“I know it doesn’t look promising, but something will change in our favor. I simply know it will.”
“That is a wonderful thought, but . . .” Helena took in a breath to regain control of her despair. Moving the papers to the side, she stared at the columns of numbers on the ledger Charlotte had presented her along with the letters. “What does Mr. Fitzgerald have to say on the matter?”
Charlotte’s husband had managed the accounts for the orphanage for over a decade. It was how Helena had met her, and they had become friends in the ensuing years. When the woman didn’t answer right away, Helena looked up to see the worry shining in her dark brown eyes. “The projections do not appear to support opening this winter.”
Helena followed her well-manicured finger as she flipped the pages, each spread showing a different month and how their coffers would be empty by summer.
“That’s it, then. We cannot open.”
“Could you perhaps make an appeal to the owner of the property? If we could get him to agree to a delayed payment schedule, it would help. Or would he agree to make the property a donation?”
“Donate the property? That would be asking for so very much.”
“It would, but families do it.”
“You’re right, Charlotte. We could offer to name the building after him. Create a legacy that will be known clear into the next century.”
“Yes, appeal to his vanity.”
“I think we have no choice but to try it. I haven’t received a reply yet to my inquiry from yesterday. Once I do, we shall have a clearer idea of what to expect.”
Before Charlotte could answer, one of the young girls from the top floor tapped at the office door.
“Yes, Abigail?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, Lady Helena.” She bobbed a curtsy, the cap on her head flapping in her enthusiasm. “Miss Taylor sent me to ask you to come upstairs. She needs help.”
“Thank you, Abigail.”
The girl curtsied again and ran away, her footsteps echoing in the stairwell as she went upstairs.
“Thank you for bringing these over,” Helena said.
Charlotte smiled, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners. “Of course. I shall see you at the upcoming board meeting.”
Helena walked her to the front door of the orphanage before making her way through the cheerful whitewashed rooms on the first floor to the stairwell. The orphanage was decorated like a home should be, with art on the walls and inviting furniture throughout. She had tried in her years here to make it feel less like an institution and more like a place of comfort, reasoning that the children would feel more welcomed and supported in such an environment.
That thinking had extended to the residential floors as well. Each child had their own bed and bedding they selected themselves and a framed piece of art to hang above their bed. It wasn’t much, but it gave them some autonomy over their surroundings and a sense of belonging.
On the second floor, Helena walked down to the room where the children who were too young for school lived. Mary was one of the young mothers from the top floor who minded the children on days she wasn’t needed in the printing shop where she worked three days a week. She assisted Mrs. White, the governess the orphanage employed. Usually, the days went by without incident, so Helena was surprised when she opened the door to complete chaos.
The beds around the periphery of the room had been almost completely stripped of their bedding. Toys were strewn hither and thither about the space. Fabric dolls dangled by their yarn hair from the draperies, and wooden locomotives were being driven along the walls by several pairs of chubby hands.
“Mary, what in heavens . . . ?” Her words dropped off as a pillow came tumbling her way with a small child stuffed inside the casing, laughing as he rolled. “Ho there! We mustn’t have an accident.” She stooped and helped him from the pillow. Andrew merely giggled, his dark curls bouncing as he ran to join two girls who had found their way into the painting supplies. “Girls, perhaps we should reconsider an art project at the moment.”
She hurried over to them and put the lid back on the jar of watercolor that had been filled with water but was only seconds too late to stop the spill of diluted yellow that covered both of their skirts. The boy yelled, “Pretty!” and swiped his hand through the paint and proceeded to smear it on the wall.
“Mary?” She called again as panic began to take over. The girl appeared to be in the middle of three sobbing children all competing to see who could go about it the loudest.
“Lady Helena, I am terribly sorry to interrupt you, but I seem to be at an impasse.”
“Where is Mrs. White?” she asked, wiping down the girls’ dresses as best she could with a length of toweling before the damage could spread. There was no stopping Andrew, however, who had continued his finger painting on the wall, leaving a trail of finger marks that went all the way to the other wall.
“Andrew, you must stop that and go clean your hands,” Mary ordered to no avail. To Helena she said, “Mrs. White was feeling under the weather this morning, milady. I didn’t let you know because I thought I could handle things.”
“I wish you would have called for me earlier—”
“No, milady, you don’t understand. I didn’t call because I need help, though I can see getting the paints out to occupy them was unwise.”
Having decided there was no saving the dresses, Helena paused in unfastening Anna’s dress. “Why, then?” It was only at that moment that she realized an older boy stood near her, a look of stunned horror on his face as the drama in the room played out. In his hand he held a note. He was clearly a messenger.
“The printer has asked if I can come now. He’s had a rather large order for invitations and needs me to get started on them right away.”
“Today?” Helena looked around the room in near despair at the implications of being left alone with ten unruly little children. She had always helped out with the older children. The ones who were civilized and eager to learn. She didn’t know if she could handle the younger ones.
The older boy came over and shoved the paper under her nose. “Letter from the printer, ma’am.”
“Yes, yes. I see.”
“You’re right, milady,” Mary said. “It’s not a good day. I’ll tell him—”
“No, Mary, you must go. You cannot turn down work that could benefit your future.”
She hurried to finish taking the impossibly small dress off Anna followed by the second girl, leaving them in their cotton shifts. By that time, the trio of sobbing children had quieted somewhat.
“Thank you, milady.” Mary passed the smallest of her charges over to Helena, who quickly sat with him on her lap so that the other two could lean against her.