‘You may have to wait a while, my dear,’ the superintendent said, ‘because you are still very young. But this is certainly something to be thinking about, isn’t it?’
Angelina looked away for a moment. ‘There is something that is worrying me, Miss Kingston,’ she said, ‘and it’s about Ruby. You see, she has no idea that I’ve got to leave next year and she’s going to be upset. Do you think she could leave at the same time and then we could go and live together? And I could go on looking after her, couldn’t I?’
The superintendent glanced at her folder again. ‘Well, we don’t know how old Ruby actually is,’ she said, ‘but we are fairly certain that you and she are about the same age. So I think that what you suggest could be possible, and I, personally, would be happy that you would be around to keep an eye on her. But of course, she would have to be prepared to support herself, and it may be difficult to find work for her. She is a very sensitive young girl.’
Angelina was overjoyed. She couldn’t bear to think of Ruby crying herself to sleep without their teddy bear to cuddle.
Emma Kingston stood up. ‘Well, you’ve certainly given me something to think about, Angelina, so we will leave this for the moment’
Angelina stood as well. ‘I feel really excited that you agree with my plan,’ she said. ‘Even though I am going to miss you all, miss everything when I go. Everyone has taught me things. I mean, people like Mrs Haines, and Nancy when she was here and now Greta – and Miss Jones who is so sweet and kind to all of us and very patient. She was the one who taught us cross stitch and do those patterned squares that we sewed up to make a blanket for the doll’s cot, and she helped Ruby to draw all the flowers that are in the nature books. Ruby loves flowers, knows the names of every one of them.’
‘Ah yes,’ Emma Kingston said. Maria Jones, one of Mrs Marshall’s ‘finds’, had been here for many years on and off, and was always ready to step in when needed.
Before they left the room, Angelina said sadly, ‘Once I do leave, I don’t suppose I shall ever see much of Mr Garfield again or Mr Alexander, either. He’s usually at college now, of course, but he’s always made me feel I was someone special. When I was small I was in love with him and used to pretend that I was Cinderella and he was my Prince Charming.’
The superintendent’s eyes softened. From the moment that Angelina had seen Randolph Garfield’s son it had been obvious that she was enchanted. Each time he’d come to the orphanage, the handsome young lad treated her with the sort of attentive and gallant behaviour typical of a well-bred male of the upper crust – even when he’d brought his pretty and vivacious girlfriend Honora Mason with him. It was enough to turn any girl’s head.
Emma Kingston pressed her lips together. She herself knew what it was to care deeply for someone who would never be within her reach.
As Angelina opened the door for Miss Kingston to go in front of her, she said, ‘Do you know, of all the orphans, it’s going to be the tiny ones I shall really miss – the 4- and 5-year-olds. I would like them all to come and live with me!’
‘Well, you may have tiny ones of your own one day, my dear,’ the superintendent said, ‘and I am sure you will be a wonderful mother.’
‘Oh, I am never going to get married,’ Angelina said firmly. ‘Not now. Not since I’ve decided to become a nurse.’
‘Well, try and be patient about that, my dear,’ Miss Kingston said. ‘You are still very young, and you might have to wait a while for your dream to come true. But whatever you do, Angelina, I have no doubt about one thing – you will always be the one right there in the front line.’
March 1915
In his bedroom at the priory, Laurence Dunn rose slowly from his knees, crossed himself, murmured a silent prayer and yawned. It was barely daylight, and looked to be another cold, grey morning. Another day like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.
Sighing, he washed and shaved – taking great care not to nick his skin – then brushed his teeth, and got dressed, the ritual performed in exactly the same order every day. Because routine was the best thing. There was comfort in routine – as there was in doing one’s duty. And he was satisfied that he had certainly done his – no, was still doing his. He celebrated Mass twice every day at the priory, heard regular confessions, led the nuns in prayer, visited the sick and dying in the parish and had been a trustee at the orphanage for many years. It was he who made sure that every child who passed through the place during his time knew the Ten Commandments by heart, all the thou shall not do this or that, and those other things. Thanks to him, every orphan knew how to behave in life. That was something to take away with them, surely? And Laurence Dunn admitted that he thoroughly enjoyed being part of the orphanage, especially since it had become the Garfield.
His accommodation, though sparse, was comfortable enough, and, recently, he had purchased a new mirror to go above the sink – well, the one that had been there for ages had yellowed so that he could barely see himself. But this replacement was bigger and longer, so that when he took a few steps back he could see much more of his appearance.
The priest was tall and spare-framed, his dark hair brushed away from a prominent forehead. But it was his black, glittering eyes and well-defined eyebrows that immediately caught the attention. He gazed back at himself with a certain amount of pride – one of the seven deadly sins, true, but it wasn’t his fault that he was good-looking. If only fate – or rather his father – had allowed him to pursue another career, Laurence Dunn was certain that his name would be known to thousands, thousands. He would be famous, adored, respected.
He stood back, struck a pose, and raised his arm in a sweeping gesture.
‘Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears! I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him!’ he announced to the stone walls of his room. This was one of the speeches in a Shakespeare play that he never tired of, and he could complete it right to the end. And sometimes, if feeling melancholy, he enjoyed curling his tongue around other of the Bard’s immortal words. ‘No matter where, of comfort no man speak, let’s talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs.’ The final word was pronounced with a menacing growl.
Laurence Dunn was entranced with the theatre and went to as many performances as time and money allowed. The stage, the smell, the atmosphere – the escape! He could have been one of those extraordinary players, those masters of the art! He could, he knew he could!
He completed the speech – which took quite a long time – and bowed to the silent applause, taking several curtain calls. Then he felt cross with himself for indulging in this regular exercise because it didn’t help. He had been planted in the priesthood and that would be that until he died. He was 45 years old and surely mature enough to accept what could not be changed, but he just wished he could rid himself of the cancerous envy he felt about his brother. Envy, another of those seven deadly sins …
Ernest was the younger by three years and had been allowed to do what he liked with his life. Their father, also a priest and of very high esteem, had been a domineering man and had commanded Laurence to follow him in Holy Orders, while Ernest had been allowed to look around and try one thing after another. For a very short time he had dabbled in the law, and even tried his hand at military service – though that didn’t last, much too uncomfortable – and in the end Reverend Dunn senior gave up on his younger son and retired to his study to dwell on higher things. Which was all very well, but how had Ernest managed to survive all these years without a proper job? He lived in the West End in a rather nice house by all accounts, though Laurence had never been there, and on the odd occasion that the two brothers met up, Ernest seemed quite well-to-do. Smartly dressed, he always insisted