Luckily, Bolton was friends with the Duke of Burbridge, who had a residence on the outskirts of London. He’d offered his estate when he’d heard of their need for greenery for the ball.
Frances was looking forward to the outing, especially if Thomas joined them. Did she dare ask him?
Soon everyone was settled at the table again and they began their final project—paper flowers.
Tibby handed everyone brightly colored paper and thin wooden circles to serve as templates. They traced the circles onto the paper and cut them out. Next, they cut wedges out of a few of the circles to make them different sizes.
Frances’ nerves eased as she and Thomas conversed about a few of their favorite Christmas traditions. Much of what she enjoyed, he did as well.
Tibby showed them how to scallop the edges and glue each circle into a cone. Then they tucked the smallest cone into the next smallest one until they formed a flower, the scalloped edges looking like petals.
“How clever,” Thomas said as he admired their handiwork. “So simple yet festive.”
“Aren’t they?” Frances watched as he added a short stem made from a narrow tube of green paper. “You’re very good at this.”
He chuckled as he looked at her. “It’s a skill I didn’t realize I had. I would say the same of you.” His attention moved to her hands as she tucked the paper circles into one another. “So graceful.”
She stilled, her heartbeat quickening at the compliment. She didn’t know what to say in return. Especially when his gaze shifted to hold hers.
“I’m pleased I came today.” He said the words so quietly that for a moment, she wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly.
“So am I,” she whispered in return. Warmth filled her, along with a well of hope. This Christmas just might be better than she could’ve possibly dreamed. All because of Thomas.
Chapter Five
The following morning, Thomas rapped on the carriage roof after the conveyance turned the corner. “Stop here, please.”
The driver did as he requested, and Thomas eased back from the window to give Peter a better view.
The boy studied the three-story structure with a frown. He bit his lip as he looked over the entire building, clearly uncertain.
“It’s all right if you don’t know,” Thomas said as he placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It was some time ago, and much has happened since then.”
Thomas hoped this wasn’t the one. Not when the Whitechapel Workhouse was the very place Frances and the ladies of her league were aiding.
She hadn’t mentioned sending children to America as part of their efforts to aid those within, so he liked to think that wasn’t in their plan. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask when they’d been making presents for the children.
He would be the first to admit that he didn’t want anything to damage the fragile connection forming between them. If he’d had a moment alone with her, he might’ve given in to the urge to kiss her. His time in London was short, and he needed to move quickly. Yet the idea of allowing them to come to better know one another first seemed like his best chance of having her agree to wait for him.
What he’d felt yesterday as he’d looked into her warm brown eyes while they’d worked confirmed how much he cared for her. Had she realized how freely she’d spoken with him by the time the presents were done? He liked to think he was helping her with her shyness.
But there was so much more to his admiration. Her determination to aid the less fortunate was honorable, and he already knew her to be an intelligent person with a fine sense of humor who was a loyal friend. She was interesting to talk with and an excellent listener. Then there was the way she made him feel—as if no one else in the room mattered. Something he rarely experienced as a second son. Something he never would’ve said he wanted. But he knew he would remember it in the lonely days ahead after he returned to America.
He gave himself a mental shake. Now wasn’t the time to think of how he felt about her. Reuniting Peter with his family came first. If only doing so was as straightforward as he’d hoped it would be.
Peter shook his head. “I’m just not sure.” He rubbed a hand over his face and looked at the workhouse again. “I don’t understand why I don’t remember.”
“You were worried about your family, not about what the front door of the building looked like as you walked in.” How Thomas wished he didn’t have to burden the lad with this task.
An idea came to mind. “Look out the other window of the carriage,” Thomas suggested. If he were forced to move into the workhouse, he would’ve taken a moment to look at what he was leaving behind. That included the view across the street.
Peter frowned but did as Thomas asked. Then his expression cleared, and excitement lit his eyes. “This is it. I remember the building with the crooked fence over there.” He pointed to it.
“You’re sure?” Thomas followed his gaze and noted the odd way three rails of the wrought-iron fence leaned toward one another.
“Yes. It made me think of how my sisters lean against me when they are tired.” Peter turned back to look at the workhouse again. “This has to be the place.” He reached for the door.
“Hold.” Thomas placed his hand over Peter’s. “Remember our plan. We don’t want those in charge to see you. They might remember you.”
