“Well, we all have our blinders,” the other murmured, somewhat cryptically. “Never mind. One day you’ll recognize your own value, my dear.”
“I’m just happy to contribute as much as I can.”And to find a place where I belong.
Turning the corner, Mrs. Hunt led the way into the offices that housed the academy’s staff. She said a cheery hello to the secretary stationed at the front desk and ushered Polly down another corridor. They passed by an immaculate chamber outfitted in dark, masculine tones. A painting of Mrs. Hunt and her three golden-haired offspring hung over the large mahogany desk, lending a bright note to the otherwise stark decor.
They reached Mrs. Hunt’s personal office, an airy space marked by an eyebrow-raising amount of clutter. Mrs. Hunt made a beeline for her rosewood escritoire. The desk’s legs creaked as she shuffled through the piles on its surface.
“Make yourself at home, dear,” she muttered absently. “Now where is the dashed thing?”
Eyeing the seating options, Polly hid a grin. The chairs and settee were also covered in books and papers—the tools of a writer’s trade. For in addition to her charity work, Mrs. Hunt wrote wildly popular novels under her pseudonym P. R. Fines.
Polly was discreetly clearing a stack of newspapers off a chair when Mrs. Hunt exclaimed, “Aha. Here it is!” Waving a book like a flag, Mrs. Hunt came over and held it out.
Polly took the handsome leather-bound volume. Reverently, she ran her fingertips over the title embossed in gold. “Is this your newest book?”
“I received it yesterday,” Mrs. Hunt said with a happy nod, “and I’m going to unveil it at our charity ball, less than a fortnight away. I’ll be auctioning off signed copies to raise funds for the academy.”
“What a brilliant notion.”
“That is what Mr. Hunt said.” Mrs. Hunt looked quite pleased with herself. “Now on the topic of the ball, have you decided what you’re going to wear?”
Polly hadn’t given it much thought. In truth, she was not particularly thrilled at the notion of enduring yet another social crush, but she would go, of course, to support the children and the Hunts’ excellent cause.
“I’ll find something suitable,” she said off-handedly.
“Actually, I was hoping you’d do me and the academy a favor.”
She tilted her head. “Of course, if I can.”
“As you know, all the classes are working on projects to display at the ball. Seeing the fruits of the children’s hard work always encourages our donors to reach more deeply into their pockets. This year, Madame Rousseau has been working with Maisie and the other girls to design a ball gown for the occasion—and they’d like for you to model their creation.”
Tendrils of dread crept over Polly. She shook her head. “I wouldn’t do their work justice—”
“On the contrary, you’d be theperfectmodel,” Mrs. Hunt argued. “Madame Rousseau already has your measurements from gowns she has made you in the past, and Maisie and the girls are so excited over the project. Indeed, they’re likening it to the story of the Girl in the Cinders—not that you’re dressed in rags, of course,” she added hastily. “They would just like to create a different style for you.”
“But I don’t want—”
“It would mean ever so much to Maisie and the other girls,” Mrs. Hunt said. “It would show them that you have faith in their abilities. That you’re proud of them and their handiwork.”
Polly gnawed on her lip. How could she refuse such a request? It was just a dress, after all. The truth was that she’d wear a sack if it would prove to the children how proud she was of them.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“Marvelous! You shan’t regret it,” Mrs. Hunt said, her eyes sparkling.
Polly hoped the other was right.
~~~
A little shy of an hour later, Polly stood around the corner from the academy at a busy intersection of passing carriages, wagons, and people on foot. She tried to blend in as she waited anxiously for Rosie to arrive. She’d purposefully worn her most concealing cottage bonnet, its large straw brim hiding most of her profile.
“Miss Kent?”
She started, her head twisting in the direction of the strange voice. Her bonnet had worked too well, preventing her from seeing the street urchin who’d approached her from the other side.
“Yes, that’s me,” she said, perplexed.
“I ’ave a message for ye.” The gap-toothed boy held out a missive.
