Page 50 of A Gentleman's Reckoning
Mr. Peyton’s posture eased, and John began to suspect hewas hiding something. He still needed to ask about Mr. Thompson’s donation.
“There is something else that is curious. Our record books show that we have very little money in the coffers, and I am unsure how we are going to find enough to pay for the structural weakness that has allowed the partial collapse of a wall.”
Mr. Peyton lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Mr. Rowles, I’m sure you will understand that the foundling asylum is not my only concern. I merely distribute the funds as I receive them. I cannot conjure up money where there is none, nor can I tell you how best to use the funds to good purpose. If you feel yourself ill-suited to the position, however?—”
“Mr. Mark Thompson has recently made a donation of five hundred pounds. Yet that money has not come to me. I have received nothing more than the usual small donations for the general running of the orphanage.”
Mr. Peyton now looked ill at ease. “If Mr. Thompson donated this money as you say, how did you learn of it?”
John was caught between the crosshairs. “Once again, it was an extraordinary circumstance that allowed for this information to come to me. I merely wish to apply to you as the asylum’s managing agent to learn if you knew anything of it.”
Mr. Peyton was quiet for long enough that John became aware of the ticking clock near the wall.
“I will look into it, but my guess is that this Mr. Thompson, whom I have never heard of, was more likely boasting at having done a good deed in order to impress someone rather than disclosing a donation he truly made. In any case, I have received nothing from a man by his name.”
John knew when a battle was over and was wise enough to know that he had lost this one. He got to his feet. “I understand. You must be right. I will make do with what we have then.”
Mr. Peyton’s features softened slightly, and he accompaniedJohn to the door. At the last moment, John turned to him, hoping for the element of surprise.
“Would you be able to give me the direction of Mr. Biggs? I would like to get his advice regarding certain aspects of the foundling asylum.”
Mr. Peyton looked taken back before he recovered himself. “I do not believe I can, in good conscience, give you the direction of someone who has requested to retire quietly and live a simple life. I am sorry to disoblige you.”
John accepted this final defeat. Although he was disappointed, he would find a way.
“I understand. Good day, Mr. Peyton.
When he returnedto the office, Timothy was waiting for him and seemed restless and more talkative than usual.
“I have done all of the sums you have set out for me and have found the dis…the dis…”
“The discrepancy,” John finished for him.
“The discrepancy in the record books that you hid for me. Do you have any more?”
John looked at him with amusement. “What has happened to you, Timothy? You are asking me for more sums?”
“It is only that I wish to join Mason Cook, for he is to bring the support beams today.” He could scarcely stay still in his eagerness.
John laughed. “Now it all makes sense.” A small figure appeared in the doorway, and he turned. “Gabriel, are you up at last? I am glad to have you rejoin us.”
Gabriel looked pale, but he attempted a smile. “I am afraid I will not be able to write, though, for I have broken my writing hand.”
John ushered him to where he usually sat. “Did you knowthat it is possible to learn to write with your other hand?” Gabriel looked at him doubtfully, and John held up a pencil to show him. “It won’t look as nice as the hand you are accustomed to, but why don’t you start practicing?”
Gabriel seemed eager and relieved to have something to do. He took the paper in front of him and attempted writing sums with his other hand.
John turned his attention back to Timothy. “You may go out and join Mason Cook.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Timothy started toward the doorway, then stopped suddenly as though reminded of something. He turned to walk over to the small corner closet, whose shelves were surprisingly deep.
“I had forgotten. You asked me to arrange the closet. I found these letters, and I thought they might be important.” He handed him the stack and was off like a flash.
John brought the bundle over to his desk, animated by nothing more than curiosity. He slipped the cord that tied the papers and flipped through them, finding letters from the curate that mentioned certain orphans to be brought in. It was dated before Mr. Dowling had taken up his position.
As John flipped through the pile, he stopped at one letter in particular, written in a flowing hand and addressed to Mr. Biggs. He opened it and perused the contents, coming to the end where it was signed by a Miss Amelia Biggs, whom he deduced to be the old steward’s sister. Her direction was at the top of the letter, and it was just outside of London.
