Page 12 of Too Scot to Handle
Anwen ducked through a pair of French doors and let them swing closed behind her. The resulting bang felt lovely, until she spotted Aunt Esther already occupying the bench in the folly.
“Come join me,” Aunt said. “It’s a marvelous day to escape for a moment into the garden.”
Behind the door, Charlotte and Elizabeth were looking concerned and keeping their voices down. Anwen crossed the garden with more haste than grace.
“How was your meeting?” Aunt asked as Anwen tossed herself onto the opposite wooden bench. The folly was latticed on two sides with roses not yet blooming, and Aunt made a pretty picture against the greenery. She was a duchess, but also a mother, political partner to Uncle Percy, a pillar of society, and a genuinely gracious person.
Anwen ought not to bother her, but the idea of returning inside…She couldn’t. Not today.
“My meeting mostly didn’t happen,” Anwen said. “We lacked a quorum, which I suspect is a polite way to say, the directors would rather frolic at their clubs like truant schoolboys than worry about orphans.”
“Your uncle would understand your frustration. Those same lords and honorables are equally cavalier about their parliamentary duties. Drives poor Moreland to shouting and pacing and all manner of colorful language.”
“Colorful language?” Uncle Percy was the doting, jovial complement to Aunt Esther’s grace and gentility. They were the perfect mature couple, the perfect duke and duchess.
Though at present, Aunt’s slippers were tidily arranged beneath the bench, her feet up in a pose more reminiscent of a Grecian goddess at her leisure than a proper duchess.
“Your uncle Percy was once an army officer, you know,” Aunt said. “A third son with limited prospects. A man of that ilk doesn’t raise ten children without infusing some variety into his vocabulary.”
Charlotte and Elizabeth were apparently content to let Aunt Esther deal with Anwen—for now. There would be questions over the last cup of tea in the parlor this evening, or over breakfast.
Or both. “Did you acquire a colorful vocabulary, Aunt?”
Aunt Esther snapped off a green tendril intruding into the folly. “Me?”
“You raised the same ten children, and you contended with Uncle.” Anwen’s papa was Uncle Percy’s younger brother, and Papa, while ever loyal, was occasionally exasperated with the duke, as were His Grace’s own offspring.
Delicate blonde brows swooped down. “I see your point. I resorted to German. My grandmother’s English was never very good, so my German is excellent. It’s a capital language for strong emotion.”
Anwen’s mother resorted to Welsh, and as a consequence, her children had a grasp of Welsh that exceeded their Latin and French.
“Perhaps I need to learn German,” Anwen said. “I’m much afraid my orphanage will close its doors this summer, and all because I don’t know how my settlements are invested.”
Maybe she did need some chamomile tea.
“Your settlements are in the cent-per-cents,” Aunt said. “The same as your sisters’ are, the same as my widow’s portion. I can have Westhaven explain the details, but you will not walk up the church aisle without first gaining a clear grasp of your finances.”
Why had Anwen’s own mother not explained this—why hadn’t her father?
“The orphanage is running out of money, and nobody seems bothered by this but me. As Lord Colin and I toured the park today, he explained to me that if I can raise money for the orphanage, I can invest that money, and use the interest rather than principle to look after the boys.”
“You would need a very great deal of money, my dear.”
“So you see the magnitude of the problem? If all I can earn is five percent interest, then ten thousand pounds is necessary to yield the five hundred I need for the boys. That is a fortune, and it’s a very small orphanage.”
Aunt was quiet for a long moment. “You always did enjoy maths.”
“I did?”
“Yes, which is why your maths tutor was the same fellow who’d worked with your male cousins. He’d done such a fine job with those five—and neither Devlin nor Valentine were naturally studious—that we brought him back from the north for you girls. Your uncle is not mathematically inclined, so it’s fortunate Westhaven shares your proclivity.”
The day had been unusual, with the meeting that didn’t happen, Lady Rosalyn’s absence, an unscheduled outing in the park, and now this conversation. By rights, Anwen should have been in her room, having a short nap—of two hours’ duration—before dinner.
She had neither time nor inclination to nap when the fate of children was at stake. “I want to hold a charity ball, Aunt. These boys matter to me, and yet, everybody holds charity balls.”
The duchess snapped off two more vines. Anwen braced herself for a lecture about God’s will, and the resilience of the lower orders, a woman’s place, or some such rot.
“Your cousin Devlin could easily have been one of those boys,” the duchess said. “His antecedents aren’t a secret among the family, and what if his mother had fallen ill shortly after his birth? What if one of her protectors had taken the boy into dislike? What if Percival had gone back to Canada instead of falling in love with me? I have worried similarly for our dear Maggie.”
