“Which is?”
“To renovate this waifs’ hall immediately into apartments. The house seems to be in order. Building could begin at once. Oxford is an ever-expanding town, Miss Tate. I have a line of potential tenants waiting to move in once the renovations are complete. My Christian sense of charity alone stands between my penniless present with you and a profitable future.”
The words shot through Amelia like a bullet. Mr. Robinson wasted no time and left little room for negotiation, but Amelia had to try something to save the orphanage. These children,orphaned or awaiting the return of their parents from the workhouse or deployment, depended on the volunteers for their board and safety.
Her uncle Benjamin, though he was loyal and loving, did not have the means to help her again—and he did not believe Amelia should be managing an orphanage at all in what he liked to call her ‘delicate and weathervane state’.
She tried to recall the speech she had prepared in vain, cursing her affliction, then raised her eyes to meet the penetrating gaze of Mr. Robinson.
“Mr. Robinson,” she began with her most pleading, debasing look. “I understand very well your concerns. But I implore you to reconsider. As a businessman yourself, you must be aware of the recent increase in taxation—”
Amelia paused as a dark cloud passed over Mr. Robinson’s face.
“That is to say, we have not had sufficient time to seek out greater funding to accommodate the rising costs of running the orphanage. But our benefactors, though they may be small in number, are dependable and generous. If we could secure butonemore charitable partner—”
“Ifs and buts.” Mr. Robinson shook his head. His cane knocked loudly against the floor like a death knell, dashing her hopes and dreams, and Amelia’s heart fell into her stomach in response. “I deal only in certitudes, Miss Tate. And what is certain, at present, is that you cannot afford number twelve.”
Amelia could not hide her indignation any longer. Her brow creased in anger as she recalled Philippa’s earlier suggestion of cutting open wide Mr. Robinson, imagining a rock-solid black heart falling out of his chest onto the carpet between them.
But there was something else she remembered along with that morbid image. The mention of the Avon lands on which Mrs. Thatcher and her husband lived.
What is it I have heard?she asked herself, rubbing her forehead.Come now, Amelia, think. Aunt Beatrice told me the news twice in the last week. News that is... That is...
Suddenly, her aunt’s words flooded into her mind, and Amelia beamed in relief. She took a decisive step forward.
“Sir, you did not allow me to finish. The Duke of Avon is recently returned to Oxfordshire,” she said, remembering how excited her aunt had been at the news. “St. George’s staff is to meet with him soon—later today, in fact.”
Amelia swallowed, not liking to lie but knowing it was necessary. For now, it seemed to have given Mr. Robinson pause, and she continued with her desperate, misguided plan.
“The Duke of Avon, in his letters, has expressed great interest in supporting the orphanage,” she lied, knowing there were no letters. The duke likely did not even know she existed. “It would not do to give you the exact number of what he has promised us... But rest assured, sir, that His Grace’s generosity would permit us to run the orphanage for many years to come.”
Mr. Robinson narrowed his eyes at her, but she could see the cogs turning in his mind. The man valued money above most things and had a long history of tyrannizing the gentry around Oxford…
But the aristocrats in the area refused to deal with him. If he could secure a connection with the Duke of Avon through St. George’s, it would be a risk worth its weight in gold.
Despite this, Mr. Robinson did not immediately agree. “The same Duke of Avon,” he inquired, “who has not visited his ducal seat in ten years? What interest does he have in you?”
Amelia recalled a few things about the duke, and from Mr. Robinson’s tone, his estimation seemed to align with her knowledge of the gentleman.
Nicholas Whitmorehad inherited the duchy after his father’s demise the year prior. His father had been loved by all in Oxfordshire—had been a favorite of Queen Charlotte’s in London for his genteel manner. The same could not be said for his son, who, according to rumors, was a selfish and unpredictable rake whom many mothers hoped to reform.
Despite his shortcomings, there was no more eligible man in town, perhaps in all of England, owing to the power of his impressive, historic title.
“Yes,” Amelia said slowly, realizing how far-fetched her fabricated story now sounded. “I would not dare comment further on His Grace’s decision to meet with us, would not liketo pry nor speculate on his motivations... But it seemed to me that he had a vested interest in leaving... apositive markon the county.”
More lies. She was surprised by how easily they escaped her.
“If a man of the Duke of Avon’s station were to be a known associate of this modest orphanage...” She paused, giving Mr. Robinson enough time to imagine what this would mean for him. “Perhaps I should not have spoken out of turn. Forgive me, Mr. Robinson. You have been exceptionally generous in allowing me to speak. I shall say nothing more.”
For a moment that felt longer than it was, Mr. Robinson was silent. Amelia kept her eyes fixed on the floor, not daring to look up at him, partly out of shame.
Eventually, his cane clicked against the floor—softly this time.
“If the Duke of Avon seeks to support this house,” he replied, “then it would be a grave error in judgment to defy his wishes.”
Amelia almost cried out in relief, barely stopping herself from throwing her arms around the towering, sour-faced landlord in front of her.
“You say you are meeting with him today?” Mr. Robinson asked, already moving toward the door. Excitement glittered in his dark eyes. “Then I expect a call from you tomorrow with news of his decision.”
