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Fool! She’d not even considered his view of the school when suggesting Mrs. Hayton’s boardinghouse. “Yes, we had a new arrival last night. Before she joins the others in classes, she must first become at least somewhat accustomed to her new surroundings, learn the rules, and get to know some of her peers. In about a week, she will be assessed and hopefully begin lessons.”
“May I see her file?”
It was asked in such a meek, hesitant manner that it almost disarmed her. Almost. “I must know, Monsieur Woodson, what is your intention now that you possess this knowledge? Will you honor our mission here? Will you work to protect and nurture these children, to help them put aside their former lives and forge new ones?”
His eyes were unfathomable, and when he spoke, she could tell he selected his words with great care. “It seems to me a most noble and honorable mission. But you cannot expect me to simply agree without knowing more.”
Irritation would’ve made her waspish, but she knew he wasn’t to blame. The fault is mine for not being more careful. “What would you know?”
Questions flew from his mouth like a volley of arrows. “Where do the girls come from? Do they have living parents? Are they here of their own free will? How did they fall under your care?”
“Mon Dieu,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I can see you will not be satisfied with anything less than a full explanation.”
“Would you, were you in my place?”
“I suppose not,” she conceded. “As I told you before, the girls all come from places of pain. Some are orphans, others have parents who have chosen to allow us to care for their daughters in the hope of giving them a better life than they can provide. Some”—she glanced down at the files and held one up—“like Janet, were abandoned after suffering horrors at the hands of those who should have loved and protected them. They have no desire to return to their families.”
“I can certainly understand why,” he answered with a grimace of distaste. “The people who brought the girl last night, are there more like them? Are there others who know what this place really is?”
Jacqueline felt the blood leaving her face and strove to remain calm. “Yes. Several. I’m not at liberty to disclose their names.”
“Much like your mysterious benefactors,” he replied drily. “Then you are merely the headmistress and not the proprietor of this establishment.”
“The idea for the school was mine, and I aided in the founding of it,” she answered, unable to keep the pride from her voice.
“Why? Why would a woman like you want to create a school like this?”
It was a simple question with a simple answer—unless one knew her background. Answer him. “Because it’s the right thing to do. Did the Lord not admonish us to be like the Good Samaritan? When you see someone lying wounded by the side of the road, do you not stop to render aid? How could I see the plight of such children and not do this? I would have to possess no heart at all in order to deny their need.”
He stared at her for several heartbeats. She knew this because she heard every one of them in her ears.
“Forgive me for my cynicism,” he said at last. “It’s not often one meets someone so altruistic, and even rarer to find someone with the will to act upon such high thoughts in so bold a manner. I understand the need for secrecy and will honor it.”
Relief made her bones feel liquid, but she maintained her bearing and dignity. “And for that, you have my deepest gratitude.”
“The new arrival, what is her name? Does she have a file yet?”
For some reason, his curiosity no longer made her uncomfortable. He’d joined the ranks of those who fought alongside her. A tiny bubble of joy burst inside her. She turned and plucked a slim folio from the uppermost shelf. “Her name—though not for much longer—is Penny.”
Untying the cord that held the folio closed, she laid her initial intake report on the desk for him to read. Too late, she remembered the letter from Tavistoke still lay underneath it. It had become her practice to leave his introductory correspondence in the file for the doctor to read before making his exam. Once he’d completed his report, all said correspondence was fed to the fire.
Damned if Woodson’s attention didn’t immediately fix upon the letter! Reaching out, he took it before she could act.
“What’s this?”
“It is only a note explaining her circumstance.”
His eyes devoured it. “Penny. Six years old. Daughter of a brothel worker…” He trailed off, and his brow furrowed as he read on. When he reached the page’s bottom, his gaze remained there. “Was that her mother who came with her last night?”
“No,” she answered, her stomach knotting. “Someone else brought her here. A friend.”
“Of yours, or hers?”
“Both.” Her encouraging smile was wasted on him, for all his attention was focused on the paper in his hands.
Silence. Then: “This seal…I don’t recognize it as belonging to any of the lords, yet it must belong to a man of some consequence. Only a gentleman seals his letters thusly.”
Merde! Having worked for Mulgrave, he’d likely know. “A gentleman, yes—but no one of great import,” she said as lightly as she could manage, barely refraining from snatching the paper from his hands.
