She considered him, then glanced at the papers before her. He could almost hear her mentally debating whether to send him on a tour with her assistant, but then her lips—those ruby lips that had eased back to their natural fascinating fullness—firmed again. Laying aside her pen, she stood. “Indeed. The sooner we can find our missing boys, the better.”
Coming around the desk, she walked briskly out of the room; brows rising faintly, he turned and followed—once again in a woman’s wake, although this time his guide did not figure in his mind as the least bit matronly.
She nevertheless managed a commendable bustle as she crossed the outer office. “This is my assistant, Miss Marsh. She was once a foundling herself, and now works here ensuring all our files and paperwork are in order.”
Barnaby smiled at the mousy young woman; she colored and bobbed her head, then refixed her attention on her papers. Following Penelope into the corridor, Barnaby reflected that the denizens of the Foundling House were unlikely to encounter many tonnish gentlemen within their walls.
Lengthening his stride, he caught up with Penelope; she was leading him deeper into the house, striding along almost mannishly, clearly dismissive of the currently fashionable glide. He glanced at her face. “Do you have many ladies of the ton involved in your work here?”
“Not many.” After a moment, she elaborated. “Quite a few come—they hear of it from me, Portia, or the others, or our mothers and aunts, and call intending to offer their services.”
Halting at the intersection with another corridor leading into one wing, she faced him. “They come, they look—and then they go away. Most have a vision of playing Lady Bountiful to suitably grateful urchins.” A wicked light gleamed in her eyes; turning, she gestured down the wing. “That’s not what they find here.”
Even before they reached the open door three doors down the corridor, the cacophany was evident.
Penelope pushed the door wide. “Boys!”
The noise ended so abruptly the silence rang.
Ten boys ranging in age from eight or so to twelvish stood frozen, caught in the throes of a general wrestling match. Eyes wide, mouths acock, they took in who had entered, then quickly disengaged, jostling to line up and summoning innocent smiles that regardless appeared quite genuine. “Good morning, Miss Ashford,” they chorused.
Penelope bent a stern look on them. “Where is Mr. Englehart?”
The boys exchanged glances, then one, the biggest, volunteered, “He just stepped out for a minute, miss.”
“And I’m sure he left you with work to do, didn’t he?”
The boys nodded. Without another word, they turned to their desks, righting the two that had been upended. Picking up chalks and slates, they sat on the benches and resumed their work; glancing over a few shoulders, Barnaby saw they were learning to add and subtract.
The sound of swift footsteps echoed down the corridor; an instant later, a neatly dressed man of about thirty appeared in the doorway.
He took in the boys and Penelope, then grinned. “For a minute I thought they must have killed each other.”
A few smothered chuckles escaped from the class. With a nod for Penelope, and a curious look for Barnaby, Englehart moved to the front of the room. “Come along, lads—three more sets of sums and you can take your turn outside.”
Muffled groans sounded, but the boys buckled down; more than one had his tongue clenched between his teeth.
One raised a hand and Englehart went to him, bending over to read what was on the boy’s slate.
Penelope surveyed the group, then rejoined Barnaby just inside the door. “Englehart takes the boys of this age through their reading, writing, and arithmetic. Most gain at least enough to be employed as more than just basic footmen, while others become apprentices in various trades.”
Noting the earnestness in the boys’ interaction with Englehart, and the way he responded to them, Barnaby nodded.
He followed Penelope outside. Once she’d closed the door, he said, “Englehart seems a good choice for that job.”
“He is. He’s an orphan, too, but his uncle took him in and had him educated. He works in a solicitor’s firm in a senior position. The solicitor knows of our work, so allows Englehart to give us six hours a week. We’ve other tutors for other subjects. Most volunteer their services, which means they truly care about their students and are willing to work to extract the best from what most would regard as less than ideal clay.”
“It appears you’ve attracted considerable—and useful—support.”
She shrugged. “We’ve been lucky.”
Barnaby suspected that once she had a goal in mind, luck was incidental. “The relatives who give over their wards to this place—do they visit first?”
“Those who can usually do. But regardless we always visit the child and guardian in their home.” She glanced up and met his eyes. “It’s important we know what background they come from, and what they’re used to. When they first come to stay, many are frightened—it’s a new and often strange environment for them, with rules they don’t know and customs that seem peculiar. Knowing what they’re used to means we can help them settle in.”
“You do the visiting.” He didn’t make it a question.
She raised her chin. “I’m in charge, so I need to know.”
