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Of course, Mrs. Thackpenny didn’t know that particular scandalous detail about Joy’s paternity.

Nor would she ever. The very notion made her ill.

A shiver skittered the length of her spine.

For God help her, Joy’s position and reputation depended upon that scandal remaining a secret. As did Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women’s, and the many girls who had ever called the place home.

Mrs. Shepherd made absolutely certain her girls’ unsavory origins were diligently guarded and hidden. She created respectable faux backgrounds and prepared them for various positions appropriate for gently-bred young ladies.

She was paid handsomely—very handsomely—for her exclusive, confidential services too. Surely she’d amassed enough savings to retire in comfort, yet Mrs. Shepherd cheerfully continued in her position.

It struck Joy as peculiar that a parent who was so eager to hide their by-blow or bastard daughter would pay Mrs. Shepherd’s exorbitant fee and ensure their illegitimate offspring had a decent future. But then again, there was no understanding the peculiarities of the wealthy or the peerage, in Joy’s limited experience.

Odder still were the surnames Mrs. Shepherd dubbed each of her charges with. She vowed the name contained a hint about each girl’s familial heritage. Nonetheless, to Joy’s knowledge, thus far, not a single former ward had identified either parent.

What difference would it make anyway?

“Miss Winterborne?”

Mrs. Thackpenny’s voice pitched higher, and the unfortunate wooden floor—already scarred and scraped—received a pair of undeserved petulant thwacks from her ever-present cane.

Thump. Thump.

“Where is my darling Sir Galahad Whiskerton?”

Thump. Thump.

“Miss Win-ter-borne? Are you there?”

Her shrill voice pierced the air once more.

Joy winced as she accidentally pricked her finger.

As if she couldn’t hear her crotchety employer’s strident tones from the chair less than ten feet away. Rather astonishing that a woman so shrunken and petite could produce such remarkable volume with her reedy voice.

“Yes, Mrs. Thackpenny. Permit me to finish this French knot, please.”

Accustomed to her employer’s ill-temper, Joy calmly finished her embroidery stitch despite her cold fingers' stiffness.

From beneath her lashes, she cast a yearning glance toward the few insufficient glowing coals in the grate, in front of which Mrs. Thackpenny’s small settee was positioned to absorb the stingy warmth the pathetic fire provided.

Was it a sin to covet a smidgen of the sparse warmth for herself?

Little heat radiated past the settee, leaving the rest of the room so frigid, Joy could see her own puffs of breath. She deliberately blew out several, watching the vapor disappear, just to prove her point. Besides the kitchen, this was the warmest room in the house, which wasn’t saying much.

The temperature indoors accounted for the two pairs of stockings she wore as well as the housecoat and hand-knitted woolen shawl wrapped around her shoulders and pinned neatly at her bosom with a simple, but elegant silver cross brooch—a parting gift from Mrs. Shepherd. Joy wore fingerless gloves, also hand-knitted, but that didn’t prevent the digits from becoming distressingly cold.

As always, because Mrs. Thackpenny preferred a tomb-like atmosphere, the faded burgundy brocade draperies remained closed against the day’s chill. Truth be told, Joy would’ve welcomed meager sunlight streaming through the floor to ceiling arched windows. She couldn’t help but think Mrs. Thackpenny would also benefit from a spot of sun.

It couldn’t be good for a soul to be shut up indoors with no light or fresh air for weeks on end. God only knew Joy felt the effects of such confinement. Humans weren’t meant to huddle in the dark like frightened insects or creep about in the gloom like earthworms or moles.

“You know I cannot bear for Whiskers to be away from me,” the elderly woman complained in a child’s sulky voice—a strident voice which grated along Joy’s spine like sharp talons scraping the bones.

She’s old and lonely, Joy reminded herself. Be charitable.

Her husband died when she was not much older than you.

She has no children or remaining family and few friends.