Tiffany laughed. “That he was spoiling me abominably, and that I would grow up to think I was a princess.”
“Did you?” asked Mr. Quentin. Then, as Tiffany looked at him blankly, “Did you think you were a princess?”
Tiffany sighed, and sipped her tea. “I was Father Bentley’s little princess, but that went away when he died.”
A grave silence fell upon the table.
Then Lord Northbury said, “I think you have given us all a great deal to think about, Miss Bentley. Thank you for taking this time. Lucas, will you accompany her up to her room? The corridors can be confusing at night.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Lucas replied, leaving his post by the door. “If you will follow me, Miss Bentley?”
Tiffany nodded and followed him up the stair to her room. Sophie was already asleep, if her breathing was anything to go by, so Tiffany undressed by the faint light that came through the window, and slipped into bed.
Would her life have been different had she had such a place as they seemed to be planning? Or would it have simply been another place she would have had to stay away from so that Mrs. Bentley could not find her? What would happen if Mrs. Bentley found her now? Would she still be indentured to her?
She didn’t know. Not knowing, she stared up into the darkness, finding it difficult to go to sleep.
Chapter 18
Tiffany saw little of Lord Northbury in the following days, until they were all walking home from the next Sunday services. Just as she was about to enter the side door, Lord Northbury waved her over to the front entrance.
“Come here, if you would please, Miss Bentley,” he called.
“Now you are for it,” Sophie gloated. “No more high and mighty airs. I will bet that you are about to be turned off.”
“No, surely not,” Grace protested. “Not after those beautiful sweet rolls or the mince pie.”
“I will not know until I hear what he wants of me,” Tiffany said. “I will see you at dinner, if all goes well.”
She hurried away from the main group and mounted the steps to where the Marquess was waiting.
“I have been thinking about this all week,” he said without preamble. “But you must come see what I have before you say anything.”
Tiffany looked at him, trying school her face into proper servile blankness.
Lord Northbury laughed. “Tiffany, you look as if you had eaten a sour prune. Pray, do not take lessons from Mrs. Twitchel in correct facial expressions.”
Tiffany relaxed her face, but she knew that it remained solemn.
What could he possibly want from me now?
“It will be pleasant, I promise,” he said.
“You are not planning to turn me off?”
“No, no. Nothing of the sort. This has to do with the orphanage. But come, I do not wish to say more until you see it.”
“Very well, My Lord,” she replied.
Lord Northbury lead the way to the library, to a different entrance from the one they had used several nights ago. Tiffany tried not to gawk at the painted ceilings, gilded arches, and suits of armor standing in alcoves as they proceeded down the front hall. The library itself was much as it had been the night the gentlemen had plied her with questions, with one significant change.
In the center of the room was a table on which stood a miniature building. Around it sat several cottages in the same scale, while the grounds were constructed of paper, sponge, and moss. Tiffany’s breath caught in her throat. She stood stock still, frozen in place.
Percival looked at her anxiously. “Do you like it? It is the model for the orphanage.”
Tiffany came closer and began to examine the miniature walks, the gazing pool, the flower gardens, and vegetable patches. All were constructed of delicate paper, wood shavings, and tiny pieces of sponge, horsehair, or similar matter.
“It is beautiful. It looks more like a mansion than a poorhouse.”
