Page 81 of Duke of Fire
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“Terrified. But I find terror rather sharpens the mind.”
The door opened before they reached it, and Mrs. Everett appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a woman of indeterminate age with graying hair and a smile that could warm the coldest room.
“Your Grace! Oh, and you have brought—goodness, is that—” She dropped into a curtsy so deep, August looked alarmed. “Your Grace. We are honored. Truly honored. I never thought—that is, when Miss Hartwell mentioned—oh dear, I am making a muddle of this.”
“Please, rise.” August offered her his hand. “I am the one who should be honored. Miss Hartwell speaks very highly of your work here.”
“She is too kind. We do our best, but with so many mouths to feed—” She caught herself and flushed. “Forgive me. You did not come to hear me complain. Please, come inside. The children are just finishing their breakfast.”
They followed her through a narrow hallway into a large room that served as dining hall, schoolroom, and general gathering space. Long tables filled the center, and children of various ages sat eating porridge from wooden bowls. The conversation died the moment they entered, twenty-three pairs of eyes swiveling to stare at the visitors.
“Children,” Mrs. Everett said, clapping her hands once. “We have guests. You remember the Duchess of course. And this is His Grace, the Duke of Wildmoore.”
A small boy of perhaps five raised his hand. “Is he really a duke?”
“Yes, Thomas, he really is.”
“Does he have a crown?”
“Dukes do not wear crowns, you cloth-head,” an older girl said, rolling her eyes. “Only kings and queens wear crowns.”
“But he looks very fancy,” Thomas insisted. “Fancier than Mr. Potts at the bakery, and he has silver buttons.”
August crossed to the boy and crouched down to his level. “I am indeed very fancy. Would you like to examine the buttons? They are silver as you correctly observed.”
Thomas’s eyes went wide. He reached out one grubby hand then pulled it back. “Am I allowed?”
“Of course. Though I must warn you, they are rather less impressive upon close inspection. I suspect Mr. Potts has the superior buttons.”
The boy giggled and touched one of the buttons reverently. Within moments, August was surrounded by children, all wanting to see his watch chain, his signet ring, the embroidered design on his waistcoat. He answered each question with patience, never once suggesting they should mind their manners or keep their distance.
Eliza watched him kneel to help a small girl retie her bootlace, explaining the proper technique as though it were a matter of state importance. He looked utterly at ease, and something in her chest pulled tight.
“He is wonderful with them,” Mrs. Everett murmured at her elbow. “You would not think a man of his station—well, you know how it is. Most would not bother.”
“Yes,” Eliza managed. “He is rather surprising.”
She busied herself distributing the new blankets, moving from child to child. Each blanket was thick wool, soft and warm, and she made sure every child understood it was theirs to keep. No sharing, no taking turns. Theirs.
“Miss!” A boy with a missing front tooth tugged at her sleeve. “Miss, do you have children of your own?”
The question stopped her cold. She looked down at the boy, at his gap-toothed smile and eager face, and could not seem to form words.
“Not yet, Peter,” she said finally. “Perhaps someday.”
“You should have lots. You would be a good mama. You are nice, and you bring us things, and you never shout like Mrs. Baxter does when we track mud inside.”
“Mrs. Baxter shouts because you deliberately jump in puddles before entering the house.”
“They are very good puddles,” Peter said solemnly.
Eliza laughed and ruffled his hair, but the question lingered. Children. She had never allowed herself to think about it seriously. Marriage had always been so abstract, so unlikely, that the possibility of children had seemed even more remote.
But now, she was married. To August. And children were no longer an abstract possibility but an eventual expectation.
She looked across the room and found him lifting a giggling little girl into the air, spinning her in a circle while she shrieked with delight. He was laughing, his face more open and unguarded than she had ever seen it. He looked young, happy, entirely himself.
