Chapter 5
Chapter Five
By the time the carriage stopped at the orphanage, Hector had arranged his muddled thoughts into certainty.
I am not nervous.
The very notion was absurd. He had addressed Parliament with men waiting for weakness in every pause.
He had managed tenants, solicitors, physicians, relatives, and creditors who had belonged to other people until death delivered them into his ledger.
He had learned to cross rooms he could not see clearly while pretending not to notice the chairs that had been moved.
A child of four could certainly not unman him by simply existing in a room.
What if Miss Norish is present too?
He felt his pulse react to the thought of her. Hector remained seated for half a breath after Jonathan opened the carriage door.
His nieces did not know him. That was a fact.
Just as he had not known of his half-sister until recently.
Hector would have loved to have her around, as much as he wished his mother was around too.
The late Duke took out all of his anger on him as a child, and all he wanted to do was run to someone who offered nothing but softness and kindness.
Then again, he would not have wanted his sister to endure what he had endured.
Ignorance on his side had arranged the cruelty of abandonment for his nieces before he arrived to correct it.
But the correction would be made.
Jonathan cleared his throat to get Hector’s attention.
He came to and stepped down with his cane in hand.
The orphanage stood before him as a large, indistinct mass, its edges softened by his sight.
He did not need to admire or condemn the building.
It had housed the girls, but it had not been a home to them.
Jonathan came up beside him.
“I know where the entrance is,” Hector said stubbornly.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Jonathan replied just as stubbornly.
“And I know you will walk near me, regardless.”
“Yes, Your Grace. You know me well.”
Hector scoffed. “Very well, then.”
They entered the orphanage, and Hector continuously reminded himself that he was doing the right thing.
He would take care of his nieces; he would provide for them and Miss Norish, whom they already trusted.
They would not even have to interact with him more than necessary, and his own routine would remain unchanged.
“To your left, Your Grace,” Jonathan whispered to him.
Hector felt more determined as he turned the corner and heard small sounds of running footsteps, a distant murmur, and the brief high note of a child who ran through the building and disappeared. Hector followed Jonathan’s directions down a hallway.
His grip on the cane remained relaxed by will, and he reminded himself of the facts.
Aurora and the baby would come to Sterling House outside London. They would have rooms, attendants, clothing, food, instruction, gardens when weather allowed, physicians if needed, and every material provision his title could command.
He had no intention of forcing sentiment where duty was sufficient. Children required stability, not theatrical affection from a stranger with a severe voice and imperfect eyes.
Jonathan pointed out the room with a quiet, “Here, Your Grace.”
Hector paused at the door. “You need not come in.”
The man nodded once. “I shall wait outside.”
Hector took a minute to gather himself before he entered the room.
Light, forms, seated figures, a smaller one, and another shape that must have been the infant in a cot with a nurse attending to her.
He could not distinguish the faces at once, but as his eyes adjusted, he realized that Miss Norish was indeed still there.
Her posture altered at once into deference.
“Your Grace.” She stood and curtsied before him.
He inclined his head. “Miss Norish.”
He noticed the little hand grasping tightly onto Miss Norish’s arm. Her body blocked the child from his view, but he knew that this was Aurora. Hector felt his pulse quicken when he looked back at his duchess-to-be. Would she be enough for the children?
Would he?
She cleared her throat and motioned toward the woman standing beside the cot. “This is Sister Annabelle; she has nursed your nieces back to health ever since they arrived here.”
The nurse curtsied, and Hector nodded once at her. He walked slowly to the cot, and he made out the little figure that lay peacefully within it. She was tiny, and her hands balled into angry fists as she slept peacefully.
Princess. The name was absurd. Although he had to admit it was a fitting pet name for her.
“Thank you, Annabelle.” He acknowledged the nurse, who blushed under his gaze.
“There is nothing we will not do for your nieces, Your Grace,” she replied proudly.
Hector was surprised that he could see the color of her dark eyes but still could not make out Miss Norish’s. He turned his attention back to her and Aurora. Aurora tried her best to hide from him, and he felt guilty.
Perhaps I should attempt to smile?
He rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath in.
“I would like to speak with Aurora alone.” His words emerged more sternly than he had intended.
The nurse promptly took her leave, exchanging a look with Miss Norish beforehand. Neither hesitated at his request.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Miss Norish turned toward his niece, who clung to her. “Aurora, this is the hero I have been telling you about. He is going to take care of you and Princess from today onwards.”
“A—all right.” The child mumbled into Miss Norish’s dress, and Hector felt his heart clench painfully.
Miss Norish patted her small head and smiled sweetly at her. “I shall be just in the next room, all right?”
Hector could see that Aurora refused to let go of Miss Norish; a part of him felt guilty, but he was there, offering them a home and provisions.
They would lack nothing, and he would fulfill his duty as their guardian.
When Aurora finally let go of Miss Norish, he heard the movement of her skirts and the careful closing of a door that was not fully shut, but enough to grant some privacy.
He approved of that for the children’s safety.
Hector turned toward the quiet child and lost his breath. She looked familiar; he immediately noticed their similarities, which proved they were related.
“Aurora?” he called for her, but she remained silent.
The shape of Aurora was very small. That was his first clear impression. He had known her age, had read it written in ink, had understood the number, but numbers did not prepare a man for the fact of a child in a room.
Four years old. Old enough to understand loss without possessing the language to challenge it. Old enough to be brave in the tragic, unnecessary way children became brave when adults failed to protect them from fear.
He lowered himself into a chair next to hers because standing over her seemed ungenerous. He sat down slowly and rested his cane against his knee.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
No answer.
“My name is Hector Elford. I am the Duke of Sterling.”
Still nothing.
He considered whether the title meant anything to her.
Likely not.
To a child, “duke” might signify no more than “chimney sweep” if the word was not attached to comfort, warning, or sweets. He had no sweets, but he had brought legal authority and a carriage.
I am not nervous, he reminded himself.
“I am your uncle,” he said.
He heard her shift in her chair. He could make out the tilt of her body, but not her expression. Perhaps she was looking at him, or perhaps at his cane.
“I am sure that someone has told you that I have come to take you and your sister home,” he continued. “And you will be leaving this place today.”
Aurora went still.
It was the kind of stillness he recognized from wounded animals or from servants expecting reprimand. He could see no details, yet the absence of motion was unmistakable. Even her breathing seemed to withdraw from notice.
He waited patiently for her to speak or cry, or run away.
It occurred to him, too late, that perhaps he should have begun differently.
Hector was used to telling the truth. He had done so efficiently for his entire life, and efficiency was a virtue in business.
But it might not be the ideal instrument for speaking to a child.
He chastised himself. She is younger and more fragile.
I should have held those facts into consideration.
Several moments passed.
Then, in a voice so small it nearly failed to become a sound, Aurora asked, “Are y…y…you a m…m…monster or t…truly our h…hero?”
The question and stuttering caught him off guard. Hector heard in it not childish mispronunciation but strain. She was holding herself together.
“Well, Aurora, only you can tell me that after I take care of you and your sister. All I can say is that I wish to give you both a home because we are family.”
She was silent for a few minutes again before she asked, “B…but what about P-Poppy?”
She looked toward the door as if Miss Norish would burst through it any time.
“Do you mean Miss Norish?” Hector replied.
The child shook her head.
“No,” she said, and this time the word, though soft, carried offense. “Poppy.”
Of course she does not know her full name; she is four.
Hector accepted the correction with the seriousness it deserved. “Ah, yes, Poppy,” he said.
The name felt too intimate in his mouth, but the child did not care what was comfortable for him.
Duty over comfort. He had built his life on less tender applications of the principle.
“Do you require her to come with?” he asked.
The question fell badly. He heard it as soon as he spoke. He was too formal with her and did not sound as comforting as he liked. He also wondered if Miss Norish had informed the girls that she would be living with them.
Is she changing her mind about the marriage?
Aurora nodded her head, fully unaware of Hector’s blindness, but he liked that. Perhaps Miss Norish wanted him to talk more to Aurora and left him to break the news to her. He cleared his throat and tried again.