Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (3 page)

Kirby groaned.

Jack muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

“Go back to the dining hall,” Catherine instructed. “I’m sure that Mrs. Burton would appreciate some assistance with scouring the pots.”

Slowly, the lads shuffled off, sulking.

Catherine eyed her brother. “Jared, you remain here.”

Her brother stopped and waited, watching his friends drift off as if he would have eaten his own arm to have been able to join them.

“W
hat is the matter with you, Jared?” Catherine demanded of her younger brother once the youths were out of earshot. “You continue to flout my instructions about those lads. They’re no good for you and drag you into trouble at every turn.”

“But they’re my friends,” he ground out.

“They are not in your league and you know it.”

“Don’t be such a snob.”

Frustration filled her so powerfully she yearned to yank on his golden brown hair and scream in his ear until he finally understood her. Instead, she gritted her teeth. “I’m not talking about social status. I’m talking about intelligence, prospects—”

“Just because they don’t like books or music doesn’t mean that they aren’t honorable.”

“It’s more than that and you know it. You might be living here amongst the other charges, but you are expected to behave in a manner befitting your station.”

He crossed his arms, glowering. “What station is that, Catherine?”

“Don’t be a buffoon.” She lowered her voice. “You are Baron Coleridge and you need to start acting like it. How can you expect to travel in higher circles if you have the manners of a street hooligan?”

“I thought you said I was supposed to fit in.” His voice was taunting.

“Don’t take my logic and twist it around.” She scowled, irritated. “Not announcing to the world that you are a peer of the realm does not mean that you are at liberty to act like a ruffian. It’s beneath you. It’s beneath all of the boys here, in fact, but they don’t know better. You do.”

Tense silence encased them as she waited for a response, some semblance of responsibility for his actions. Her patience was met only by the crackle of shrubbery whipping in an agitated wind.

Jared crossed his arms, pouting like a three-year-old instead of a lad of fourteen. “Can I go now?”

Her hand began to throb and she looked down, realizing that she was clutching the jug handle in a viselike grip. She set it down on the grass and crossed her arms, trying to make sense of the only flesh-and-blood relative that she acknowledged. “I don’t know what to do with you, Jared. I try to give you the opportunities to be the best man you can be. To be prepared for the next phase in your life. The extra money for books, the tutor whom I can hardly afford—”

“What if I don’t want it?”

“Don’t want what?” she cried exasperated. “The tutor?”

“Any of it.”

“What
do
you want then?”

His hands fisted by his sides. “You to stop yanking on my tails.”

“Tails?” Frustration made her voice pitch up. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Forget it,” he muttered as if she were the one speaking gibberish.

She looked around, then grabbed his arm, heaving him into the side door of the chapel and into the vestibule. No one should be in the sanctuary at this hour. “I am trying to give you the education that Mother and Father would have
wanted
you to have. That you would have had if the blasted Caddyhorns had not been so wretchedly insidious,” she whispered harshly. “You need to be prepared for when you take your rightful place in Society as Baron Coleridge.”

“Why, Catherine?”

She sputtered a moment, flabbergasted by his obtuseness. “Why, because it’s your just due.”

“And how the bloody hell do you suppose that fantasy is going to happen?” His voice was full of contempt. “We are orphans, Catherine. We have no means of stopping the Caddyhorns or reclaiming our money. My title is nothing more than an empty designation, one that I heard the Caddyhorns were going to get anyway, since everyone thinks that the real Baron Coleridge is dead.”

“They
presume
that you are dead, but they cannot have the title if you are alive…”

He glared, not even bothering to state the obvious paradox. They could not let Uncle Dickey and Aunt Frederica Caddyhorn, their legal guardians, know of Jared’s existence or they might try to resurrect their plan of locking her brother in Bedlam. Or, worse, Catherine wouldn’t put it past them to try to kill Jared. Yet, if she and Jared did not speak up, the title might be declared vacant and all would be lost.

Jared shrugged. “At this point I don’t see the purpose in banging our heads against the wall for a dream that will
never become a reality. It’s gone, all of it. The money, the title, life as nobility. Accept your lot and learn to live with it. I know I have.”

His pessimism shocked her. He had made feeble protests in the past but now he seemed so
certain
of failure. It almost broke her heart.

“Mother and Father would never have given up,” she replied carefully. “They would not wish for us to either.”

“Mother and Father aren’t here now. Nor were they ever forced to deal with life served up on a chipped platter. They were born to a station of privilege and lived a life of plenty.”

“You say it as if it’s a crime.”

“Well, they never had to deal with the things we’ve had to face. Don’t try pretending you don’t think of the Caddyhorns every day, Catherine. I know I do whenever I see you limp.”

Involuntarily, her hand flitted to her leg, broken during their escape ten years before. Thank heavens only she had suffered from the fall; a rhododendron bush had saved four-year-old Jared.

“I don’t know that in similar circumstances Mother and Father wouldn’t have stopped pining for fantasy either.” Jared scowled, anger marring his boyishly handsome features. “Face it, Cat. This is our lot now. Going up against the Caddyhorns is a fool’s game. You’ve tried and failed before, as you will if you try again.”

“I don’t agree,” she snapped, crossing her arms as if to ward off his charges. “We simply need to bide our time.”

“Until what?” he scoffed, pain haunting those familiar gray Coleridge eyes. “It’s been ten years already. We have no money. We have no allies. Hell, you wouldn’t even tell Headmaster Dunn, the man who knows every gilded family in London!”

She let out a long breath. “Dunn can’t help us until you are older. To tell him now will only expose him to all sorts of legal challenges of guardianship from the Caddyhorns.” Moreover, Headmaster Dunn could be bullheaded and unpredictable when it came to matters of “justice” and Catherine didn’t want to take any chances. “We agreed ten years ago, anonymity is our staunchest ally.”

“I didn’t agree. You decided,” he scoffed. Turning away, he muttered under his breath, “You’re just afraid.”

“Of what?” she almost screeched, yanking him to face her.

“Of trusting anyone.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “Why, that’s the most preposterous rubbish I’ve ever heard. I love Headmaster Dunn like a dear father. I admire him more than any man on earth. I trust him with my life, our lives in fact.”

“Well, maybe it’s not
just
that,” he shrugged. “You’re also afraid he’ll try to set you up in Society…and that you’ll fumble.” He said it as if it was a
fait accompli.

“That’s…that’s…”

“For good reason,” he continued mercilessly. “Look at yourself, Catherine. You’re a spinster, long on the shelf and thin in the purse who has no connections and hardly a decent dress to her name.” His tone was scathing. “I’m sure you’d be the toast of the town.”

She stared at him a long moment, feeling an ache in her chest that her brother could be so spiteful. She
was
getting on, but she was only two-and-twenty years old. She still had time yet, didn’t she? But for what? She’d always known her life would have no romantic storybook ending, but she’d be damned if she let Jared lose his chances because of the Caddyhorns.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, he scoffed, “Face it, Catherine. Reclaiming my title is a fool’s quest. If you
need the hope to get you through your lackluster existence, then by all means keep it up. But don’t pretend that you are doing it for me. And don’t try to force me to be someone I’m not.”

“When did you become so cruel?” she whispered, wondering who had stolen her dear baby brother and put this monster in his place.

He strode off into the now darkened evening, calling over his shoulder, “About the same time you started acting like a nagging witch.”

In the shadow of the chapel arbor, Headmaster Uriah Dunn’s fury was so white-hot he was quaking. He had come to the sanctuary for some quiet contemplation when he thought it would be vacant. He had not meant to eavesdrop, but had heard snippets of Catherine and Jared’s argument. Not wishing to intrude on the family squabble, he had stayed in the shadows, ready to skirt the building and head back to the dining hall. His steps had frozen as the truth barreled into him harder than any cannonball.

Jared Miller was Baron Coleridge! Catherine a gentleman’s daughter, a lady of quality.

He’d always had his suspicions about Catherine and Jared’s origins. But as a rule, he never pressed children about their pasts. Where was the point when there was no going back? But for Catherine and Jared it was not about choices, but of crimes against them. Crimes where reparation was long overdue.

He clearly recalled their arrival almost ten years before. She’d been twelve, shaking with fear and pain from her broken leg. Dr. Winner had tried his best, but she’d been walking on the broken leg for so long…

Dunn’s fists clenched. He could only imagine the terror
she must have felt to have run away in the dead of winter, to have traveled on a broken limb…Jared had been only four…To drive off helpless children into the cruel world like that…when there was family…means…

Caddyhorn. The name seared itself onto Dunn’s list of scoundrels to be dealt with. Lamentably, that list was growing a bit long these days. But Dunn was not one for misgivings when it came to correcting wrongs. He would do what he must to see Justice wear her gilded crown of glory.

His first order of business was to safeguard Jared’s title. That could be done without anyone knowing of Jared’s existence. Scratching his chin, he nodded. Digging up dirty skeletons and whispering them into the right ears was a nice way to stifle a title petition. Somehow Dunn doubted that it would be too difficult to unearth misdeeds regarding the Caddyhorns, given Catherine and Jared’s experience with the clan.

But what to do about the children who seemed unprepared to claim their rightful places?

No matter how much Jared maintained that he was content with their lot, Dunn knew the lie for what it was: fear. He was afraid to face the Caddyhorns. He was frightened of going into Society after living the majority of his life in an orphanage. Moreover, Jared was terrified of failure. For him it was easier to give up than to try and not be up to snuff. For all of its disadvantages, Andersen Hall was safe. To Jared, the thought of leaving his home with little promise of success made him want to surrender from the start.

Jared could not be alone in his misgivings, about going back into Society, Dunn recognized. Catherine had to be anxious about the prospect of facing the
ton
’s whispers
and the scandal of having lived penniless in an orphanage, especially as an unmarried lady almost past marriageable age. But knowing her, she wouldn’t let it stop her, especially if her conduct could help her baby brother. She would do anything for him, her sense of duty overwhelming concern for herself.

Such sense of sacrifice was not healthy, Dunn knew. And could only lead to discord. Catherine would give up everything for her brother, but would expect him to make the world of himself in return. Jared would resent his sister’s demands and flout her at every turn. It was a match destined for failure unless someone moved to stop the cycle of antagonism. This, Dunn knew, because the interaction was disturbingly familiar, given his fractious relationship with his son Marcus.

Dunn sighed, feeling like an old warhorse trying to learn a new march. Staring up at the moonless night, he lamented his mistakes with his only son. And bemoaned the fact that he might never have the chance to rectify them.

His recent hopes had been dashed that morning when he’d received a cryptic missive from Wellington saying that there was a problem and that Marcus might not make it back to London after all. The tone of the letter did not sound optimistic.

Doubt plagued Dunn’s consciousness as a vulture circles a carcass. He hadn’t expected Marcus to rush home after their terrible parting or to receive his father with open arms. All cannot be water under the bridge when you’ve had so many years of strife. But Dunn had hoped…given the chance…they could meet on fresh ground.

Part of him prayed the threat regarding Marcus’s original mission still existed so that Wellington would send him
home; part of him prayed that there was no menace at all.

Dunn sighed, feeling suddenly very old. “My prayers seem to conflict with each other these days,” he muttered. If only one or two of them might be answered.

“B
last,” Catherine muttered to herself, then sneezed in the dusty room. She tried to ignore her irritation at being inside on a glorious day like today, cleaning a closet, no less. But it was her own fault, really. She’d put off asking someone to do the tedious task for four days, wanting to spend time with Jared before his departure.

Catherine had been surprised by Headmaster Dunn’s sudden decision to send Jared along with his tutor to a family in Reigate and wondered if it had anything to do with the misadventure involving Gardener Graves’s spirits. She had not mentioned any of the lads involved, but the headmaster had decided to send Jared off the very next day and had packed him and his tutor off just four days later. Moreover, the headmaster had assured her that the Hartzes were a family of quality and that they would be a good influence on Jared.

Headmaster Dunn had to know about the spirits, she decided. But in his usual capable fashion, he’d figured out a
way to calm the situation and teach Jared a lesson. Although glad for the opportunity this mischief had provided for her brother, she couldn’t help but miss him. For all of his sulking and insults, this was their first parting in over ten years.

Now he was off to Reigate, most of the staff was away on an excursion with the children and she was left cleaning dusty closets on the nicest day in ages.

Sighing, Catherine dug through the trunk of clothing, seeing an aspect of Headmaster Dunn that was not usually apparent. As she had always suspected, the man was a sentimentalist. Yet he hid that side of himself, appearing in public as a paragon of principle with not a sappy bone in his body. It was a good tactic, she realized, given how many people—especially in the
ton
—saw sentimentalists as weak-willed, inconsistent and romantic.

Feeling something long, she tugged the fabric free. A muted jingle rang in the air. Leading strings, of all things, knotted around a baby’s rattle. Unwinding the rattle, she shook it gently. A clear tinkle rang in the small closet. She smiled, fingering the plaything and finding ridges and dents marring the handle. Marcus’s tooth marks, she supposed.

She gently placed the rattle back in the chest and the cloth beside her. Undoubtedly Marcus would want none of these items, dare he ever deign to return to Andersen Hall. He had never been interested in anything of a sentimental nature, as different from his father as oil and water.

Whereas Headmaster Dunn was steady as a rock, Marcus had been more like the wind—free-spirited and always up for a storm. Catherine had secretly envied his devil-may-care attitude, longing for a bit of abandon herself. Marcus had only lost that lightheartedness when he’d gone up against his father. Oh how they’d fought. The
walls fairly shook from their tempestuous arguments. Marcus had always completed his punishments with a fiery intensity, then he would sulk for days. His darkly handsome looks and brooding mien drew the girls like barnacles to a ship’s bow. It was enough to make one ill. Catherine had never joined them, always watching Marcus from afar. Thank heavens, he’d never given any of the chits the attention they’d longed for. Including her.

But he’d been away in the military for seven years, and according to Mrs. Nagel, had sworn never to return to Andersen Hall. Not that it mattered. She would never marry, or do much else, it seemed. She would shrivel and die, a decrepit old spinster…

Irritated by her morose thoughts, Catherine shoved aside the trunk with greater force than she’d intended and it crashed into something behind it. A cloud of dust swam in the air. She sneezed so loudly that her ears rang. Pressing her white apron to her nose, she reached forward and righted the chest, only then noticing a piece of wood wedged between the angled ceiling and the wall. Lifting the candle for better light, she realized that behind the lumber rested a trunk, jammed into the small space, purposefully difficult to access.

Curious, she raised the candle, careful not to let it near anything flammable. Setting it down, she yanked at the board, ripping it from its post. Then, positioning herself on hands and knees, she leaned forward, trying to grab the chest. It would not budge. She stood, leaning over, trying for better purchase.

“Now that’s a sight to make a man weep,” a deep voice murmured from behind.

Catherine straightened so quickly her head smashed into the pitched wall of the closet.

Rubbing her aching skull, she turned, glaring. “Blast you, Pres.”

“Lovely to see you, too, Cat,” her childhood tormentor replied easily.

As usual Prescott Devane sported a beautifully tailored coat, today in primrose yellow, that outlined his broad form. He was not bulky like the laborer his father was supposed to have been. Those firm-muscled thighs, narrow hips and broad shoulders he’d grown into reminded Catherine of an equestrian’s build more than a manual worker’s. He must have had more of his mother in him. She supposedly had been a lady of station who had fallen upon hard times before dying of a disease of the lungs. Prescott never spoke of his life before the orphanage, so it was hard to know.

“I’ve been off at a friend’s country house,” he drawled. “I hadn’t realized how long it’s been.”

“Never long enough as far as you’re concerned,” she retorted, but her tone was good-natured.

“It’s wretchedly dusty in here.” Prescott eyed the chests and crates with a look of dismissal. “It’s no wonder your skin is turning to ash. You stay inside on a glorious day like today.”

She bristled at the comment about her complexion. “The headmaster needed the closet cleaned.”

“Why, it’s spring, for heaven’s sake,” he interrupted, yanking a handkerchief from the pocket of his primrose yellow coat and waving it about like a dandy. His musk perfume was an unwelcome addition in the dusty space. “It’s depraved to be inside today.”

“Headmaster Dunn said that it needed to be cleaned out posthaste,” she replied, trying to make it sound important.

“As always, stiff upper lip and such, our Cat. Never one
for making waves. But have you no thought for your delicate health? Like an exquisite blossom, you need sunshine, fresh air…”

“Leave your hogwash for your lady friends, Pres.” She shook her head. Prescott had been a monster as a child, plaguing her with his antics. Now, she simply attributed them to the frolics of a troubled lad. There had been a fierceness to him, not a meanness of spirit but a steely determination that had set him apart from many of the other boys. When he fixed his mind on something, he moved heaven and earth to see it done. Problem was, he’d set his hat on becoming a dandy and living a high life, and he’d achieved it with aplomb. The ladies loved him, and unaccountably, he didn’t seem to mind when they lavished him with gifts and supported him. The man was a
cicisbeo
, a
Gallant
to married women. And, astoundingly, he was quite open about it.

Wrinkling his nose, Prescott patted it with his handkerchief. “You can’t deny you’d rather be outside, even if it is just reading one of your tomes.”

She glared at him. “If I stop chattering with you, I might actually finish my work and make it outside before night.”

“Take a breather, Cat,” he pleaded. “Just a few minutes on the porch—”

“Unlike some other people, I finish what I start,” she retorted making reference to his training with Master Grim, the blacksmith. Just as Prescott could apply himself with determination, he could just as easily resolve
not
to do something. And once his determination was set, it was intractable.

He leaned against his ebony cane, his eyes darkening. “You know, you’re about as much fun as a boil spearing.”

“Ew.” She made a face.

“I know.” He grimaced. “It’s on my mind since I attended one yesterday.”

“Don’t tell me they sell tickets to those things now?”

“I was the one holding the poor lady’s hand. It really was—”

“Stop.” She held up her hands. “I don’t wish to know.”

“I’ve got no one to spill my troubles to—”

She wedged her feet into the corner and grasped the chest. “Cease prattling and help me move this box.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

“New breeches. I dare not dirty them, even for you, my dear.”

“Do stop being such a Jack-a-dandy, Pres. You know I can’t stand the façade.”

After a moment, he shrugged. In the dim light she could see the transformation come upon him like a curtain dropping at the end of a performance. His shoulders squared. His face darkened. The look of frivolous disdain disappeared and his jaw set with its familiar determined line. His bearing shifted from indolent to more like a boxer’s stance. That was the Prescott she’d grown up with, more ready for a brawl than a ball.

Catherine thought him more appealing in his true mien, but could understand how others might not see it so. Still, she was always astounded at how easy it was for Prescott to trade on his looks. Astounding, because he had been such an unattractive youth and was now considered quite the blade. His once carrot hair had darkened to a deep sable brown with only a hint of red. His pudgy, freckled face had thinned to a chiseled golden hue. His once fat lips now softened the angles of his face with lush sensuality. No one could have foretold how handsome a man Prescott was to become, least of all Catherine.

Prescott shook his head. “You know, Cat—”

“I do wish you’d stop calling me that.”

“Certainly. I’ve noticed, Cat, you’ve grown quite Mrs. Nagel-ish of late.”

Pressing her hand to her heart, she cried, “Why, Prescott, that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“I know, but I am choosing to take it as one. Mrs. Nagel is a saint to put up with all that she does.”

“It’s hard to love a saint.”

“Is it easier to love a fraud?”

His face froze and for a moment she feared that she’d struck harder than she’d intended. Banter was one thing, injuring a friend, another.

Suddenly he laughed, a deep, resounding guffaw that practically shook the walls of the small room. “Oh, how I’ve missed you, Cat. The country air was not nearly as refreshing as seeing you.” She was pleased he didn’t drop his cultured diction. They’d worked on his elocution for years and it seemed quite natural to him now.

“I’m glad that I amuse you,” she chided. “Now, please will you help me move this box?”

“Only for you, Cat,” he replied, still smiling. Setting down his hat and cane, he moved to the other side of the trunk. “Allow me.” With a hard shove, the trunk slipped loose, followed by a jarring bang of wood on wood.

“What the devil?”

Where the trunk had been, there was a long dark rectangle, about the size of an open newspaper, cut into the wall. On the side corner of the rectangle a board hung by a single bare nail, the other nails having fallen loose.

“A secret compartment in an orphanage closet?” Prescott scratched his auburn mane. “Jewels? Banknotes?”

Hope rose in her chest. The orphanage needed funds
badly. Could this be the answer to her prayers? “I wonder how long it’s been there.” She bit her lip. “And does Headmaster Dunn know about it?”

“He would have said something, if he knew,” Prescott insisted. “Did he?”

“Not a word. In fact, he had only wanted the front of the closet cleared out.”

“That’s our Cat, always the diligent worker,” Prescott teased. “Ask for ‘A,’ get ‘A to Z.’” Scratching his chin, he asked, “Could it be Festus’s war booty, perhaps?”

Catherine grimaced, recalling stories of the vicious former headmaster of Andersen Hall. “The sergeant major left a long time ago…”

“And in a frightful hurry…”

Anxious, she leaned forward, tugging at the loose board. It ripped free from its setting with surprising ease.

“Look, it’s rotted through.” He pointed to the wood. “It must have been the damp.”

Tossing away the board, Catherine perched on her knees before the opening and peered into the gloom.

She felt a tug at her apron strings. “Hands off, Prescott.”

The tugging stopped. “Spoilsport.”

Prescott pushed his head beside hers. “Ugh. Smells like mold and rotted leaves, and it’s clammy to boot. I pray you are not thinking of going in there.”

She turned to him, chagrined. “The Prescott I grew up with would have jumped through that hole by now, without a care for the fusty air or the dirt on his breeches.”

He squinted into the darkness. “The Prescott you knew was an atrocious little monster.”

“I don’t know that I like the changes that civilizing you has wrought. Where is your sense of adventure?”

“I leave that for the bedchamber, darling. If you’d like—”

“I’d sooner have my teeth extracted.” Thrusting her head through the opening, she held her breath and tried to discern anything in the small space.
Dear Lord, please let there be something here to help the children
. The headmaster had been trying to keep her from the truth, but she was no fool: The orphanage was perilously low on funds. The war was putting a strain on High Society’s pockets, or so many patrons claimed.

“Ugh. It smells awful in here.”

“Take this.” A linen handkerchief was pushed into her palm.

“Thank you,” she murmured, trying not to breathe the rank air too deeply. She pressed the musk-scented cloth to her nose, for once thankful for Prescott’s generously applied perfume. After a moment, she leaned out. “It’s dark as pitch in there. Will you hand me the light after I go in?”

“You are not going in there.”

“I have to.”

“There might be r-a-t-s…”

Catherine shuddered. She was terrified of them ever since a nasty encounter years before.

“I might consider going in myself,” he offered seriously. “But I have an appointment this afternoon with a fair lady and I don’t want to sully my clothing.”

“No, just your reputation,” she retorted.

“A reputation is not nearly as plaguesome as an empty belly,” he replied smoothly. “Besides, since the woman I love does not return the favor, it’s a good way for me to mend my shattered heart.”

“You need a heart before it can be broken.”