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“George, I assure you that Betsy and May will not make off with anything that belongs to you,” Emmeline said, gesturing at the upstairs maids. In response his fingers dug so hard into the sack that his knuckles turned white, and she gave a sympathetic cluck. “However, if you place your personal items in that trunk there,” and she pointed to the mahogany box they used for spare blankets at the foot of the bed, “no one will touch it. I promise.”
The boy ran his fingers across the heavy mahogany lid. “I can put all my things in here? And no one will touch them?”
“Yes.”
“Can it come with us to Winnover Hall?”
It was a rather large trunk to be carrying an eight-year-old’s small sack of property, but if it gave him some comfort to have a safe place to put his things, Will certainly had no objection. At Emmeline’s sideways glance, he nodded. “It can and will.”
“Do I get a trunk for my things? I think I need one.” Rose turned around and vanished back into her room. “Oh, there is one! Can it come with us?”
“Yes,” Emmeline said, raising her voice to be heard in the other room. “They now belong to you.”
Rose leaned back into the doorway. “For ever and ever? Or just for eight weeks? This is very important.”
“For ever and ever,” Will stated, his jaw clenching in abrupt anger at the unmet Fletcher parents who’d had the temerity to either die or abandon their young ones. If St. Stephen’s or Sister Mary Stephen didn’t like it, well, another small donation should see that the children had a spot to put their trunks. They would need a place for their new clothes, anyway. A cloth sack would certainly never do.
“Oh, thank you!”
“You’re quite welcome. Now, put your things away, and Mr. Pershing—Will—and I will meet you downstairs in the foyer in five minutes.”
With Betsy and May still pulling sheets off of the furniture, the children wouldn’t be left completely to their own devices, but they could likely use a moment or two to acclimate themselves.
“I wonder what George has in that sack,” his wife whispered as she led the way downstairs. “He’s very attached to whatever it is.”
“He barely set it aside to be fitted for clothes,” he returned. “It had to be in his sight at all times.” Will sighed at the weight the boy seemed to be carrying on his slender shoulders. “I suppose it could be something of sentimental value from his parents. Rose doesn’t seem nearly as attached to her belongings.”
“No,” Emmeline agreed. “They are darlings, aren’t they? With a bit of polish no one will ever know they aren’t ours.”
“They do seem to have been cowed by the nuns. I’m pleased they’re well behaved, and Rose seems sprightly enough, but I don’t want them to be frightened of us.”
“At the moment I think they’re more suspicious than frightened, but I hope by the time we reach Winnover they’ll realize we can be trusted.”
He nodded. “And we need to tell them everything, even if we leave the more detailed explanations for later. I don’t want them thinking we’re abusing this trust of theirs that we’re after.”
“Absolutely. The ices should help with that.”
Will stopped beside her in the foyer. “Agreed. And I asked Mrs. Hobbs to make beef stew for dinner. George has mentioned it at least thrice now. I hope that wasn’t overstepping.”
Generally, he had no doubt that she would have been offended that he’d barged into her household duties, but she knew that the success of this project—this lie she’d begun—would benefit both of them. “No,” she said unsurprisingly. “It was a good idea. Another good idea.”
He sketched a shallow bow. “We are in this together, Mrs. Pershing. Emmeline. Partners.”
They had indeed been in a partnership for the past eight years, but this task would clearly have them working more closely than they generally did. Given the madness with which it had begun, he looked forward to it. The Emmie of his youth had been a fun, adventurous companion, and he missed her. For the first time in a while, he missed being in love with her.
Finding shaved ices turned out to be more of a task than he’d anticipated. During the Season, vendors stood in at least two different locations in Hyde Park. Now, though, they had to take the coach from Leicester Street to the park and back east to Covent Garden before they found someone selling a selection.
“What color is my tongue?” Rose asked, sticking it out at her brother.
“Yellow,” he answered, sticking out his own. “What color is mine?”
“Very red,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “If you eat it fast, your brain will freeze. That’s what Deirdre says.”
“Deirdre doesn’t know anything.” With a smug look, George scraped off a large spoonful of shaved ice and plopped it all into his mouth. A moment later he squeezed his eyes closed and dropped the spoon to press the heel of his hand against his forehead. “It’s frozen! Oh! I’m dying!”
Stifling a grin, Will patted the boy’s knee. “Steady there. It’ll pass in a moment. Evidently Deirdre does know some things.”
Thus far this parenting thing wasn’t all that difficult. The Fletcher children seemed clever and eager to learn. Teaching them the bits that would be necessary to pass them off as Pershing offspring would be the matter of a few days. In six weeks’ time when they were to be presented to the duke, they would be perfect.