“The wee one has only been here a day. Give her time. She is strong.” Mrs. Simpkins gently squeezed the little girl’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.
Little Amy had arrived yesterday, and already the tiny, amber-haired toddler threatened to steal Nora’s heart. A friend of the child’s mother had delivered her. Circumstances forced Amy’s mother into prostitution to survive and she had died of syphilis. Nora knew little about the disease, it not being a subject considered suitable for young ladies. However, she understood it was a horrible death. She shuddered, recalling the moment the child arrived. The woman who brought Amy handed the crying child to Nora at the door.
“I wrote everything I knew about her on the note in her bundle,” the woman said, pointing to the knotted shawl sitting on the step. “I would keep her, but I know naught about children. Her mother loved Amy very much. She was a kind woman who did what she must to survive. Please—you will find me if I can help Amy?” she said, brushing away tears. “She knows me as Auntie Gemma,” the woman added before turning and rushing down the street, clearly eager to distance herself from the task she had undertaken.
The small child’s story made Nora’s eyes mist as she recollected it and, out of instinct, she pulled the child closer to her own heart. Nora knew that each child in the room had a story equally sad, and she could not allow herself to dissolve into tears with each one. These children needed strength and permanence. She would work hard to give them that. If her idea had merit, it could help some children to stay with their mothers. Buoyed by her thoughts, she looked around once more.
The orphanage which had once occupied the building had closed about ten years past. Although Grandmama owned the building, she had not had the will to open it again, as Grandpapa had died about the same time. Eager to assist those ‘thrown on the parish’, Nora had found a willing partner in her grandmother, and felt fortunate to have talked her family into reopening the building—although her uncle had threatened to sell it on many occasions, citing its uselessness. According to Aunt Sophie, they were at low water because of his gambling debts. She would be exceedingly worried if Uncle controlled the property, yet she need not be concerned. Papa had informed her shortly after her grandmother discussed reopening the orphanage, that Grandmama owned the property, as it had been part of her wedding portion. Thank goodness, Grandmama holds the deed to this building.
The whimpering stopped at last as the small child stilled in her arms, content to sleep. Deciding to let the child sleep, Nora walked to her room and took a chair in the corner, careful not to disturb Amy. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with her own need for sleep.
Chapter 3
Two days later.
Free of the fever caused by the knife wound, and healed sufficiently, Colin determined he needed fresh air. He intended to take advantage of the clear London skies this morning presented. Adjusting his waistcoat, he withdrew the folded paper from his pocket, shaking it open. Finally! Here was a chance to set the wheels in motion for the fencing club he and his brother had talked about for years. Winning this building had become a prompt in his mind to make it happen. He would have the building renovated to his brother’s specifications and Jonathan would run it. He was the expert in the duello. Their father had encouraged the skill, often sparring with his sons. Colin considered himself more than proficient at the art of fencing; however, Jonathan’s skill was far beyond mere competence. He almost equaled the legendary Angelo.
Besides, Colin reasoned, he was much too busy to run a club. He had taken the bet on faith, being previously unaware of the building’s existence, let alone having knowledge of its condition. Upon reflection, there had been little—if not naught—trustworthy about Wilford Whitton. The nasty knife wound in his own arm, that was still in danger of infection, was proof of that. However, he could no longer tolerate staring at the four walls of his room.
Still involved with the Crown, and now with his estate, Colin found fencing an excellent way of releasing pent up emotion and helping him to feel bobbish. He felt sure this entertainment would also be a welcome diversion within his set at the Wicked Earl’s Club. The gentlemen met almost nightly, and no matter the requirement for amusement, the club could, for the most part, meet it. As yet, it had not provided a fencing saloon.
The sport itself had diminished somewhat in status, overtaken by the popularity of shooting; however, it remained an effective and punishing method of defense that, if vigorously practiced, kept a gentleman’s body at peak performance.
Caught up in the excitement of his thoughts, he picked up his cane and whipped it into a parry at an imaginary opponent—only to be immediately reminded of the stitches he had received only two days ago.
His arm ached, and that Whitton had caused it pricked his pride. He should have been more careful, expecting something from the man. He pulled out his pocket watch, mindful that Bergen and Lord Morray were meeting with him soon.
Where was Joseph? His valet was taking an inordinate amount of time to find a suitable coat. He fingered the frilled cuffs of his shirt distractedly. The man had pursed his lips anxiously when the bandage around Colin’s upper arm did not easily fit inside the brown wool coat he had
