Page 62 of Too Scot to Handle
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Anwen’s life had acquired a sense of direction that combined getting the orphanage on sound financial footing with marrying Colin MacHugh. In the three weeks since he’d asked to court her, the board of directors had met weekly, and on the one occasion when they’d had a quorum, Colin had pushed through motions to acquire ponies, sell the coach and team, get estimates for fitting out a wing of rooms as gentlemen’s quarters, and advertise for an assistant headmaster competent in French, music, and drawing.
Not to hire an assistant headmaster—Win Montague had bestirred himself to make that point—but to advertise and interview candidates.
“You want me to ask other ladies for their spare yarn?” Lady Rosalyn said, when the directors had left the meeting room. Two other ladies on the committee had pleaded various excuses, though Anwen couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Yes, I want you to ask your friends for their spare yarn.” Rosalyn had helped to teach the boys to knit, though Anwen detected a cooling of relations between Winthrop Montague and Colin. “Everybody has yarn they’ve set aside for a specific project, and then didn’t or couldn’t use. I want that yarn.”
Lady Rosalyn blinked slowly, twice. “Then shouldn’t you ask them for it?”
“I will ask my acquaintances, and you will ask yours, who are far more numerous than my own. Extra yarn just clutters up a workbasket, and the boys will put it to excellent use. And while you’re about it, please ask your friends to ask their friends, and I’ll do likewise.”
Her ladyship’s pretty chin acquired an unbecomingly stubborn angle. “We have only twelve boys here, Anwen. How many scarves do you think they can wear? Are they knitting scarves for their ponies?”
“Rosalyn, they are knitting the scarves to sell and to donate to other orphanages. The orphanage needs to earn money where it can, and even small hands can knit competently. Then too, the boys need to learn that giving ennobles the giver. Consider how something as minor as one of your smiles brightens a gentleman’s entire evening, and how you are gladdened to have cheered him.”
As flattery went, that should be sufficient to make the point.
Her ladyship wrinkled a nose about which poetry had been written, albeit bad poetry. “Charity is one thing, Anwen, but once coin is exchanged—you mentioned selling the scarves—the matter veers perilously close to trade.”
Joseph tapped on the door. He still didn’t say much, but he was more animated, and time in the garden agreed with him.
“Yes, Joseph?”
He passed Anwen a note. “The ladies are invited to join me for an inspection of the garden. Lord Colin MacHugh.”
“Is that a naughty note, Anwen Windham?” Rosalyn asked. “Your smile suggests you’ve received correspondence from a gentleman, and though I would never criticize a friend, even you must admit that certain lines, once crossed—”
Anwen passed over the scrap of paper. “We have received an invitation, nothing more. Joseph, thank you. We’ll be down in five minutes.”
Joseph bowed—the older boys were becoming quite mannerly—and withdrew.
“I must confess that child makes me uneasy,” Rosalyn said. “I’m never certain what he comprehends.”
“Joe is very bright.” Anwen rose and straightened the chairs around the table one by one. “I assume he understands anything said in plain English. I left my bonnet in the chairman’s office. Let’s fetch it and join his lordship in the garden.”
Lady Rosalyn had assembled her reticule, pelisse, and parasol, but didn’t move until her gloves were on and smoothed free of wrinkles, and the most elaborately embroidered side of her enormous reticule was showing.
“Am I presentable? One wishes a mirror were available, though encouraging the children in vanity would be unkind.”
“You are far beyond presentable. You’ll put the flowers to shame.” Assuming her ladyship arrived in the garden before autumn.
Lady Rosalyn moved at a decorous pace, as if giving all and sundry time to admire her. When she and Anwen arrived at the chairman’s office, she peered around, running her gloved fingers over the desk surface and lifting the lock on the strongbox.
“Is there anything inside, or is this for show?”
Anwen plunked her bonnet on her head—a comfy old straw hat that fit perfectly. “Colin says at least three months’ worth of coin should be on the premises at all times. Banks can be robbed, flooded, and burned to the ground, while Hitchings can haul that box out of the building in all but the most dire emergencies.”
Rosalyn twiddled the lock’s tumblers. “So the exchequer yet contains three months’ worth of funding?”
Barely. “It does. Has Win said something to the contrary?”
“How does one open this? It looks quite secure.”
“There’s a combination, probably under some candlestick or blotter. Win would know. Shall we be off?”
Rosalyn had started to lift the candlesticks on the mantel, one by one. She reminded Anwen of a small child in new surroundings.
