Page 21 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

H ester adjusted her gloves as the carriage door swung open. She alighted and looked up. “Oh, Miss Holt,” she murmured, her gaze sweeping over the sturdy red-brick building with its neat rows of mullioned windows. “How charming it looks. Far brighter than I imagined an orphanage might be.”

Like the castle, lush vines climbed the walls, their enchanting flowers cheering the spirits. Mrs. Smith smiled. “I am pleased Your Grace finds it agreeable.”

A stout woman in a serviceable gray wool dress stood waiting on the scrubbed stone steps, her hands clasped tightly before her. As Hester approached, the woman sank into a deep, practiced curtsy.

“Your Grace,” the woman said, rising with a warmth that softened her plain features. “I am Mrs. Danes, mistress of St. Brigid’s. We are deeply honored by your visit.” She gestured towards the arched oak door. “Might I offer you refreshment in my office after your journey?”

Over steaming cups of strong tea in the small, book-lined office, Hester folded her hands in her lap.

“We’ve brought blankets for the children,” she began, nodding towards Miss Holt who stood quietly near the door.

“But please, Mrs. Danes, if there is anything further required—anything at all—you must inform us. Medicine, tutors, repairs… no need is too small nor too great.”

Mrs. Danes’s eyes grew suspiciously bright.

She pressed a handkerchief briefly to the corner of one eye.

“Indeed, Your Grace, the Lord provides. He opened our doors and brought us the most gracious patrons.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping with reverence.

“Your husband, the Duke… his generosity these past twelve months has been a blessing beyond measure.”

Hester’s fingers tightened around her teacup. “We hope to do more,” she said softly, the ‘we’ feeling strangely natural.

“As a matter of fact,” Mrs. Danes continued, a note of awe threading her words, “His Grace is funding a new wing. Expanded living quarters for the older children. It’s transforming our capacity.

” She set her cup down with a small clatter, unable to contain her eagerness.

“Would you care to see the progress, Your Grace? It’s unfinished, of course, but the framework… it’s a marvel.”

Hester followed her through a bustling courtyard.

They stopped before a soaring timber skeleton rising beside the older building.

Sunlight streamed through the open beams, illuminating the scale and solidity of the construction.

No corners had been cut; the wood was thick and seasoned, the stone foundations deep.

Hester traced the line of a massive oak support beam with her gaze, a sudden tightness in her throat.

Thomas. This tangible proof of his unseen compassion, this quiet investment in forgotten lives, struck her with unexpected force.

She blinked rapidly, turning her face slightly away from Mrs. Danes to compose herself, the sheer scale of his kindness leaving her momentarily wordless.

A young nursemaid in a starched apron hurried up, bobbing a swift curtsy. “Mrs. Danes, Your Grace,” she said breathlessly. “The children are gathered and ready in the main hall. They’re ever so eager to meet the Duchess.”

“Oh, excellent!” the headmistress exclaimed, her genuine delight mirroring the warmth spreading through Hester’s own chest. She followed Mrs. Danes into the bustling main hall where rows of children stood scrubbed and expectant.

“May I present our little angels, Your Grace?” Mrs. Danes said, sweeping a hand towards the assembly.

Hester took in the sea of faces, boys and girls ranging from tiny tots to gangly youths, none older than thirteen.

Their expressions held a mix of shyness and eager curiosity.

Miss Holt and Mrs. Smith stepped forward, arms laden with neatly folded blankets.

As they began distributing them, excitement spread through the room.

Hester moved among the children, straightening a collar here, offering a gentle word of encouragement there.

The brightening of their eyes and the tentative smiles blooming as small fingers traced the soft wool sent a profound sense of reward coursing through her.

It was more fulfilling than anything else.

Pausing near a cluster of older girls, Hester overheard whispered awe: “Look, Mary! Butterflies! Real proper ones, stitched right on!” Another voice sighed, “Mine’s got a blue one.

It’s lovely.” Hester’s cheeks warmed with quiet pleasure.

The embroidered butterflies had been simple, hurried stitches, yet they’d sparked joy.

Her gaze drifted across the room, lingering on a small figure standing apart near a sun-drenched window.

A little boy, no older than five, stood isolated.

He sucked his thumb intently, his other arm wrapped tightly around a ragged, thin blanket clutched to his chest. While the other children chattered and compared gifts, he remained utterly still, his pale blue eyes distant and devoid of emotion.

A pang struck Hester deep in her chest. Why hadn’t he received a new blanket? Why was he so separate?

Driven by an instinct she couldn’t name, Hester selected a soft blue blanket adorned with a single, carefully stitched sparrow.

She walked towards the boy, her steps measured and quiet.

As she neared, the cheerful hum of the room dwindled into a watchful hush.

The children stopped fidgeting; the nursemaids exchanged wide-eyed glances. The air thickened with held breath.

“That’s Noah, Your Grace,” Mrs. Danes murmured, appearing silently at Hester’s elbow.

Her voice was low. “Found abandoned and badly injured in a disused storehouse nigh on two months past. He whispered his name then… and not a word since. The physician believes the shock may have rendered him mute.” Hester felt an invisible hand clench around her heart, heavy and sorrowful.

Hester stopped a few paces from Noah. He immediately shuffled backward, pressing himself against the window ledge, his thumb still anchored in his mouth, his gaze fixed warily on her shoes. The ragged blanket bunched tighter under his thin arm.

“He hardly lets a soul near him, Your Grace,” the nursemaid who had summoned them earlier whispered, her voice thick with resignation. “Not staff, not the other children.”

What shadows haunt you, little one? Hester thought, her throat tightening. He reminded her of a feral kitten, poised to bolt at the slightest threat. She crouched slowly, bringing herself to his eye level, careful not to crowd him.

She smoothed the soft blue wool of the new blanket draped over her arm, making the embroidered sparrow visible. “Would you like to see my blanket, Noah?” she asked softly, her voice calm and inviting. “It’s very soft.” She ran her fingertips slowly over the sparrow’s wing.

Noah’s gaze flickered. For the briefest moment, the guarded emptiness in his pale blue eyes wavered, replaced by a spark of curiosity.

It was fleeting, like sunlight catching a dewdrop, but it was there.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t move. But his wide, watchful eyes remained locked on the blue wool in her hands.

Hester held her ground, sensing the fragile thread of connection.

“Where did you find your own blanket?” she asked gently, nodding towards the worn fabric clutched under his arm.

“Perhaps we might compare the sizes?” She took one deliberate, slow step closer.

This time, Noah didn’t retreat. A flicker of cautious hope warmed Hester’s chest.

Encouraged, she continued, her voice soft as the new blanket’s wool. “What colors do you favor? This one has orange and blue.” She held the blue blanket a little higher, letting the sunlight catch the soft nap. “Would you like to see it properly? Feel how soft it is?”

Without waiting for a nod she knew wouldn’t come, she gently reached for his free hand, the one not holding his thumb or his tattered comfort.

His small fingers were cool and still in hers.

Slowly, she brought his fingertips to brush against the new blanket’s surface.

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers flexed slightly against the wool.

A soft sigh escaped Hester’s lips, a release of breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. From the hushed group watching, several sharp intakes of breath echoed the surprise. “He’s not running,” Mrs. Danes’s awed whisper carried in the sudden quiet.

“I almost can’t believe it,” came the nursemaid’s stunned reply.

Hester watched, her own heart pounding, as Noah tentatively explored the texture. His small fingers pressed, rubbed, and finally curled slightly into the plush weave. “I have another blanket,” Hester murmured, her throat tight. “So you may have this one if it pleases you.”

Noah didn’t speak. But the answer shone clear in his wide, pale blue eyes, fixed intently on the blue wool. With a movement both swift and deliberate, he gathered the new blanket into his arms, pressing it tightly against his chest alongside his old, worn companion.

“Oh,” Mrs. Danes breathed, her hand fluttering to her chest. “He was found clutching that old scrap. He wouldn’t let a soul near it, much less surrender it for washing.”

Hester smiled, a genuine warmth spreading through her despite the ache in her heart. “It’s quite all right. We’re all allowed to cling to whatever threads of hope we find in life, are we not?” She gave a soft chuckle.

“Soft.” The word, small and clear as a bell, pierced the stillness.

Another shocked silence crashed over the room, deeper than the last. Every eye fixed on Noah. He looked directly at Hester, the new blanket held fast.

Mrs. Danes pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “Oh! He spoke! A miracle!”