Opening the door at the end of the transept, he stepped into the inner courtyard onto which the main building of St. Egbert’s faced. The clang of the school bell echoed off the stone façades; boys ranging in age from six years old to youths of fourteen were still racing across the cobbles, plunging into the various buildings in which their classes were held.
Waving toward the main entrance, he led Miranda on. “Reverend Nightingale’s in charge. With luck, he’ll be in and able to see us.”
The matron, Mrs. Swag, was hurrying across the front foyer; spotting him, her face creased in a wide smile. She bobbed, declared that Father Nightingale would be delighted to see them, and volunteered the information that the good reverend would be found in his study.
Roscoe let his rusty charm color his smile. “I know the way.”
“Of course you do, sir.” Mrs. Swag beamed. “I’d better get along.” With nods to them both, she hurried on.
Aware of Miranda’s gaze on his face, he took her arm as if to guide her, in reality to distract her. It worked; she allowed him to lead her down the long corridor to the study without posing further questions. After knocking and being bidden to enter, he opened the door, released her and waved her through, then followed.
Ensconced behind an ancient desk supporting a small mountain of papers, Reverend Nightingale glanced up. His eyes widened as they alighted on Miranda; setting down his pen, he rose, then he saw Roscoe and a broad smile lit his face. “Ah, my son—welcome. Welcome!” Shifting his bright blue gaze to Miranda, Nightingale beamed even more. “And to what do we owe this pleasure?”
After shaking hands, Roscoe performed the introductions, adding, “Miss Clifford and I are searching for her brother, Mr. Roderick Clifford. He’s a fellow member of the Guild and was kidnapped by two men while returning home after a recent Guild meeting.”
“Great heavens!” Nightingale looked from his face to Miranda’s, then waved them to the chairs before the desk. “But please, sit and tell me how I and St. Egbert’s can help.”
Roscoe explained about Kempsey and Dole, how he and Miranda had traced the pair to Birmingham, their home territory, and how he as an outsider couldn’t easily ascertain their whereabouts. “I know some of the lads here hail from similar areas as Kempsey and Dole. While I would normally hesitate to ask such a thing of youngsters, the truth is they could slip back and chat to their old friends and acquaintances and learn what I—or indeed anyone in authority—could not, namely whether Kempsey and Dole, and the sick and injured gentleman they have with them, are here, still in town, or if they’ve moved on, and if so, in which direction.”
Brow creased, Nightingale was nodding. “I see your point, and while I couldn’t, in all conscience,
order
the boys to help—and I know that’s not what you’re asking me to do—I agree that we should put the matter to them and ask if they’re willing to do what they can.” He glanced at Miranda. “I take it that finding Mr. Clifford is urgent?”
Her anxiety was so transparent that she hardly needed to say, “We believe so, sir.”
“If the boys agree to assist,” Roscoe said, “with your permission I’ll speak to them first, to stress that I don’t want any of them pressing their questions to the point of drawing attention.” He met Nightingale’s gaze. “I don’t doubt their abilities or their enthusiasm, but we want no heroics.”
“Indeed not.” Steepling his fingers, Nightingale retreated into thought.
Roscoe glanced at Miranda and found her gaze, every bit as pensive as Nightingale’s, studying him.
“I believe,” Nightingale said, “that I know just the lads to assist you.” Waving them to remain where they were, he rose. “I’ll ask one of the tutors to fetch them, and we can lay the matter before them and see what they think.”
Ten minutes later, after the boys had been summoned from their classes to the common room and addressed by Nightingale, then by Roscoe, it was apparent that all twelve were thrilled to be asked to assist the orphanage’s major patron—Miranda had heard enough to realize that Roscoe himself, Guild aside, was that—in such an exciting and adventurous way.
She was reassured by Roscoe’s lecture, by the weight of his will and the restrictions he imposed on the boys, including that they shouldn’t go “scouting” alone but remain in pairs at all times.
When he finished detailing exactly what they needed to know—stressing he wanted that and no more—Nightingale stepped forward and released the boys to their hunting, adding, “And remember, we want you back here by three o’clock at the latest, even if you’ve discovered nothing at all.”
Roscoe reinforced the edict with a look.
The boys nodded, grinned, saluted, and streamed out of the room.
“Well!” Nightingale turned to Miranda and Roscoe. “Why don’t I have the housekeeper bring us some tea, and over it I can bring you up to date with our achievements here?”
Roscoe nodded. “Thank you. As I’m here, if you have the time, I would appreciate a report.”
Miranda graciously accepted the offer of tea, and they repaired to the study.
The tea arrived, brought by a brisk housekeeper. Suitably supplied, Nightingale talked of his charges, reporting on their number, their achievements, and the orphanage’s board’s plans for the immediate future. Roscoe listened, his attention focused, his questions incisive and insightful.
Miranda sat back in her chair, sipped, and watched and learned. Her worry over Roderick was a living thing, roiling and surging inside her, but her curiosity over Roscoe was strong enough to distract her so that she could await the boys’ return with some semblance of patience.
Even while listening to Nightingale’s report, Roscoe was acutely aware of his silent companion, seated a little further back from the desk on his right. He suspected she’d eased her chair back deliberately so she wasn’t in his sight as he focused on Nightingale. So she would watch and listen without intruding, without him being conscious of it and therefore guarding his tongue.
He continued to guard his tongue and stood ready to guard Nightingale’s, too, if necessary. He’d first encountered the good reverend when he’d been in his late teens; a hellion from one of the local aristocratic families, he and his friends had occasionally stopped in Birmingham to carouse . . . Nightingale, then much younger, too, had stepped in to try and halt a fistfight between the well-heeled interlopers and a bunch of local lads.
In the end, Roscoe had felt compelled to cease his own contribution to the melee to help the—in those days—unworldly and severely outclassed reverend.
That had been the start of an unusual acquaintance; it had been through Nightingale and his supporters that he, wealthy enough even in his pre-Roscoe years to have been wondering what to do with all his winnings, had first been exposed to philanthropic ideals.
Although they’d never discussed it, and Nightingale had never questioned his conversion to Roscoe, Nightingale nevertheless knew who he really was. Which family he belonged to, and what his real name was.
Roscoe saw no reason to allow Miranda Clifford access to that highly scandalous fact.
Luckily, Nightingale seemed to have no difficulty remembering he was now Roscoe. As their discussion wound down, Roscoe glanced at Miranda. She’d returned her cup to the tray. His and Nightingale’s closing comments had failed to hold her interest; he could almost see her anxiety rising like a tide to reclaim her.
He returned his gaze to Nightingale. “We’ve taken up a considerable amount of your morning, for which you have our sincere thanks, but we should leave you to your duties.” He rose, glanced at Miranda. “Perhaps we might walk in the grounds until the boys return.”
“Indeed, indeed!” Nightingale rose as Miranda came to her feet. “Please feel free to wander where you wish. We have no secrets here, and, frankly, your visit won’t go unremarked—both boys and staff will see the sincerity of your interest regardless of the reason that brought you here. And that does help.”
Walking them to the door, Nightingale continued, “I would be honored if you would join me for luncheon at the high table in the refectory—it will do the boys no harm to have to exercise their manners, and I suspect our intrepid questioners won’t return until the afternoon.”
They accepted with thanks, then, as Nightingale closed the study door behind them, Miranda turned to Roscoe. “So where can we stroll?”
He waved her down the corridor and fell into step beside her. “There are gardens, quite pleasant, on the other side of the church. They’re used to train the boys who show interest in becoming gardeners.”
“If I understood Reverend Nightingale correctly, the program here is structured to give the boys an occupation, rather than just an education.”
“That’s the board’s aim.”
“One you—and the Guild—clearly support.”
“None of us in the Guild can see the point of teaching such boys their letters and numbers and nothing else. There’s precious few jobs they might get with their reading and writing skills, and most don’t have an aptitude for such work anyway. The few who do can usually be found positions as clerks, printers’ apprentices, or the like, but the majority need something else.”
They reached a door and he held it open; they stepped outside onto a narrow path edging a slope of lawn, dotted here and there with mature trees interspersed with beds of herbaceous perennials, as well as beds of annuals now past their prime.
“For the older boys, their days are divided between lessons in the mornings and occupational teachings or apprenticing in the afternoons. Most seem to thrive on the regimen—the tutors report that it’s easier to get them to pay attention to their lessons through the morning when they know they’ll be escaping to other activities after lunch.”
Strolling down the path, Miranda surveyed the neat state of the lawns and beds. “Are all the Guild projects of a similar flavor? Focused on teaching young people the basics and getting them into trades? I recall that the project Roderick was looking into was a bailiff-run school, and there was mention of a Mrs. Canterbury’s Academy in Lincoln.”
Pacing alongside her, he considered, then said, “Most of the Guild’s current projects do, in fact, involve teaching less fortunate youngsters with the aim of helping them get jobs, but that wasn’t by any deliberate intent. It’s more a result of, over recent times, such projects having been assessed by the group as most worthy—as the most productive use of our funds.”
“From what I heard that night, you put considerable effort into not just your assessments but also into subsequent oversight of the projects.” She glanced at him. “Was it you who started the Guild?”
He hesitated, then lifted one shoulder. “I’d already got involved in a few projects when Ro Gerrard learned of it and sought me out, asked my opinion. He’s . . . tenacious when he sets his mind to something. The Guild was more his idea than mine.”
“But you’re the senior member, as it were.” She glanced at his face. “At that meeting, the others certainly treated you that way.”
“They could manage just as well without me, but . . . I do have more resources in certain areas than they do.”
She inclined her head. Sensing his resistance to being the focus of her questions, she let the subject fall.
They strolled in the gardens until a bell summoned them to the refectory and lunch with Reverend Nightingale and his staff. Although separated from Roscoe along the high table, Miranda found herself engaged and entertained—well enough to hold her rising anxiety over Roderick at bay.
Her brother rarely left her thoughts, but as there was, literally, nothing she could do, she reined in her concerns and chatted with the music tutor and the art master.
After lunch, Roscoe was approached by the games master; after speaking with the man, he glanced her way.
In company with the orphanage’s nurse, to whom she’d just been introduced, Miranda joined him. “I thought I might visit the infirmary.”
He nodded and smiled at the nurse. “In that case, I’ll be out on the east lawn with some of the boys. I’ll come and fetch you if the other lads return.”
They parted, and she accompanied the nurse, a short, bustling, unflaggingly cheerful woman, to the well-appointed infirmary at the end of one wing. After having been shown around its facilities, Miranda asked, “Are you called on to tend many injuries?”
“Lots of cuts, grazes, skinned knees, and even black eyes, but with more than fifty lads running amok, there’s always a few broken bones and the like.”
“Ah—I’d wondered.” She paused, then went on, “As Reverend Nightingale mentioned, we’re searching for my brother. We’ve heard that his foot’s been injured, most likely broken.”
“Ooh, ouch.” The nurse grimaced. “That’ll be painful. Has he had it set, do you know?”
Miranda fought to block a mental image of just how bad Roderick’s foot might be, how much it was likely to be hurting him. “We believe he’s had no medical attention. I wonder . . . could you tell me what would be most helpful to do to make him more comfortable until we can get him to a doctor?”
She spent the next hour being instructed in how to initially administer to a patient with a broken foot.
L
ater, concern over Roderick’s injury dominating her mind, Miranda followed the nurse’s directions downstairs and around to the door giving onto the east lawn.
Emerging onto a path that edged what was in reality a playing field, she saw a group of boys scattered about the sward, all intent on . . . the man who stood in the center of the lawn bent over a bat before a wicket at one end of a cricket pitch.
His coat off, in shirt and waistcoat, he was facing away from her, watching a boy run up to bowl a ball down the pitch. The ball flew fast, but Roscoe raised the bat and, the muscles in his back fluidly flexing, swatted the ball away across the lawn. With a yell, three boys went charging after it.
Laughing, Roscoe ran down the pitch to the other end, touched the tip of the bat to the ground, then came racing back to the nearer end.
He hadn’t seen her; when he turned to face the bowler again, she glided across the lawn into the deep shadows beneath an old oak.