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One
hand was raised, his index finger tracing a path in the air.
    Realizing the duke had spotted him, the man put his
hand down and lowered his eyes. His cheeks reddened. "Sorry, Yer
Grace. little Bertie's me nephew, and since we share the same given
name, I thought so's I'd learn along with 'im how ta write it. That
way, I can sign me own name, rather than just a mark."
    Phillip's mind whirled at the man's words. Reading
and writing were so much a part of his life that he couldn't
imagine not having the ability to do so. And being able to sign
one's own name to a document was a basic skill this man didn't
have.
    "I have plenty of paper here and another quill," he
told the older Bertie. "Why don't you sit down and join us?"
    The older Bertie's jaw dropped. "Me? Sittin' down wi'
a duke? Truly, Yer Grace?"
    "Truly. I'd be honored to help you."
    Big Bertie promptly plopped himself on Phillip's
other side. "Thank ye, Yer Grace," he said. "Me name's Bertie
Jones, and if ye ever need yer chimney swept, I'm yer man." He was
soon hard at work writing the letters of his name, his face as
determined as the younger Bertie's.
    The boy finally finished writing the last letter and
looked up with pride shining from his dark eyes. "I wrote my name
all by myself," he cried. "Mama will be so proud of me."
    Phillip shared in the boy's joy. "Perhaps she'll give
you a treat."
    Bertie's face fell. "Maybe. If Mama can get enough
washing to buy food this week."
    "What about your father?"
    "Papa is sick. He got hurt at his work. He has marks
like yours all over his whole body." He pointed to the scars on
Phillip's face.
    "How did he get them?"
    "He was working in a factory, and the furnace
exploded. Now he can't walk. Mostly he just stays in the bed,
because he can't see and he can hardly hear." Bertie reached up and
gently traced a scar on Phillip's cheek. "Does it hurt?"
    Phillip shook his head. "Not any more."
    Bertie nodded. "Mama said someday soon, Papa's sores
won't hurt him any more." He turned his hopeful eyes back to
Phillip's. "Do you think that will be soon?"
    Phillip's heart ached. Bertie's father didn't have
long to live. What were a few facial scars compared to the agony
this boy's father had had to endure? He swallowed. "I hope so,
Bertie. I sincerely hope so."
     
    ****
     
    "Thank you again for helping little Bertie Crabtree,
Your Grace," Amelia said as he escorted her out of the cathedral to
his waiting carriage. "I know he looked up to you. He misses
interaction with his father."
    "Yes, he told me about his father's accident. I would
like to do something to help his family."
    "How generous of you, Your Grace. I know they would
appreciate your donation."
    "I could donate, but I thought perhaps I would see if
Bertie's mother could join my household staff. He told me she
presently takes in washing."
    Amelia stopped in her tracks. "What a wonderful idea!
I'm sure that would help the family immensely. I have been trying
to think of ways to help the students and their families. But
giving them positions would benefit them so much more than simply
giving them food and money."
    Her mind raced with new ideas. She bubbled with
excitement as he handed her into the carriage. "I can't offer
positions to every family, but I think I can persuade Mrs. Garrett,
our housekeeper, into hiring one or two more maids," she declared.
"And I shall speak to some of my friends about it, too. They're
always complaining about how difficult it is to get good help. I
shall have to gather the children's parents together and find out
what their talents are. If there are men who have training of any
kind, that will make them more marketable…"
    Before she knew it, they had arrived back at Sudbury
House, and she bade the duke a good night. She went straight to her
room and gathered her writing materials. She had work to do.

Chapter Eight
     
    Phillip handed Amelia into his carriage and climbed
in after her. He sank into the seat, exhausted. Several new
students had