Free The Price of Desire by Leda Swann Page B

door a little wider and looked them up and down with an assessing stare. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you from this parish?” she asked suspiciously.
     
    “From Bloomsbury,” Caroline confirmed. It was the wealthiest part of the parish and would be home to few of the paupers in the House.

    The woman’s eyes narrowed at the name, and the door remained largely closed. “You don’t look so destitute to me, with your fancy black clothes and boots and all. You sure you haven’t come from one of those Welfare Societies to make trouble here?”

    “Our father died, leaving more debts than we could pay. We have nothing.”

    “Hmmm.” She pursed her lips as she opened the door a little wider and ushered them into a bleak waiting area with bare brick walls and a cold stone floor. “Come on in, then, and I’ll ask the master to take a look at you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if he finds out you’re shamming. He won’t treat you kindly.”

    Beatrice stepped forward as the woman was about to leave them again. “Can we have something to eat while we wait? We’ve been walking all day on only a few blackberries and a morsel of bread and my sister is not strong.”

    The woman gave a slightly malicious chuckle as she made her way to the door. “Dinner’s over for the day. You’ll have to wait till supper for a meal. That is, if the master lets you stay at all.”

     

    By the time the master of the workhouse arrived, the afternoon had almost disappeared into evening. Overcome with the twin effects of hunger and exhaustion, Teddy and Dorothea had eventually ceased their fretful quarreling, slumped onto the bare stone floor, and subsided into an uneasy sleep. Beatrice and Louisa sat at one end of the plain wooden bench that was the room’s only furniture, their heads on each other’s shoulders and their arms wrapped around one another, each one giving the other the only protection they could afford. Next to them sat Emily, her hands primly folded in her lap but her head lolling on one side and her mouth slightly open in sleep.

    Only Caroline, squashed as she was at the far end the bench, and sick with apprehension over the coming interview with the assessor, felt no inclination to slumber. The blisters on her feet throbbed and the pain in her empty stomach was as sharp as the twist of a knife, but all her physical discomfort was nothing to the ache in her heart.
     
    Her father—his greedy speculations and wild schemes to double his fortune in no time at all—had made them sink so low. If only he had been content with all he had: a fine house, a fine family, and an income plenty large enough for all their needs. They had needed nothing more.

    Just a few weeks ago she had loved him dearly. He had been her father, her protection from the world, even sometimes her friend. It was hard to remember that now, surrounded by her hungry and exhausted siblings and knowing that his greed and cowardice had brought them to such straits. And yet for all that, she could not hate him. It would be easier if she could.
     
    No, her hate was centered on Captain Bellamy, on the man who could have rescued them all if he had chosen to. His mean, penny-pinching offer of keeping her was more insulting than anything else could ever be, more insulting even than the suspicious look on the face of the master of the workhouse who was now approaching her. He was a sandy-haired man of about her father’s age, though with a rough, weather-beaten face that told of the hardships he had lived through, and a gammy leg that he supported with a stick.

    “You’re the ones who want emergency admittance?” he barked, his voice gruff. His sharp gaze took in the picture they made—wrinkled black gowns, unkempt hair, and pale, exhausted faces.

    Caroline got to her blistered feet and dipped into an awkward curtsey. “We are.”

    He stopped in front of her, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “You’re in fine clothes for