Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

J anuary was the worst time of year to be bereaved in Frederica’s opinion. In the depths of winter and the clutches of grief, hope could be a difficult thing to cling to. It was with a heavy heart, therefore, that she set out that morning to collect two newly orphaned children whose father had been found drowned. The walk back took an hour, but they coped remarkably well considering their youth—Tom was ten; his sister, Lucy, was but six. Frederica took care not to mention their father on the walk. The task of explaining the altered course of their lives would be broached once they were settled at Taverstock, but until then, she tried to distract them with games and stories.

All her efforts to keep them calm and reassured were rendered worthless when they arrived to a scene of pandemonium. At two o’clock on any ordinary Wednesday afternoon, the older children would have been in the workrooms, but at least ten were standing about in the entrance hall, each distressed in some way, several arguing, and most weeping. Two ran directly to her, tugging at her coat and clamouring for her attention. The younger of the two new children, Lucy, began to shake and whimper. Frederica picked her up, then did her best to comfort the others crowding around her with her free hand.

“Oliver, what has happened?” she asked of the eldest boy present, raising her voice to be heard over the hubbub.

“Mr Patterson has taken ill, Miss. He fell over sudden-like, and he’s not got up again.”

This prompted more raucous distress from the other children.

“Good heavens! When?”

“Not long ago. Mr Carnegie is trying to rouse him. Mrs Woods sent us to find you. She took the other children to the dormitory.”

Frederica nodded her head, attempting to decide what to do. Mrs Pargeter would be in the nursery with the three infants currently in Taverstock’s care. Mr Wisley did not teach on a Wednesday, and neither Mrs Digby nor the maids would be up from the village for another hour at least. That left Rupert.

With a decisive nod, she attempted to shepherd the children towards the stairs, that she might temporarily deposit them in the dormitory, though she was hindered by the three or four children clinging to her skirts. Several enquiries as to the likelihood of Mr Patterson dying led to a renewal of panicky tears and a cry of “I want to go home!” from Lucy, who was clinging desperately to Frederica’s neck.

“Looks like this is your home now,” one of the boys tactfully informed her. She promptly began to wail, and her brother was not long in joining her.

“Come now, children. This will not do. I want you all to take deep breaths and calm yourselves.”

“Can I be of assistance, Miss Child?”

Frederica started and turned to see the Duke of Penrith framed by the open front door. Her immediate thought was for Mr Mulligan’s vexation that His Grace should have witnessed such a chaotic scene—but she cared infinitely more about the children’s distress than the Chair of Governor’s pride.

“Would you?” she said without hesitation. “One of the schoolmasters has taken ill. I must summon the apothecary and send word to Mr Mulligan.”

“Consider it done, madam.” And, indeed, within moments, the duke’s coachman had been dispatched to deliver both messages.

Frederica thanked him between issuing comforting words to various children. “I beg you would excuse me for a moment, Your Grace—I must deal with the children. Would you like to wait in the office? I am afraid the fire will not be lit, for the governors are not meeting today, so it may be a little cold. ”

“I am sure I shall withstand it.” He gave a little nod and walked away.

Frederica turned to the fractious gaggle and attempted to impose some order. “Oliver? Peter? Will one of you go to?—”

“I do not want to live here,” Lucy said tearfully.

Frederica set her down and knelt to speak to her. “I promise, it is not as loud or as busy as this usually.”

“Stop crying, you big baby!” one of the boys shouted—not at Lucy, as Frederica first feared, but at one of his fellow orphans. “It weren’t you who keeled over!”

“I’m not a baby!” came the snivelling reply, accompanied by a hard shove.

“That is enough, boys!” Frederica said firmly, reaching to separate them.

“I want my Pa!” Tom cried, bottom lip aquiver.

“I know you do, petal.” Frederica consoled him with a gentle squeeze to his arm. Over the escalating din, she called, “Children, I need you to listen!”

“Miss Child, it seems to me that I could be of far more assistance to you if I were not simply sitting in an empty room getting cold.”

Frederica lurched to her feet. She thought the duke had gone into the office. “I beg your pardon. We are not usually this unruly, only the children are upset, and—” She lowered her voice and gestured at Lucy and Tom. “These two have only this moment arrived at Taverstock for the very first time. They have just lost their father.”

He had not been smiling before, but he nevertheless seemed to grow more serious when he heard this, reminding Frederica of the sense of poignancy she had perceived in him on his last visit. He regarded the brother and sister sombrely for a moment or two, then said, “Allow me to sit with them while you make the necessary arrangements for the other children. It is not as though I can go anywhere until my man returns. I may as well make myself useful.”

Frederica did then hesitate. She was not aware that being useful to others was something with which dukes generally concerned themselves, and goodness only knew how well Lucy and Tom would bear the encounter—but the right or wrong of it soon became the lesser of her concerns. Jennifer appeared at the top of the stairs, calling desperately for her to attend Mrs Woods, who was having difficulty calming the children in the dormitory. That would inevitably lead to one or more of them receiving a hiding unless the situation could be calmed.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Frederica said with an apologetic smile. “I should be exceedingly grateful for your help.”

After a quick introduction between the three and a promise to come back quickly, she shepherded the other children away.

It was longer than she would have liked before she was able to return. She had never been much awed by rank, but that did not mean she was insensible to it, nor disrespectful of it, and she grew increasingly impatient to relieve the duke of his charges. Yet, the boys and girls were too agitated to settle quickly, and her plan to enlist Rupert’s help was severely delayed on account of him taking an age to find. Eventually, once order was restored and she had prepared a tray of chocolate and cake for Tom and Lucy, she hastened back to the office, anxious as to what she might find.

She could not have been more pleasantly surprised. The duke had lit the fire, so the room had none of its usual chill. The large table around which the governors conducted their business was empty; the children were seated on the rug before the hearth, each concentrating intently on building a house of cards. Penrith was perched on the edge of a nearby armchair, leaning forward to give quiet instruction to both. It was a sweet scene; Frederica was sorry to interrupt, though the children hastened to her as soon as they heard her set the tray on the table.

Penrith came at a more dignified pace to join them. He did not smile, but neither did he seem displeased to have been kept waiting. Indeed, he had a sedateness about him that greatly softened his serious demeanour. “We found something to entertain us,” he said, inclining his head towards the cards. “I trust whoever owns them will not object.”

“Certainly not. They will be as grateful as I am,” Frederica replied. She handed the children their drinks and a plate of cake each, cautioning them not to burn their mouths and encouraging them to take their food and return to their game. Pointing to the tray, she asked, “Would you like anything, Your Grace?”

He declined the offer and asked instead, “Is there any news on the schoolmaster who fell ill?”

“He is somewhat revived—enough to be escorted home. The apothecary could not account for his sudden turn but hopes bedrest will see him on his feet again.”

“That is good news for him and the orphanage.”

“It is, although we can make do for a short while. I can help with some of the younger children’s lessons until he returns. Would you prefer some tea? It would not take long for me to prepare some.”

“Pray do not trouble yourself. My man ought to be here soon with Mr Mulligan.”

The reminder that the Duke of Penrith had not come to Taverstock to play nursemaid to the children brought heat to Frederica’s cheeks. “I am terribly sorry he was not here to greet you. It is most unlike him to forget an engagement.”

“The fault is mine. I had not realised he was not here all the time.”

“Oh! No, the governors only come to Taverstock for meetings. They are not involved in the day-to-day running of the orphanage.”

Tom’s card tower abruptly collapsed, and he and his sister both laughed gaily. It filled Frederica’s heart with relief to see it. “I thank you, most sincerely, for taking their minds off things,” she told Penrith quietly. “It was very unfortunate that their first experience of Taverstock was so unsettling.”

He frowned slightly, and after a quick glance at Tom and Lucy, asked in a low voice, “About that—you had to bring these two to Taverstock yourself? The children are not brought to you here?”

“Usually they are, but there is not always someone to perform the task. Some children are entirely alone. Often, people do know about us or have not the means to travel so far. That was the case with the elderly neighbour who had been looking after these two. In those circumstances, it is necessary for them to be collected.”

“And you do that?”

“When the governors are unavailable, yes.”

“Are the governors often unavailable?”

“They do as much as they can, Your Grace, but they all have concerns outside of Taverstock, and orphaned children cannot always wait for business to be concluded.”

She thought he looked somewhat taken aback, but his countenance had such poise, the fleeting look was gone too soon for her to be sure. Perhaps she had spoken too freely, but she thought it more sensible that she should answer his questions fully than flatter him with deference and timidity.

“Are you, then, the only person who lives on site?” he enquired.

“Permanently, I suppose I am, although the schoolmasters and mistresses take turns sleeping here, to help watch over the children at night. The maids and the cook live in Bicester and come up as and when they are needed, as does Mr Dalton, the gardener. Mrs Pargeter stays in the nursery whenever we have infants with us, but she has a cottage in the next village, where she will return once I have found families to take the babies.”

“You will find them families?”

Penrith’s tone gave her pause. Envisaging Mr Mulligan’s displeasure if the duke were to be put off by anything she had said, she hastily explained, “The orphanage homes children until they are fourteen—but I think they are always happier with families. If I can find homes for them sooner, I do.”

“I am acquainted with the orphanage’s policies. I was questioning it being you who secures those placements and not the governors. It is clear that a great number of tasks fall to your management, Miss Child. It is a great deal of responsibility for one so young.”

Frederica blushed—and more hotly than before. She was old enough to be married and have children of her own; she knew not why she should be deemed too young to look after the children at Taverstock. “I am nearly twenty, Your Grace.”

He winced wryly and shook his head. “I beg your pardon. It was not my intention to question either your age or your ability, madam. Only to express my surprise. I had not realised you all but ran Taverstock.”

“I did not mean to give that impression.” Mr Mulligan was going to spit! “We are a small company here, and we share the work as practicably as we can between us. I suppose, because I live here, I am naturally more involved—but happily so. I am excessively fond of children.”

She felt certain she had said too much then, for Penrith fixed her with a searching look.

“You are to be commended. Choosing to live here, rather than returning to your home as the others do, shows remarkable dedication.”

“Oh, but this is my home, Your Grace. That is—I am dedicated to the children, but I have no other home to go to. I was orphaned myself, so I have grown up here.”

It was odd; Penrith never smiled, Frederica noticed, yet there were times when his solemnity faded from notice, as he took an interest in this or began talking about that . There were also times—this being such a one—when it returned in full force.

“A home was never found for you?”

“They found several for me, but none of the families were able to keep me for longer than a few years. Taverstock was the third different orphanage at which I was abandoned, at the age of seven, and I begged not to be sent away again. It has been my home ever since.”

“These are heavy misfortunes,” he said gravely.

Frederica smiled in the hope it would cheer him, for his sudden despondency was entirely unwarranted. “I have nothing to repine. My work at Taverstock is the most gratifying thing in the world. ”

“Does it never make you sad that you have lost your parents?”

“I have never known a life any different—I was orphaned too young to remember them. What makes me sad is to see the children here, struggling with their losses, for theirs is a much fresher grief.”

Penrith nodded, still regarding her intently. “And what do you do to comfort them, when they are distressed?”

Frederica smiled more broadly and pointed to the tray on the table. “I give them cake.”

“Cake?” he said indignantly, as though he had been expecting a far more intuitive answer.

“Pardon me, Your Grace. We do, of course, offer the children whatever succour they require—but there are times when only cake will do. Mrs Digby usually obliges us, though there is a tearoom in Bicester that sells the most wonderful confections. Sometimes, if a child is particularly wretched, I take them there and treat them to one. It never fails to cheer them.”

The duke’s reply was curtailed by the opening of the door and Mr Mulligan’s frenetic entrance. He came in already apologising and continued to do so until he noticed Frederica and the two children on the hearth rug. Then, his discomposure was amplified, and his address altered from apology to rebuke.

“Miss Child, what are you about? Remove these children at once! His Grace has not come here to be embroiled in orphanage business. ”

“On the contrary, Mr Mulligan, that is precisely why I have come,” Penrith replied, his gravity now performing a different service and giving him an air of imposing authority. “I have decided to patronise Taverstock. Miss Child has been of infinite use in convincing me to do so.” He inclined his head towards her in silent recognition, and she could think of nothing to say or do in reply but curtsey and follow Mr Mulligan’s instruction to take the children away.

She felt a little unsettled as she walked them towards the stairs. It was true that she treasured her work above all things, but she did not meet many people outside of Taverstock, and talking to Penrith had given her a rare reminder of what she was missing by not living out in the world. Not a duke, of course; such illustrious personages would not be part of any world she might inhabit. But someone like Penrith—someone sensible, generous, and worldly—she could very easily esteem a man like that. And she was not likely to meet one in the dormitories and sick rooms of a small country orphanage.

She looked down when Tom slipped his little hand into hers, his tentative smile instantly diminishing her wistfulness. When he turned to his sister and said, “I do not think it will be so bad to live here, Lu-Lu,” all Frederica’s disquiet melted away entirely.