Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Iwoke to the sound of voices and the scent of fresh bread wafting through the cottage.
Sunlight streamed through the small bedroom window, and for a moment I couldn't place where I was or why my heart felt so heavy.
Then memory returned—the assembly, Julian's deception, my flight to Lavender Cottage—and the weight settled back into my chest like a stone.
Lucy appeared in the doorway with a breakfast tray and her characteristic expression of gentle determination.
"The ladies are here," she announced, setting the tray on the small bedside table. "They brought provisions and what they called 'moral support.'"
"Lucy. You made it.”
“Yes, some of the other servants brought me over last night.”
I was about to ask how they knew but then I remembered the carriage dropped me off. Footman talked to household staff who alerted my maid and everyone worked to take care of me. It was touching. I wasn’t used to such care, not really. “What time is it?"
"Nearly nine. You slept later than usual, which is probably just what you needed."
I could hear Diana's laugh from the sitting room below, followed by Sophie's voice and what sounded like considerable bustling about.
The thought of facing their questions and well-meaning counsel felt overwhelming, but also oddly comforting.
At least they would understand why Julian's deception felt so devastating.
After washing and dressing in the simple morning dress Lucy had brought, I made my way downstairs to find all three widows arranged around the cottage's small sitting room with the comfortable familiarity of women who had clearly spent considerable time in this space.
"There she is," Sophie said warmly, rising to embrace me. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Like I've been run over by a carriage," I admitted. "But functional."
"Functional is a good start," Diana observed, studying my face with the sharp attention of someone accustomed to reading emotional undercurrents. "We brought coffee, proper bread, and jam that actually tastes like strawberries it is so fresh."
"And," Lady Joanna added, "a proposal that might help occupy your mind with something more productive than dwelling on masculine inadequacies."
I settled into the remaining chair and accepted the coffee Diana offered. "Masculine inadequacies?"
"Lord Avebury's deplorable judgment in thinking deception was preferable to honest communication," Sophie said crisply. "Though we can discuss that later. First, we want to tell you about our project."
“Mmm. Yes, I’m interested in a distracting project.”
"The foundling home we've established in the village," Lady Joanna explained.
"It's been operating for nearly twelve months now, housing children who have been orphaned or abandoned.
It started as infants only, but word has spread.
We've managed to place several with loving families, but others remain in our care. "
"It sounds like wonderful work."
"It is, though it requires constant attention and resources." Diana refilled my coffee cup. "We were wondering if you might be interested coming to take a look and then getting involved, perhaps, if it appeals to you."
The idea sparked something in my chest—not quite enthusiasm, but a flicker of genuine interest that felt like the first positive emotion I'd experienced since the previous evening.
"What might I do?"
"Whatever feels meaningful to you," Sophie said.
"Financial support, certainly—we are always needing something.
But also practical assistance. As it has grown into care for children much past their infancy, teaching the older children to read, helping to arrange apprenticeships for those ready to learn trades, finding families willing to provide permanent homes. "
"We've discovered," Lady Joanna added, "that meaningful work has remarkable healing properties. When one is nursing wounded feelings, there's something to be said for focusing on others who face more tangible difficulties."
I understood the subtle message. They were offering me a purpose, a way to channel my emotional turmoil into something constructive rather than allowing myself to wallow in hurt feelings.
"I want to help. I’d love to help. I’d also like to see it.” I swallowed a bit of emotion that rose up in my throat. “And thank you, for this.”
"Wonderful. We can go this morning, if you're feeling up to it."
"Lucy," I called toward the kitchen where my maid was organizing the breakfast things. "Would you send word to Wyndham Hall? I'll need my correspondence brought here, and I need a message sent to my sisters."
"Certainly, ma'am. What sort of message for your sisters?"
I considered this. "That I'm well and safe, but I need some time to think." Perhaps they would understand I did not need to be managed at the moment.
"Very diplomatic," Diana said approvingly. "Though I suspect Lady Allen will find such restraint challenging."
"She does so out of love. But Victoria will have to manage her natural impulses," I said firmly. "This is my decision to make."
An hour later, we were walking through the village toward a modest stone cottage that had clearly undergone recent improvements. The roof had been rethatched, the windows fitted with new glass, and a small garden had been planted beside the front door.
"We purchased the building from the parish," Lady Joanna explained as we approached. "It was the old curate's house, but it had been standing empty for several years."
The sound of children's voices reached us before we entered, along with the distinctive chaos that indicated young people were engaged in some form of educational activity. Sophie knocked briefly before opening the door and calling out, "We're here, Mrs. Hartley!"
The woman who appeared was perhaps forty, with graying hair pulled back in a practical bun and the sort of calm competence that suggested considerable experience managing both children and crises. She greeted the widows with obvious warmth before turning expectant eyes toward me.
"Mrs. Hartley, this is Mrs. Tynsdale," Lady Joanna said. "We've told her about our work here, and she's interested in learning more."
"Mrs. Tynsdale, welcome. Would you like to meet the children?"
The main room of the cottage had been arranged as both schoolroom and common area, with small tables for lessons, shelves lined with books and simple toys, and a large fireplace that clearly served as the heart of the space.
Seven children of various ages looked up from their activities as we entered—some working with slates, others engaged in what appeared to be sewing lessons.
"Children," Mrs. Hartley called gently, "we have a visitor. This is Mrs. Tynsdale."
The formal introductions that followed revealed a range of circumstances that tugged at my heart.
Little Mary, perhaps five years old, had been found abandoned at the church door.
Tom and Jack, brothers aged eight and ten, had lost their parents in a mill accident.
Sarah, nearly twelve, had been working in deplorable conditions at a factory before being rescued by the widows' intervention.
"What do you learn here?" I asked Sarah, who seemed to be the unofficial leader among the older children.
"Reading and writing, ma'am. Mrs. Hartley says if we can read properly, we can learn anything else we need to know."
"Very wise. And what else do you want to learn?"
"Everything," she said with the sort of fierce determination that reminded me of my own hunger for knowledge. "I want to know about numbers, and geography, and how to write letters that sound proper."
"She's very bright," Mrs. Hartley said quietly. "They all are, when given the opportunity to learn."
As we toured the cottage's other rooms—sleeping areas that were clean but cramped, a small kitchen that clearly struggled to feed so many mouths adequately, and a back room that had been converted into workspace for older children learning practical skills—I found myself mentally cataloging what improvements could be made.
When we arrived at the infants’ room, I could hardly stop the tears. Row after row of tiny cribs, most with babies in them.
“And we can always use help holding these precious souls.”
One awoke at that moment with a soft wail, but then she quieted.
“Why doesn’t she cry?” I stepped nearer. “May I?”
“Of course, please. Mrs. Hartley smiled. Then she shook her head with a heaviness I didn’t quite understand.
“They sort of give up crying, honestly. They’ve learned we can’t always reach them.
But we do when we can. They’re all clean and fed.
And they have a safe roof over their heads, so we can be glad for that. ”
I lifted the tiny infant in my arms and held her close. She snuggled in immediately. And my heart melted into her small body.
They continued out of the room and I followed with the baby in my arms.
"The building serves our current needs," Lady Joanna said, clearly reading my thoughts, "but we could accommodate twice as many children with proper expansion. And the kitchen facilities are barely adequate for our current residents."
"Have you approached other local families for support?"
"Some. We could certainly expand our efforts."
I held the tiny baby as long as I could as we continued our tour, as we discussed how I could best help, as the world seemed to continue on around me.
But I was lost to the innocent soul in my arms. She’d fallen back to sleep, secure and safe.
The thought that I had provided that feeling of security to one so small strengthened me in more ways than I could name.
As I made my way back to her crib and the other babies, I vowed to do all I could to help her and the others.
How could I not? It seemed that as soon as a person became aware of needs such as these, they were obligated to help, or God save them all.
Why have wealth or means in the first place, if not to share?