Read Online The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls by Claire Legrand - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claire Legrand
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so many mouths to feed here.”
Mrs. Cavendish smiled. “I make a point of knowing all the children in the area.
Professional interest, you know.”
Victoria blinked, struggling to remember why she had come. “No, I think I’m all right. I should go. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Such pretty curls,” said Mrs. Cavendish. She came closer to Victoria and pet her hair with long, warm fingers. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Victoria? You always do as you’re told.”
Victoria couldn’t look away from Mrs. Cavendish’s kind blue eyes. They drew her in like jewels. “I like to be the best.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Cavendish smiled. “And the best way to do that is to do just as you’re supposed to. Right?”
“Yes. I’ve always thought so.”
“Your parents love you very much, Victoria.” Her stroking fingers sent warm, curling rushes down Victoria’s back.
Victoria thought about that. Love was not something she and her parents ever talked about, but it seemed the proper thing to say. “Yes, and I love them.”
“Such a good girl. Now run along home.” Mrs. Cavendish went to the cupboards on the far wall to get some jars. “We’re about to eat supper. Mr. Alice, if you would?”
Mr. Alice took his hoe and walked down the hall toward the laughter.
As Victoria turned to leave, she saw the paper plane on the counter. The sight of it woke her up a bit, like snapping out of a half dream right before falling asleep. She checkedto make sure no one was looking, grabbed the plane, and stuffed it in her skirt pocket.
“Thank you for the candy,” she said over her shoulder, hurrying outside.
Once out of the Home’s light, she ran toward the gate as fast as she could, staying in the trees to muffle her footsteps.
Ahead of her, the gate seemed to be closing, but it was probably a trick of the wind. Victoria ran faster and managed to get out before the gate clicked shut. The storm chased her home.
Beatrice met her in the foyer.
“You’re late for supper,” Beatrice said. She seemed terrified as she took Victoria’s coat and helped her out of her muddy shoes. “Go change and clean yourself up.”
“Is that Victoria?” said Mr. Wright, from the dining room.
Victoria raced upstairs. Once alone in her bedroom, she pulled out the paper plane and unfolded it.
Thick red letters scrawled across the paper read:
HELP US.
AT SUPPER THAT NIGHT, VICTORIA TRIED TO explain to her parents why she had been late.
“I told you, I was taking Mr. Tibbalt’s dog home,” she said, over and over. “He got out.” But her parents didn’t seem to believe her. It was a silent dinner. When Beatrice refilled their drinks, the clinking ice cubes were the only sounds in the dining room. Every now and then, Mrs. Wright would pat her lips with her napkin. Mr. Wright cut his meat into squares. Neither of them looked at their daughter.
Victoria went to bed early, claiming that her head hurt. She shut herself away in her room and turned off all her lights. Her academic report still lay on the floor. Distracted,she put it on her desk so she would remember to get her parents’ signatures on Monday morning.
She put on her pajamas and got into bed. Then she pulled out the crumpled paper plane from beneath her pillow. She unfolded it and read the words by the light of the storming moon:
HELP US.
Help who? And from what? Was there something in the Home that the orphans didn’t like? It could have been a joke, she supposed—but thinking that didn’t get rid of the uneasy feeling in her belly. And there was still the question of where Lawrence had gone. She could not— would not—believe that nonsense about him visiting his grandmother. No, Lawrence was somewhere else and could quite possibly need her help too. The only problem was, she had no idea where to start searching for him. He could be anywhere, he could be hidden away. She stared at the note in her hands. Someone had flown it into Mrs.
Mrs. Cavendish smiled. “I make a point of knowing all the children in the area.
Professional interest, you know.”
Victoria blinked, struggling to remember why she had come. “No, I think I’m all right. I should go. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“Such pretty curls,” said Mrs. Cavendish. She came closer to Victoria and pet her hair with long, warm fingers. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Victoria? You always do as you’re told.”
Victoria couldn’t look away from Mrs. Cavendish’s kind blue eyes. They drew her in like jewels. “I like to be the best.”
“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Cavendish smiled. “And the best way to do that is to do just as you’re supposed to. Right?”
“Yes. I’ve always thought so.”
“Your parents love you very much, Victoria.” Her stroking fingers sent warm, curling rushes down Victoria’s back.
Victoria thought about that. Love was not something she and her parents ever talked about, but it seemed the proper thing to say. “Yes, and I love them.”
“Such a good girl. Now run along home.” Mrs. Cavendish went to the cupboards on the far wall to get some jars. “We’re about to eat supper. Mr. Alice, if you would?”
Mr. Alice took his hoe and walked down the hall toward the laughter.
As Victoria turned to leave, she saw the paper plane on the counter. The sight of it woke her up a bit, like snapping out of a half dream right before falling asleep. She checkedto make sure no one was looking, grabbed the plane, and stuffed it in her skirt pocket.
“Thank you for the candy,” she said over her shoulder, hurrying outside.
Once out of the Home’s light, she ran toward the gate as fast as she could, staying in the trees to muffle her footsteps.
Ahead of her, the gate seemed to be closing, but it was probably a trick of the wind. Victoria ran faster and managed to get out before the gate clicked shut. The storm chased her home.
Beatrice met her in the foyer.
“You’re late for supper,” Beatrice said. She seemed terrified as she took Victoria’s coat and helped her out of her muddy shoes. “Go change and clean yourself up.”
“Is that Victoria?” said Mr. Wright, from the dining room.
Victoria raced upstairs. Once alone in her bedroom, she pulled out the paper plane and unfolded it.
Thick red letters scrawled across the paper read:
HELP US.
AT SUPPER THAT NIGHT, VICTORIA TRIED TO explain to her parents why she had been late.
“I told you, I was taking Mr. Tibbalt’s dog home,” she said, over and over. “He got out.” But her parents didn’t seem to believe her. It was a silent dinner. When Beatrice refilled their drinks, the clinking ice cubes were the only sounds in the dining room. Every now and then, Mrs. Wright would pat her lips with her napkin. Mr. Wright cut his meat into squares. Neither of them looked at their daughter.
Victoria went to bed early, claiming that her head hurt. She shut herself away in her room and turned off all her lights. Her academic report still lay on the floor. Distracted,she put it on her desk so she would remember to get her parents’ signatures on Monday morning.
She put on her pajamas and got into bed. Then she pulled out the crumpled paper plane from beneath her pillow. She unfolded it and read the words by the light of the storming moon:
HELP US.
Help who? And from what? Was there something in the Home that the orphans didn’t like? It could have been a joke, she supposed—but thinking that didn’t get rid of the uneasy feeling in her belly. And there was still the question of where Lawrence had gone. She could not— would not—believe that nonsense about him visiting his grandmother. No, Lawrence was somewhere else and could quite possibly need her help too. The only problem was, she had no idea where to start searching for him. He could be anywhere, he could be hidden away. She stared at the note in her hands. Someone had flown it into Mrs.
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