“Would you like to hold him, sir?” she said now.
But there was wickedness in her, asking that, and she knew it, for she knew the answer already. Dr. Berghast had never once held the baby, nor even touched him, and there was a quick flash of alarm in his face as he registered her words. Then he turned away.
“The child looks healthy, Miss Crowley,” he murmured. “You are doing well. I am grateful.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It cannot be easy, being alone here.”
“I don’t think he minds it, sir.”
“I meant yourself, Miss Crowley.”
Had any other person said such a thing, she’d have thought it a kindness at best, rather too forward at worst; but with Dr. Berghast she knew it was neither, merely a statement of fact.
“Oh, it’s no trial, sir. I like the baby’s company.”
“Mm.” He stood looking down at the child a moment longer. She could not see his face. “My boy,” he whispered.
Then he retreated back out, to the antechamber.
She followed.
“Miss Davenshaw tells me you are in need of extra coal and candles?” he said, when the curtain was again drawn and they were away from the sleeping baby. “I will see they are sent up. The child must be kept warm, yes. She tells me also that you are not eating.”
Susan blushed. “I’m fine, sir. Only a wee bit tired. Tis to be expected.”
He grimaced.
“I must tell you something, Miss Crowley. It has only just been decided, but I think it best you hear it at once.”
Berghast’s gray eyes bored into her own and she looked away.
“The child cannot stay here, at Cairndale. He will need to be sent away. I would like you to go with him, if you are willing.”
She looked up. “Sent away? He is still very young, Dr. Berghast—”
“It cannot be helped. I have already written several letters of inquiry and am only waiting to hear back. I have two possible destinations. They are … remote.”
“But … why, sir?”
She watched Dr. Berghast cross to the window and separate the muslin curtains with one hand and stare out at the gathering darkness. She had not lit any candles and she moved now to do so.
It was then he spoke.
He said, very softly, “Because the child is not safe here, Miss Crowley. He is not safe anywhere. We must hide him, before they come for him.”
She looked at him sharply. “Who is coming for him, sir?”
But that question, he did not answer.
* * *
At that same moment, in the lower foyer of Cairndale, Abigail Davenshaw was sitting upright and stiff in an armchair with her hands clasped in her lap, listening to the clock chime in one corner. She had been waiting almost an hour for the carriage from Edinburgh, the carriage that was carrying her two new wards.
Their names were Gully and Radha, twins, and they had come a great distance to reach the institute. She knew only what Mrs. Harrogate had told her upon arrival: they had come from Calcutta, purchased by Mr. Coulton from a spice trader, and they understood almost nothing of their talents.
Mrs. Harrogate had seen them in London, the morning of their arrival; their luggage had been delayed at the customs house at Grave-send, and Mr. Coulton had agreed to see them to the train when at last it was delivered.
As a general rule, Abigail Davenshaw did not like children to travel unaccompanied—one does not invite trouble into one’s home, as her grandfather would have said—but it had been done like that since before her time at Cairndale, and there had never yet been any child lost or delayed, and so who was she to demand a chaperone be present?
She lifted her face. There came the sound of heels crossing quietly toward her.
“Mrs. Harrogate,” she said.
“Miss Davenshaw,” replied the older woman. “I have been looking for Dr. Berghast. He has not passed this way?” She paused. “What is it. The new ones? Have they still not arrived, then?”
Abigail Davenshaw inclined her head. “As you can see.”
“Well. I am certain the carriage will arrive soon. It is Mr. Bogget, after all. He has been driving our new ones up from Edinburgh since, well, since my late husband’s time. And he has not failed us yet. He has perhaps had some trouble on the road, or with the horses. He will be here. I am confident.”
“Hm,” she replied. For Mrs. Harrogate didn’t sound confident, not at all, not to Abigail Davenshaw’s practiced ear.
A long, uncomfortable silence passed. There came the faint rumble of children running along the corridor upstairs. The older woman made a sniffing noise, and then Abigail Davenshaw felt a hand on her sleeve.