by Anne Gracie
“Each girl is trained to be as independent as possible, so they leave here equipped to earn a living,” Mr. Reyne added. “As soon as they are old enough, they are apprenticed to a trade.”
“Yes, as milliners, seamstresses, cooks, housemaids, servants of all sorts, naturally. It is unlikely any of them will marry, of course,” Lady Elinore added in a whisper. “Not with their backgrounds.”
Hope could not even look at Faith. If she did, she would not be able to contain herself.
“And where do the children play?” she asked.
“Play? Oh, you mean take exercise. Out here.” Lady Elinore conducted them to the small cobbled yard.
They stepped out into the air. High stone walls on all sides. A square glimpse of sky above. Not a shred of green, nor anything to break the grim grayness.
“They walk out here twice daily. Regular exercise is necessary for their health, of course.”
“Here?” exclaimed her sister. Faith was clearly as horrified as she.
“I meant play, not simply exercise,” Hope said. “Do they not have free time in which to play and be children? I saw no toys or personal items in the dormitories—not even in the little ones’.”
Lady Elinore stared, as if she did not understand the question. “What would they want with toys? They are orphans. Their lives will be hard. They must prepare for that.”
There was a long silence. Hope clenched her fists and told herself that Lady Elinore meant well, she did. She was a kind person. She did not know what she was doing to these children.
Mr. Reyne, picking up on the tension between them, explained. “Most children in the world do not have the luxury of play, as the children of the rich do. Most children must work for their daily bread. It is that or starve.”
Hope could not believe he was defending this policy. She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, stared at the harsh, grim line of his mouth, and remembered how he had been pulled out of his life of privilege and flung into a factory, working for his daily bread. And his gutter-bruised fruit and vegetables. The thought silenced her.
He said forcefully, “Most orphans would consider the life these girls have as luxurious. I know of institutions where all the inmates, children as young as five or six, must work twelve-hour days and longer in a factory. Some from five in the morning till eight at night. The children are whipped to keep them awake. Sleepy children cause mill accidents. Accidents mean the loss of income for everyone, while small bodies are cleared from machinery.”
Hope shuddered at the image his words produced. He was right, she knew. She thought of his little brother, Johnny.
He continued in a low, hard voice, “In time, the work cripples them. Young bones are not strong enough to stand up to the strain of standing in one place day in and day out. Their bones bend, and their young spines twist. I have visited an institution that contains a hundred young boys on crutches or carts, crippled by their working youth.” He hesitated, then went on, determined to make her understand. “Girls fare worse. I know of one man who keeps a hundred young female orphans to use in his factory. He has a reputation as a rake. From time to time a young girl will simply disappear. No one asks questions.” He paused to let his words sink in, then added, “If Lady Elinore is proud of this institution, she has good reason.”
It was a clear reprimand. And Hope knew she deserved it. He knew what he was talking about. He’d experienced it himself. Hope glanced at Mr. Bemerton. His eyes were somber.
Sebastian Reyne had suffered as a child, worked in a manufactory. His body bore scars, the legacy of a childhood that had been far from easy. His crooked nose was a testament to the knocks he’d taken. His very bearing, always alert, always expecting trouble, showed he’d had to fight to survive. She thought of his poor fingers, crushed in vain, trying to save his little brother from a horrible death.
Of course he saw no lack in the way these girls lived. They were fed, they were clothed, they were housed. They were clean, and they had work. In his eyes, they needed nothing else. He thought them lucky, well off, and perhaps in the greater scheme of things, they were.
But no wonder his eyes were so stark, so lonely.
She ached for him, for the happiness he was snatched from as a child, for his bleak and joyless outlook on life. She ached for Lady Elinore and her Rational existence, and she ached for each and every girl in the institution.
Because although he was right, he was also wrong, so wrong. They were all wrong. Except for little May.
The child had said it all: “It don’t hurt to dream, miss, does it?”
She said, “So, you would teach a child to expect nothing but hard times? I disagree. Children have a right to expect some joy in life. We all do—each and every one of us, no matter who we are; child, adult, rich or poor, orphan or not.” She took a deep breath and announced, “And to that purpose, I am inviting them all to take tea with my sisters and me next week.”
There was a flurry of concern at her words.
“You can’t!” Lady Elinore gasped. “It will disrupt their routine.”
“Only for a few hours. I’m sure they will be all the better for a change of pace.”
“Excellent idea, Miss Hope,” Mr. Bemerton said. “Dreary things, routines. Made to be broken, if you ask me.”
At his words, all Lady Elinore’s uncertainty vanished. She gave him a quelling look and said severely, “No, I’m sorry, Miss Merridew, it’s not possible. There are too many girls. Besides, they wouldn’t know how to behave in a lady’s drawing room.”
“I don’t agree. You have obviously done a beautiful job in training them, Lady Elinore, but it is not an exercise in etiquette. All I ask is that they enjoy themselves. Have fun.”
“Won’t know how to behave? Unnervingly correct, if you ask me,” Mr. Bemerton offered. “Be a relief to see them crack.”
Hope and her sister beamed at him.
Lady Elinore sniffed audibly. “Nobody asked your opinion, Mr. Bemerton.”
He grinned unrepentantly. “Oh, that’s all right. I’m not shy.”
Lady Elinore bristled, and Hope hurriedly said, “There are not too many girls. I own, twenty-eight is a large number, but my great-uncle’s house can accommodate them, I’m certain. We shall hire carriages to convey them there and back.”
“Reyne and I can organize the transport,” offered Mr. Bemerton. “Eh, Bas?” He glanced at Mr. Reyne, who didn’t look at all pleased with the turn of events.
Hope was delighted at Mr. Bemerton’s unexpected offer. “Thank you, Mr. Bemerton, you are most kind.”
She took Lady Elinore’s hand. “Please say yes, Lady Elinore. It will give my sisters and me such pleasure to entertain your girls.”
Lady Elinore looked to Mr. Reyne in appeal. He came to her rescue. “These are not the sort of girls you and your sisters ought to be associating with,” he said stiffly in an undertone. “They are not fit for your company.”
“I don’t agree!” Hope said. “They are clean and well behaved—better behaved than I am, I know. And my sisters and I are orphans, too.” As are you, her look reminded him. “I don’t care about their past; it’s a very small piece of their future we are talking about. Please, Mr. Reyne, let them come,” she said softly. “If they were your sisters, would you not want them to enjoy a small, occasional treat?”
He stiffened, his face a frozen mask for a few seconds. “They are not my sisters!”
“No, but if they were—”
“But they’re not!” he said vehemently. “The very idea of my sisters in a place such as this is ridiculous.”
He turned to Lady Elinore. “It is your decision, Lady Elinore; it is you who designed the program the girls follow.”
“Actually, my mother planned it as a model institution. I simply follow in her footsteps, continuing her work. What do you think?”
He made an impatient gesture. “To be frank, I don’t care one way or the other whether the orphans take tea or not. I shall
be bound by your decision.”
Hope pounced. “So, if Lady Elinore agrees, you would help arrange the transport?”
“Why not?”
“And bring your sisters?”
His mouth tightened. “No. I would not permit my sisters to attend such an event.”
“Why ever not?” Hope demanded. “They would enjoy it, I am sure. Our sister Grace will be there.”
He shrugged indifferently. “You must do as you see fit, as must I. My sisters will not be associating with any orphans from this institution.
“I cannot believe your attitude!” Hope exclaimed.
He gave a her a level look. “I cannot help that.”
It was clear from the set look on his face that he would not budge from his position. Hope stared at him, wondering what had made him poker up like that. She had caught Lady Elinore’s hints that some of these girls had lived less-than-respectable lives before they came to the institution, but in Hope’s view, they were simply children in need. And everyone deserved a fresh start. She, for one, would not hold their background against them.
Her twin’s gentle voice interrupted her thoughts. “Please let them come, Lady Elinore. A small outing cannot hurt, surely. An hour or two out of their normal routine.”
Hope turned away from the grim-faced man in front of her, slipped an arm around her twin’s waist, and squeezed it affectionately.
Lady Elinore chewed her lip uncertainly. “I am not sure it is a wise thing. It may overturn everything we are attempting to instill in these girls. Unsettle them. The institution is run on my late mother’s Principles of Rationality. There is no Rational purpose in mindless play or frivolous entertainment. They are occupied for every moment of the day. It is what gives their lives direction.” Her voice gained in confidence as she uttered the familiar, well-worn phrases.
She probably grew up on this sort of stuff, Hope thought. Lady Elinore’s mother might be dead, but she still ruled her life.
“And what gives their lives meaning?” Hope asked.
There was a long pause. Lady Elinore gave her a blank look. Doubt slowly crept into her expression. “Their routine,” she said on an uncertain note.
“And what do they dream of?”
“Nothing, I hope. Dreaming is a waste of time.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say!”
Lady Elinore blinked at the vehemence in Hope’s voice.
“And what joy do they have in life?”
Lady Elinore frowned. “Joy? There is satisfaction in doing a job well, and in behaving correct—”
“I am not talking of satisfaction! Children thrive on joy—we all do!”
“Extreme passions are to be avoided. The girls are better off without them.”
Hope stared at her, flabbergasted. “If children are brought up to believe there is no joy in the world, to expect only hard times and grim endurance, then what is there to live for?”
Lady Elinore seemed honestly confused by the question.
Hope said passionately, “You say dreaming is a waste of time, but you could not be more wrong! Dreams are as necessary as food! Dreams and hopes are what give us the strength and courage to endure the hard times. Will the girls not work with a better will this week, knowing that there is a treat in store for them at the end of it?”
Lady Elinore said absently, “Yes, rewards for good behavior are Rational.” Her mind was not on Rational rewards though, for she added in a troubled voice, “But you are mistaken about . . . about dreams, I’m sure. Mother used to say that dreams were nonsense, just rubbish left over from the day’s events. She said even dogs dreamed and that people were hardly on the same level as dogs.”
“Your mother was wrong,” Faith said with absolute certainty. “Dreams are important. They give us the strength to try to change our lives for the better.”
Hope smiled at her sister. Nobody who had been raised under Grandpapa’s bleak regime could undervalue the power of dreams.
Hope was hesitant to criticize Lady Elinore’s mother, knowing Lady Elinore had based her whole existence on her mother’s dreary principles. But it needed to be said. And not only to Lady Elinore.
She looked at the man who expected nothing of life but harsh reality and said softly, “Dreams can bring us out of the darkness.”
“Dreams make us weak and sap the fortitude with which a woman must approach life,” Lady Elinore said as if parroting a lesson.
Hope shook her head. “Not so! Dreams are the source of fortitude. In the bitterest winter, dreams give us the promise of summer and the strength to endure. Dreams show us the path. They give us purpose.”
Lady Elinore pronounced in a thready voice, “Dreams are meaningless rubbish.”
“No! Dreams can give our lives meaning.”
“Mother said people who indulge in dreams will amount to nothing. Or go mad.”
“Then your mother was wrong!” Hope declared passionately. “If we deny our dreams, we deny ourselves, the very heart of our selves.”
There was a short, fraught silence, then Lady Elinore burst into tears.
For a moment, everyone was too shocked to move. Mr. Bemerton leaped to the fore. “You are overwrought, Lady Elinore. Onset of the headache, no doubt. My mother was plagued with them. You need to go home, lie down, burn a few pastilles. I shall escort you home immediately. Mr. Reyne will take care of your guests. He is owner of this institution, after all.”
He hustled the sobbing Lady Elinore out of the orphanage before anyone could collect their wits. Hope looked at her sister in remorse. “I did not mean to distress her so.” She turned to Mr. Reyne. “I promise you I did not mean her to take my words personally. I will go after her, explain . . .”
He shook his head slowly, still staring after Mr. Bemerton, a frown darkening his brow. “No. Giles will look after her. He is right; I am responsible now for this institution. What would you like to see next?”
Hope shivered. “I have seen all I want, thank you! But I am worried about Lady Elinore. I didn’t mean to upset—”
He interrupted. “So you would take back your words then?”
She regarded him a moment and shook her head. “No. I believe in them wholly.”
Faith stepped forward and took her hand. “As do I. If we hadn’t dreamed, we would never have found the courage to escape from our grandfather and would still be dwelling in utter misery.” She turned to Hope. “Don’t be too upset, dearest. You weren’t being nasty. I think you inadvertently touched on a tender spot.”
Hope thought about that. “You mean . . .”
“Does not Lady Elinore have the look of an inveterate dreamer?”
Hope considered the idea. “And with that horrid mother of hers doing her best to crush the dreaming out of her . . .”
“No wonder she was upset. She’s convinced her mother was infallible.”
Hope glanced back at the exercise yard. She thought of grim, gray dresses and improving tales and little girls who dreamed of dolls and got darning needles instead. “Her mother has a lot to answer for.” She turned to Mr. Reyne. “I am sorry for upsetting Lady Elinore, but I hold by my views. And I am determined to bring some cheer into these girls’ lives, Mr. Reyne, so be warned.” And not just into the lives of orphan girls, she resolved. Why did so many people think to have fun was a sin?
He had remained silent throughout their discussion. He considered them both thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose an outing with tea and cakes can do much harm.”
She took his hand. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Reyne. Of course it will do no harm, and it will do us all a great deal of good, not just the girls. It makes me happy just to think of it.”
He held her hand tightly for a moment and then released it abruptly. “I shall inform Lady Elinore this afternoon. I shall send a note around as soon as I get home.”
“Yes, so will I, to apologize,” said Hope. “And Faith and I shall call on her in the morning. And I hope you will bring your sisters to the tea.”
His face hardened. “I shall not. I will not have them associating with the girls of this institution! I said it, and I meant it.”
Giles procured a hackney cab and helped Lady Elinore into it. She was still sobbing, though trying to hide it from him, holding her face averted from him and scrubbing at her eyes with a small square of linen. It was quite inadequate for the job. The tears kept flowing, but she fought them valiantly.
Giles endured it for a moment and then said gruffly, “Oh, for God’s sake, here, let me.” He moved beside her, took the crumpled, damp handkerchief from her hand, and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he pulled out his own handkerchief, put an arm around her, and proceeded to mop her cheeks gently.
She stiffened at his touch and said through hiccups, “I-I’m s-sorry . . . I . . . do not . . . kn-know . . . what is wrong . . . w-with—”
“Hush,” Giles said firmly. “You may cry as much or as little as you wish, but do not apologize for it. You are entitled to your emotions.”
She was so surprised she blinked at him through the tears, jerky sobs rocking her thin frame at irregular intervals.
He pulled her tighter against his shoulder.
“Oh but—” She tried to pull away.
“Now stop that. There is nothing personal or improper in this,” he said mock severely. “You are a lady in distress. Being a gentleman, I can do no less than offer the proverbial shoulder to cry on. I would do the same for any lady, so think nothing more of it.”
“Oh.” She stopped trying to pull away and lay against his shoulder like a small, stiff piece of wood.
Giles found her awkwardness oddly endearing. He moved back in the seat a little, unbalancing her enough so that she ended up half lying against him. She stayed rigid for a moment or two, but gradually her body relaxed—in increments. Every now and then she would catch herself relaxing and stiffen up for a moment, then the rhythmic rocking of the moving cab, the light pressure of Giles’s arm, and her own exhaustion would conspire to make her soften against him.