Page 21 of The Duke Meets His Match

“When will Mr. Whitleson return?” Chloe asked.

“He is visiting a friend in Kent but is expected back in a week’s time. I shall speak with him regarding Emily as soon as he returns.”

“Thank you.” Chloe headed down the corridor. She passed workers and servants and young girls. The orphanage was home to girls, from infants up to seventeen years old. Chloe knew most were never adopted and grew up to work in the orphanage or to toil long hours in the factories.

A girl of about fifteen, who was carrying a bucket of water and a mop, smiled shyly at Chloe as she hurried past. No doubt she was on her way to her morning chores.

Chloe watched the girl disappear around the corner. She had been close to the child’s age when Jonathan Miller had abandoned his three daughters and fled London rather than face arrest for his crimes of forgery. If not for Eliza and Amelia, would Chloe have ended up in an orphanage just like this one?

Gooseflesh rose on her arms that had nothing to do with the cold, damp corridor. She kept on, her steps quicker, until she reached the wing for the younger girls and entered a room. Rows of simple wooden beds with straw mattresses lined both sides of the long room. Each bed was empty and tidily made with white linens and a coarse brown blanket.

Save one.

A small child lay sleeping in the last bed.

The other girls were occupied with their daily chores, then their exercises for the day. But nine-year-old Emily Higgins remained behind to linger abed. It was horribly unfair.

But then, life wasn’t fair, was it?

It was a bitter lesson Chloe had learned years ago.

Chloe approached Emily’s bedside and watched the sleeping girl. Dark curls contrasted with her pale skin. Her eyelids were as fragile as paper, and long eyelashes formed crescents against her skin. Her small chest rose and fell, her breathing labored. Even ill, she was a beautiful child, and Chloe felt a tug in the center of her chest.

Reaching out, she touched the girl’s small hand. “Hello, Emily.”

Eyelashes fluttered open to reveal jewel-green eyes. A second passed, then pink lips formed a perfect O. “Miss Chloe! I’m so happy you’re here.”

Emily struggled to sit up and raised her arms. Chloe’s heart tugged as she embraced the girl’s small frame. The strong scent of rhubarb ointment that the nurse had rubbed on Emily’s chest wafted to Chloe.

“How do you feel?” Chloe asked.

Emily coughed. “The nurse says I’m not well enough to join the other girls. I don’t like staying in bed.”

A knot formed in Chloe’s throat. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Everyone at the orphanage believed that Emily was born sickly. Chloe refused to believe it. There had to be a medical explanation for the child’s lethargy and weak lungs. Every time Emily attempted to join the other girls outside, she would start wheezing and gasping for breath. Then the coughing fits would start and she would lack the energy to do anything more than walk.

Chloe pulled up a wooden chair and sat at Emily’s bedside. “I made some pictures for you.” Chloe pulled out small lithographs of a young girl Emily’s age playing with a hoop. The skill with a burin was a talent she had learned from her father. She wasn’t a gifted artist like her sister, Amelia, but she enjoyed creating artwork as a pastime.

“It’s beautiful. Is it really for me?”

“Yes. You can look at it anytime. I hope it lifts your spirits.”

“What else do you have?”

“I brought a book of fairy tales. Would you like me to read to you?”

“Oh yes. My mother used to read to me before she got sick and went to Heaven. Do you remember your mother?”

Chloe rested the book on her lap. “I have vague memories. She was kind and loving and gave lots of hugs. But she passed when I was young.”

“What about your father?” Emily asked.

Chloe’s fingers tightened around the book’s spine. “My father was an artist. I remember when he taught me how to draw and use a burin to engrave a picture. He knew I preferred engraving to charcoal sketching, but the truth was I did it to please him. It was never my strongest interest. I would much rather have climbed a tree in our garden or fed the horses carrots in the mews.”

Emily smiled. “That sounds like fun. How old were you when he died?”

“He never died. At least not that I’ve heard. He left us.”

“Oh,” Emily said. “I never knew my father, either.”