Page 21 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

He lowered himself into a chair next to hers because standing over her seemed ungenerous. He sat down slowly and rested his cane against his knee.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

No answer.

“My name is Hector Elford. I am the Duke of Sterling.”

Still nothing.

He considered whether the title meant anything to her.

Likely not.

To a child, “duke” might signify no more than “chimney sweep” if the word was not attached to comfort, warning, or sweets. He had no sweets, but he had brought legal authority and a carriage.

I am not nervous, he reminded himself.

“I am your uncle,” he said.

He heard her shift in her chair. He could make out the tilt of her body, but not her expression. Perhaps she was looking at him, or perhaps at his cane.

“I am sure that someone has told you that I have come to take you and your sister home,” he continued. “And you will be leaving this place today.”

Aurora went still.

It was the kind of stillness he recognized from wounded animals or from servants expecting reprimand. He could see no details, yet the absence of motion was unmistakable. Even her breathing seemed to withdraw from notice.

He waited patiently for her to speak or cry, or run away.

It occurred to him, too late, that perhaps he should have begun differently. Hector was used to telling the truth. He had done so efficiently for his entire life, and efficiency was a virtue in business. But it might not be the ideal instrument for speaking to a child. He chastised himself. She is younger and more fragile. I should have held those facts into consideration.

Several moments passed.

Then, in a voice so small it nearly failed to become a sound, Aurora asked, “Are y…y…you a m…m…monster or t…truly our h…hero?”

The question and stuttering caught him off guard. Hector heard in it not childish mispronunciation but strain. She was holding herself together.

“Well, Aurora, only you can tell me that after I take care of you and your sister. All I can say is that I wish to give you both a home because we are family.”

She was silent for a few minutes again before she asked, “B…but what about P-Poppy?”

She looked toward the door as if Miss Norish would burst through it any time.

“Do you mean Miss Norish?” Hector replied.

The child shook her head.

“No,” she said, and this time the word, though soft, carried offense. “Poppy.”

Of course she does not know her full name; she is four.

Hector accepted the correction with the seriousness it deserved. “Ah, yes, Poppy,” he said.

The name felt too intimate in his mouth, but the child did not care what was comfortable for him.

Duty over comfort. He had built his life on less tender applications of the principle.

“Do you require her to come with?” he asked.