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“Laudable, not strange,” Jane said. She untied the ribbons beneath her chin and took off her bonnet. “Rest assured, Mother, Lord Bloxley thinks nothing but good of you—despite the fact that he did not take tea in the drawing room.”

“None of this makes any sense whatsoever,” her mother bemoaned.

Jane smiled and slipped her arm through her mother’s. “Do not fret over it. I daresay Lord Bloxley will be back to officially call upon you and Father before long. And when he does, you shall have ample opportunity to impress him.”

Chapter 17

Alexander was leaving the stables astride his horse, Sampson, when he realized that despite all the time he’d spent with Asher in the orchard, his primary reason for coming to Charwell Park remained undone. He had failed to give the child his mother’s message. Why the imparting of that important communication had suddenly lost its urgency, he could not tell, but for some reason, it now seemed important that he develop a relationship with the child before sharing something so sensitive. He would wait for just the right time. Perhaps it would be tomorrow.

He rode to the end of Charwell Park’s drive, and rather than taking the road back to Bloxley Hall, he turned left toward the village. The sun was shining, and the last of the wild daffodils in the hedgerow were waving their yellow heads toward the sky. A speckled thrush sang its tune from a nearby oak tree but flew off in a flurry of feathers as the stallion drew near. From the other side of the hedge came the incessant bleating of new lambs, and Alexander smiled. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed the simple sights and sounds of the country—or an apple orchard, come to that.

His thoughts returned to the time he’d spent with Miss Hadford and Asher. He had forgotten the joy that came from digging in the dirt or the limitless scope of a young child’s imagination. Joining Asher in his creative endeavors had been an unexpected pleasure. And then there was Miss Hadford. She was as disconcerting as she was beautiful. Was there another young lady among all his acquaintances who would have shown a child of Asher’s background such genuine affection? Or who would have been content to sit quietly whilst Alexander devoted his whole attention to the boy?

Her unique blend of gentleness and resolve intrigued him. How she could be so perfectly ladylike and yet behave unlike any other young lady in high Society was mystifying. He was never quite sure what to expect from her, but he had yet to be disappointed by anything she said or did. Indeed, if he were honest with himself, his admiration for her was growing at a rather alarming rate.

The tip of the church tower came into view above the hedgerow, and Alexander pulled his thoughts back to the task at hand. He must speak with the vicar, and the most likely place to find him was the vicarage or the church.

Guiding Sampson off the main road, he traveled past the small churchyard until he came to the wooden gate that led to the church itself. He studied the small stone structure, with its arched windows and conical spire, and noticed that the heavy wooden door was ajar. Dismounting, he tied his stallion to a nearby post and opened the church gate. The gravel crunched beneath his feet and was the only thing that broke the silence of the churchyard. He reached the church and pushed against the door, allowing in enough light to see the rows of pews beyond. Removing his hat, he stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. From somewhere in the rear of the church, a door closed.

“Mr. Fossum?” Alexander kept his voice low. With the vicar’s deafness, it was unlikely that the man would hear him, but Alexander could not bring himself to raise his voice in the church.

There was a shuffle of feet, and the vicar appeared around a pillar, carrying a hymnal.

“Good gracious. Lord Bloxley.” The elderly man inclined his head. “I had not heard that you had returned to Berkshire. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Good day, Mr. Fossum. I arrived only yesterday, so I have not been here long.”

The vicar raised the book in his hand. “No, no. I am not in search of a particular song. Mrs. Fossum takes care of choosing the music for our service now. I was merely returning the book to its rightful place.”

Alexander forced a polite smile. It seemed that communicating with the good vicar was going to be even more challenging than he’d anticipated. Perhaps the written word would be better than shouting, particularly within the confines of the church. “I would speak with you,” he said. “May we go to your office?” He pointed to the door the vicar had just exited.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Fossum said. “Come in.”

Encouraged that words and a signal had been successful, Alexander followed the vicar into the small room at the back of the church. Light entered through one small window, illuminating the wood-panel-lined walls. A short desk and two wooden chairs were the only furniture. A large gold crucifix hung on the wall above the desk, and a candle, Bible, inkwell, and quill were the only things sitting on its surface.

“Paper,” Alexander asked. He picked up the quill and pretended to write in the air. “Do you have paper?”

“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Fossum opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet paper.

Alexander dipped the quill in the ink and leaned over the desk to write. Forgive me for writing rather than speaking to you. I did not feel it appropriate to raise my voice in the church. He looked up. As he had hoped, the vicar was reading his message.

When he finished, Mr. Fossum gave a chagrined nod. “Very wise, my lord. My hearing is not what it used to be.”

Alexander offered a sympathetic smile and turned back to the paper. It has come to my attention that all is not well at the Stanley house. Mrs. Stanley is gravely ill, but even before she took to her bed, the Foundling Hospital children over whom she has charge have been mistreated by Mr. Stanley and have not been fed as they should.

Mr. Fossum’s face became grave. “I had heard that Mrs. Stanley was unwell. Indeed, I went to see her a few days ago. She was abed, but her husband reassured me that the sickness would likely not last long. I know nothing of the boys’ mistreatment, however.”

I have seen Asher Barton for myself. No child would be so emaciated unless he was being deprived food, and I have reason to believe he has also received some bruises under Mr. Stanley’s hand.

“These are grave charges, Lord Bloxley.” The vicar appeared to be torn between his duty to hear out the earl and his reluctance to believe what he was reading.

They are indeed. And as you are the Foundling Hospital’s local inspector, I would hope that you would take them seriously.

Mr. Fossum stiffened. “I have never given the hospital administrators any reason to question my support.”

Of that I have no doubt, and as they clearly trust your judgment, I feel sure you would agree that it would be in everyone’s best interest if you were to reassess the situation at the Stanley house in the very near future.

Mr. Fossum set the hymnal on the desk. “I am to perform a baby blessing this afternoon, but I have a little time before then. If you would like to accompany me, Lord Bloxley, we could go now.”