The Last Duke (Thornton 1)

Prudence shrugged. “I didn’t want to. Mama made me.”

“Prudence, I know Martha means a lot to you, but would you be willing to love a new doll?”

“Mama says we can’t pay for a new doll.”

“Let me tell you a secret.” Daphne leaned conspiratorially forward. “I saw the most beautiful doll in the window of the village shop. She has hair the color of spun gold and a pink satin gown with a velvet bow. She also has a terrible problem.”

“What?” Prudence stared, transfixed.

“No one wants her. She’s been in that window for months now, and no one has taken her home. I suspect she’s very frightened. After all, Christmas is a mere two months off, and I can’t think of anything more dreadful for a doll than spending Christmas alone in a store window. Can you?”

“But why don’t anyone want ’er?”

“Most little girls are not as unselfish as you. Most of them refuse to give up their old dolls to love a new one. Thankfully, your heart is bigger than theirs. So, if I brought that new doll with me next time, would you be willing to take her home and love her as you did Martha? You’d be making her incredibly happy.”

“I sure would! I’ll take real good care of ’er and love, ’er a whole lot, I promise.”

Daphne smiled, stroking the smooth soiled cheek that was tilted earnestly toward her. “That’s two promises, then—to wear your new dress and to love your new doll. You’ve more than repaid the cost of the garment. I have but one more favor to ask, and that is for your help. You see, Prudence, I think I’ve brought enough dresses for all your classmates. But I need someone to help me sort out the various sizes and match the right dress with the right girl. Do you think you could manage that?”

Prudence glowed. “I know I can. I’ll match ’em all, Miss—Lady…”

“Daphne. My name is Daphne. Sort of like daffodil, only shorter.”

“But th’ vicar didn’t call ye daffodil, ’e called ye some other flower.”

Daphne grinned. “Snowdrop. The vicar has called me by that name since I was even younger than you.”

“Why?”

“Have you ever seen a snowdrop, Prudence?” Chambers asked, coming to stand beside them.

“They’re white. And pretty.”

“Yes they are,” he agreed. “They’re also delicate—so fragile you fear they’ll never survive, particularly in the dark part of winter when they first emerge. And yet, not only do they survive, but they flourish, fighting their way from the bleakness of the cold earth, opening their buds to the heavens, standing steadfast and proud, and offering the world an extraordinary beauty that none can equal and few can appreciate.”

“Are ye really like that?” Prudence asked Daphne in wonder. Only in some ways,” Daphne answered with an impish grin. “I’m stubborn and I’m proud.”

“Yer also pretty. So’s yer name.”

“Which one? Snowdrop or Daphne?”

“Daphne. I like it. And I like ye,” Prudence concluded decisively.

“I’m glad. I like you, too.” Daphne swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Now, shall we distribute the clothing and the pie?”

A chorus of enthusiastic yeses greeted her request.

Two hours later the basket was empty, the pie was gone, and the atmosphere in the classroom bore no resemblance to the somber aura preceding Daphne’s arrival.

Sitting among the children, Daphne elicited peals of laughter with her recounting of the summer the Tragmore pond creature had terrorized her, its deep, eerie summons permeating her bedroom in the darkest hours of night.

“ ’ow old were ye?” Timmy demanded.

“Five. I was convinced that a horrid monster was dwelling in the pond, just waiting for the right opportunity to carry me off.”

“Did ye tell yer parents?”

A shadow crossed Daphne’s face. “No.”