“Bad news about your ship, Templeton.” Moberly’s comment surprised Jamie. “What’s all this about repairs?” Perhaps he’d noticed Jamie’s difficulty in restraining himself throughout this ordeal. Indeed, Jamie knew the report about the Fair Winds had set him back, for it meant he and Quince would be in London for an unknown length of time instead of just a month.
“The hull requires scraping and recaulking.” Jamie stuck out his arm so François could fit a sleeve pattern. “And the storm damage to the mast was worse than I thought. ’Twill take some time to fix it all.”
“Ah, well.” Moberly’s grin held a bit of mischief. “Once we finish the charity bits with Marianne and Lady Bennington, we’ll find ways to fill your time.”
In the mirror, Jamie traded a look with Quince. When his first mate, Saunders, arrived early that morning with disappointing news about the sloop, Quince reminded him of their prayers for this mission. God wasn’t hiding when the Fair Winds received storm damage, and He’d brought them safely to port. The Almighty still had this venture safely in His hands. All the more time to secure important information, Jamie and Quince agreed, but too much time for Jamie to be in Lady Marianne’s beguiling presence.
Once the torturous fitting session ended, the now-fawning tailor withdrew, and Jamie gripped his emotions for the coming events. After their midday repast, he and Moberly joined Lady Bennington and Lady Marianne for their visit to the orphan asylum. Yet, other than the brief quickening of his pulse at seeing Lady Marianne—dressed modestly in brown, as was her mother—he had only to deal with riding.
To his surprise, Moberly chose for him a large but gentle mare that followed Lady Bennington’s landau like an obedient pup. Jamie began to feel comfortable in the saddle. Moberly also furnished him with a pistol and sword to keep at hand lest unsavory elements be roaming the streets.
The trip across town, however, passed with unexpected ease and some pleasant sightseeing under a bright spring sky. Although the cool March breeze carried the rancid odors of the city waste and horseflesh, making Jamie long for a fresh ocean wind, he did notice some of London’s finer points. Upon catching a glimpse of the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, he decided he must visit its fabled interior. Then some shops along the way caught his eye as possible sources of gifts for loved ones back home or, at the least, ideas for items to export to East Florida.
The carriage and riders entered the wide front courtyard of the asylum as though passing through a palace’s gates…or a prison’s. The wrought-iron fence’s seven-foot pickets were set no more than four inches apart, giving the three-story gray brick building a foreboding appearance, a sad place for children to grow up, in Jamie’s way of thinking. Not a scrap of trash littered the grassy yard, which still wore its winter brown, and not a single pebble lay on the paved front walkway. No doubt the denizens of St. Ann’s had swept the path with care for the expected visitors. Dismounting with only a little trouble, he saw with gratitude a stone mounting block near the building’s entrance. He would have no trouble remounting. Perhaps this horse riding would not be so bad, after all.
Robert assisted his stepmother’s descent from the carriage and looped his arm in hers. Jamie had no choice but to offer the same assistance to Lady Marianne. Taking his arm, she gave him a warm smile that tightened when her mother glanced over her shoulder. But the lady’s attention was on John the footman, who balanced several large boxes in his arms as he followed them. She gave the man a nod and turned back toward the door. Lady Marianne squeezed Jamie’s arm, and a pleasant shiver shot up to his neck. He tried to shake it off, to no avail. Wafting up from her hair came the faint scent of roses, compounding his battle to distance his feelings from her.
“Mama takes such delight in these visits,” Lady Marianne whispered as she leaned against his arm. “She loves the children dearly.”
He permitted himself to gaze at her for an instant, and his heart paid for it with a painful tug. “It seems you do, too, my lady.” Indeed, her eyes shone with an affection far different from the loving glances she’d sent his way. How he longed to learn of all her charitable interests. But that could not be.
“Oh, yes.” Her strong tone affirmed her conviction. “They do such fine work here, rearing these girls and teaching them useful skills. My own Emma came from this school.”
“Ah, I see.” Jamie was glad they reached the massive double front doors before he was required to comment further. He had yet to discover just how deeply Quince cared for Lady Marianne’s little maid, but he knew his friend would not play her false. Still, both men would likely end up sailing home with broken hearts.
As the group moved through the doors and into the large entrance hall, which smelled freshly scrubbed with lye soap, the soft thunder of running feet met them. Some hundred and fifty girls of all sizes hastened to assemble into lines, the taller ones in the back ranks, with descending heights down to the twenty or so tiny moppets in front. Each girl wore a gray serge uniform and a plain white pinafore bearing a number.
Jamie swallowed away a wave of sentiment. An orphan himself, he, too, might have been a nameless child raised with a number on his chest, had his uncle not taken him in.
A middle-aged matron in a matching uniform inspected the lines, her plain thin face betraying no emotion as she turned and offered a deep curtsy to their guests. As one, the girls followed suit.
“Welcome, Lady Bennington, Lady Marianne.” Another matron, gray-haired and in a black dress, stepped forward. Authority emanated from her such as Jamie had witnessed in the sternest of sea captains, but he also noted a hint of warmth as she addressed the countess.
“Mrs. Martin.” Lady Bennington’s countenance glowed as she grasped the woman’s hands. “How good to see you.” Her gaze swept over the assembly. “Good afternoon, my dear, dear girls.”
Mrs. Martin lifted one hand to direct the children in a chorus of “Good afternoon, Lady Bennington, Lady Marianne.” One and all, their faces beamed with affection for their patronesses.
While the countess made some remarks, Jamie noticed Lady Marianne leaning toward the little ones as if she wished to go to them. The countess then gestured to John the footman, who brought forth one of the boxes. Jamie followed Moberly’s lead and moved back against the wall while the two ladies disbursed knitted mittens, scarves and caps they and their friends had made. The children’s joy and gratitude punctured Jamie’s self-containment, and he tried to grip his emotions. Still, breathing became more difficult as the scene progressed.
When Lady Marianne knelt on the well-scrubbed wooden floor among the smallest orphans, gathering in her arms a wee brown-haired tot to show her how to don her mittens, Jamie’s last defenses fell away, and a shattering ache filled his chest.
Lord, forgive me. I love this good lady beyond all sense, beyond all wisdom. Only through Your guidance can I walk away from her. Yet if, in Your great goodness, You could grant us happiness—
Jamie could not permit himself to complete the prayer. He would neither request nor expect the only answer that would give him personal joy. Not when there was a revolution to be fought and a fourteenth colony to draw into the mighty fray. If he must lose at love, so be it.
But he must not lose at war, for in that there was so much more at stake—nothing less than the destiny of a newborn nation.
Chapter Six
“Captain Templeton looks quite presentable in his new riding clothes, do you not think, Grace?” Marianne sat in the open carriage beside Mama’s companion, whom she had borrowed for today’s outing to Hyde Park. “Robert approves, or he would not have agreed to bring the American with us.” She herself had been stunned when Jamie walked into the drawing room just an hour ago, for the cut of his brown wool coat over his broad shoulders and the close lines of his tan breeches over his strong legs emphasized his superior masculine form. Why, if not for his colonial speech, he could pass for a peer of the realm.