Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

Taverstock Orphanage, Bicester, 1819

F rederica Child crouched next to the newest admission to the orphanage, blowing a strand of blonde hair out of her face as she did. She smiled, and asked gently, “Are you not hungry?”

“Won’t eat a bite,” Mrs Digby answered for the little girl in her usual, brusque manner. “Waste of good food, if you ask me. There’s plenty who’d give their eye teeth for a bowl of summat hot in their bellies.”

Mrs Digby was Taverstock Orphanage’s cook, and though she was not a hard woman, she had a hard manner. It was not uncommon for the younger children to be terrified of her, even if Frederica herself never had been. The cook was more frightening to the ones who had known a mother’s love, which Frederica herself never had.

Poor Emily seemed to be terrified of everything, which was no great surprise, given that one week ago, she had lost her mother and sister to a house fire which she herself had barely escaped. She was but four years old and with no other family to take her in, she had been at the orphanage ever since. She had yet to utter a word.

“Thank you, Mrs Digby. If you could give us a moment?” Frederica replied.

The cook sighed but took her hands off her hips and retreated, shaking her head. Every child seated around the long table seemed suddenly reanimated and began once again to eat their breakfasts. Frederica returned her attention to Emily.

“I know it is all a bit scary, petal, but you must eat. You will have a sore tummy otherwise.”

Emily said nothing, and her bottom lip began to tremble. Frederica encouraged the other girls on the bench to shuffle along then seated herself next to Emily and gave her a reassuring hug.

“Do you not like porridge?”

The girl let out a stifled sob.

“You did not like it either when you first came, did you, Jennifer?” Frederica asked of an older girl, sitting opposite.

“No, Miss.” To Emily, she said, “You get used to it. And once a month, we have toast and jam.”

“Do you like jam, Emily?” Frederica was delighted to see her shy nod. “There, then. That is something to look forward to. Now, why not try a mouthful of this? ’Tis tastier than it looks, and it will fill your tummy all the way to the top.”

Emily reluctantly accepted the spoon Frederica proffered and ate a small mouthful. Hunger took over thereafter, and she was soon shovelling porridge down her throat at a rate of knots.

“Good girl,” Frederica whispered. With a kiss to the girl’s crown and a reminder to all the other girls to be especially kind to her, she removed to stand with the cook at the serving table. “It must be overwhelming for her.”

Mrs Digby clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Orphaned at such a young age. She don’t stand a chance.”

Frederica smiled benignly. “I daresay she will do well enough.”

Mrs Digby abruptly comprehended her mistake and coloured, then bristled as though vexed at being required to acknowledge it. “I didn’t mean that you?—”

Her excuse was curtailed when one of the maids, Daisy, burst through the door, gesturing urgently. “Make haste, Miss Child! Mr Mulligan has been waiting these past ten minutes!”

“Oh, heavens!” Frederica untied her apron and handed it into Mrs Digby’s outstretched hand, then hurried out of the dining hall. Mr Mulligan was the Chair of Governors—a good man, in his way, but not one to be kept waiting.

“Forgive me, Mr Mulligan, I was helping the new girl,” she explained as she bustled into the office.

He grunted his displeasure and indicated that she should sit, all without pausing in his present endeavour of lighting his pipe. “You do not mind, do you?” he asked, raising it towards her slightly as though in a toast.

In fact, Frederica despised the smell of tobacco smoke but since he was already puffing on the pipe to get it going, she knew her objection would carry no weight and mutely shook her head.

“Good, good. Is the girl speaking yet?”

“Sadly not.”

“Have you tried Mrs Woods’ suggestion?”

Frederica kept her face blank. Mrs Woods was one of the women employed to teach the girls, and she was of the firm belief that a good thrashing would ‘beat the words out of’ Emily. Frederica thought such a notion was absurd at best, and barbarous at worst, but she knew better than to ruffle feathers by passing judgement on any of the schoolmaster or mistresses’ methods; it only ever created more trouble than it prevented, and the poor children were invariably the ones to suffer for it.

“Not yet,” she said, “but she has only been with us for one week. I am hopeful that she will find her own tongue before long.”

He grunted again. “Well, do your best with her. We will struggle to place her if she does not improve. Now! About our visitor this morning.” He sat up straighter and puffed somewhat urgently on his pipe, wreathing himself in smoke. “He wishes to see what we do here, how we manage the children, what principles we are governed by, and so on. I shall explain the work of the governors. I should like you to show us around.”

“Of course,” she replied. It was a task that must fall to Frederica, for there was nobody else Mr Mulligan might have asked. Until three years ago, Taverstock had been overseen by Mrs Cromarty, but upon her death, she had not been replaced. The reasons for it were many—the ruined Viscount Bayheath withdrawing his patronage earlier the same year arguably the most notable—but Frederica’s presence was another. Having lived at Taverstock since she was seven and being a faithful help to Mrs Cromarty all that time, she had learnt enough about running the place that when the doughty old matron passed away, she became her de facto replacement. Excepting the loss of her friend, it was a situation for which Frederica was grateful every day. “Is there anything in particular you should like him to see?”

“Yes, make sure to show him the leaking roof. It might inspire him to give us even more money. And take him to Mr Carnegie’s class—he always has the boys under good regulation. But in general, if he wishes to see a thing, then you must show it to him. We are not in a position to refuse the demands of a duke.”

“A duke?” Frederica said in surprise.

“Yes—I must have mentioned, I am sure I did. The Duke of Penrith himself has taken notice of our efforts here. We can only be thankful he did not look to Oxford or Buckingham, for there are larger establishments there, but I suppose we are the nearest to his estate. And perhaps he wished to distinguish himself, for such illustrious men do not always like to follow the crowd in matters of patronage.” He paused for a moment, lowering his pipe to peer at her over the top. “Best that you do not mention your full story, eh? He may be the sort to take objection to such an association if he discovered it.”

Frederica acknowledged him with a smile, though he need not have worried. Her full story had been consigned to the annals of history for so long, it had almost ceased to be hers. But, knowing that these great men were so easily repelled by the whiff of a distasteful connection, she was vastly intrigued that His Grace was contemplating becoming a patron of Taverstock—a modest country orphanage with a leaking roof, children from the poorest corners of society, and very little to distinguish it amongst higher circles. It seemed to her a commendable use of his privilege.

“Now, you have not been in the presence of a duke before, have you?” Mr Mulligan continued. When she shook her head, he stood up and began pacing up and down the room, puffing on his pipe between edicts. “Then attend closely! Do not look him in the eye for too long—he will think you impertinent. Beyond showing him around, do not speak to him directly about anything unless he invites it. If you must address him, call him ‘Your Grace’.”

He went on for some time in this fashion until, at length, he looked at his watch and announced that it was time they made their way to the front door to await his arrival. Whether nerves had bade him bring them to their post early or the duke was late, Frederica knew not, but they were obliged to wait at least quarter of an hour before a carriage was seen turning into the drive. Beads of perspiration broke out on Mr Mulligan’s forehead, which she pretended not to notice and instead turned to watch His Grace alight from his carriage and ascend the front steps.

She had never given any consideration to what a duke might look like, but had she been asked to guess, she would not have envisioned the Duke of Penrith. He was young, for a start—certainly not past thirty. Lean, with luxuriant brown hair and an unsmiling mien, he had an angular face that would have been exceedingly handsome were it not that he looked too thin. He had not Mr Mulligan’s height, but he had presence such that he seemed to fill the room regardless, entering the hall with an air of consequence that made even Frederica’s usually imperturbable heart dance about erratically.

He greeted Mr Mulligan with a commanding but quiet voice—the sort that demanded one listened carefully to catch every word. Mr Mulligan bowed absurdly low, then requested permission to introduce Frederica. She almost gasped when Penrith turned to look at her. She had expected his gaze to be stern, in keeping with his dour bearing. Instead, his eyes were soft, contemplative, and profoundly unhappy. She only remembered to curtsey when Mr Mulligan cleared his throat.

“This is Miss Child. She will be conducting our tour of Taverstock today.”

The duke inclined his head in acknowledgement and looked away, and Frederica felt momentarily off balance.

“Miss Child?” Mr Mulligan urged in a strained voice. “The school rooms first, perhaps?”

“Of course.” Frederica directed both men towards the stairs. While Mr Mulligan launched into a much-practised speech, she snuck the occasional glance at the duke, fascinated and a little saddened by what she had glimpsed in him. Without staring, however, she could make out only a figure of compelling stateliness and poise.

Her contemplations were interrupted when it became apparent that Mr Mulligan’s nerves had rendered him uncommonly stupid. Asked by the duke how many children were presently homed at Taverstock, both his oration and his steps faltered, his countenance set in a frieze of panic.

“We have twenty-three as of yesterday,” Frederica reminded him quietly.

“Yes! Yes—twenty-three,” he said with a grateful glance her way. “They are split between four dormitories—two each for the girls and boys—and a nursery. ”

“And how many rooms has the house in total?” Penrith enquired.

“Rooms? Well now, let me see, there must be…” Mr Mulligan glanced again at Frederica, who mouthed the answer that he might claim the information as his own—though she suspected she was observed doing so.

“It is a sizeable establishment,” Penrith remarked. “The upkeep must be considerable.”

“Indeed, it is,” Mr Mulligan agreed. “We are wholly at the mercy of our generous benefactors for our survival.”

“Might I enquire who your other patrons are?”

“Why, of course. There is Mr Andrews—a very well-respected local mill owner and businessman. Then there is Sir Roger Dowden, and…” He swallowed. “And there is, um…”

“The Dowager Countess Didcot,” Frederica said softly.

“Quite so!” Mr Mulligan exclaimed with a nervous laugh.

Frederica had never seen him thus; he seemed to grow more flustered the longer he was in the duke’s company, and it was necessary for her to assist him several more times with details that he would ordinarily have been able to recite in his sleep. She hoped the duke would not hold it against him. It was difficult to tell whether Penrith had even noticed, for his eyes might have been sorrowful, but his demeanour was inscrutable.

They arrived at Mr Carnegie’s classroom, where the boys were instructed to welcome His Grace in unison, and the schoolmaster explained the focus of their lesson. Then Frederica led the way through the dormitories, nursery, sick room, attic—complete with leaking roof—and workrooms. The duke gave very little away, asking only one or two questions. Between Mr Mulligan’s more expansive commentary on the orphanage’s aims and achievements, Frederica explained the workings of the house, the contributions of the various maids and schoolmasters and mistresses to the running of things, and the children’s daily routines. She finished off the tour by taking the gentlemen through the dining hall to the kitchen and stores, describing the children’s usual fare.

“There is a boy alone in this room,” Penrith said as they passed the last door in the hall of servants’ chambers. Somewhat more severely, he enquired, “Is he being punished?”

Frederica hastened to look into the room to see who it was. Her heart sank a little when she recognised Gregory, a boy of nine who repeatedly found himself in trouble for his inability to sit still and attend to his lessons. It was probable that he had run here to avoid a punishment; it would not be the first time. She gave him a reassuring smile and pulled the door shut.

“No, Your Grace. That is Master Gregory. He has been with us a few months now, and he has not settled at all well. He has likely come in search of comfort. ”

Mr Mulligan puffed up loftily. “That is not to say that we shy away from appropriate discipline here at Taverstock, Your Grace. But if a child were in need of chastisement, he or she would not be sent here to receive it.”

“This is my chamber,” Frederica added, because the duke looked puzzled.

Her explanation did not help; the duke’s frown only deepened. “What did you say your role here was, Miss Child?”

He was addressing her directly, and Frederica could not refrain from searching for another glimpse of the vulnerability she had seen before. “I do not hold a specific position, Your Grace,” she said distractedly. “I do whatever work needs doing.”

“And, other than comforting distressed children, what does that involve?”

“Comforting distressed children is a significant part of it,” she replied with a rueful smile. “As Your Grace might expect, they are often deeply troubled when they come to us.”

There! A flash of something in Penrith’s gaze, and it was most certainly not a happy sentiment. She had to suppose that her answer was not a satisfactory one when Mr Mulligan let out an almost hysterical laugh.

“Thank you, Miss Child. You may attend to Master Gregory now.” He turned to Penrith. “If Your Grace would like to come to the office, I shall show you Taverstock’s accounts.”

They walked away, and Frederica did as she was told, comforting Gregory until he felt able to return to the schoolroom.

Later, when she was having tea with some of the rest of the household, she had cause to reflect on her impression of Penrith, for it seemed it did not tally with anyone else’s.

“Do you think he’ll help us?” Mrs Digby enquired.

“Hard to tell,” Mr Mulligan replied. “He was not forthcoming.”

“Aye, I thought him very reserved,” Mr Carnegie agreed.

“Very—although not objectionably so,” Mr Mulligan countered. “Dignified, I should say. Not the sort to effuse.”

“What did you think, Fred?” asked Rupert Dalton. He was Taverstock’s gardener and general labourer, and Frederica’s good friend.

“He was quiet,” she agreed, “but perhaps because…well, I thought he seemed extraordinarily sad.”

“Sad?” Rupert scoffed. “What’s a duke got to be sad about?”

“He lost his wife the year before last,” Mr Mulligan said. “I daresay if he has a bit of melancholia about him, it is justified.”

“Trust you to see it,” Mrs Digby said to Frederica. “There’s no hiding anything from you, is there?”

Frederica smiled but said nothing. It was true that she perceived people’s feelings more often than her colleagues, but she fancied that was only because she took the trouble to look for them. She had not been looking for Penrith’s sadness—it had leapt out at her, unbidden. She hoped he would decide to become a patron of Taverstock. If it brought him half the joy that working here brought her, he could not remain that unhappy for long.