“No,” Amelia cut in, suppressing a smile so as not to encourage her friend. “No violence, and nojapes, Philippa. Not where Mr. Robinson is concerned.”
“Your speech then...” Philippa waved a hand toward her, then sank it back beneath the soapy water to continue her task. “Let us see how convincing the daughter of Viscount Tate can be when it avails her to be charming.”
Amelia chewed on her lip, racking her mind for the words she had desperately tried to memorize that morning in the looking glass.
But the words would not manifest in her mind.
She felt a familiar panic rise within her, grasping at knowledge sheknewexisted somewhere within her but was just out of reach. Her eyes closed tight as she tried to summon the text she had rehearsed, her frustration mounting by the second.
“Miss Tate,” came the soft voice of Mrs. Thatcher, as she placed a hand over Amelia’s on the counter.
When Amelia looked down, her knuckles had turned white. She relaxed her hand immediately.
“Forgive me,” Amelia said, putting down the bowl and stepping back. “I should not over-rehearse, or my words will sound quite performative.”
She glanced at Philippa, hoping she had not noticed her lapse in memory. Her friend seemed chiefly concerned with finishing the washing up as quickly as possible.
“Excuse me. There is much to do before Mr. Robinson arrives,” Amelia said meekly, slipping her hand out from Mrs. Thatcher’s hold and quickly leaving the room.
I cannot allow my shortcomings to compromise the future of this orphanage,she thought as she mounted the stairs in search of Mr. Marsh, heart hammering in her chest.Mr. Robinson must be convinced to allow us to remain here a while more...
Mr. Robinson may have had a heart of stone, but at least he was punctual. Amelia had been watching the clock closely for his arrival. The moment it struck two o’clock, someone knocked on the front door. The children were reading with the other volunteers on the second floor—the house was mostly quiet.
As she raced into the entrance hall, she found Mr. Marsh climbing the stairs with a coal scuttle, a young girl, no older than four, shadowing him. Amelia waved them away with a pained look. There were only two sights Mr. Robinson would not brook: that of the working man and that of children.
“Miss Tate,” Mr. Robinson said upon entering. “I do not appreciate being left outside in the cold—especially not on the doorstep of a house I own.”
Amelia swallowed hard, closing the door behind him, and not daring to argue that he had knocked merely seconds before.
Mr. Robinson was a tall man with a protruding stomach, and he carried a steel-tipped cane wherever he went. It rapped against the floor as he marched into the entrance hall, turning in a circle to observe his surroundings.
“Certainly not, sir,” Amelia replied, folding her hands in front of her. “Allow me to apologize. May I offer you some tea?”
“I will not be remaining long enough for tea.”
“No.” Amelia winced. “Of course not.”
Without asking permission, Mr. Robinson promptly turned and proceeded into the nearest room. Amelia had barely reached him by the time he exited, continuing his immediate and silent tour of the house. He visited the downstairs playroom, the schoolroom, the dining hall, dodging Amelia’s weak attempts at trying to stop him.
“Are you looking for something, sir?” Amelia successfully asked at last, halting him as he reached the base of the stairs.
He sent her a cold look, and Amelia shrank into herself.
“The children are occupied upstairs,” she said timidly. “It pleasing you, I would not wish them... disturbed.”
Mr. Robinson extended his silence, broken eventually by a sigh. He stepped away from the stairs and folded his hands over the top of his cane.
“How many months have you rented number twelve from me?” he asked.
Amelia performed quick calculations in her mind, sensing this was a trick question. “Twenty-five, Mr. Robinson.”
“And in that time, have I not been a fair and tolerant proprietor? Have I not allowed you to run this enterprise as you saw fit, placing my trust in you, a child, awoman,despite my years of experience begging me to act otherwise?”
Amelia’s temper quickly rose. Upstairs, the floorboards groaned under the weight of small, happy footsteps. The muffled laugh of a child echoed down the stairs. She chewed on the insides of her mouth, focusing her attention on that gleeful sound, carefully constructing her reply.
“Yes,” she said. “You have been a fair and tolerant proprietor.”
Mr. Robinson tapped the ground with his cane. “A fair and tolerant proprietor, yes,” he continued. “Not a fool easily taken in. Miss Tate, I have waited two weeks for this quarter’s rent. I will not wait a day more. Do you have it? If you do not, I will proceed with my plan at once.”
