for a supply. Australia can
send us an aid, at all events, to such supply; and we may probably