The Foundling (Rags to Richmonds #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Taverstock Orphanage, Bicester

January 1819

A strand of blonde hair fell in Frederica Child’s face as she crouched next to the newest admission to the orphanage. She blew it aside and asked gently, “Are you not hungry?”

“Won’t eat a bite,” Mrs Digby interrupted in her usual, brusque manner. “Waste of good food, if you ask me. There’s plenty who’d give their eyeteeth for a bowl of summat hot in their bellies.”

Mrs Digby was Taverstock Orphanage’s cook, and though she was not a hard woman, she had a hard manner. It was not uncommon for the younger children to be terrified of her, even if Frederica herself never had been. The cook was more frightening to those who had known a mother’s love, which she herself never had.

Poor Emily seemed to be terrified of everything, which was no great surprise, given that one week ago, she had lost her mother and sister to a house fire, which she herself had barely escaped. With no other family to take her in, she had been at the orphanage ever since. She had yet to utter a word.

“Thank you, Mrs Digby.” Frederica replied.

The cook sighed and retreated, shaking her head.

Frederica returned her attention to Emily. “I know it is all a bit scary, petal, but you must eat. You will have a sore tummy otherwise.”

Emily said nothing, and her bottom lip began to tremble.

“Do you not like porridge?”

The girl let out a stifled sob.

“You did not like it either when you first came, did you, Jennifer?” Frederica asked of an older girl, sitting opposite.

“No, miss.” To Emily, Jennifer said, “You get used to it.”

“There, see?” Frederica scooped a small amount onto a spoon and held it out for the little girl, smiling hopefully. “Why not try a mouthful? ’Tis tastier than it looks.”

Emily reluctantly took the spoon and licked the very tip. Hunger took over thereafter, and she was soon shovelling porridge down her throat at a rate of knots.

“Good girl,” Frederica whispered. With a reminder to all the other girls to be especially kind to Emily, she removed to stand with the cook at the serving table. “It must be overwhelming for her.”

Mrs Digby clicked her tongue, but whatever opinion she had been about to give was curtailed when one of the maids, Daisy, burst through the door, gesturing urgently. “Make haste, Miss Child! Mr Mulligan says he has been waiting these past ten minutes!”

“Oh, heavens, I completely lost track of time!” Frederica untied her apron and passed it into Mrs Digby’s outstretched hand, then hurried out of the dining hall. Mr Mulligan was the Chair of Governors—a good man, in his own way, but not one to be kept waiting.

“Forgive me, Mr Mulligan, I was helping the new girl,” she explained as she bustled into the office.

He grunted his displeasure and indicated that she should sit, all without pausing in his present endeavour of lighting his pipe. “You do not mind, do you?” he asked, raising it towards her slightly as though in a toast.

In fact, Frederica despised the smell of tobacco smoke, but since he was already puffing on the pipe to get it going, she knew her objection would carry no weight and mutely shook her head.

“Good, good. Is the girl speaking yet?”

“Sadly not.”

“Have you tried Mrs Woods’s suggestion?”

Frederica kept her face blank. Mrs Woods was one of the schoolmistresses, and she was of the firm belief that a good thrashing would ‘beat the words out of’ Emily. Frederica thought such a notion was absurd at best, and barbarous at worst, but she knew better than to say so.

“Not yet,” she said instead, “but she has only been with us for one week. I am hopeful that she will find her own tongue before long. ”

Mr Mulligan grunted again and promptly forgot the matter entirely. “Now! About our visitor this morning. He wishes to see what we do here, how we manage the children, what principles we are governed by, and so on. I shall explain the work of the governors. I should like you to show us around.”

“Of course,” Frederica replied, although in truth, there was nobody else Mr Mulligan might have asked. Until three years ago, Taverstock had been overseen by Mrs Cromarty, but upon her death, a lack of funds meant she had not been replaced—at least, not officially. Having lived at Taverstock since she was seven and being a faithful help to Mrs Cromarty all that time, Frederica had learnt enough about running the place to act as her de facto substitute. It was a position she continued to hold—and cherish—to this day. “Is there anything in particular you should like him to see?”

“Yes, make sure to show him the leaking roof. It might inspire him to give us more money. But in general, if he wishes to see a thing, then you must show it to him. We are not in a position to refuse the demands of a duke.”

“A duke?” Frederica said in surprise.

“Yes! Devon Buchanan, the fifth Duke of Penrith—I told you. I do not know how you could forget such a thing—he is one of the most illustrious men in the country!”

Frederica was not overly surprised that she had forgotten, for she had never been much awed by consequence and was far more interested in the prospect of the visitor giving his patronage than the elevated sphere from which he did it.

Mr Mulligan lowered his pipe to peer at her. “Best that you do not mention your full story, eh? He may be the sort to take objection to such an association.”

Frederica acknowledged him with a smile, though he need not have worried. Her full story had been consigned to the annals of Taverstock’s files for so long, it had almost ceased to be hers.

“Now, you have not been in the presence of a duke before, have you?” Mr Mulligan continued. When she shook her head, he stood up and began pacing up and down the room, puffing on his pipe between edicts. “Then attend closely! Do not look him in the eye for too long—he will think you impertinent. Beyond showing him around, do not speak to him directly unless he invites it. If you must address him, call him ‘Your Grace’.”

He went on for some time in this fashion until, at length, he looked at his watch and announced with great agitation that it was time they made their way to greet him. Beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead when they opened the door to see the duke’s carriage already at a halt on the drive. Frederica pretended not to notice and instead turned to watch His Grace ascend the front steps.

She had never given any consideration to what a duke might look like, but had she been asked to guess, she would not have envisioned the Duke of Penrith. He was young, for a start—certainly not past thirty. Lean, with luxuriant brown hair and an unsmiling mien, he had an angular face that would have been exceedingly handsome were it not that he looked too thin. He had not Mr Mulligan’s height, but he had presence such that he seemed to fill the hall regardless, entering with an air of consequence that made even Frederica’s usually imperturbable heart dance about erratically.

He greeted Mr Mulligan with a quiet but commanding voice. Frederica almost gasped when Penrith turned to look at her. She had expected his gaze to be stern in keeping with his dour bearing. Instead, his unusually dark blue eyes were soft, contemplative, and profoundly unhappy. She only remembered to curtsey when Mr Mulligan cleared his throat.

“This is Miss Child. She will be conducting our tour of Taverstock today.”

The duke inclined his head in acknowledgement and looked away, and Frederica felt momentarily off-balance. Shaking her head to dispel her discomposure, she directed both men towards the stairs. While Mr Mulligan launched into a much-practised speech, she sneaked the occasional glance at the duke, fascinated and a little saddened by what she had glimpsed in him. Without staring, however, she could make out only a figure of compelling stateliness and poise.

Her contemplations were interrupted when it became apparent that Mr Mulligan’s nerves had rendered him uncommonly stupid. Asked by the duke how many children were presently homed at Taverstock, both his oration and his steps faltered, his countenance set in a frieze of panic .

“We have twenty-three as of yesterday,” Frederica reminded him quietly.

“Yes! Twenty-three,” he repeated. “They are split between three dormitories?—”

“Four,” Frederica whispered.

“My apologies—four dormitories, and a nursery.”

“How many rooms does the house have in total?” Penrith enquired.

“Rooms? Well now, let me see, there must be…” Mr Mulligan glanced again at Frederica, who mouthed the answer that he might claim the information as his own. She had never seen him thus; he seemed to grow more flustered the longer he was in the duke’s company, and it was necessary for her to assist him several more times with details that he would ordinarily have been able to recite in his sleep. She hoped the duke would not hold it against him. It was difficult to tell whether Penrith had even noticed, for his eyes might have been sorrowful, but his demeanour was inscrutable.

They visited Mr Carnegie’s classroom, where the boys were instructed to welcome His Grace in unison, and the schoolmaster explained the focus of their lesson. Then Frederica led the way through the dormitories, nursery, sick room, attic—complete with leaking roof—and workrooms. She explained the workings of the house and the children’s daily routines, and finished the tour by taking the gentlemen through the dining hall to the kitchen and stores, and describing the children’s usual fare.

“There is a boy alone in this room,” Penrith said as they passed the last door in the hall of servants’ chambers. Somewhat more severely, he enquired, “Is he being punished?”

Frederica hastened to look into the room to see who it was. Her heart sank a little when she recognised Geoffrey, a boy of nine who repeatedly found himself in trouble for his inability to sit still and attend to his lessons. It was probable that he had run here to avoid a punishment; it would not be the first time. She gave him a reassuring smile and pulled the door shut.

“No, Your Grace. That is Master Geoffrey. He has been with us a few months now, and he has not settled at all well. He has likely come in search of comfort.”

Mr Mulligan puffed up loftily. “That is not to say that we shy away from appropriate discipline here at Taverstock, Your Grace. But if a child were in need of chastisement, he or she would not be sent here to receive it.”

“This is my chamber,” Frederica added, because the duke looked puzzled.

Her explanation did not help; the duke’s frown only deepened. “What did you say your role here was, Miss Child?”

He was regarding her directly, and she took the opportunity to search for another glimpse of the vulnerability she had seen in him before. “I do not hold a specific position, Your Grace,” she replied distractedly. “I do whatever work needs doing.”

“And, other than comforting distressed children, what does that involve?”

“Comforting distressed children is a significant part of it,” she replied with a rueful smile. “As Your Grace might expect, they are often deeply troubled when they come to us.”

There! A flash of something in Penrith’s gaze, and it was most certainly not a happy sentiment.

“Thank you, Miss Child!” Mr Mulligan said with an almost hysterical laugh. “You may attend Master Geoffrey now.” He turned to Penrith. “If Your Grace would like to come to the office, I shall show you Taverstock’s accounts.”

They walked away, and Frederica did as she was told, comforting Geoffrey until he felt able to return to the schoolroom.

Later, when she was having tea with some of the rest of the household, she had cause to reflect on her impression of Penrith.

“Do you think he’ll help us?” Mrs Digby enquired.

“Hard to tell,” Mr Mulligan replied. “He was not forthcoming.”

“Aye, I thought him very reserved,” Mr Carnegie agreed. “Although not objectionably so. Dignified, I should say. Not the sort to effuse.”

“What did you think, Fred?” asked Rupert Dalton. He was Taverstock’s gardener and general labourer, and Frederica’s good friend.

“He was quiet,” she agreed, “but perhaps because…well, I thought he seemed extraordinarily sad.”

“Sad?” Rupert scoffed. “What’s a duke got to be sad about?”

“He lost his wife the year before last,” Mr Mulligan said. “I daresay if he has a bit of melancholia about him, it is justified.”

“Trust you to see it,” Mrs Digby said to Frederica. “There’s no hiding anything from you, is there?”

Frederica smiled but said nothing. It was true that she perceived people’s feelings more often than her colleagues, but she fancied that was only because she took the trouble to look for them. She had not been looking for Penrith’s sadness—it had leapt out at her, unbidden. She hoped he would decide to become a patron of Taverstock. If it brought him half the joy that working here brought her, he could not remain that unhappy for long.