said.
âWait right there!â Missie Grierson turned away and hurried over to a wooden dresser, the shelves of which were literally stuffed with heaps of paper. She poked frantically through them until she found what she was looking for, then pulled out a single sheet and brought it back over to Tom. She shoved it into his hands. âRead that,â she demanded. âAloud.â
Tom uncrumpled the thick, roughly textured paper. He saw that it was covered with fancy old-fashioned handwriting, the kind that would have been written with a quill pen. He studied it for a moment. Some of the spelling was distinctly odd and the hand was very ornate but he thought he could just about make sense of it.
âWell, go on,â said Missie Grierson impatiently. âI thought you said you could read.â
âI can. Itâs just the handwriting is a bit funny. Hasnât this guy ever heard of a compu . . .â He tailed off as he realised what he had been about to say. âAnyway, it goes something like this.â He began to read haltingly and was aware as he did so, that everybody in the room had stopped work and was gazing at him with what could only be described as utter amazement.
Dear Mistress Grierson,
The Trust has . . . considered your recent request for financial help with the . . . running of your orphanage and, after some . . . discussion, I regret to inform you that we cannot undertake to offer you our help in this matter. We trust you will . . . understand and respect our decision and, of course, we . . . wish you every success with your future enterprise.
Yours sincerely,
Lord Kelvin
President
There was a long silence and then Missie Grierson pulled the pipe from her lips and spat on the floor, narrowly missing Tomâs feet.
âItâs just as I expected,â she announced to the room in general. She looked around at the children in the kitchen. âNobody cares about you but me. Whatâs going to happen to you after Iâm gone? Thatâs anybodyâs guess. Still, at least this time it hasnât cost me a shilling to be told such dismal news.â She considered for a moment and then asked them, âWhy have you stopped working? I donât recall anybody telling you to take a break.â
The children fell back to their respective chores as though their very lives depended on it and Missie Grierson turned her attention back to Tom.
âWhere did you learn to read like that?â she asked him.
âAt school,â he told her, matter-of-factly. âItâs no big deal.â
âHmmph.â She rubbed her gnarled chin between a plump thumb and forefinger. âA rich manâs son, Iâm guessing . . . and a Sassenach , judging by your accent. Iâve always maintained that Sassenachs are all . . .â
âThieves and rascals,â finished Tom. âYeah, Morag told me. But Iâm no thief and Iâm not even sure what a rascal is.â
She seemed amused by this remark. âIâd say you fit the description well enough,â she observed. âSo what happened to your parents?â
âThey . . . theyâre a long way away now,â he said, with what felt like absolute truthfulness. âMy dad is back in Manchester and my Mum . . . well, sheâs in a different place altogether.â
Missie Grierson clearly misunderstood the last part. A sad look came to her grizzled face. âIâm very sorry for your loss,â she said. âWherever she is, Iâm sure the angels are with her.â
Not in Fairmilehead , thought Tom, but he said nothing.
âAnd thereâs no way you can get back to your father?â
Tom shook his head. If things didnât go back to the way they were before the fall, he wouldnât be seeing any familiar faces.
âWell, Iâll admit that having somebody who can read letters would be handy enough,â admitted Missie Grierson. âBut the need