The question made her pause. Sybil looked around the room at the other girls, many of whom had stopped eating to listen for her answer.
Tell them the truth. Tell them you’re going to refuse the Duke’s offer, and they’ll be scattered to institutions that won’t care about their education or their futures.
“I…” She cleared her throat, buying time. “We’re guests here, Sarah. His Grace has been very kind to shelter us while we… while arrangements are made.”
“What kind of arrangements?” Anne, one of the older girls, who would age out of any institutional care within the year, asked.
The kind where you’ll be sent to a workhouse because no other orphanage will take you at seventeen.
“We’re exploring several options,” Sybil said carefully. “There are other institutions that might have space?—”
“But they won’t be like this, will they?” Margaret’s voice was small but direct. “They won’t care if we learn to read properly or if we understand mathematics well enough to keep household accounts.”
No. They won’t care about any of that.
“Education will always be a priority,” Sybil said, hating herself for the half-truth.
“But not like here,” Sarah persisted. “Not with real teachers and proper books and rooms that don’t leak.”
Not like here. Nothing will ever be like here.
“Young ladies,” Beverly intervened gently, “perhaps we should focus on our breakfast rather than worrying about the future.”
But the damage was done. Sybil could see it in their faces—the dawning realization that this comfort was temporary, that soon they’d be back to the world of cold rooms and thin soup and institutions that saw them as burdens rather than human beings with potential.
This is your fault. You could give them this life permanently, and you’re choosing not to.
“Miss Sybil looks quite pale this morning.”
The Duke’s voice cut through her spiraling guilt like a blade. She looked up to find him standing in the doorway, already dressed for the day in riding clothes that emphasized his broad shoulders and lean build.
Don’t notice how handsome he looks. Don’t think about what it would be like to see him across the breakfast table every morning for the rest of your life.
“I’m perfectly well, Your Grace,” she said though her voice sounded strained even to her own ears.
“Are you?” he moved into the room with that fluid grace that made her pulse quicken despite everything. “You look as though you haven’t slept.”
Because I spent half the night holding a terrified child and the other half thinking about how I’m going to fail all of them.
“There was a small incident early this morning,” she said. “Emma had a nightmare about the fire. Nothing that couldn’t be managed.”
“I see.” His amber eyes studied her face with uncomfortable intensity. “And you handled this alone?”
“Beverly was there as well. We managed perfectly fine.”
Stop looking at me like that. Stop pretending that you care about my welfare.
“I’m sure you did.” There was something in his tone that suggested he found her independence both admirable and frustrating. “Nevertheless, you look exhausted. Perhaps you should rest today.”
“I have responsibilities to attend to.”
“Such as?”
The question caught her off guard. What responsibilities did she have, exactly? The girls were fed, housed, and safe. Beverly and Marge were managing their daily care admirably. Her medical knowledge wasn’t needed when the Duke’s own physician was available at a moment’s notice.
I’m unnecessary here. They don’t actually need me.
The realization was more painful than it should have been.
