Love Inspired Historical January 2015 Box Set: Wolf Creek Father\Cowboy Seeks a Bride\Falling for the Enemy\Accidental Fiancee (85 page)

Max stood tall and straight.

“Right you are, Max. God is not punishing me. But I am bearing the consequences of my choices. I interfered, I compounded the problem with a solution God would never countenance, and I let my enchanting rake...enchant me.

“I will fix it, have no fear. I know God's grace will sustain me. And I will go today and try to do His work instead of filling my remaining days here in mindless gaiety.

“But, Max, I fear I will miss my rake when all is done. I must prepare my heart for that.”

The hackney finally arrived, and her footman handed her in and climbed on the box with the driver. When he gave him the address, the driver leaned over and said, “Don't think ye want yer lady goin' to that part of town, bloke. Ain't 'er type of Society if you get my meanin'.”

The footman passed that information along to Lady Grace, but she would not be dissuaded.

As she looked out the window she began to notice real changes in the area the hackney was now passing through. How could such squalor exist only a few miles away from the pristine houses of the rich?

Adults and children seemed to be wandering aimlessly, not paying any attention to the muck and filth they walked in. Some men were drinking out of bottles on their doorsteps, shooing away little ones that asked for some. Grace shuddered. All her life she had dealt with the poor and sick. But they had been part of her “family”—her family's responsibility to the tenants on their estate. She had seen nothing like this. She finally had to put her handkerchief to her nose.

When the hackney stopped in front of the building that was supposed to be the orphanage, her thoughts of the area around it flew from her head. The building was nothing but a ruin, unpainted and in bad repair. It appeared that it stayed standing only because the buildings on either side were falling against it. Could someone actually house children here?

As the footman helped her from the hackney, she instructed him to return by four o'clock.

“If I might say so, miss, I don't think I should let you go in there alone. The driver can wait a bit to be sure it's safe. I can pay him well enough.”

“No, Ned, Jamison may have need of you. What harm could there be to me if a group of children live here? Besides, I sent a note ahead informing them I was coming, so they should be expecting me. Just be sure and be back by four, as I have an appointment with Lord Weston at five.” She could see that he was torn, and smiled at him. “Go, go, all will be well.”

As Grace walked up to the doorway, she tripped over broken bricks in the sidewalk.
I should have brought some paper with me to make a list of what is needed.
This place could use a complete transformation. She supposed a mental list would have to do.

When she knocked on the door she was met by a heavyset woman wearing a dirty apron and trying to put her unkempt hair into her cap. She smelled of onions and perspiration.

“Ye be Lady Endicott?” she asked. “How fine to 'ave ye visitin' our wee ones. They don't get many and they'll be mighty pleased, they will. I'm Mrs. Thatcher, the 'ousekeeper and cook, so I can be tellin' ye anythin' ye want to know.”

Grace was led to a parlor of sorts, where she would have been afraid to sit on anything, as dirty as it was. “Ye just wait 'ere, my lady. I'll 'ave a few of the mites brought to ye over the tea tray.”

The woman seemed affable, though coarse in appearance and manner, so Grace was determined to be friendly and personable. “That will not be necessary, Mrs. Thatcher. I thank you, though. I would rather go to where the children are. I wish to meet them and see in what manner I might be of help.”

Mrs. Thatcher's expansive bosom visibly shook as she got more nervous. “I don't know yer ladyship. Mr. Brownlow, the caretaker, 'e ain't in until Thursday next, and 'e usually does that sort of thing. Maybe ye should come back then.”

“My hackney is gone now,” Grace stated. She could see that the woman was scared, and became worried about what she might see that would upset the housekeeper so much. Grace tried to calm her. “You will do fine, Mrs. Thatcher. I would just like to see the children.”

“Well, they be in work period now, so's they're in the big room. Come this way.”

Grace audibly gasped at the sight that greeted her. She guessed there were fifty children crammed into Mrs. Thatcher's “big” room. And there was no noise except what came from their work. They were mostly little girls, and the few that turned at the sound of the door opening were hollow-eyed and thin. So very thin. She swiped at the tears on her cheeks and walked down a row, lightly touching one on the head or one on the shoulder. On the whole, if they noticed, they gave no indication. Their vacant eyes remained on their work.

Oh, God, show me how to go on as I see Your children, the ones You loved having around You, suffer in this way. Where would You have me begin in a task this onerous?

Grace bent to speak to one tiny girl, embarrassed that she sniffled as she did so. These children should be the ones crying. “Hello, sweetheart, my name is Grace. What is yours?”

“Jane, miss,” the child whispered simply.

“Speak up to the grand lady. Say ‘yes ma'am.'” The housekeeper tsked. “I told ye they don't get many visitors, my lady.”

Grace ignored the woman, who could watch and treat children this way. “Jane is a very pretty name,” she said, smiling down at the little girl. “What is it that you are working on so very hard?”

The child did not answer, but Mrs. Thatcher did. “The little 'uns don't know, my lady, they—”

“Mrs. Thatcher, pray let the children speak to me as they will. I would know what they have to say.”

The heavyset woman moved back a step, mumbling under her breath. Grace did not care one iota. She would continue to seek answers until she knew what to do. As she walked past a few of the children, she noticed that some were swimming in their clothes, while others had collars too tight and pant legs too short. And none of the clothes looked as if they had been washed recently, or maybe ever.

She could not break down here; she must be strong for these children. She stopped once again next to a very young girl. They were all so small it was difficult to guess their ages, but this one could not have been more than three or four, yet she was working as hard as all the others.

Grace knelt down beside her, no longer caring about dirtying her gown or her gloves. “Hello, darling. Can you tell me how old you are?”

Mrs. Thatcher started to speak, and Grace held up her hand to stop her. She put her finger under the little girl's chin to raise her face to her own. “Just tell me your name, little one. That will suffice for now.”

“Jane,” she whispered.

“Oh, there are two Janes. You must be very close friends.”

The little girl then said, “Six.”

Grace was very surprised. “Are you sure you are six, darling? That would be quite old,” she said, smiling.

“Jane six.”

“Very well, Mrs. Thatcher, explain this to me,” she said, perilously near rudeness. “This little girl is no more six than I am.”

The housekeeper was no longer so talkative.

“Very well, I'll go directly to Mr....Brownlow, did you say? Perhaps he does not know enough about what goes on here.”

“Yes, 'e knows, my lady. I ain't takin' the blame for this. She means she's Jane number six.”

This was too much. “Why is she Jane number six, Mrs. Thatcher? Do you have so many Janes then?”

“Many come 'ere not knowin' who they be, my lady. We can't think up new names for all of 'em.”

Grace fought back tears again, but this time out of anger. “Little Jane, would you like to come outside and play with me?”

“They...they don't 'ave no time to play, yer ladyship, ma'am.” The woman cleared her throat. “The shops keeps us supplied with jobs to keep 'em busy. These is the cobbler's shoes. The tykes learn trades, ye see.”

“I will come visit you again, Jane,” Grace said with her sweetest smile. Then she turned to the housekeeper, unable to hide the anger from her very soul. “I want a tour of this
hovel
from top to bottom. I want to see where these children sleep, bathe and eat. I want to see your kitchen and what they eat. And I want to meet all of the staff, if there is anyone here other than you.”

Anyone who knew Grace would recognize the determination behind her demands and the trouble it meant. She certainly hoped it was conveyed to this woman, as well.

Chapter Ten

B
randon knocked on the door at three o'clock, hoping Grace would not mind that he was early. By Jove, he had missed her, and he could not remember when he had ever missed anyone! The oddest part was that they had seen each other at some point every day for the past week. But he felt as if he had to share her with the
ton.
He missed
her,
her wit, her smile when she tried not to, her conversation and those eyes that changed color with her mood and allowed him glimpses into her soul. Sometimes he would intentionally say something to provoke her just to see them flash!

The park would be much less crowded now and he was looking forward to two hours of unadulterated Grace.

Jamison slowly opened the door and allowed Lord Weston to enter. “We were not expecting you until five, my lord,” he mumbled.

Brandon was beginning to like old Jamison. Grace had explained he had been with the family his whole life. They had talked to him of retirement with a pension that would allow him to live his life in relative ease, but as it had only caused a fierce tirade, and since they visited Town so seldom, he remained a fixture there.

“I know, old chap, I am very early. Dare I hope that Lady Grace is at home?”

“No she is not at home. And she is where she shouldn't be.” The vehemence in the butler's voice shocked him; Brandon had never heard the retainer say so many words at one time or show such emotion.

“Her and that hunk of metal she calls Max, talking like it's an everyday thing. Then using footmen and hackneys, as if she does not have a maid and we don't have a carriage. I do not go for it, your lordship,” Jamison exclaimed, completely confusing Brandon.

He did not like the sound of anything he had heard, but decided he would address the issues in order. “What has this got to do with Max?” he asked in the calmest voice he could conjure up.

“There is no use getting upset over it, your lordship, sir,” Jamison mumbled, heading over to the suit of armor. He buffed a spot on Max's arm and wheezed in exhaustion. “Says
this
is her idea of the perfect man, the strong, silent type, she says. Been saying it since she was ten years old. Max just keeps his watch and listens to Lady Grace when she talks.”

Brandon smiled deep inside as he pictured Grace talking to her knight in shining armor. He supposed nothing less would do for her. But what of the rest of the story?

“Jamison, what were you saying about footmen and hackneys? Is she not with Lady Lydia or her aunt?”

“No, your lordship. Miss Lydia is with that nice Lord Hendricks.” The butler resumed his injured tone. “Mrs. Burstow is watching some foolish balloon. And Lady Grace takes it into her head to do her good deeds when there is no one here to accompany her. And she will not take the carriage because
Max
doesn't think it is honorable.” Jamison was rambling and Brandon was getting worried.

“Are you telling me Lady Grace went somewhere alone in a hackney?”

“No, she took a footman, but she sent him back as soon as she got there. She said he was to pick her up again at four, as she had to meet you at five.”

“Where did she go, man?” Brandon asked in a voice that was harsher than he meant it to be.

“To some orphanage. She ministers to everyone and no one takes care of her. She cannot stand to be idle, that one. And more people are better off because of it,” he added.

Brandon nearly jumped out of his skin. “Some orphanage? What orphanage?”

Jamison almost fell over the deacon's bench at the noise reverberating around the hall.

“Jamison, most of them are mere hovels in shady back streets. If she is out there alone, she could be in danger.” Blast! What had she done?

“I don't know if I caught the name. She told Max, not me,” the usually stoic butler protested.

Brandon drew his hands through his hair, then grabbed the old retainer gently by the shoulders. “Can you summon the footman who accompanied her? I must know the address.”

“I'm sorry, sir, he just left to go get her.”

“Jamison, Max is not alive. I cannot ask him where she went. Please think, man. Think. She may be in real danger. Where did she tell you, I mean Max, that she was going?

“She shouldn't be in any danger, your lordship. She knows how to take care of herself.”

Brandon was as frustrated as he had ever been in his life.

“I think she told Max someplace with a
B
in it. Brackett, mayhap?”

“Brackett, Brackett...
Baxter?
Jamison, could that have been what she said?” He gently shook the old man's shoulders to keep his attention.

“Yes, I think that may have been it.”

Brandon wasted no more time. He grabbed his hat and gloves and ran back out the door, jumping into his curricle as fast as he could. What on earth was she about? Baxter Street Orphanage had the lowest reputation in London and was situated in the worst part of Town. How had she even heard about it? And what in blazes made her go there alone?

For the first time in a long time Brandon was really afraid. He gave orders to his groom to be quick.

This must be what Grace meant when she talked of being able to trust only one thing when there was no one or nothing else to trust. When you couldn't
do
anything. He had a tight grip on the reins through the busy London streets, but he was asking Grace's God to protect her.

* * *

Demanding paper and pencil, Grace had taken notes on every inch of the orphanage. She wiped back angry tears as she wrote, and berated Mrs. Thatcher. This was not an orphanage, it was a disgrace. Children were underfed and overworked. They lived in the most unsanitary conditions she had ever seen, could ever have imagined. And the filth and squalor made Grace physically and emotionally sick to her stomach. Her stables were cleaner than this house.

And those sad, vacant faces—faces she thought would haunt her dreams for the rest of her life.

God, please protect these children until I can see Your way to take care of it. Give me boldness to demand the cleanliness, nutrition and unconditional love that as Your children they deserve.

“I have seen quite enough, Mrs. Thatcher. You may tell Mr. Brownlow that I will be back next Thursday, and I will want to see the books, as well.”

“We does our best, my lady, 'onest we does,” cried Mrs. Thatcher into her dirty apron.

Grace could not even summon the energy to intimidate the woman. She was too brokenhearted. “You will do better from now on or you will be gone. Do you understand?” How could anyone treat other human beings this way? Her eyes filled with tears again as she turned away from the woman at the door. She must think. She must not let this overwhelm her to the point of distraction or inaction.

She would notify the authorities. She would find out who administered such places, and she would notify them. She would hound these rich Londoners to get this changed. If all the women she knew gave the price of even one of their gowns, those children would have decent food to eat for a year. If necessary, she would drag each of them here, to see the vileness only streets away from where they lived and languished. She would make every last one of them feel guilty.

But how could she possibly leave the children there now? They were so small. They were devoid of any emotion. Had they learned that from whoever put them there or had they become that way at the orphanage? Should she send for some things and stay with them until that horrid caretaker visited again?

She could get them bathed. She could cook; it would be a simple meal but it would be proper nourishment. She could take them out-of-doors. She shook her head as tears started anew. There was no fresh air anywhere near this house. Could she take a couple of them home with her now? She might be able to get the horror out of her mind if she thought she was at least helping a few. Yet how would she ever choose?

She would talk to her aunt when she got home. Aunt Aggie would know where to start with the ladies of the
ton.

Having walked in circles outside the door, crying uncontrollably, Grace did not notice that the hackney was not waiting at the end of the walk. She looked at her watch and cried again in additional frustration. It was only three forty-five. She could
not
go into that house again when she could do nothing to make life better for those children. She took herself to the end of the walkway, now shivering from what she had seen, trying not to notice the children outside the orphanage running through the mire in the streets. On the way here, she'd thought those urchins were the most unfortunate souls she had ever seen. Now she knew the children inside deserved that title.

It wasn't until a man bumped into her, almost knocking her down, that she realized her mistake in waiting out-of-doors. “Well, what 'ave we 'ere, gents? Looks like a fish out o' water, don't it?”

There were three of them and she had to blot her tears with her handkerchief to see them. They were blocking her way back to the orphanage, but she was sure the hackney would be along any moment.
God, protect me from the evils of this place.

They began to push her, one by one, knocking her against each other like balls on a billiard table. They smelled of liquor and spoke disgusting taunts as they toyed with her. She was more scared than she had ever been. Each time they pushed her the force was harder; as they slowly closed in, hands bruised her arms as they grabbed her again and again. She needed to do something before they completely cut off any line of escape she had. When the one who had been mocking and jeering pushed her again into the other two, she lowered her head and turned her shoulders to use the force with which they pushed her to divide them. Then she began to quickly walk away. There were many people outside who could help her once she was free of the men.

“Just leave me be,” she shouted over her shoulder. “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me... '” She had to catch her breath and could not finish the verse.

The men overcame her easily.

“You jest com wif us and we'll treat you real nice. You give me that little purse you got there, we'll all go to 'arry's place and...get to know each ofer better.”

Grace was too frightened to think. She lifted her skirts and began to run, knowing there was no way to handle all three of them. She screamed as she ran, calling for help from those lounging in doorways and sitting on stoops, but all they did was watch.

She knew her pursuers were gaining ground, and she tried to reach into her reticule as she ran. By not looking ahead of her, she found it quite a surprise when she collided with the body of a man, who put out his arms to steady her. She pummeled his chest, screaming, “Let me go, I am armed!”

She almost fell to her knees when she heard Brandon,
her
Brandon, say, “Go to my curricle, Grace, and take the horses' heads. My groom cannot come to me unless someone takes their reins.”

“Oh, thank You, God,” she cried, as she threw her arms around his middle. She heard the men stopping behind her and let go of him, but only to stand beside him.

“Well, well, a dandified gent,” said the slimy man who had originally accosted her. “But I expect the gov'ner 'ere is carryin' quite a 'eavy purse 'imself. Could be our lucky day.”

“I don't know about your lucky day,” Brandon said, in a voice so devoid of emotion it scared even her. “But you will soon be meeting a heavy reckoning if you do not walk away. Now!”

One of the other two laughed. “'Ey, Burt, these two dainties think they can take on all free of us.”

The next thing Grace knew, Brandon had grabbed the nearest ruffian's arm and bent it up behind his back, effectively turning the man to face his friends. It happened so fast, Grace was amazed.

“Perhaps,” Brandon said, as he bent the attacker's arm a little higher, “you two would like to do your friend a favor and keep him from having his arm broken in several places. Turn around and walk away, and maybe, just maybe, you will come out of this without serious harm.”

The man's scream as Brandon bent his arm farther startled Grace. “Do as 'e says. 'E's breakin' me arm!”

From behind his back, one of the other two men drew a knife and began to come slowly at Brandon and his captive. He kept tossing the blade back and forth between his hands as if he would strike at any moment. Grace heard Brandon's groom jump to the ground, but he could not leave the curricle knowing any noise might bolt the horses. She didn't know what to do, but she could not leave him as the man with the knife took a step closer.

“Very well,” Brandon replied, “we'll do it your way.”

Grace thought she actually heard the man's arm break as Brandon threw him to the side, ready now to face the knife-wielding one. She was shaking so hard and was so scared for Brandon she almost forgot her reticule. But she reached in and pulled out the small palm pistol her father had taught her to shoot, and told her always to carry. With shaking hands she aimed it at the man with the knife.

“You st-stay th-there,” she said, trying to sound brave, but stuttering to get the words out. She pointed a pistol at the thug's chest. The third man took off running, as the original attacker lay moaning on the street. Grace noticed that those who had been previously oblivious to her trouble now came closer to watch the show being played out before them. Was this type of thing all the entertainment they received in their dreadful lives? Was this who those little children in the orphanage would grow up to be?

Grace returned her attention to the man with the knife. She thought she saw fear in his eyes as he watched her warily.

“Ain't no woman gonna shoot a man. And even if she did,” he sneered, “she'd miss by a mile and I'd 'ave you both at me mercy.” His looks belied his words. He was worried. She tried to steady her hands. “Ye know that as well as I does, guv'ner.”