Page 39 of Miss Ashbury and the Anatomy of Mending a Heart

Now that the girl was dry, Vera realized that she and Hortense were both sopping wet. Vera’s hair hung in limp ringlets on either side of her face. Her bodice clung and her skirts were far heavier than they’d been a half hour prior. Hortense’s dress was splattered a darker blue.

Still, the little girl was clean and warm, and was now mowing her way through a ham-and-cheese sandwich.

Nearly a quarter hour passed before the little girl sniffled, looked up at Vera with her huge blue eyes and announced, “Don’t like you.”

Vera smiled. “I don’t blame you at the moment.”

Anne appeared to consider the words, her eyes serious.

Then she looked back up at Vera and grinned. “Muffin?”

* * *

Later, when the three of them were bundled back into the cart, their basket much lighter due to the appetite of the little girl in the kitchen, Vera waited only until they were a little ways past the house before she turned to Stephen.

“Who on earth is that little girl?”

“I don’t rightly know,” he admitted.

“You don’t know? Didn’t you ask?”

He shrugged. “Mr. Douglas said that he found Anne. He wasn’t inclined to go into detail, but I don’t think she was in a good situation.”

“Found her? She isn’t a dog.”

“Indeed not.” Stephen held the reins casually. “Most people care for dogs.”

“You’re being purposefully obtuse.”

He arched an eyebrow. “If that’s true, I hardly think that pointing it out will change my stance. Remember—you called it purposeful.”

“What about her parents?”

“Dead. At least Mr. Douglas was forthcoming on that point. The girl has no family and neither does he. I think perhaps he saw an echo of his same loneliness within her.”

Vera blinked and did her best not to let his poetic words soften her heart. “But you can’t just take a child.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Vera trailed off, stunned by the realization that there was nothing truly in place to stop someone from doing so.

If the girl was an orphan, common thought prevailed that she should be in an orphanage, or a workhouse if she were old enough. Except Vera had brought soup to orphanages many times. They were the same as any other home in London—some were decent, some were awful.

Much like families, she thought.

She batted the errant thought away and tried to focus.

“But why would he want her?”

“I don’t think he did,” he said cheerfully. “But judging by what he told me, once he saw her plight, he couldn’t just leave her there.”

“I’m not sure that her plight is any better with Mr. Douglas.”

Stephen’s brown eyes slid over to her in that low searching way he had. “Did she seem mistreated? Did she seem hungry? Did you observe any marks that would speak to abuse?”

Vera considered for a moment. The girl had eaten every biscuit she could get her grasping hands on, but that wasn’t altogether rare for a child of that age.

“No, but she hadn’t been bathed in well over a week.”