Too Scot to Handle

by Grace Burrowes

  Anwen was in deadly earnest.

  “By all means, let’s put that chore behind us, and I can bid the boys farewell while I’m about it.”

  The orphanage smelled slightly mildewed on damp days, and today was no exception. Other scents blended with the damp—coal smoke, cooking, and something Anwen thought of as old books. Not a fragrance, but a unique scent she associated with this special place.

  “What do you mean, you’re bidding the boys farewell?”

  Rosalyn stopped on the first landing, the image of pastel fashion, right down to a large, riotously embroidered reticule.

  “Winthrop inveigled me into joining your committee, Anwen, but you clearly don’t need me anymore. You have the coin you sought, and I’ve lent this place my cachet long enough that finding new committee members should be easy. You mustn’t be greedy. You said it yourself: Many worthy charities deserve my support.”

  She glided up the steps before Anwen could fashion a suitably grateful reply that didn’t also sound relieved. Rosalyn was a puzzle, one who looked lovely and sounded lovely, but didn’t always act lovely, much less logically.

  Before Anwen had framed her response, Tom came barreling up from the lower floor.

  “Miss Anwen! It’s Saturday. You never come to visit on Saturday.”

  “Lady Rosalyn and I bring good news, Tom. Can you and the other boys meet us in the study room?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  “Thomas.” Lady Rosalyn’s cool voice from above stopped him halfway down the stairs. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  Tom’s face as he gazed up the stairwell was blank for an instant, then he flopped a bow. “Good day, your ladyship.” He was off before Lady Rosalyn could excuse him, scold him for running, or castigate him for speaking too loudly.

  His retreating steps echoed from the bowels of the house as Rosalyn descended to stand beside Anwen.

  “I admire you so, Anwen, for your devotion to these children, but if a boy can’t even recall how to address a lady, or to keep his voice down indoors, his deportment is sadly lacking. My head has begun to pain me terribly, and I think I’d best wait in the coach. You’ll wish the boys good-bye for me, and assure them I’ll always think of them fondly, won’t you?”

  “Of course.” If and when the boys noticed Lady Rosalyn was off lending her cachet elsewhere.

  Anwen went up to the third floor. The former detention room had been turned into a space where any boy could find peace and quiet if he wanted to spend time at his studies. A fern taken from the Moreland conservatory sat in the windowsill, and the chairs around the table bore matching cushions. The hearth sported a fire, albeit a modest one, and the floor was covered with an old rug.

  Luxurious it was not, but comfortable was a vast improvement over its previous incarnation.

  The boys joined her a moment later, all four looking anxious and trying to hide their worry behind eager good manners.

  “Please have a seat,” Anwen said. “I’m bringing wonderful news.”

  Her words did not appear to reassure them. They took chairs around the table, and Anwen seated herself at the head. She would ask Colin to teach the boys how to hold a chair for a lady, now that more pressing concerns had been tended to.

  “The card party was last night,” Anwen said, “and I’m overjoyed to tell you it was a rousing success. The guests were very generous, and my family will likely have a similar event every year. We can keep the doors to the House of Urchins open, gentlemen. Your home is secure.”

  The words brought a lump to her throat, and maybe the boys were touched as well, because none of them would meet her gaze.

  “Th-thank you,” Joe said, elbowing Dickie in the seat next to him.

  A chorus of thanks went around the table, and still, Anwen had the sense her message hadn’t sunk in.

  “We’ll have all the coal we need this winter, all the hot potatoes, all the blankets. We’ll be able to afford a physician if the younger boys take sick, and—is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Somebody kicked somebody else under the table.

  “What about the building?” John asked. “Hitchings says it’s falling down around our ears.”

  The unused wing had problems. “What else did Hitchings say?”

  “Tell her,” Dickie said, glowering at Tom. “You’re the one that heard ’em.”

  Tom was a sensitive soul—with sensitive hearing. Charlotte had the same gift. She could pick out conversations from across the room and catch every word.

  “Mr. Montague said no amount of money would set this place to rights, and the whole card party was a waste of time. We’ll close by Michaelmas.”

  “Just in time for cold weather,” Dickie added.

  “Just in time for hunt season, Mr. Montague said,” John went on. “We’ll be hunting, all right. For every meal and groat we can beg or steal.”

  The faces that had become open, even hopeful over the past several weeks were again pinched with worry and bitterness. These boys were one sunny day away from scooting down the drainpipe, and into the vast sewer of the London stews. Nothing—not the promise of hot meals, an education, eventual employment, even safety—could keep their faith in the House of Urchins alive in the face of Win Montague’s pronouncements.

  Rage such as Anwen had never experienced flooded her. What could she say that would make a difference to four children whose ability to hope and trust had been trampled too thoroughly and too often? What did she have to offer, when she’d been raised with every privilege?

  Only Joe would meet her gaze, and the longing she saw in his blue eyes was unbearable. The boys wanted what every child should be able to take for granted—hope. Hope for a life of meaning, for some security and comfort in a world where wealth was flaunted before them every day.

  She had nothing, no great speeches, no charming wit, no significant wealth of her own.

  Despair touched her, an old enemy, one she’d battled when she was even younger than these boys. This was what sat beneath the rage—the firsthand knowledge of how badly a child could be overwhelmed by life’s worst challenges. This was why her heart had been captured by homeless children with no one to champion them.

  Anwen Windham knew the temptation to give up. To slip out the window and down the drainpipe, never to be seen again.

  “I almost died,” she said, shoving to her feet. “I was younger than the lot of you, and I almost died, several times.”

  Whatever the boys had expected her to say, it wasn’t that.

  “But you didn’t die,” John said. “You’re here, and you’re fine.”

  He was asking a question, bless the boy. “I am fine, I’m better than fine. I’m in the pink of health, my family loves me, and I’m full of plans and dreams, but the fevers nearly took me. For weeks I could barely get out of bed to use the chamber pot. I couldn’t eat, I had to force myself to swallow even beef tea, and I was so tired of being sick I wanted to give up. I’d rally a bit, then relapse. The priest was summoned more than once.”

  “You wanted to die?” Tom asked.

  Joe stared at the fire, and his silence spoke volumes.

  John hunched his shoulders. “Every winter, it feels like that. Then you see some poor gin drunk who’s so far gone he’s not even shivering anymore, and it’s all you can do not to steal his coat. But you don’t—not yet—not until you’re as bad off as he is.”

  Oh, God, what these children had endured. All over again, Anwen wished she’d publicly humiliated Win Montague before all of polite society.

  “I did not die,” Anwen said. “I wanted to give up, to be where it didn’t hurt anymore, where I wasn’t tired anymore. I wanted the illness to let go of me, any way I could make that happen. I’d open my eyes, though, and my mother would be beside the bed, ready to spoon more tea into me or read me a story. I’d open my eyes again, and my papa would be there, playing solitaire on the counterpane. I’d not even open my eyes, but I’d know one of my sist
ers had broken the rules again and was napping beside me. I could not let them down. I had to try, and keep trying, and try some more after that.”

  As a child, she hadn’t been able to name that sense of obligation, but she could name it now, and be endlessly grateful for it.

  “You had family,” Tom said, not quite making it an accusation.

  “And you have me, and Lord Colin, and all the people who gave their diamonds, and emeralds, and pearls so you’d be warm this winter. You have each other, and if you’re ready to give up, I’m not. I’m far from ready to give up on children who deserve just as much love and care as I had.”

  She’d taken a risk, mentioning love, but honesty was the best policy, and nothing short of love had saved her life. Call it determination, devotion, familial loyalty, or any less intimidating term, but the motivating force had been love.

  Across the room, Joe, all alone at the end of the table, sniffed and swiped at his eyes with his sleeve.

  Anwen didn’t dare go to the boy, or she’d lose what little composure she had left, and forever embarrass him. Instead she passed him her handkerchief.

  “Keep that for me, Joseph, and I’ll keep a promise for you. You will not lose your home. You’ve worked too hard to make the House of Urchins an institution to be proud of, and Winthrop Montague is a horse’s arse.”

  John snickered, Dickie hooted, and Tom smiled.

  “He is that,” John agreed. “A lame horse’s arse. Sounds better when you say it.”

  “A spavined, lame horse’s arse,” John said, “and he has cow hocks.”

  They’d become quite the horsemen since the ponies had come to bide in the mews. While Anwen wondered who’d top John’s insult, and where the insults might end, Joe darted to the window and Tom followed him to peer around the fern.

  “Lord Colin’s here! I wish he’d draw Mr. Montague’s cork.”

  So did Anwen, and a bloody nose was the least of the damage she’d like to inflict on Winthrop Montague.

  “Will you tell him, Miss Anwen?” Dickie asked. “Tell him what Mr. Montague said?”

  “I will, though I’d ask you not to alarm the younger boys. There is rising damp in the unused wing, but the rest of the building seems sound enough. There’s rising damp in half the homes in London, and yet those houses still stand.”

  For a time, but rotten beams, crumbling plaster, and peeling wallpaper were inevitable results, and just the start of the decay that dampness in the walls caused. Win Montague was the social equivalent of rising damp, encroaching on the basis of arrogance and birth where he’d done nothing to earn a proper introduction.

  And he was frequently less than fragrant in close quarters too.

  “I’ll greet his lordship,” she said. “I think you boys should see how much generosity has been sent your way. We have enough gold and jewels to make any self-respecting pirate swoon.”

  An exaggeration, but not by much. Anwen left four smiling boys in the study, and sailed out the door, only to once again run smack into Lord Colin MacHugh.

  * * *

  “My lord, good morning!” Anwen’s greeting was cheerful but her eyes were suspiciously shiny.

  “Has somebody made you cry?” Colin asked, hands settling on her arms. “I’m not in a very tolerant mood, and I’d relish an opportunity to break a few heads.”

  The door behind her eased open. Tom, Dickie, John, and Joe peered out from the study room, their gazes carefully blank.

  “Mr. Montague made Miss Anwen cry,” John said. “More or less.”

  “He’s right,” Dickie said. “You should draw his cork.”

  “Plant him a facer,” Tom added, and Tom was usually the soul of diplomacy.

  Joe pantomimed a knee to the stones, which Anwen couldn’t see, because the boys were behind her.

  “I gather there’s trouble in paradise?”

  Anwen whirled away, back into the study. “I am so angry, trouble is a polite term. Please tell the boys the building isn’t going to be demolished over their very heads. Winthrop Montague said as much to Mr. Hitchings, and was overhead by one of the boys. Now they’re convinced no amount of coin can keep the House of Urchins afloat, just when our finances are surely coming right.”

  Him again. “Winthrop Montague is making all kinds of a plague of himself, isn’t he?”

  Anwen worried a nail, and nodded. Not in front of the boys.

  “Listen, ye wee scamps,” Colin said. “You have a home, no matter what. There’s rising damp all over the other wing, but that’s not unusual in an old building that’s been neglected. This wing is sound. Even if it’s not sound, you’re hard workers, well-mannered, good at most anything you turn your hands to, and done with a life on the streets. My word on that as a gentleman.”

  He added a glower worthy of his sainted papa so the children would know he meant business.

  “We weren’t worried,” Tom said. “We were mad at Mr. Montague. Bloke ought to be looking out for the little ones, not scarpering off to his house parties and hunt balls.”

  Mutters of assent sounded from John and Dick, while Joe maintained his characteristic silence.

  “I told them you wouldn’t let them down,” Anwen said.

  Such faith she had. “If you boys will excuse us, Miss Anwen and I have a few things to discuss regarding the card party. I know you’ll worry, but don’t do anything foolish because of it. I’ll get Mr. Montague sorted out.”

  “Sort ’im out with your fives,” Dickie said. “He upset Miss Anwen.”

  Anwen tousled Dickie’s hair, and for once the other boys kept their elbows to themselves.

  “Madam, if you could spare me a few minutes?” Colin asked.

  “We’ll be back,” Anwen said. “I want to show the boys the pirate’s treasure that resulted from the card party.”

  A good idea, because what the children could see, they’d believe.

  Colin stole a quick kiss in the corridor, and Anwen stole a not-so-quick kiss too.

  “We have to talk,” Colin said. “I gather Montague made a pest of himself last night?”

  “Not here,” Anwen said, “and I left Lady Rosalyn waiting in the coach. She’s quit the committee, by the way. I’ll get around to telling the boys that if they bring it up.”

  “She is the least of our problems,” Colin said, leading Anwen across the corridor into an empty classroom. Not a single lamp had been lit, so the space was gloomy, chilly, and quiet. “I sent her on her way, and told her I’d take you home. What happened between you and Montague last night?”

  “He acted very oddly,” Anwen said, rubbing her arms and pacing between the desks. “He attempted to flirt, which was pathetic, and when I told him you’d asked to pay your addresses, he became quite toplofty.”

  A euphemism for the ages, no doubt. “I promise not to call him out, love.”

  “Thank you. A lady does worry.”

  Anwen had male cousins, and thus she still looked worried.

  Colin had sisters, and he had Anwen. “I won’t even invite him into the ring at Jackson’s Salon,” he said, stalking closer to her. “I won’t provoke him or any of his toadies into calling me out.” He came to a halt immediately before her. “I won’t disappoint you, Anwen. The children are depending on us.”

  Her shoulders relaxed and she slipped her arms around him. For a moment, Colin simply held her, telling her without words that she wasn’t alone with whatever challenges she faced.

  And neither was he. The realization warmed his heart as no drinking party with the fellows ever could.

  “Winthrop Montague is a disgrace,” Anwen said, resting her cheek against Colin’s chest. “He expressed dismay that you’d consider offering for me, not because you have wealth, a title, good looks, and charm in abundance, while I’m the least impressive Windham ever to make her bow. He was wroth with you for poaching on his preserves.”

  His preserves. To Winthrop Montague, anything he desired was or should be his. Colin’s heart belonged to
Anwen, but she was very much her own person. How could even Montague not see that?

  “Did you laugh at him?” A humiliated Winthrop Montague was a dangerous creature.

  “His plan was to inform you that he’d beat you past the post, as it were, and was already courting me. You were to decamp in the interests of gentlemanly honor, and Mr. Montague could congratulate himself on earning my undying gratitude as well as my settlements merely by lifting his eyebrow and waving you off. I found that disgusting rather than amusing, Colin. Is he daft?”

  Colin could feel the anger in her, and not a little bewilderment, but worse—why had he promised not to beat the idiot to a pulp?—fear.

  Anwen was afraid, and as arrogant as Montague was, as influential as he could be, her fear was understandable.

  “Montague is everything detestable about the wealthy aristocrat,” Colin said, “writ in a large, sloppy hand. He told me if I persist in courting you, he’ll have this building condemned. I’m to run back to Scotland and stay there, lest I make you miserable for the rest of your days. By marrying you, Montague is doing me a favor. He assured me of this, even as he threatened to pitch the boys back into the slums.”

  Maybe Colin ought not to have shared that last bit, about doing him a favor, because Anwen went ominously still.

  “Put out his lights, Colin. Persuade Mrs. Bellingham to serve him the cut direct at the fashionable hour. Break his perfect nose in three places—oh, what am I saying? That would set no kind of example for the boys. Can he have the building condemned?”

  Everything in Colin wanted to offer platitudes and reassurances, though Anwen would skewer him for doubting her fortitude.

  “His father is an earl, Anwen, and the other wing is in poor condition. We must assume Winthrop’s threat is sincere, and be about finding homes for the children.”

  She shifted, dropping her forehead against his sternum, a posture of weariness, but not defeat. “I was afraid you’d say that. I hate to think of them having to part from each other, and I just promised them their home is secure.”