Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(45)

Last night he’d made her feel beautiful and desired. This morning he’d made her feel small and stupid. No doubt she’d do well to take the duchess’s advice: find some phlegm, and refuse to feel anything.

But that just wasn’t her. And if she lost herself this week, she’d have nothing left.

As they moved through the Foundling Hospital, the duchess kept up a steady monologue. “This establishment was founded last century by Sir Thomas Coram and several of London’s leading men—noblemen, tradesmen, the artists whose work you see displayed. The fifth Duke of Halford was among the original governors, and each of his successors has continued the tradition.”

Pauline didn’t think the current Duke of Halford cared a whit. He was so eager to be done with this place, both she and the duchess were trotting to keep pace with his long strides. If he didn’t wish to be here, she couldn’t understand why he’d come.

Once they passed out of the public rooms and into the actual home, the building’s decor became markedly more austere. Evidently the palatial splendor was for show, not for the foundlings’ benefit.

They passed a wide green courtyard filled with hundreds of children. All boys, clad in identical brown uniforms and arranged in orderly files.

“There are so many,” Pauline murmured.

The duchess nodded. “And those are only the boys of school age. There are just as many girls in the other wing. And hundreds of younger children are spread throughout the surrounding counties. They’re accepted as infants when their mothers surrender them, but then sent to foster families until school age.”

“And then they’re removed from those families again? That must be doubly cruel, to lose not only the mothers who birthed them, but then the only mother they’ve known.”

“Still, they’re better off than many,” the duchess said. “They have their basic needs met, their education provided. When they’re old enough, they have help finding posts in trade or in service. Our own Margaret in the scullery at Halford House was raised here, as were several grooms and gardeners at the Cumberland estate.”

“It’s very good of you to think of them.”

“We have a duty, Miss Simms. For those of our rank and privilege, it is not enough to mean well. One must do some good.”

The words prodded a tender place inside her. All her life she’d dreamed of doing better—for herself, and for her sister. So far she hadn’t achieved even that. But the Duchess of Halford possessed the power, confidence, and funds to do good for whole swaths of people in need. It was a grand step up from dropping pennies in the church box.

Suddenly, the duke halted mid-step. “What is that miserable urchin wearing?”

He nodded toward a bench in the corridor. On it sat a child—a boy of perhaps eight or nine years. He was wearing the same brown uniform all the foundlings wore, but it was capped by a malformed knitted object, fashioned from yarn in an unfortunate shade of green.

To Pauline’s eye, the mess of yarn appeared to be an abandoned sleeve, but the boy had the thing pulled over his head. It seized his crown in a lopsided, putrid-green hug, covering one eyebrow and ear entirely and riding high above his temple on the other side.

She fought a smile. It could only be the duchess’s handiwork.

“What is that?” the duke repeated.

“I believe it’s a cap,” Pauline offered.

“It’s a travesty.” The duke approached the youth. “You there, lad. Let me have that cap.”

The boy shrank from him, clutching one hand to his head and shielding his face with the other. He probably assumed that defensive posture often. He was a smallish child, Pauline noted. Pale and thin, with a fading bruise on his left jaw. Bullied by the larger boys, no doubt.

“You don’t want to give it up? Fine.” Halford removed his own brimmed felt beaver and held it out. “Here.”

“Wh-What?” the boy stammered.

“I’m offering you an even trade. My fine, tall new hat for your . . . thing.”

The perplexed boy removed his knitted headgear, and the two of them made the exchange.

“Go on, then,” the duke said, once the boy had the beaver in hand. “Put it on.”

The boy obeyed, placing the duke’s hat on his head. The thing came down to his ears, but by tipping the brim back and peering in the glass of a nearby window, he was able to survey his reflection.

It was probably because he was craning on tiptoe, but . . . Pauline could have sworn the boy looked three inches taller. A dangerous pang snatched at her heart.

“What’s your name?” the duke asked.

“Hubert. Hubert Terrapin.”

“Did they give you that name here, too?”

The boy nodded glumly.

“Well, at least the hat suits you,” said the duke. He balled the tangle of green yarn in his hand. “Chin up, then. I know you’re a foundling, but surely things aren’t as bad as this.”

The duchess cleared her throat with impatience, and their group continued down the corridor.

As they walked, Pauline couldn’t help but steal glances at the duke. It was such a slippery thing, her disgust with him. At the slightest sign of decency on his part, the anger began to wriggle out of her grasp.

She tightened her hand in a fist. So he’d given a foundling his hat. What of it? He had dozens of hats, and could buy dozens more. Throwing money around didn’t make him a good man. It just made him a wealthy man.