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Authors: Tracey Devlyn
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agency in two hours to retrieve Mick for the rest of her interviews. All in all, their debate ended quite equitably, which was why they all worked so well together.
Mrs. Drummond continued, “Matron is settling in a new unfortunate. She asked me to take you about the facility, then she’ll meet us on the third floor, where the fortunates sleep.”
In the midst of surveying her surroundings, Sydney paused. “So the children are considered unfortunate when they arrive and fortunate once they become residents?”
“Yes, ma’am. Matron likes symbolizing each child’s turning point with a descriptive word. It gives them something they can aspire to, or some such thing. I’m afraid most of it’s lost on me. And if it’s lost on me, these ignorant boys aren’t likely to understand.”
For a woman who worked with children all day, Mrs. Drummond had no idea how intelligent and perceptive they could be. Drawing forth her most grating feminine voice, Sydney asked, “Oh, la. Such things are so tiresome. I have a dear friend who insists that I should read poetry to expand my mind. Honestly, who can follow such wandering, nonsensical thoughts? It’s as if the poet spent time searching for the words at the bottom of a bottle before applying them to paper.” She let out a sigh and then started walking. “What do you do here, Mrs. Drummond?”
The woman took a moment to respond, no doubt stunned into speechlessness by the seemingly unending stream of words, followed by an abrupt change of topic. Mrs. Drummond cleared her throat. “I’m one of two nurses employed here. When it comes to the boys, whatever needs done, I do.” Her back straightened into a proud line. “I make sure the children rise at six, wash their faces, eat their meals, attend the schoolroom, complete their chores, and then I send them to bed by eight.”
Halting, Sydney asked, “You do all that in a single day?”
Mrs. Drummond’s barely contained disgust was something to behold. “I do all that every day, Mrs. Henshaw.”
Hearing the name of her old, beloved schoolmistress sent a wave of nostalgia through Sydney. Word of Agnes Henshaw’s sudden death had reached Sydney only a month ago. When she’d decided to assume another identity for her observation of Abbingale, it seemed fitting to use the name of the woman she had admired so much.
Sydney flipped open her frilly pink fan and worked it enthusiastically. “Goodness, I feel faint just listening to you.”
The nurse pursed her lips. She motioned up the stairs. “Shall we?”
Sydney nodded and preceded the scrawny woman up two flights of stairs, even though she had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that the nurse was studying her figure. Mrs. Drummond barely came to Sydney’s shoulder and weighed little more than a candelabrum—and was about as wide as one, too.
Over the years, Sydney had grown comfortable with her height and more robust frame. As a matter of fact, she had used it to her advantage on more than one occasion. But there were still times when her height felt like a lodestone hanging around her neck, taunting her to drop her shoulders and curve her spine. Anything to make her appear smaller, more feminine. More accepted amongst her female counterparts.
At five-foot-nine, she towered over most women and some men, especially when wearing her walking boots, with their two-inch heels. Mac had never minded her size, probably because he stood several inches taller. Then his scapegrace brother Mick came onto the scene a little over a year ago. The first time he saw her, he murmured, “My, aren’t you a Long Meg,” in his soft Irish bur. He followed the comment with a devilish wink, and no more was said on the subject. She wished all her encounters could be so painless.
All the same, she was thankful for this chance to speak with another one of Abbingale’s staff. The opportunity allowed her to crosscheck the matron’s facts. “How many children are living here
Mrs. Drummond continued, “Matron is settling in a new unfortunate. She asked me to take you about the facility, then she’ll meet us on the third floor, where the fortunates sleep.”
In the midst of surveying her surroundings, Sydney paused. “So the children are considered unfortunate when they arrive and fortunate once they become residents?”
“Yes, ma’am. Matron likes symbolizing each child’s turning point with a descriptive word. It gives them something they can aspire to, or some such thing. I’m afraid most of it’s lost on me. And if it’s lost on me, these ignorant boys aren’t likely to understand.”
For a woman who worked with children all day, Mrs. Drummond had no idea how intelligent and perceptive they could be. Drawing forth her most grating feminine voice, Sydney asked, “Oh, la. Such things are so tiresome. I have a dear friend who insists that I should read poetry to expand my mind. Honestly, who can follow such wandering, nonsensical thoughts? It’s as if the poet spent time searching for the words at the bottom of a bottle before applying them to paper.” She let out a sigh and then started walking. “What do you do here, Mrs. Drummond?”
The woman took a moment to respond, no doubt stunned into speechlessness by the seemingly unending stream of words, followed by an abrupt change of topic. Mrs. Drummond cleared her throat. “I’m one of two nurses employed here. When it comes to the boys, whatever needs done, I do.” Her back straightened into a proud line. “I make sure the children rise at six, wash their faces, eat their meals, attend the schoolroom, complete their chores, and then I send them to bed by eight.”
Halting, Sydney asked, “You do all that in a single day?”
Mrs. Drummond’s barely contained disgust was something to behold. “I do all that every day, Mrs. Henshaw.”
Hearing the name of her old, beloved schoolmistress sent a wave of nostalgia through Sydney. Word of Agnes Henshaw’s sudden death had reached Sydney only a month ago. When she’d decided to assume another identity for her observation of Abbingale, it seemed fitting to use the name of the woman she had admired so much.
Sydney flipped open her frilly pink fan and worked it enthusiastically. “Goodness, I feel faint just listening to you.”
The nurse pursed her lips. She motioned up the stairs. “Shall we?”
Sydney nodded and preceded the scrawny woman up two flights of stairs, even though she had the distinct and uncomfortable feeling that the nurse was studying her figure. Mrs. Drummond barely came to Sydney’s shoulder and weighed little more than a candelabrum—and was about as wide as one, too.
Over the years, Sydney had grown comfortable with her height and more robust frame. As a matter of fact, she had used it to her advantage on more than one occasion. But there were still times when her height felt like a lodestone hanging around her neck, taunting her to drop her shoulders and curve her spine. Anything to make her appear smaller, more feminine. More accepted amongst her female counterparts.
At five-foot-nine, she towered over most women and some men, especially when wearing her walking boots, with their two-inch heels. Mac had never minded her size, probably because he stood several inches taller. Then his scapegrace brother Mick came onto the scene a little over a year ago. The first time he saw her, he murmured, “My, aren’t you a Long Meg,” in his soft Irish bur. He followed the comment with a devilish wink, and no more was said on the subject. She wished all her encounters could be so painless.
All the same, she was thankful for this chance to speak with another one of Abbingale’s staff. The opportunity allowed her to crosscheck the matron’s facts. “How many children are living here
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