Today, Peter wore a moth-eaten jacket and sat in the corner, a piece of bread in his hand.
Kenneth approached him and crouched down to his level, concern etched on his face. “Peter, it’s me, Kenneth. How have you been?”
Peter looked up at him, his eyes widening in recognition. “Your Grace! How nice to see you. I thought you have forgotten us.”
The words did nothing to ease Kenneth’s worries, and now his guilt added to it. “Are you all right, Peter? Where is everyone?”
“Sleeping or in the big room. We can’t go outside because there’s nobody to go with us, Mother Hardy said.”
Mrs. Mary Hardy—or Mother Hardy, as the children liked to call her—was the patroness of the orphanage. Kenneth liked her immensely, as her care and love for the children were obvious. Or they had been.
“Nobody to go with you? Where are the caretakers? Mr. Smith? Mrs. Stakley?”
Peter hesitated, glancing around before lowering his voice. “They left last week. And the cook. Not that there was anything to cook.” He bit his lip.
“Peter, what do you mean there’s nothing to cook? What are you eating there?” Kenneth nodded his chin toward the piece of bread, which Peter protectively hid under his shirt.
“There’s no money to buy food, Mother Hardy said. Or to pay the caretakers. We only get soup and dry bread that the baker down the street donates. It’s not much, and I’m always hungry.” Peter looked up at him. “Can you help us?”
Kenneth’s nostrils flared. “How long has this been going on?”
The boy used his hands to count. “Nearly three weeks, Your Grace,” he replied.
Kenneth’s brow furrowed in concern. “Soup and dry bread for three weeks? That’s not enough, especially in this weather. Where is Mrs. Hardy?”
“In the kitchen, Your Grace.”
Kenneth rose and slipped his hand into his pocket. “Here, these are for you. Share them with the others.” He handed him a small bag of sweetmeats.
Peter’s eyes widened. “McGinty’s! Thank you, Your Grace!” Peter shouted and then dashed off, his shoes clattering across the stone floor as he raised the bag and waved it at the other children.
Kenneth made his way to the kitchen, his steps echoing a quiet urgency while children’s voices filled the hall. As he entered, he saw Mrs. Hardy behind the stove, her face shining from the steam drifting up from a pot.
“Mrs. Hardy?” he called, and she whipped around, jumping back in fright.
“Goodness, me! Your Grace! Nearly gave me an apoplexy, you did!” she exclaimed and pressed a hand to her chest.
He stepped closer and peered into the pot, seeing chicken bones swimming in a clear broth. “Mrs. Hardy, what is going on here? I was told the children have eaten nothing but soup and donated bread for weeks. And they are dressed for summer when we have a storm coming in and it’s been unseasonably cold. The caretakers are gone?”
He crossed his arms while Mrs. Hardy’s face fell. He noted that she had lost weight. She was usually a rather jolly, rotund woman, but today she looked nearly gaunt. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were sunken.
“Oh, Your Grace,” she said, her voice tinged with apprehension, “I am glad you are here. I’ve reached out to Lord Carlisle for help, but he’s been slow to respond.”
Instantly, Kenneth’s eyebrows rose. “What has happened, Mrs. Hardy? Tell me everything.”
Mrs. Hardy sighed and indicated the chairs across the room. Once they were seated, she steepled her fingers. “It’s the monthly donations we receive from our loyal patrons… they have not come,” she explained, her gaze fixed on the closed ledger that sat on the table.
“Haven’t come? Explain,” Kenneth demanded and tilted his head to the side.
“We get directed donations each month. Lord Carlisle had it arranged so that certain donations go to certain places. For example, Lord Gordon’s donation pays for the firewood, Lord Spencer’s donation pays for the physician, and so forth. Other donations go to a special fund for the schoolhouse or medical needs. In the last few months, there were… pauses. One month, we did not receive the firewood. Another month, the the caretakers’ salaries were not paid.”
Kenneth’s eyes narrowed as he listened, not liking this one bit.
“Most of the time, the next month it is fine, and I can make do in the meantime, but a few weeks ago, everything stopped. I already used reserve funds to pay the caretakers and to get wood for the fireplaces and such, but it’s all running out. The caretakers left when they were not paid this month. I cannot blame them, they need to feed their families, too.”
“And you spoke to Lord Carlisle?” he asked.
“Yes, I have. His wife came by last month with their youngest daughter, and I sent word with her. Lord Carlisle promised to investigate the matter, but we haven’t received any updates since. The delay is unprecedented, and it’s affecting the daily provisions for the children.” Her eyes shimmered with tears. “I’ve brought what I had in my larder, but it’s not enough. These are growing children, and we’ve already lost other donations. Lord Carlisle said that his peers would rather donate elsewhere, and… I… Oh, Your Grace, some of the children are ill, and the physician won’t come unless I pay him, and…”
