No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(25)

Julia looked down at Charlie. “I understand they are hard at work in the kitchen.”

“Who? Them boys?”

“Unless you have seen them elsewhere, Mr. Goring, that seems to be the case.”

He stuck out his lower lip. “If you don’t mind, my lady, I’ll find my own breakfast. Can I have leave?”

“Certainly. But don’t be gone too long, Mr. Goring. I may have need of you later. Mr. Wraxall has pointed out several places in need of repair.”

He doffed his cap and was gone.

Charlie opened the door to the dining room and led her inside. The two tables that stood side by side and ran the length of the room had been set with the mismatched dishes she’d found when she came here. Prior to her arrival, the boys had served themselves from a communal pot, but Julia thought it important to eat meals seated together like a family. She’d also intended to teach the boys some table manners, although she had not been overly successful in that endeavor. Yet.

Her mind flashed back to all of the house parties she’d attended at country estates. When she’d come down to breakfast at ten or eleven in the morning, not seven or eight, the tables had been covered in expensive linen and set with the best china, silver, and crystal. A footman would pull out her chair and pour her chocolate, and she’d serve herself from a sideboard laden with so many delectable dishes she had difficulty choosing. As she ate, she’d listened to discussions of poetry, literature, and music. And she’d faced windows that overlooked rolling hills and fabulous gardens.

Now, her standards were simpler. Today, she was pleased to see the dishes set at each chair, the cheap silverware beside them and laid straight, if not necessarily on the correct side. The curtains had been parted to let in the morning light. One of the four windows had broken and been replaced by a large board some time ago, but the others were moderately clean and the light filtering through them created a patchwork of squares on the wooden floor below.

“Am I to sit and wait?” she asked Charlie.

He nodded, then ran off in the direction of the kitchen. Julia sat in the chair at the head of the table where the younger boys ate. Mrs. Fleming had eaten at the table with the older boys when she’d stayed for meals, but Julia supposed Mr. Wraxall could take that seat—for today only.

It had been some time since Julia had had any time to herself to think or reflect, and as she looked about the room, she remembered the improvements she’d planned. She’d wanted that window replaced, new curtains, and tablecloths for the tables.

The cook had told her there were tablecloths in a storage room, but she’d advised against using them, since it would mean more washing. Though Julia now had a maid coming once a week, and a few tablecloths would not add too much to her load. If only she could squeeze a few extra pounds from the board of directors, she might be able to have the maid come twice a week. Except the board was made up of a half-dozen titled men whose wives had cajoled them into serving and who had very little interest in the orphans or Sunnybrooke. Since she’d taken over, the board had only met once and that was to accept her donation to the orphanage and to ensure she had her father’s permission to concern herself with matters in the orphanage.

Her father had written the check that would ensure the St. Maurs were the leading benefactors of the orphanage and thus had some say in its day-to-day operations, and he’d reluctantly given his consent for her to live there a few days a month. She’d never forget his pale, drawn face as she’d stood in the grand vestibule of their town house in Mayfair, waiting for the coachman to finish loading her things and drive her to Spitalfields.

“Julia, it has been six months. You cannot think Harriett would want you to leave your family and go to live with orphans.”

They’d had the argument before, and she’d said all she wanted to say. She wasn’t leaving because Harriett was dead or because her mother was dead or because the house was silent as a tomb. She was leaving because Davy was not dead, and she couldn’t stand to be in the place where everywhere she looked she thought of him. But she would never see him again, and she could only think of one way to fill the ragged hole in her heart, and that was to take these little orphan boys under her wing and do what no one else in the world seemed to want to do—love them.

And so she’d straightened her back and looked her father in the eye. “An empty town house is not a family. There’s nothing to keep me here, Father. I’m three and twenty, well past my majority. If I want to ruin my chances at marriage by concerning myself with the upkeep of an orphanage, then I hurt no one but myself.”

She didn’t want to wound her father, but she also did not want him to hold out hope she would return to her life before. She did not expect him to come after her. Her father spent all his time at his club or in the Lords. Anything else, he delegated to others. If he could have delegated his need to use the chamber pot to a lackey, the Earl of St. Maur would have done so. Thus, it did not surprise her that he had sent someone to fetch her home. The fact that it was a former soldier was a bit unnerving. Perhaps her father was more serious about her returning home than he had been in the past.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the scuffling of feet in the corridor, and a moment later, Robbie opened the door to admit Michael and George carrying one large pot and Angus and Sean carrying a smaller one to the sideboard. Ralph entered next with a basket, followed by Walter and Billy, who carried teapots. The younger boys carried serving utensils and the whole lot of them were talking all at once in an excited cacophony.