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“That seems like a long-term, rather expensive arrangement.”
“It is,” she agreed, fixing him with a piercing gaze that made him feel about as big as an ant. “But you need not worry, for it is not one that affects your purse. We have partnered with a church and three other orphanages, and garnered contributions from several benefactors for the endeavor. The expense is borne entirely by them.”
Again, his hackles rose. “Had I known you were doing it, I might have also contributed.”
“You were informed, Your Grace. I had Mr. Blume bring you the documents detailing the plan two years ago, documents that asked specifically for your participation. You sent them back—unsigned.”
If it was possible to shrink to a size smaller than an ant, he would have done so. “I must have missed it amid all the other papers he shoved under my nose at every visit.”
They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. He knew exactly what she thought of his sorry excuse. And he knew it was every bit deserved. He hadn’t read those papers. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted to pretend this place didn’t exist.
He watched as she took a long, deep breath and turned awa
y to resume their tour. “Children placed with families are not forgotten,” she continued. “We maintain contact with them for a minimum of four months, conducting both planned and unplanned visits to ensure their safety and care. If there is even the smallest hint of anything untoward, they are removed at once.”
“Your thoroughness is astonishing.”
Whirling, she again faced him, nearly causing him to run into her. Her hazel eyes narrowed, regarding him with open hostility.
“I meant only to compliment you,” he said, holding up his hands. “I’m quite sure no other establishment goes to such lengths.” Hell, his own father had hardly done as much, and that only under duress. He’d been let run completely wild until after his eighth birthday. Only after William, returning home for a visit from university, commented on his shameful state had their father even thought to make arrangements for his younger son’s education. That Roland had excelled in his studies after such neglect was due solely to his determination to impress his brother, who prized knowledge above all things.
“Thank you,” said his nemesis, looking a bit flustered. Turning, she walked away, forcing him to move on down the corridor. A dull rumbling of noise grew as they neared the door at its end. “Here is the dining hall,” she said, opening the door and standing aside to let him see.
Beyond, he saw the long trestles, now filled with children. “So many,” he murmured.
“We would care for more, if it were possible.” Her expression was wistful as she gazed out over the children’s heads. “But we haven’t the space to hold them, nor do we have the funds to provide for their keep. Not yet.”
“There have to be at least fifty children here.”
“There are sixty-three here and twelve more upstairs, not counting the infants,” she answered. “The children in the sick ward are fed separately to prevent the spread of contagion—in either direction. Both the ill and the healthy must be equally protected. And that includes our nurses and other staff here.”
He glanced at her, wondering briefly if she was thinking of William, too. “I’ve seen enough,” he said, turning away. “Let us proceed.”
Leaving the hall, they mounted the stairs to the second floor—the sick ward.
A cold sweat broke out on Roland’s brow as they approached the door. Five paces away, he stopped. Though he willed his legs to walk, they would not.
“If you prefer, we may tour the outer grounds,” said Harriett, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Swallowing past the knot in his throat, he wrenched his eyes off the sign and looked at her.
Pity. He saw pity in her eyes. The same pity he’d seen in them that day at the cemetery. Heat flooded him, and before he could contemplate the wisdom of it—or lack thereof—he strode forward, put out his hand, and pushed the door open. If she wasn’t afraid of what lay beyond, then neither would he be. At least not visibly.
“Wait!”
He spun about, his heart stopping at her urgent command.
Digging into her pocket, she handed him a swatch of cloth. He held it up gingerly.
“It is a mask,” she told him, pulling another out for herself. “You must put it on before we enter. All who work with the sick are required to wear a mask to prevent breathing in the miasma.”
Again, his palms dampened. That was why she’d been wearing a mask when he’d encountered her yesterday. He tried to don his own, but to his shame his fingers shook so it was impossible. After a moment or two spent fumbling with the strings, she let out a sigh of frustration and gestured for him to allow her to assist. Flushing, he did so and bent his head, trying to ignore the way his flesh became hypersensitive as her fingers brushed the back of his head and neck.
Once his mask was secure, they proceeded.
Again, he was greeted by homey halls. But the rooms here were not open, nor were they empty. He heard coughing from behind one door, whimpering from another—quickly followed by a woman’s voice offering comfort.
The sharp scent of lye reached his nostrils even through the cloth covering his face. And vinegar, also. “It stinks in here,” he said, his voice coming out muffled.
