Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage] (2 page)

“You don’t say,” Horace interjected with a smile.

Ignoring him, Marcus continued, “—who had no interest whatsoever in Andersen Hall. Truth be told, I was quite adamant when I left that I would
never
cross that threshold again. For me to suddenly take an interest in serving the institution is, if I may be frank, absurd. And would be viewed as suspect.”

“Well, Horace,” Wellington turned to the major general. “What do you think, now?”

“It’s water under the bridge.” Horace waved a hand. “We can craft a story where you almost died. The brush with death brought you around, made you see the error of your ways.”

“But why would I take my leave from the army?”

“Your injuries, of course,” Wellington supplied.

A chill slithered up his spine. “But I have no injuries, sir.”

“Which shall it be, Dunn?” the general inquired, smiling like a cat that’s cornered a mouse. “A hand or a leg?”

Horace opened his snuffbox, sniffed, then sneezed into his bandanna. “Don’t give the man a seizure, sir. Dr. Wicket can be creative so he can easily pass for injured. Sergeant Tam will serve as his batman, so there should be no difficulty there.” He looked to Marcus, his eyes red and watering. “Still, you will have to play the part, Major.”

Marcus felt like the walls of the tent were closing in on him, smothering the air from his lungs. Yanking at his collar, he muttered, “I’m a terrible actor, sir.”

The general wagged a lanky finger. “I like this close call with death story. Napoleon’s lackeys tend to be sentimentalists.” He turned to Marcus. “Any more issues, Major? The way you are going on, I might begin to think that you doubt Horace’s competence.”

Horace sent Wellington an irritated look, as if to say,
Why must you make this even more difficult than it has to be?

“Isn’t there someone closer, say at Whitehall, who can handle the mission?” Marcus desperately reached for straws.

“We need an outsider,” Wellington intoned.

“Two agents have been compromised already,” Horace supplied. “We cannot take any more chances.”

Except with my life
, Marcus thought bitterly, feeling inconsequential to these men. “But what about my father? As headmaster of Andersen Hall, his challenges will raise all sorts of trouble for this plan, rendering it precarious from the start.”

“I have to agree with your assessment, there,” Wellington replied. “Which is why I wrote to him and informed him of your return and the reason for it.”

The world swayed in and out of focus for Marcus. Blackness swirled at the edges of his vision and for a moment he wondered if he’d heard correctly.

“We needed your father’s help,” Horace admitted. “Or else the plan would never have hatched. Luckily he and General Wellesley are well acquainted.”

“And your father, in his typical fashion, has taken the charge like any good soldier.” Wellington added smugly. “The man’s positively a saint, with his good works for London’s street children. Can’t say no to the man when he comes calling for donations, but who would wish to with the admirable job he does running Andersen Hall? I’m just glad that it’s not me supervising those unfortunate children.” He grimaced. “Although there are times when I’m overseeing a pack of unfortunates of another variety.”

“You wrote to my father?” Marcus knew that he should not be shouting at his commanding officers, but he was a hairbreadth past caring. His breath was shuddering and his hands were quaking so violently he thought he might explode. “Without even asking me you contacted my father about my coming back?”

“Now see here, Major.” Horace stood.

“I put my life at risk, willingly, every single day!” Marcus snarled. “And yet you can’t be satisfied with my blood sacrifice alone. You must dig into my personal affairs as if you own me? Well, you don’t own me! No one does!”

“Major Dunn!” Wellington stood.

“You can take your bloody assignment—”

Wellington glared. “I do not suffer insubordination lightly! You will do exactly as we say or bear the consequences!”

“I’d sooner dance a jig for Napoleon than be a puppet on your strings!” Marcus ripped his insignia off his coat, thrust it on the desk and stalked from the tent, knowing that he had just signed his own death warrant. And he didn’t even care.

Spring 1811
London, England

C
atherine Miller stepped gingerly over the threshold to Andersen Hall Orphanage, cautious even after having crossed the very same doorsill a thousand times before. Although her leg was much better than it had ever been, she always feared that it would give out on her at an embarrassing moment. It was a constant reminder to be cautious in all circumstances.

Now was the dinner hour, the perfect opportunity for a moment of solitude on the veranda. Dusk had fallen and the air was thick with the ring of crickets and the shadows of impending darkness. The air smelled of musty leaves and approaching spring…and the cloying scent of smoke. Catherine surmised who must be puffing on the end of that pipe. This was her opportunity to know once and for all if her suspicions about Headmaster Dunn’s health were correct.

“It must be hard to be Mrs. Nagel,” Catherine re
marked, as she crossed the wooden porch and joined Dr. Michael Winner by the banister. They watched the stout gray-clothed matron progress across the courtyard from the orphanage’s main building to her residence. Even in the gathering darkness you could not mistake the matron’s gray topknot, snowy cap and white apron.

“Why do you say that?” Dr. Winner asked, chewing on the tip of his black pipe and narrowing his eyes to watch Mrs. Nagel. He was a tall, portly fellow with a tuft of brown hair ringing his receding hairline. He had kind eyes and loose lips that slipped easily into a smile. He’d been the doctor to every child and staff member at Andersen Hall for as long as Catherine had been there. He’d been the one to try to reset her leg upon her arrival at the orphanage ten years before.

“She must discipline the children,” Catherine explained, “keep the kitchen running, the orphanage cleaned, and,” she continued boldly, “all the while the man she loves above all others is dying.”

The doctor’s russet brows lifted in inquiry, but his gaze was veiled.

“There is no need to pretend with me, sir. I know that Headmaster Dunn is ill.”

Winner was silent a long moment, watching puffs of white drift out of his mouth and upward. “What makes you believe that?”

“I have been acting as his secretary now for two years. It’s hard not to notice that he is wrapping up his affairs. He’s been uncommonly secretive. Making all sorts of confidential arrangements with the board of trustees. And he is corresponding with General Wellesley, I mean Viscount Wellington.”

“So Wellesley’s a viscount now? I did not know that.”

“And a general—”

“Well, regardless of what you call him, he is a patron, as you well know. It’s not unnatural for the headmaster to correspond—”

“Wellington is on the Peninsula, for heaven’s sake. He’s a bit occupied with the war. The only reason I can surmise Headmaster Dunn would correspond with him is because of Marcus.”

Winner pursed his lips. “One can’t be too certain of these things…”

“Please, Doctor. Just tell me, is he dying?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

None too steady on her feet, Catherine let out a long breath. Relief didn’t come close to describing her feelings. Headmaster Dunn’s generosity of spirit, moral fiber and clever humor drew others to him simply so they could orbit in his radiance. His loss would be…immeasurable.

“Thank the heavens,” she breathed, pressing her hand to her heart. “Andersen Hall, the children…I’m so relieved.”

“But,” Winner added, tapping his pipe on the edge of the railing and frowning, “something is going on.”

She sighed. “So long as he isn’t dying, I almost don’t care.”

“Well, I am more curious than a fox teased with a scent of hen.”

“So that’s why you’ve been hanging about these last few weeks?”

His cheeks tinged pink. “I am the official physician, and on the board…”

“We love having you near, you know that, sir.” Seeing his discomfort and suspecting the reason, she squeezed his arm. “Don’t take Dunn’s secrecy to heart, Doctor. You know him; he holds his cards close to his chest until he has a winning hand.”

He scowled, looking off into the descending twilight. “Annoying habit, actually.”

“But an effective one, as we both well know.”

“He should have at least confided in you. You certainly wouldn’t tell anyone his secrets.”

Her smile was bittersweet. She didn’t have anyone to tell.

They stared off into the darkening trees, the silence between them comfortable, yet sober.

Winner scratched his chin. “So Dunn is corresponding with Wellington…”

“I shouldn’t have said anything, sir.” Now it was her turn to blush. “Nor should I have pried. It’s none of my affair.”

“You were worried.” He pursed his lips. “Did you ask Dunn about it?”

“Of course.” Quoting Dunn, she explained, “It’s the straightest way to an answer.”

“What did he say?”

Her cheeks heated and she crossed her arms, feeling foolish. “He assured me, with great emphasis I might add, that Marcus was not dead.”

“Ah, child. Your infatuation was no secret.”

Oh, she had been so green. So idiotic. Granted, she had not really understood her feelings. The irrational desire to jump and hide whenever Marcus Dunn had strode past. The impulsive yearnings to brush the dark curl from his forehead when he sat near her in the dining hall. How many hours had she wasted staring longingly at his broad shoulders in chapel? She wanted to die for all of the heated fantasies of his dreamy azure eyes, and those smooth peach-colored lips, too sumptuous for any lad rightfully to own. Her solitary saving grace was that no one knew about the secret dreams that had lulled her to
sleep at night. It seemed, however, that they were the only things that had gone above notice.

“It was ages ago.” She exhaled loudly, trying to expunge the humiliating memories from her mind. “You’d think that everyone would have forgotten it by now. I certainly have.”

A sudden thought jolted her. “You don’t think he’s married?”

“Who?” Winner asked, an innocent grin splitting his face.

She hadn’t realized that she’d spoken aloud and now she had trapped herself into a corner. Slowly, Catherine cleared her throat. “Marcus. Perhaps that is the reason for Headmaster Dunn’s correspondence?”

“Then why the secrecy?” Winner shook his head. “No, Dunn has always feared that Marcus was not one for commitment. He would be delighted to share such a happy event.”

Catherine tried not to let her relief show. Somehow if Marcus had married, it would mean that she would never have a chance…But that was ridiculous wasn’t it? He’d hardly known that she existed when they’d lived under the same roof. Now he was across the ocean and worlds away. Just considering the possibility was patently absurd. Still, she was reassured.

“Mrs. Nagel says that Marcus swore he’d never return to Andersen Hall,” Catherine stated slowly. “What happened to make him leave in such anger?”

“That, my dear, is one of those sleeping dogs I let lie.” Winner shifted uneasily. “Dunn has never spoken of it, and he likely never will.”

“It grieves him still. He tries to hide it, but on May 9 every year he sits in the cemetery the whole of the day. He does not eat or take water. Simply sits by his wife’s grave.”

Winner’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. Dunn died in the winter. A lingering fever. Why May 9?”

“Marcus’s birthday.”

“What a terrible shame.” He shook his head. “And Marcus is more stubborn than a three-headed bull. So I doubt we will ever see Marcus Dunn cross this doorstep again. More’s the pity.”

Something on the edge of the green near the chapel moved, catching Catherine’s attention. Her eyes narrowed. “Did you see that, sir?”

Dr. Winner stuck his pipe into his mouth and leaned against the porch railing, squinting. “I have trouble seeing in this dratted twilight. Plays tricks on my eyes.”

“Everyone is supposed to be in the dining hall having dinner,” she muttered distractedly. Straining to hear, she could not discern anything above the birds serenading the dusk and the leaves rustling in the trees surrounding the orphanage.

There it was again, a movement near a ring of bushes. A pale-haired youth popped up from behind the hedge. Recognizing the fourteen-year-old lad who belonged to that blond mane, Catherine wondered where his cohorts were. The hedge shivered so violently that Catherine could almost see the leaves shudder from across the lawn.

“Excuse me, sir.” Lifting her skirts, she quickly descended the steps and strode across the lawn, doing her best not to be heard. She’d grown quite adept at making herself move noiselessly, the better to help her deal with naughty children.

“Kirby Jones!” she cried, catching sight of the rascal.

The sandy-haired lad stopped midstep, hunched his shoulders and turned. “Ah, good evening, miss.”

His voice was so “I’m innocent” as to assure her that he
was up to no good. Moreover, where Kirby Jones was, so were his puckish cronies, all aged around thirteen or fourteen, and all as mischievous as two-month puppies.

“Come out, boys,” she demanded. “This instant.”

Slowly, forms emerged from the shrubs. First fourteen-year-old Jack O’Malley with his shocking red hair, freckled face and truculent scowl. Next, raven-haired, tea-skinned, sheepish twelve-year-old Benjamin Bourke. He was always hanging about the older boys. Followed by…

“Jared Miller!” She wagged her finger at her brother. “I thought I told you to stay away from these boys!”

“Bloody hell, Catherine…” Jared mumbled, his pink cheeks obvious even in the descending darkness.

“Don’t you curse at me, young man. You know better than this…” She glared at the lads, young men, really, and crossed her arms. “Why aren’t you at dinner?”

“We were done—” Jack began.

“Then you should have been helping clean up,” Catherine interjected.

“Yes, miss,” Benjamin replied, shooting his comrades a telling glance. “We can go right now if you wish…”

“Yes,” Jared added, shuffling toward the main house. “We’ll be on our way back to the kitchens…”

The lads seemed so intent on leaving the area. What had they been up to? They were about fifteen paces from the chapel, but did not seem focused on the building. They appeared more interested in getting away from the hedge…Or in getting
her
away from the hedge.

“Stop right there.” Slowly, Catherine skirted around the bushes and looked around. There, in the twilight, a pear-shaped gray jug sat shoved under a shrub.

“She’s as bad as bloody Mrs. Nagel,” Benjamin muttered sourly.

“No, she’s worse,” Jack retorted. “She’s smarter.”

“And she’s my sister,” Jared finished with a slight groan.

Circling back to the lads, she uncorked the jug and sniffed. It felt as if a thousand bee stings were piercing her eyes and nose, it was so wretchedly potent. “What is this?” she cried, slamming the stopper back in and blinking back harsh tears.

The lads shrugged, almost in unison.

“Better yet,” she grimaced, “where did you get it?”

Silence. Apparently, only the crickets were chirping willingly this evening.

Shaking her head, she sighed. “You might as well tell me now, for I will only make it worse for you if I discover the truth on my own.”

Kirby stared off into the distance, feigning innocence. Jack and Ben looked to Jared. Jared was busy looking down at his scuffed boots.

Jack whispered to Jared, “It can’t be worse than the last punishment.”

“Oh, cleaning the chapel’s eaves of bats and droppings is nothing compared to what you will have to endure next,” Catherine assured them.

A scoffing noise emanated from Jared’s glowering lips. She might have considered boxing his ears if he wouldn’t have hated her forever for embarrassing him in front of his friends.

Well,” she stated slowly, “if I do not see the appropriate level of cooperation, I might be forced to ask Headmaster Dunn to reassess your training duties.”

“No!” Kirby shrieked. He took great pleasure in working as a soap maker in Mr. Shafer’s shop. Who would have known that the lad was a born salesman for perfumed wares? Headmaster Dunn, of course.

“You can’t do that!” Jared cried. “It’s not fair!” Although Jared was not well pleased with his role assisting the Latin tutor, he clearly knew his friends’ positions meant the world to them.

She shook her head. “You all are well aware that Headmaster Dunn does not allow spirits of any kind on the grounds. He will be most disappointed in your actions,
should he learn of them
…”

The boys exchanged a look. They worshiped Dunn, as wolves did a pack leader.

“It was Mr. Graves,” Jack mumbled.

Catherine frowned. It seemed the gardener, Mr. Graves, was breaching the rules of Andersen Hall. Knowing Headmaster Dunn, the man would likely lose his position, which was a shame, really, after so many years of service. She wondered if Mr. Graves would think it worth it in the end. But that was not her problem. Protecting the children and keeping the orphanage running smoothly was.

“Do you all confirm that Mr. Graves gave you the…whatever is in this jug?” she asked.

“He didn’t give it to us.” Kirby kicked the dirt. “He bloody sold it.”

Overlooking the profanity, she asked, “How much?”

“Two shillings.” Jack looked up, interest gleaming in his brown eyes. “A deal, he said.”

“You were cheated,” she replied brusquely. “And now you have nothing but a punishment and empty pockets to show for it.”

“The bugger!” Kirby cried. “I used my last pence on that stuff!”

Catherine sighed, seeing the sense of betrayal flash across their faces. What they did was wrong, but hadn’t they already paid with their lost coin? Lesson learned, perhaps?

Jack shoved his cap back on his head, imploring, “So you won’t tell the headmaster?”

“I am beholden to tell him about Mr. Graves’s infraction. But that doesn’t mean that I have to name names.”

The lads’ shoulders sagged with obvious relief.

“So what’s our punishment?” Kirby asked, scratching his privates.

Ignoring his indelicacy, Catherine considered the situation for a moment. She needed to remain firm with them, but could hardly fashion something onerous at this point. “I will let you know once I’ve come up with one that suits the offense.”