Page 82 of Too Scot to Handle
“Must you be so relentlessly good, Anwen? I will drop you if you don’t at least spill punch on your bodice or snort when you laugh.”
She sounded half serious.
Anwen opened the door and let Rosalyn precede her through. “I’ll do my best to spill strawberry punch all over my favorite fichu, but before you drop me, can we let the boys know they won’t be freezing to death next winter?”
Anwen was in deadly earnest.
“By all means, let’s put that chore behind us, and I can bid the boys farewell while I’m about it.”
The orphanage smelled slightly mildewed on damp days, and today was no exception. Other scents blended with the damp—coal smoke, cooking, and something Anwen thought of as old books. Not a fragrance, but a unique scent she associated with this special place.
“What do you mean, you’re bidding the boys farewell?”
Rosalyn stopped on the first landing, the image of pastel fashion, right down to a large, riotously embroidered reticule.
“Winthrop inveigled me into joining your committee, Anwen, but you clearly don’t need me anymore. You have the coin you sought, and I’ve lent this place my cachet long enough that finding new committee members should be easy. You mustn’t be greedy. You said it yourself: Many worthy charities deserve my support.”
She glided up the steps before Anwen could fashion a suitably grateful reply that didn’t also sound relieved. Rosalyn was a puzzle, one who looked lovely and sounded lovely, but didn’t always act lovely, much less logically.
Before Anwen had framed her response, Tom came barreling up from the lower floor.
“Miss Anwen! It’s Saturday. You never come to visit on Saturday.”
“Lady Rosalyn and I bring good news, Tom. Can you and the other boys meet us in the study room?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Thomas.” Lady Rosalyn’s cool voice from above stopped him halfway down the stairs. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Tom’s face as he gazed up the stairwell was blank for an instant, then he flopped a bow. “Good day, your ladyship.” He was off before Lady Rosalyn could excuse him, scold him for running, or castigate him for speaking too loudly.
His retreating steps echoed from the bowels of the house as Rosalyn descended to stand beside Anwen.
“I admire you so, Anwen, for your devotion to these children, but if a boy can’t even recall how to address a lady, or to keep his voice down indoors, his deportment is sadly lacking. My head has begun to pain me terribly, and I think I’d best wait in the coach. You’ll wish the boys good-bye for me, and assure them I’ll always think of them fondly, won’t you?”
“Of course.” If and when the boys noticed Lady Rosalyn was off lending her cachet elsewhere.
Anwen went up to the third floor. The former detention room had been turned into a space where any boy could find peace and quiet if he wanted to spend time at his studies. A fern taken from the Moreland conservatory sat in the windowsill, and the chairs around the table bore matching cushions. The hearth sported a fire, albeit a modest one, and the floor was covered with an old rug.
Luxurious it was not, but comfortable was a vast improvement over its previous incarnation.
The boys joined her a moment later, all four looking anxious and trying to hide their worry behind eager good manners.
“Please have a seat,” Anwen said. “I’m bringing wonderful news.”
Her words did not appear to reassure them. They took chairs around the table, and Anwen seated herself at the head. She would ask Colin to teach the boys how to hold a chair for a lady, now that more pressing concerns had been tended to.
“The card party was last night,” Anwen said, “and I’m overjoyed to tell you it was a rousing success. The guests were very generous, and my family will likely have a similar event every year. We can keep the doors to the House of Urchins open, gentlemen. Your home is secure.”
The words brought a lump to her throat, and maybe the boys were touched as well, because none of them would meet her gaze.
“Th-thank you,” Joe said, elbowing Dickie in the seat next to him.
A chorus of thanks went around the table, and still, Anwen had the sense her message hadn’t sunk in.
“We’ll have all the coal we need this winter, all the hot potatoes, all the blankets. We’ll be able to afford a physician if the younger boys take sick, and—is there something you’re not telling me?”
Somebody kicked somebody else under the table.
