by Nicole Byrd
She sighed in regret. Was this all there was of the matron’s records? If only Gemma could have shaken the rest of her secrets out of the woman before she had decamped so abruptly!
Looking up at the man beside her, his face still dark with emotion, Gemma knew he felt an even deeper frustration. She had thought him lost in his own worries, but now he caught her eye. “I regret there is so little here to help you,” he said.
Surprised that he should remember to think of her when his own concerns were so intense, Gemma felt warmed inside, and some of her disappointment eased. “Yes. And I am sorry, too, that we have no better clue to your sister’s location. Come upstairs, and I will show you where any maps might be found.”
They climbed the steps together. Since the kiss, she had a new, even stronger, awareness of him as a man, the masculine scent of him, his strong step on the stairs. She felt her lips tingle again, just remembering the contact they had shared.
On the first landing, a pail of dirty water and two scrub brushes lay abandoned, and down the hall they saw more brushes and cleaning rags left untended. Gemma smelled the usual mixture of stale linen and unaired rooms. But they saw no children until they reached the big empty hall that had served sporadically as a schoolroom. Here Psyche had apparently gathered all the foundling home’s inhabitants. More than two dozen children, eyes big at this unprecedented turn of events, sat huddled together on benches. The assistant matron, Miss Bushnard, stood at the side, shifting from one foot to another as she eyed Lady Gabriel with nervous apprehension.
If she had questioned the newcomer’s authority, that battle had already been concluded, and Gemma had no doubt as to who the victor had been.
Her tone pleasant but firm, Psyche was speaking. “You have no reason to be afraid. Mrs. Craigmore has departed, but after even the most cursory inspection, I should have seen to her dismissal regardless, so it’s of no matter. We shall be making inquiries for a new matron, and Miss Bushnard, if she can follow my directions, will oversee the home until a new head is chosen. We are going to see to a thorough turning out of the building, and all the children must have baths, immediately. The bed linen will have to be boiled, and some of it may have to be burned.” She turned to the cowering assistant and added. “You are very lucky not to have had an outbreak of disease, already. I have seldom seen such conditions!”
Miss Bushnard sounded meek and completely demoralized. “I were only following orders, ma’am—milady.”
Psyche went on. “The girls all need new clothes, regular baths, and, first of all, a decent meal. Then we shall draw up a daily schedule of studies for the children.”
“But their chores—”
“A reasonable program of household duties will be included, but I wish to see them do more than scrub floors! They must learn some skills in order to prepare themselves for the time they leave the home,” Psyche told the other woman.
Miss Bushnard snorted. “These lot? They’re only fit for scullery maids and worse, ’ardly a brain in their ’eads!”
Psyche bristled. “I am sure you are mistaken. My own mother, who was admittedly advanced in her views, advocated education for all females, whatever their class. Not all of the children may turn out to be scholars, but they can all learn to read and write and do their sums. They can learn to sew; seamstresses are always in demand. And some might surprise you by progressing much further. As long as I am on the board of directors, they will at least be given the opportunity.”
Gemma looked over the children with their dirty faces and matted hair; she had seldom seen a more unprepossessing group. They were all in need of clean clothes and baths, several had runny noses and, obviously, no handkerchiefs, and most either stared down at the floor or showed eyes blank with alarm. Had she looked much like this during the time she had stayed here? She remembered the days of drudgery and the nights of wrenching loneliness. . . . Poor mites . . . She found that she had a lump in her throat.
Psyche glanced down at one of the smaller children. The little girl was weeping quietly. “Here, now,” Psyche said, her tone gentle. She knelt and put her arms around the child. “There is no reason to cry. What is wrong? If you are missing Mrs. Craigmore—”
The girl shook her mop of tangled hair. “No, miss. She only just walloped us a lot. But—be you going to send us away, too?”
Psyche tightened her grip. “No, no. You will have better food and a safer home, that is all. I promise you.”
Her own eyes brimming, Gemma had to turn away. She blinked hard to hold back the tears, then felt a strong hand on her shoulder. She lifted her face to see that Captain Fallon stood beside her. His gaze was rich with compassion and understanding.
For a moment, their eyes met, and without a word being said, something passed between them that she could not have defined. But she felt comforted. Presently, he reached inside his coat and drew out his handkerchief to offer her, and she wiped her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “And I have a thought. You might want to ask the older girls if anyone remembers your sister’s stay and how she left.”
“An excellent idea,” he said, and she thought that his voice sounded husky. They turned back to the group, and Gemma selected a knot of taller girls at the back.
Psyche was still comforting the younger ones. Gemma explained briefly that this gentleman was searching for his sister.
“Do any of you remember Clarissa Fallon? She resided here several years ago.”
“She had blond hair with a hint of red in it, and hazel eyes,” the captain added. “Her face is narrower than mine, but she has the same brows.”
Several of the older girls, who might have been eleven or twelve, shook their heads, but one pursed her lips, as if thinking. “I remember ’er. She often nattered ’bout a brother who was at sea. That you?”
His expression eager, Matthew Fallon nodded. “Yes. Do you remember when she left?”
The girl shrugged. “Dunno. A long time ago, five summers, maybe six.”
“Where did she go?”
“Never was told,” the girl answered. “Miz Craigmore called ’er to the office and then she just never came back.”
The captain’s mouth tightened.
Gemma felt disappointment flow through her again. “Thank you,” she told the girl. “If you think of anything else that might help us, please let us know.”
Gemma touched Captain Fallon’s arm. “Over here are the books.” She led him to the corner and the small collection of books, all that the foundling home boasted. Among the lot was an atlas of England, its corners frayed and its pages faded. The captain opened it and scanned the maps of the counties.
“I will go and help Psyche with the children,” Gemma told him.
She joined Lady Gabriel and sat down on a bench to talk to the children, offering hugs and reassurance to the big-eyed urchins in their grimy pinafores, uniforms whose blue hue—now barely discernable—had long ago faded toward varying shades of gray. Even the sight of that apparel made her shiver with memories, just as the smell of the home still turned her stomach. She had never worn blue since the day she had left the foundling home. Fortunately, the school in York had allowed her to select her own gowns. They might have been of simple muslin and plain in style, but they had been a color of her own choosing.
After a time, Captain Fallon closed the atlas and came back to her side. “I have found two villages with the name of Clapgate,” he told her in a quiet voice. “One is in Hertfordshire, and another at the far end of Cornwall. I will hire a runner to go into the West Country, and I myself will travel to the hamlet in Hertfordshire and make inquiries. It is closer and seems somewhat more likely.”
She nodded, although she felt a moment of loss thinking of his departure. But of course he must continue the search for his sister. If only her own brother had been so diligent about her well being . . . if only her brother had known she was in need of him! And most of all, if only he would believe her now. . . .
“Do let me know what you find out,” she told him. “God speed, Captain Fallon.”
She put out her hand, and he pressed it. She relished the warmth of his touch and wished wildly that she could prolong the contact. For a moment longer he held her hand tightly inside his own, and she could not read his gaze. Then he turned away and bade farewell to Lady Gabriel.
Matthew Fallon was a curious paradox, she told herself. He was obviously still ruled by his long years of self-discipline, a habit necessary if he were to command a ship at sea, yet she felt certain that passion surged inside him, hungry to be released. He possessed such strength and such gentleness at the same time, and the combination moved something inside her. She watched him as he walked through the doorway and out of sight, observed his wide shoulders and well-shaped back, his fair hair—everything about him pleased her, even when she saw him only from this vantage point. She tried to imprint it all in her mind’s eye.
“God speed,” she whispered again. “I hope you find what you are seeking.”
Then Psyche called to her, and Gemma turned.
“Can you find paper and pen?” the other woman asked. “Before we leave, we should make an inventory of the linen that needs to be replaced and get some idea of how many dress lengths should be ordered.”
Gemma went back to the corner where the meager supplies were kept and found paper and a jar of ink and a quill, though she had to search again for a penknife to sharpen its point. But while she wrote down, at Psyche’s direction, four dozen sheets, three dozen pillows, her thoughts were heading north with the captain.
Louisa found the day long without her friend’s company. With Miss Pomshack to accompany her, she went out in the morning and spent several hours selecting fabric and trimmings and a design for her ball gown, which the couturier promised to have completed in time for Mrs. Forsythe’s ball.
They returned in time for a late luncheon, and shortly after, Miss Pomshack retired for her afternoon nap.
“Should you not have a lie-down, too, Miss Crookshank?” the older lady suggested. “You seem a bit melancholy today.”
“Thank you, Miss Pomshack,” Louisa answered, her tone polite. “I shall likely go upstairs soon. I have a letter to complete, first.”
And she did sit down at the desk in the drawing room and finish a missive to her aunt and uncle in Bath. She wrote only cheerful tidbits of information. She had never shared her humiliation at the theater or her growing doubts about the success of her mission to gain admittance to the Ton. And now, at last, she had good news to report: Lady Gabriel’s amazing kindness and the invitation to the ball, which Louisa eagerly awaited.
When she had blotted her last line and folded the letter, Louisa looked up to see the footman come to the door of the drawing room.
“Sir Lucas Englewood, miss,” he announced, then stepped out of sight.
She jumped up and ran to meet her fiancé as he entered the room. “Lucas, how lovely to see you. Did you have a nice time?”
“Oh, yes. Jolly good match,” he told her, gripping the hand she held out for a brief moment. “Not that you would have cared for it, with all the blood and feathers flying.”
Louisa shuddered. “No, I should think not. But I am glad to see you back. The most wonderful thing, Lucas—”
“Find the perfect new bonnet?” He grinned at her. “That shade of pink looks very well on you, Louisa. London seems to be agreeing with you. Oh, I have to beg off for dinner tonight, came to make my apologies.”
His tone was quite cheerful, and he didn’t seem to be paying attention to her announcement. Louisa nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment, but her smile faded quickly at the statement that followed. “But why? I have hardly seen you this week.”
“I know, but there’s a dinner at my club tonight that I don’t want to miss. There’s a bet on about how many oysters ol’ Pikestaff can consume without casting up his accounts.”
“Obviously, not something one would wish to miss,” Louisa agreed, knowing that her tone sounded dry. “I am glad you are having such a good time in London, Lucas. Especially since I was the one who urged our coming up for the Season.”
“You were quite right, too,” he told her. “I give you full credit for it. London has much more to amuse a fellow than Bath.”
“But you might remember to include me occasionally in those amusements, you know,” she snapped. “We are to be married, Lucas. That does mean you are supposed to enjoy sharing my company now and then.”
His expression wary, he stared at her. “Now, don’t take a pet, Louisa. Of course I enjoy your company. We shall get up another party for Vauxhall, soon. I know several new fellows to invite, too, this time. We shall be very merry.”
Louisa tried to hold on to her temper. “I am glad to hear it. And I do enjoy the pleasure garden. On Monday night, perhaps?”
“We’ll see. I think I have another commitment that evening,” Lucas said vaguely. “But soon, I promise.”
“What about dinner tomorrow?”
“Ummm, I’ll let you know,” he said.
“Lucas!” She wanted to stamp her feet, but restrained herself.
“I don’t have to show up at your table every day, Louisa,” he pointed out with maddening calmness. “You have your shopping and your tea parties, all the usual stuff ladies do. And after all, it’s not as if we are already married.”
Louisa bit her lip. “And when we are? Lucas, do you mean to spend this much time out with your male friends, then?”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “No one spends all his time sitting at home with his spouse, Louisa. Thought you were up on all the Ton’s fashionable habits.”
“I never said I put fashion above affection,” she said simply. “I don’t want to hold you prisoner, Lucas, nor do I wish to pick a quarrel, but I do like to know that you are still sincerely attached to me. Our marriage would hardly prosper, else.”
“Of course I am.” He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “And yes, that’s the ticket. No need for a spat.”
Louisa bit back a quick retort. Why could he not grasp her meaning? Or perhaps he did not wish to, she thought.
After a few more pleasantries, he made a quick departure. Louisa listened to his footsteps fade as he clattered rapidly down the stairs. She had never even told him about Lady Gabriel and the upcoming ball.
He didn’t seem to have any great interest in whether or not Louisa was making progress with the Ton, the whole purpose of her visit to London. That thought, and more, brought her more hurt than anger. She stared into the empty grate, and although the day was mild, she felt strangely cold inside.
Lord Gabriel Sinclair was growing concerned by the time his wife returned. He had already responded to an inquiry from their butler, telling him to convey a message to the cook to hold dinner back, when at last he heard the front door close and her voice in the hallway.
He went to the doorway of the library and looked out. “How did it go, my dear?”
She looked tired as she removed her hat and gloves, but she raised her head and smiled at him. “There is a great deal to be done. The foundling home is in a dreadful condition, and the children shockingly neglected. But I intend to remedy all that in very short order.”
“I have no doubt that you will,” he told her, pleased to see the familiar spark in her blue eyes, the fighting spirit that had been sadly missing for many months. He held out his arms, but she shook her head.
“You don’t wish to hold me close, my love, at least not until I have bathed and changed my clothes. I held several of the children on my lap and hugged them, as well; it was impossible not to. I may even have to send my dresser out to purchase a fine-toothed comb! As I said, they have been most poorly looked after.”
Regardless of her warning, he pulled her into his arms. “Then we shall share the comb,” he declared, kissing her soundly. “A small price to pay to see you looking ready, once again, to take on the world.”
She returne
d his kiss, and some of the ache inside him eased. Somehow, tending to the orphaned children seemed to have released the sorrow inside her more effectively than any of his pampering had been able to do. Whatever was the outcome of the strange story of the girl who claimed to be his sister, if she helped Psyche heal, the mysterious Miss Smith would have earned his gratitude. . . .
Louisa was waiting downstairs when Gemma at last arrived home, conveyed safely by Lady Gabriel’s carriage.
“Gemma, how was it? Was Lady Gabriel shocked at the children’s state? What did she say? And did the matron tell you anything helpful?”
Gemma sighed “I am sorry to be so late. There is much to be done at the home, and Psyche wished to make a start, so we did not leave until we saw the children fed and a beginning made on the cleaning, though it will take weeks to turn the place out completely. I hope you did not wait dinner for me? I would not wish to spoil your plans, and I know Sir Lucas was expected.”
“He could not come,” Louisa said shortly. “Miss Pomshack and I have eaten, but Cook is keeping your dinner warm. Would you like it in the dining room or in your room?”
“I should like to wash, first.” Gemma shuddered. “I feel as if the stench of that place is on my skin, and I do not think I can eat a bite until I am free of it!”
“It was brave of you to go back at all. I know your memories are not good.” Louisa looked at the footman. “Tell Lily we wish a hip bath prepared for Miss Gemma, please, right away. Then afterwards, she will have a tray in her room.”
“And you can tell me everything,” she added to Gemma.
Gemma nodded. Aching with fatigue, her still-healing shoulder throbbing, she slowly climbed the steps. She scrubbed herself thoroughly, as if to rid herself of all trace of that wretched home, then soaked herself in the tub and, with Lily’s help, washed and rinsed her hair. Then she dried herself and sat by the fire to brush out her dark locks. Afterward, she wrapped a thick shawl around her nightdress and was ready when Lily brought up a tray.
At least, knowing that the children at the foundling home—to their obvious astonishment—had enjoyed unaccustomed largess today in the form of fresh-baked brown bread and a thick chicken and vegetable stew, Gemma could eat her own dinner with a clear conscience.