Sheltered by a shallow porch, the front door stood dead center in the long façade, with wooden-shuttered windows in perfect symmetry on either side. Sarah and Charlie dismounted and tied their reins to the rail set beside the porch. A gig with a placid mare dozing between the shafts was tied up at one side of the forecourt; Sarah nodded toward it. “Mrs. Duncliffe’s already here.”
Stripping off her gloves, she headed for the door. Charlie glanced back and around, at the village of Crowcombe nestling some hundred feet below, then at the rising face of the Quantocks. From this elevation with the valley hidden in the dip between, the hills appeared closer.
Sarah lifted the door latch. Turning, Charlie followed her through the door—into bedlam.
Or so it seemed. Eight small children, boys and girls both, had been traversing the front hall in a more or less orderly file, but the instant they saw Sarah, all order deserted them. Bright smiles lit their faces; as one they detoured to mill about her.
They all talked at once.
It took Charlie, also trapped in the knee-high melee, a minute to attune his ears to the high-pitched babble, but Sarah reacted with aplomb. She patted two heads, asked one boy if he’d lost his tooth yet—the answer was yes as he promptly demonstrated with a gap-toothed smile—then she waved her arms and effectively herded the gaggle back into the clutches of a thin woman who’d been following in the children’s wake.
The woman smiled at Sarah; her eyes widened as she took in Charlie, but then she turned and shooed her charges down a corridor. “The others are in the office waiting,” she said to Sarah as she passed.
“Thank you, Jeannie.” Sarah waved to the last of the children, then made for a door to the right. Reaching for the latch, she glanced at Charlie. “Would you like to sit in on the meeting, or”—she nodded in the children’s wake—“look around?”
Charlie held her gaze. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to listen to the discussions. I can look around later.”
She smiled. “I don’t mind.” Her lips quirked. “You might even learn something.”
As he followed her into the room, he wondered how he should take that comment, but the truth was he did feel compelled to learn more about the orphanage. Although it lay beyond his boundaries, he was nevertheless the senior nobleman in the area; in certain respects it fell within his purlieu, yet he knew very little of it—how the orphanage ran, under whose auspices, where their funding came from, and so on. All were things he ought to know, but didn’t.
That the orphanage was legally Sarah’s, and she involved herself in the running of it, made his continued ignorance even less acceptable.
The room was a well-furnished office with two desks, one large, one small, and various chairs and cabinets. In the center stood a round table at which Mrs. Duncliffe and Mr. Skeggs sat; as Sarah entered they broke off what had plainly been a social conversation to smile in welcome.
When they saw him behind Sarah, surprise entered their eyes, but the welcome remained.
He knew them both; they exchanged greetings, shook hands, then he held a chair for Sarah. Once she’d sat, he lifted another chair and set it beside hers, a little back from the table. He smiled at Skeggs and Mrs. Duncliffe. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to get some idea of how the orphanage is run.”
Both assured him they had no objection to his presence; while Mrs. Duncliffe certainly wondered over his motivation, Skeggs was almost touchingly delighted.
“The more locals of standing who associate themselves with our effort, the better.” The anemic solicitor beamed. He straightened a small stack of papers before him and adjusted the pince-nez balanced on his thin nose. “Now…”
Charlie sat back and listened as the three discussed various aspects of the day-to-day running of the orphanage. He learned that they bought most of their perishables in Watchet, with vegetables, grains, meat, and fish brought in by cart twice a week. For manufactured goods they turned to Taunton; Sarah consulted a list and declared there was nothing urgent enough to warrant sending the cart south just yet.
As the meeting progressed, dealing with the children’s requirements—clothes, shoes, books, and so on—Charlie detected no funding constraints over such matters, but when it came to the fabric of the orphanage, a different sort of limitation emerged.
“Now,” Sarah said, “Kennett has had a look at the leaks in the south wing. He says the thatch is worn. We’ll have to get the thatchers to come and fix it.” She grimaced.
Mrs. Duncliffe sighed. “I do wish we could get the wings better roofed. This is the third time we’ve had to bring the thatchers in over the past year, and that thatch is not getting any younger.”
Glancing at Charlie, Sarah caught his eye. “All three wings are thatched. We’ve had Hendricks, the local builder, in to look at replacing the thatch with slate, but he said that we’d need to replace the whole roof—all the timbers and joists—in order to support the weight of the slate, but then the walls won’t hold the additional weight. The walls in the wings are mostly lath and plaster—only their foundations are stone.”
Charlie nodded. “That’s why so many thatched cottages remain thatched. No way to replace the roof without replacing the walls and lintels —which amounts to replacing the entire building.”
Skeggs grunted. “So.” He made a note. “I’ll send for the thatchers.”
“Meanwhile,” Sarah said, “let’s pray it doesn’t rain.”
The meeting continued; Charlie listened and learned. By the time the committee adjourned, he had a basic knowledge of the workings of the orphanage. He rose and followed the committee members from the room. Sarah farewelled the others in the front hall; with a nod to him, Mrs. Duncliffe and Skeggs left, Mrs. Duncliffe to drive the tall thin solicitor down to his office in Crowcombe before heading south to the vicarage at Combe Florey.
Closing the front door behind them, Sarah turned to Charlie. “It’s almost time for luncheon. I usually stay for the rest of the day—there’s always plenty to do, and it gives me a chance to catch up with the staff, and the children, too.”
She tried to read his face but, as usual, his expression gave her no hint as to his thoughts. In the dim hall, his eyes were shadowed; she could, however, feel his gaze on her face.
“Would you mind if I stayed, too?” There was a touch of diffidence in his tone, as if he feared she might think the request too encroaching.
Instead, the evidence of sensitivity reassured her. She smiled. “If you’re willing to endure luncheon with a tribe of noisy children, then by all means stay. But there’s various things I must do later—it’ll be hours before I can leave.”
He shrugged, lips curving. “I’m sure I’ll be able to find something to fill the hours.” His smile deepened as they turned to the corridor leading to the dining room. The sound of the children filing in was already swelling to a cacophony. “Besides,” he murmured as they neared the open door, “I’ll have the ride home with you—alone with you—to look forward to.”
He met her eyes as she glanced up, trapped them; she was suddenly conscious of how close they stood, coming together in the doorway. For one instant, despite the noise assailing her ears, she was more aware of him—of his strength, potent and palpable as with one hand he held back the heavy door, of his maleness, carried in the heat that reached for her as their bodies passed mere inches apart.
Her lungs had tightened, but she managed a smile—a light, gentle one in return—as she inclined her head in acknowledgment of his gallantry and stepped over the threshold.
Mrs. Carter—Katy—principal cook and chief caretaker, saw Charlie and quickly laid another place at the staff table at one side of the room. A motherly woman of middle age with no children of her own, left alone when her sailor husband had been lost at sea, Katy had been Lady Cricklade’s choice to manage the orphanage; over the years, Sarah had had ample reason to bless her late godmother’s judgment.
Sarah led Charlie to the table, indicated that he should take the chair beside hers, then introduced him to the others as, one by one, after herding their charges in and seeing them settled at the long refectory tables lined up across the room, they came to take their seats.
Miss Emma Quince, known as Quince to all, eyed Charlie severely, but bent enough to incline her head when Sarah explained that she kept the books and oversaw all repairs to the house, furniture, and furnishings. “Which,” Sarah said, “in an establishment such as this is a rather more demanding role than the norm.”
Quince smiled thinly, but thereafter kept her eyes on her plate.
“Quince spends most of her time looking after the babies,” Sarah continued. “And Lily here helps.”
Lily Posset, a bright vivacious girl, once a charge of the orphanage herself, beamed at Charlie, clearly appreciating his sartorial elegance. He smiled and nodded down the table to her. Although he didn’t look her way again, Lily kept darting quick glances his way; Sarah pretended not to notice.
Jeannie joined them and took her seat with a quiet hello. She was followed by a lumbering ox of a man who subsided into the chair beside her.
Sarah introduced Kennett, the man-of-all-work, a beefy, brawny hulking man who hid his soft heart behind a perpetual scowl—which fooled no one, the children least of all. “Kennett also takes care of all our animals.”
Charlie raised his brows at Kennett. “What do you run?”
“Only what we can use,” Kennett growled. “Cows for milk, goats and sheep for wool and meat. Ain’t no room for more. We use the fields for grains and cabbages—you wouldn’t believe how much this lot can get through in a winter.”
“And Jim here,” Sarah broke in, indicating the youth who’d slipped into the chair next to Kennett, “is our lad about the house. He helps everyone with everything, errands, fetching and carrying, feeding the animals.”
Jim beamed back at her; he nodded to Charlie, then gave his attention to the rich stew Mrs. Carter ladled onto his plate.
The last of the staff to join them was Joseph Tiller. Sarah smiled at him as, with a smile for her and a careful nod to Charlie, he drew out his customary chair next to Katy. Dark haired, pale skinned, Joseph was good-looking in a reserved and gentle way; despite his quiet reserve, Katy, Sarah, Jeannie, and Quince were convinced he was far gone in worship of Lily. They were all hoping that at some point he would get up enough courage to ask Lily, at the very least, to walk with him when they escorted the children to church.
“Joseph Tiller—Lord Meredith.” Sarah waited while Joseph, after a second’s hesitation, reached over the table and grasped Charlie’s proffered hand. Sarah wasn’t sure how Charlie had known Joseph was a gentleman, but…“Joseph comes to us from the Bishop of Wells. The orphanage operates under the bishop’s auspices. Joseph helps teach the children, especially the older boys.”
Charlie smiled sympathetically. “Not an easy task, I imagine.”
Joseph’s lips quirked as he sat. “Not generally, no, but there are compensations.”
Mrs. Carter banged her spoon on the saucepan’s lid and the children abruptly fell silent. Joseph bowed his head and said grace, his voice firm and sure rolling out over the bent heads.
The instant he said “Amen” a whoop erupted; noise exploded and engulfed the room. Reaching for his fork, Charlie raised his brows.
Joseph met his eyes and smiled. “Always happens.”
The meal passed in the usual distracted fashion with various staff members having to rise and settle disputes and arguments among their vociferous charges. But neither maliciousness nor anger intruded; there was no tension, only a sense of fun and an undercurrent of content.
Every Monday when she sat among them for the meal, Sarah found reassurance in that supportive atmosphere; that was why her godmother had established the orphanage, and why she continued to devote to it so much of her time.
As the last dollops of custard were scraped from bowls, Charlie turned to her and grinned. “They’re a lively lot. They remind me of an enormous family.”
She smiled back, then patted her lips with her napkin and laid it aside. “That’s exactly what we work to achieve.” She wasn’t surprised that he’d grasped that; like her, he came from a large family.
Many of the children had already left, some of the staff as well. She rose and Charlie rose with her. “I have to speak with Quince—we need to do an inventory of the linens. It’ll take a few hours.”
He shrugged. “I’ll just wander and wait.”
Joseph, rising from his chair opposite, glanced at Sarah, then looked at Charlie. “I promised I’d organize a game of bat and ball for the older lads once they finish their arithmetic. That’ll be in about half an hour. If you have the time, perhaps you’d like to join us?”
Charlie grinned. “Why not?”
Sarah excused herself and left them. She had difficulty imagining Charlie, always so precise and elegant, playing bat and ball, at least not the way the older boys played it. They always looked like they’d been dragged through a hedge backward when they came in after their game; even Joseph usually ended badly rumpled.
But, she reflected, Charlie could look out for himself.
Determinedly she mounted the stairs to the attics. She had Quince, and what would no doubt prove to be stacks of torn and worn linens, to deal with.
For the next hour, she and Quince worked through the various piles, checking and noting. They always used the big attic nursery for the chore; the cradles in which Quince’s charges lay were neatly arranged at one end—six of them at the moment, more than usual—but there was plenty of room between the cradles and the neat truckle bed on which Quince passed her nights.