Page 61

9 May 1788

Dear Jane,

I received word from Mr. Fossum early this morning. Mrs. Stanley died last evening and will be buried in the churchyard tomorrow.

As I am unaware of how attached Asher was to the lady, it is difficult for me to gauge how distressed he will by the news. If you wish me to be the one who tells him, I will gladly spare you the difficult task.

Mr. Fossum also informed me that he has written to the Foundling Hospital to inform them of the situation. I imagine his letter will arrive soon after mine.

Unfortunately, there is little more we can do until I hear back from the director or learn whether Mr. Toole has discovered the whereabouts of the missing boys. It will be a somewhat challenging exercise in patience for me, I think.

I look forward to seeing you and your family at the picnic.

Sincerely,

Alexander

“Mrs. Stanley is dead,” Jane said. She had known it would come ever since she’d spoken with Alexander, but she did not feel ready for the finality of the words.

“God rest her soul,” Aunt Millward said.

Jane clutched the letter more tightly. “Lord Bloxley has offered to tell Asher if I would prefer it.”

“Would you?”

“I . . . I do not know.”

Aunt Millward took her other hand. “What would be best for Asher?”

“To do it here, in the privacy of the nursery,” Jane said.

“Then let that be your guide.” Aunt Millward squeezed her hand. “I can be beside you if that would help.”

Jane took a deep breath. “It would. And I think I should like to do it straightaway. That will give him a little time to adjust to the news before we leave for Bloxley Hall.”

Aunt Millward released Jane’s hand and offered Jane her cane. “It has been my observation that children are remarkably resilient, Jane. Do not fret. Not only is Asher young, but he also has you.”

But for how long? Jane pushed aside that reoccurring and troubling thought. It was a question she could not answer. They had each other now, and that was what was most important.

When Jane and her aunt entered the nursery, Asher was sitting at a small table, watching the tadpoles swim around and around in the jar. He was dressed in clean clothes, and his hair was damp from his recent scrubbing.

“Miss Hadford,” he cried happily. “Is it time to go?”

Jane shook her head. “Not quite yet.”

His expression fell momentarily, but then he pointed at the jar. “Look. They’ve still not turned into fwogs.”

“A few more days perhaps,” Jane said, smiling slightly at his pronunciation. From this time on, she would always think of frogs as fwogs.

Some of the tadpoles had already produced rear legs when Alexander had fished them out of the pond, but Asher’s update did not surprise her. He had told her exactly the same thing less than two hours ago. She made her way across the small room and lowered herself into the rocking chair. Asher immediately scrambled off his stool to climb onto her knee. Jane wrapped her arms around his small frame and started to gently rock.

“I’m afraid that I have some sad news, Asher,” she said.

He turned to look at her. “Is it about Cook?”

“Cook?”

“She said it would be a sad day if her spiced buns didn’t turn out wight.”