Page 130 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“Is Princess in trouble?”

“No.”

“Am I?”

He reached out, found her shoulder, and rested his hand there. “No.”

Her body eased beneath his palm, but only slightly. “Then why?”

“Because grown people sometimes have matters to discuss that would bore you terribly.”

Aurora sniffed. “I like being bored if it means staying.”

Poppy’s voice came gently. “We will come to you afterward.”

Aurora accepted this from Poppy with a silence that was not agreement but was close enough for obedience. Mrs. Patterson guided her toward the door. Halfway across the boards, Aurora glanced back; Hector saw only the turn of her small shape, but it pierced him nonetheless. Her crestfallen pauses always did. Every dismissal, however temporary, carried an echo neither of them named.

“I will ask about the ribbon later,” he told her.

“You must,” she said, recovering a little. “It is important.”

“I understand.”

Mrs. Patterson led them out. Princess’s babble faded first into the corridor, then into the distance. Aurora’s steps lingered longer, as if she were dragging indignation on her by the heel.

When the door closed, the room changed and became more intimate. Poppy did not speak immediately. He heard her move toward the desk, then stop. She knew something waited there. She had known from the moment she entered, perhaps. Poppy noticed what people attempted to hide.

Hector drew one breath.

“I have something for you.” His fingers found the stack of papers.

He lifted the documents and turned.

“Come nearer,” he said, and though the words were practical, something in him had meant them more deeply.

Poppy did as she was told. He held the papers out, and she took them with both hands. Their fingers touched only briefly, but he felt the tremor in hers.

“Hector,” she said, and then stopped.

“Read the first page.”

He listened to the soft shift of paper. Her breathing changed before her voice did. That was how he knew she had understood.

“These are…” Her words thinned. She turned another page, though there was no need. “Saint Catherine’s Haven.”

“Yes.”

She drew in a breath. “You have established it formally?”

“As a private orphanage under the care of the dukedom.”

The papers rustled again. “And this…this names me.”

“It entrusts the oversight of the operations to you.”

Her silence deepened until he could hear the old boards settle beneath them.

“I thought,” he said, when she did not answer, “that it ought not depend on my intention alone. Intentions can be misremembered. They can be softened by convenience after a man is gone. But this cannot.”