others, Toby had found the blind man begging on the streets, recognized him as a fellow veteran and brought him to Hope House.
“Ain’t right for a man who took the Queen’s coin and lost his sight to starve in the streets,” he declared indignantly. “We’ve got plenty of room ‘ere.”
Unlike the others, Bart never spoke about his experiences. Indeed, he rarely spoke at all, and the others didn’t pry. As far as they were concerned, he was one of them.
The ‘bus stopped at the corner, and Celeste stepped down. A brisk two-block walk took her to a small, two story sturdy brick house. The “lads” as they called themselves, had scrubbed and repaired it to such a degree that some of their neighbors also spruced up their homes and what had once been a rather shabby looking street, was now all “shipshape and Bristol fashion,” as Tim liked to say. Jasper took pride in keeping the lawn mowed and trimmed, and Toby had put in small neat flowerbeds beneath the windows. Celeste mounted the steps, rapped a tattoo on the door to announce her arrival and stepped inside. After closing the door, she called, “Hallo, the house!” and hung her coat and hat on the hall tree.
“’Afternoon, Miss Celeste!” A quartet of voices called. She found her four students in the parlor, gathered around the table. Bart sat in his chair by the window, the usual knitting needles in his hands. They all stood and bowed, and Celeste smiled. They always wore their “Sunday best” when she came and a wave of affection surged through her. In the six months she had been coming here, a strong bond had formed between them, and she enjoyed it as much as her work with the children. “How is everyone?” she asked.
They assured her all was well, and Duncan added, “I’ve made Dundee cake and cheese scones for our tea. Hope you’re hungry.”
“A woman would have to be seriously ill not to eat your cooking, Duncan,” Celeste declared, taking her place at the table. She glanced at Bart. He never joined them while they were having their lessons, but would sit and listen, sometimes commenting on their work. He was a handsome man, with dark brown hair and darker eyes. A pair of white scars on either side of those eyes stood out on tanned skin, and Celeste wondered again how he lost his sight. “What are you making, Bart?” she asked.
He held up the needles and the long swatch of yarn hanging from them. “Tim told me he has no winter scarf, so I am making one for him.”
“He’s going to make me a pair of socks next,” Jasper said proudly.
The afternoon passed quickly and after arranging to meet with them the following week, Celeste headed for the flat she shared with Rose Walton, a private duty nurse. A note on the kitchen table reported Rose would be working late, so Celeste ate a light supper and started next week’s lesson plans. Not until she was preparing for bed, did she recall the choral competition. And then, quite unbidden, memories of her musical training returned, including those of singing to the piano playing of the man who had broken her heart. His light-hearted flirtations— soon had her head over heels in love, with every reason to believe he returned her feelings.
But when a wealthy brewer helped secure her erstwhile beau a position as an organist at a northern cathedral, and the brewer’s pretty daughter made her admiration known, her “beau” had no more need for the affections of a country solicitor’s daughter. His declarations to Celeste vanished like smoke beside the promise of a comfortable, secure life and she had abandoned her hopes of a musical career studies for the more practical studies of a teacher. That night, for the first time in five years, Celeste cried herself to sleep.
***
Monday Morning
“Stop it this instant!” Micah Anderson demanded above the shouting as he grabbed one boy by his belt and lifted him, still swinging, off another boy, who scrambled from the floor, his fists ready
“Ain’t right for a man who took the Queen’s coin and lost his sight to starve in the streets,” he declared indignantly. “We’ve got plenty of room ‘ere.”
Unlike the others, Bart never spoke about his experiences. Indeed, he rarely spoke at all, and the others didn’t pry. As far as they were concerned, he was one of them.
The ‘bus stopped at the corner, and Celeste stepped down. A brisk two-block walk took her to a small, two story sturdy brick house. The “lads” as they called themselves, had scrubbed and repaired it to such a degree that some of their neighbors also spruced up their homes and what had once been a rather shabby looking street, was now all “shipshape and Bristol fashion,” as Tim liked to say. Jasper took pride in keeping the lawn mowed and trimmed, and Toby had put in small neat flowerbeds beneath the windows. Celeste mounted the steps, rapped a tattoo on the door to announce her arrival and stepped inside. After closing the door, she called, “Hallo, the house!” and hung her coat and hat on the hall tree.
“’Afternoon, Miss Celeste!” A quartet of voices called. She found her four students in the parlor, gathered around the table. Bart sat in his chair by the window, the usual knitting needles in his hands. They all stood and bowed, and Celeste smiled. They always wore their “Sunday best” when she came and a wave of affection surged through her. In the six months she had been coming here, a strong bond had formed between them, and she enjoyed it as much as her work with the children. “How is everyone?” she asked.
They assured her all was well, and Duncan added, “I’ve made Dundee cake and cheese scones for our tea. Hope you’re hungry.”
“A woman would have to be seriously ill not to eat your cooking, Duncan,” Celeste declared, taking her place at the table. She glanced at Bart. He never joined them while they were having their lessons, but would sit and listen, sometimes commenting on their work. He was a handsome man, with dark brown hair and darker eyes. A pair of white scars on either side of those eyes stood out on tanned skin, and Celeste wondered again how he lost his sight. “What are you making, Bart?” she asked.
He held up the needles and the long swatch of yarn hanging from them. “Tim told me he has no winter scarf, so I am making one for him.”
“He’s going to make me a pair of socks next,” Jasper said proudly.
The afternoon passed quickly and after arranging to meet with them the following week, Celeste headed for the flat she shared with Rose Walton, a private duty nurse. A note on the kitchen table reported Rose would be working late, so Celeste ate a light supper and started next week’s lesson plans. Not until she was preparing for bed, did she recall the choral competition. And then, quite unbidden, memories of her musical training returned, including those of singing to the piano playing of the man who had broken her heart. His light-hearted flirtations— soon had her head over heels in love, with every reason to believe he returned her feelings.
But when a wealthy brewer helped secure her erstwhile beau a position as an organist at a northern cathedral, and the brewer’s pretty daughter made her admiration known, her “beau” had no more need for the affections of a country solicitor’s daughter. His declarations to Celeste vanished like smoke beside the promise of a comfortable, secure life and she had abandoned her hopes of a musical career studies for the more practical studies of a teacher. That night, for the first time in five years, Celeste cried herself to sleep.
***
Monday Morning
“Stop it this instant!” Micah Anderson demanded above the shouting as he grabbed one boy by his belt and lifted him, still swinging, off another boy, who scrambled from the floor, his fists ready
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