Page 131 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

Poppy lowered the papers slightly. “Do not speak of being gone.”

“I speak of provision.”

“You speak as though duty must always prepare for your absence.”

His hand tightened on the cane. She knew him well.

Too well.

“The children here will be supported. Properly. Not through favors, not through occasional generosity when it flatters some conscience. The dukedom will provide for them. Staff, food, repairs, medical care when needed, instruction. All of it will be recorded.”

“And you trust me with it.” Her voice broke.

“I do.”

The answer came too quickly to be ceremonial. It stood between them, bare and complete.

Poppy’s fingers moved over the deed. “You know what people will say.”

“I am rarely guided by people.”

“They will say I have been given too much authority.”

“Then they will be correct.”

A faint, unsteady laugh escaped her.

He continued because the practical details were easier than what lay beneath them. “There will be accounts to review. Mrs. Patterson can assist with household matters here, and the steward will present quarterly figures. You may dismiss any person who treats the children as obligations rather than souls. You may appoint those you trust. If there are improvements to be made, you need not ask permission for every nail and blanket.”

“Hector.”

He stopped.

Her voice had lost its composure, but he waited.

She set the papers on the desk with care. He heard the flat, final sound of them against the wood. Then she came to him, and her hands found his forearms, light at first, then holding him with a firmness that made something in his chest give way.

“This is not only paper,” she said. “It is the future. For the children and for us as well.”

He could not answer at once.

She moved one hand to his chest, over the place where his heart had become unruly. “You have given them safety without making them feel like charity. Do you understand what that means?”

“I only understand what neglect means.”

Her hand stilled.

The words had come with less guard than he intended. He regretted them until her touch softened.

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

He bowed his head. There were things a man could not mend. Childhood terror. Empty rooms. A child’s learned silence. The thousand private economies by which the vulnerable made themselves less troublesome. He could not undo them for Aurora or Princess or any child who had already learned too much. But he could put walls around the future and stand watch.

“I should have done it sooner,” he said.

Poppy’s reply was quiet. “You did it now.”

“That is not the same.”