He lifted her chin with his forefinger to look into her eyes and read the truth. “Were you?” he asked again softly.
This time she gazed back at him without flinching. “No, I was not, but they humiliated me in front of my friends and enemies. Every. Single. Time.” She swallowed. “I haven’t forgotten, even after five years.”
“Perhaps you never will,” he murmured. “But you now know that your talents are extraordinary. Talents are given by God and it’s our duty to use them for good. You do that. You make people’s lives lighter, happier, more bearable, if only forthe duration of your performance. You understand that, don’t you?”
A crease formed between her arched eyebrows. “I’ve never thought of my performing like that.”
“I think you should.”
“You’re right.” Her voice was filled with wonder at the new way of viewing her craft.
He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the orphanage. “The people in that building can’t take that gift away from you. Not then, now or ever.”
She dipped her chin once, decisively. “Yes, I agree.”
Her bravery filled him with warmth. He pressed her hand lying in the crook of his arm against his body to reassure her. “Now, are you ready to face your past in order to find out what information the orphanage holds?”
“I am.” Her fingers squeezed his arm and they resumed their journey.
Francis rang the bronze bell hanging beside the large timber door. Within moments, the door was opened by an elderly porter. Francis provided his card and asked to speak with the matron.
After a short wait in the small vestibule, a young girl dressed as a servant arrived. “Matron will see you now.” The girl led them along a wood-paneled hall and knocked on the door at its end.
Behind this door might lie all the answers Clarissa sought. Or disappointment. In either case, he wanted to provide the support she needed to face her future. That was a dizzying thought, which almost rocked him off the soles of his feet.
Francis’s attraction to Clarissa was very much alive and growing. His pastor father would be rolling in his grave at the thought of his son so enamored with an actress. And his father had been liberal in his views compared to the bishop!
Chapter Eight
This was the place of her repression. The familiar scent of vinegar used to wash the floors of the orphanage, mixed with the ghastly smell of cooked cabbage, flooded Clarissa’s nostrils and aroused memories she would rather obliterate. The chime of the grandfather clock that occupied its place of importance in the entrance foyer, and regulated all the inmates’ activities during the day, resounded three times throughout the building.
Clarissa shuddered, not just from the chilled and damp air resulting from not enough fires being kept burning, but also from the familiarity. Three o’clock meant it was time for boring needlework.Uggh. Mending clothes and making samplers. The weight of her memories pressed from all directions.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice called.
The girl opened the door to reveal a small office. “Your visitors, ma’am,” she said, bobbing a curtsy before backing away to allow them to enter.
The grey-haired Mrs. Hutton rose and walked around her desk. Clarissa shrank back from her a little. She remembered her well, as the person who often sent her to stand at the center of the vast dining room as punishment for making too much noise or exhibiting too much energy indoors. Clarissa had stood there alone while the whole orphanage ate their meal. Afterwards she would be given bread and dripping.
“Reverend Brody, I understand?” Mrs. Hutton said.
“Yes,” he said. “And Miss Bartlett.”
The woman ran a practiced eye over Clarissa’s waistline then gave a small smile of greeting. “Please be seated.” She pointed to two worn wooden chairs before her desk. “How may I assist you?” The matron resumed her seat.
“I’m assisting Miss Bartlett in her search for information about her parents.”
The matron’s eyes darted back to Clarissa, speculation in their depths. “You look familiar. Were you raised here?”
“I was born and grew up here,” she said, and something about Frank in the chair beside her safely anchored her to life beyond these walls. She caught his kind gaze and unclenched her hands. This place couldn’t harm her now. “My aunt found me five years ago and took me into her care.”
“Aah.” Understanding dawned on the matron’s round face.
“Now I wish to know what information, if any, exists about me in your records.”
“I assume there is an intake register?” Francis added. He removed his wire-rimmed reading glasses from their case and put them on.
“When were you born, Miss Bartlett?”
