“Not only mine.”
“Still, it’s something to be proud of, Max. I can’t help wondering why you never mention it.”
He frowned. “I believe philanthropy should be practiced with modesty and discretion. Boasting about one’s charitable activities is, in my opinion, an exercise in vanity, and also unwise. Discretion is essential if one wishes to keep the less-than-desirable wolves from the door. I didn’t purposely hide the information from you, Louisa. I just never thought to mention it, that’s all.”
“I understand.” She straightened a little and brightened her tone. “Look, Charles and Jane are waiting for us. We’re laggards, both.”
“A little bit of a climb,” Charles said as they approached, and gestured to a lane leading away from the river. “But not too far.”
St. Giles House—judging by the visible patchwork of repairs and alterations—was a marriage of several buildings, with all but one of the doors having been bricked up. Hemmed in by a wall of similar red brick, the single-story house stood well back from the road, and was accessed by an adjacent rutted lane, barely wide enough for a carriage.
“It used to be a row of thatched farm cottages,” Jane explained. “We simply converted the entire thing into one long building and put a slate roof on it. The single story is perfect for our needs, since many of our residents cannot manage stairs.”
Despite its higgledy-piggledy exterior, or perhaps because of it, the house had a discernible, rural charm. Hefty oak lintels topped the row of white-paned windows. A rooftop weathervane, in the shape of a proud cockerel, stood atop the roof, pointing its arrow into the gentle, southern breeze.
The gardens consisted, primarily, of lawns dotted with purple clover and tiny, white daisies. A number of apple trees, likely remnants of the original farm orchard, provided shade for those who wanted it. A few of the residents were seated outside, taking advantage of the pleasant weather.
Charles explained that the institution employed two full-time assistants; one who worked during the day, the other at night. As well, they had several volunteers who donated whatever time they could to the venture. Food, clothing, and other supplies were also provided through donations.
“We try to make life for the residents as pleasant as we can.” Charles opened the gate and gestured for them to enter. “None of this would be possible, however, without patrons like yourselves and those in the community who give freely of their time.”
Louisa’s attention was drawn to several men seated in the garden. They appeared to be of varying ages and disabilities. Some were obviously enjoying a nap in the pleasant afternoon air. A couple of them regarded the visitors with passive interest. One man, younger than the rest and seated in a bathchair, caught Louisa’s eye and acknowledged her presence with a smile. She returned it.
“How do you decide who should come here?” she said to Jane, in hushed tones. “What are the criteria?”
“They’re generally referred to us by the church or other charitable institutions,” Jane replied. “But Charles always visits the family in question, if there is one, before making a decision. I confess we are quite selective.”
“We have to be mindful of those who volunteer their time,” Charles said. “Though a couple of our residents are mentally compromised, there’s not a single man here who might be considered volatile. In that regard, you are quite safe.”
“You would not be here otherwise, Louisa,” Maxwell murmured, placing his hand on the small of her back.
“May we see inside?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” Charles replied. “I’m sure you must also be ready for some refreshment.”
They stepped into the flagstone vestibule, and Louisa blinked several times, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darker interior. The air, though noticeably cooler, didn’t smell nearly as fresh within. Her nostrils flared as they met the sour blend of medicinal, culinary, and other, less agreeable aromas.
They first went to the kitchen to quench their thirst before continuing with the tour. Charles explained that the residents adhered to a strict schedule of prayer, meal and bedtimes. The small dormitories were sparse in appearance but appeared to be clean and tidy. Where possible, Louisa learned, the men were encouraged to take care of their own hygiene, and someof the more capable even helped out those less adept. The activities varied, also depending on the severity of a person’s disability. For those able to play, board games, such as chess and draughts, were allowed and even encouraged. Card games were acceptable, too, though gambling of any kind was forbidden. “We have volunteers who come and read to the men,” Jane said. “I personally enjoying doing that. We read passages from the Bible, or an appropriate story. The serials from Mr. Dickens are always well-received. We even have a fiddle player who shows up once in a while and plays for them.”
“And, of course, we hold a prayer service in the main dining room every Sunday, after church,” Charles added. “If, for some reason, I cannot officiate, another parson volunteers his time.”
Louisa, humbled by the reminder of how much she took for granted, said little as Charles continued to explain the ins-and-outs of the place. Not that she’d experienced a sudden epiphany. She’d always been cognizant of her family’s societal status. Ofherstatus. Being born to it, however, she didn’t really give it much thought most of the time. It was simply the way of the world.Herworld. But, as Maxwell had recently pointed out, the ways of the world were changing. He was proof of that.
Eventually, their tour took them back outside, where they chatted with some of the garden’s occupants. Drawn by his cheerful demeanor, Louisa approached the young, fair-haired man she’d seen when she’d first arrived. His name, she discovered, was Tom Ellis, a quarryman who’d fallen and broken his back a year since. He wasn’t married, but had a widowed mother who, despite her best efforts, had simply been unable to cope with a crippled son.
“I don’t know where she’d be if not for this place,” he said. “Don’t know where I’d be, either. Pushing up the daisies, I should think.”
“Does your mother ever come to visit?” Louisa asked.
“She’s only been the once, ma’am, when I first was brought here. She lives in Pateley Bridge. Not easy to get here from there. I write to her every week, though.” He held up his hands. “My legs mightn’t work anymore, but these do.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Ten months,” he said. “And I thank God for my good fortune every day.”
Good fortune?Tears pricked at the back of Louisa’s eyes. “So, you haven’t seen your mother in ten months?”
He shook his head. “Nay.”
