Page 83 of Too Scot to Handle
“What about the building?” John asked. “Hitchings says it’s falling down around our ears.”
The unused wing had problems. “What else did Hitchings say?”
“Tell her,” Dickie said, glowering at Tom. “You’re the one that heard ’em.”
Tom was a sensitive soul—with sensitive hearing. Charlotte had the same gift. She could pick out conversations from across the room and catch every word.
“Mr. Montague said no amount of money would set this place to rights, and the whole card party was a waste of time. We’ll close by Michaelmas.”
“Just in time for cold weather,” Dickie added.
“Just in time for hunt season, Mr. Montague said,” John went on. “We’ll be hunting, all right. For every meal and groat we can beg or steal.”
The faces that had become open, even hopeful over the past several weeks were again pinched with worry and bitterness. These boys were one sunny day away from scooting down the drainpipe, and into the vast sewer of the London stews. Nothing—not the promise of hot meals, an education, eventual employment, even safety—could keep their faith in the House of Urchins alive in the face of Win Montague’s pronouncements.
Rage such as Anwen had never experienced flooded her. What could she say that would make a difference to four children whose ability to hope and trust had been trampled too thoroughly and too often? What did she have to offer, when she’d been raised with every privilege?
Only Joe would meet her gaze, and the longing she saw in his blue eyes was unbearable. The boys wanted what every child should be able to take for granted—hope. Hope for a life of meaning, for some security and comfort in a world where wealth was flaunted before them every day.
She had nothing, no great speeches, no charming wit, no significant wealth of her own.
Despair touched her, an old enemy, one she’d battled when she was even younger than these boys. This was what sat beneath the rage—the firsthand knowledge of how badly a child could be overwhelmed by life’s worst challenges. This was why her heart had been captured by homeless children with no one to champion them.
Anwen Windham knew the temptation to give up. To slip out the window and down the drainpipe, never to be seen again.
“I almost died,” she said, shoving to her feet. “I was younger than the lot of you, and I almost died, several times.”
Whatever the boys had expected her to say, it wasn’t that.
“But you didn’t die,” John said. “You’re here, and you’re fine.”
He was asking a question, bless the boy. “I am fine, I’m better than fine. I’m in the pink of health, my family loves me, and I’m full of plans and dreams, but the fevers nearly took me. For weeks I could barely get out of bed to use the chamber pot. I couldn’t eat, I had to force myself to swallow even beef tea, and I was so tired of being sick I wanted to give up. I’d rally a bit, then relapse. The priest was summoned more than once.”
“You wanted to die?” Tom asked.
Joe stared at the fire, and his silence spoke volumes.
John hunched his shoulders. “Every winter, it feels like that. Then you see some poor gin drunk who’s so far gone he’s not even shivering anymore, and it’s all you can do not to steal his coat. But you don’t—not yet—not until you’re as bad off as he is.”
Oh, God, what these children had endured. All over again, Anwen wished she’d publicly humiliated Win Montague before all of polite society.
“I did not die,” Anwen said. “I wanted to give up, to be where it didn’t hurt anymore, where I wasn’t tired anymore. I wanted the illness to let go of me, any way I could make that happen. I’d open my eyes, though, and my mother would be beside the bed, ready to spoon more tea into me or read me a story. I’d open my eyes again, and my papa would be there, playing solitaire on the counterpane. I’d not even open my eyes, but I’d know one of my sisters had broken the rules again and was napping beside me. I could not let them down. I had to try, and keep trying, and try some more after that.”
As a child, she hadn’t been able to name that sense of obligation, but she could name it now, and be endlessly grateful for it.
“You had family,” Tom said, not quite making it an accusation.
“And you have me, and Lord Colin, and all the people who gave their diamonds, and emeralds, and pearls so you’d be warm this winter. You have each other, and if you’re ready to give up, I’m not. I’m far from ready to give up on children who deserve just as much love and care as I had.”
She’d taken a risk, mentioning love, but honesty was the best policy, and nothing short of love had saved her life. Call it determination, devotion, familial loyalty, or any less intimidating term, but the motivating force had been love.
Across the room, Joe, all alone at the end of the table, sniffed and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve.
Anwen didn’t dare go to the boy, or she’d lose what little composure she had left, and forever embarrass him. Instead she passed him her handkerchief.
“Keep that for me, Joseph, and I’ll keep a promise for you. You will not lose your home. You’ve worked too hard to make the House of Urchins an institution to be proud of, and Winthrop Montague is a horse’s arse.”
John snickered, Dickie hooted, and Tom smiled.
