Page 37 of Too Scot to Handle
The last time Ronnie and Eddie had grown bored, they’d sold Hamish’s cigars on the sly to other young ladies.
Colin offered his sister his arm, which had become a habit over the past weeks. “Where are we off to tonight?”
“Lady Pembroke’s rout. The talk will be political and artistic. You should be bored witless.”
A week ago, even a day ago, Colin would have consoled himself with the knowledge that as a widow, Lady Pembroke would have other widows in attendance. Widows were among the friendliest exponents of polite society to young, single men of good birth and better fortune.
“You’re right—I’ll be bored witless.” Unless Anwen Windham were there.
If she was among the guests, Colin wouldn’t be bored at all.
* * *
“We value your scholarly abilities exceedingly, Hitchings,” Winthrop Montague said. “But these are not typical English schoolboys, amenable to the values of polite society.”
“Blood will tell,” Hitchings replied, folding his hands across his paunch. “I can’t argue that, though I took this post intending to treat these children the same as if they were the sons of decent families.”
Anwen shot a look across the table at Colin, for that was the very problem. The boys had more or less raised themselves. Why say grace three times a day if there’s nothing to eat? Why learn Latin when you’d never own a bound book from which to read it?
“You are to be commended for your generosity of spirit,” Colin said, “but the oldest boys are reaching a dangerous age. A somewhat more military approach with them might yield faster results. As it happens, I’m familiar with how the army shapes boys into men.”
“The lads are running out of time,” Hitchings said, “just as we are running out of money.”
Lord Derwent, who’d been notably silent throughout the meeting, sat back. “Just so, Hitchings. Out of time and nearly out of money.” He was a thin, older man, with a nasal voice that carried even when he spoke quietly. “This is as good a moment as any to inform the assemblage that the press of business requires that at month’s end, I must regretfully resign my post. With Lord Colin joining the board, we’ll maintain a quorum, if only just. I wish you gentlemen every success with the House of Urchins.”
While the men rose and shook Derwent’s hand, wishing him well, claiming they understood, and thanking him for his leadership, Anwen silently reviewed a litany of Welsh curses. Missing half the meetings and citing rules intended to squeeze legislation out of three hundred drunken members of the House of Commons was not leadership.
“Miss Anwen, thank you for attending on behalf of the ladies’ committee,” Winthrop Montague said. “Always a pleasure when a pretty face can grace a gathering, no matter how dreary the agenda.”
He was the chairman of the board of directors now, else Anwen would have made a comment about a handsome face being an equally pleasant addition to the decorative scheme—despite all the noise gentlemen typically generated.
“Thank you, Mr. Montague. I appreciate the chance to learn more about how the institution is managed. Lord Colin’s involvement gives me great hope for our continued success.”
Mr. Montague aimed a twinkling smile at her. “You believe housing a budding cutpurse is the path to success?”
Colin appeared at her side, her cloak over his arm.
“I believe,” Anwen said, smiling right back, “that when children have been cooped up for months, bored witless, beaten for the smallest lapses, without anyone to love them or remark upon their frequent good behavior, one minor slip is the behavior of a saint.”
If she’d kicked Mr. Montague’s ankle, he couldn’t have looked more surprised.
“A refreshingly optimistic point of view,” Colin said. “Somewhere between that outlook and complete despair lies a reasonable way forward, I hope.”
Hitchings had ushered Lord Derwent to the door, though the headmaster had clearly overheard Anwen’s outburst.
“Madam, I commend your faith in these children,” Hitchings said, “truly I do, and no one will be more pleased than I if Lord Colin’s attempts prove successful.”
Colin wrapped Anwen’s hand over his arm, as if he knew she was two heartbeats away from interrupting Hitchings’s lecture.
“But,” Hitchings went on, “if John’s adventure were to be mentioned in the newspapers, eleven other children would find themselves again homeless, friendless, and starving. When you advocate for giving John another chance, for seeing the good in him, remember those other children, and all the children who might someday benefit from this institution if we can overcome the present difficulty. A lark for young Master Wellington could have tragic consequences for many.”
He shuffled out, his birch rod for once nowhere to be seen.
“He has a point,” Mr. Montague said. “You must admit he has a point.”
So do I. “He’s had nearly a year to impress upon the boys the opportunity this place can be for them,” Anwen said. “Hitchings has tried, I’ll grant him that, but his efforts with the older boys have not been successful.”
“They haven’t entirely failed either,” Colin said, holding out her cloak. “And now it’s my turn to see if I can inspire the boys to more responsible scholarship. Montague, thanks for attending, and I’ll see you here Tuesday next.”
