The Taste of Innocence by Stephanie Laurens Page A

should.” She shook her reins. “I’ll need to ride on or I’ll be late.”
    Charlie set Storm to pace her chestnut as they shifted into a canter. “Do you mind if I come, too?” He glanced at Sarah, trying to read her face. “I should learn about the orphanage.”
    She threw him an assessing, rather measuring look, then nodded. “If you wish.” Facing forward, she increased the pace.
    He went with her, Storm matching the chestnut’s stride easily. “So who else is on this committee?”
    “Aside from myself and my mother—she doesn’t always attend—there’s Mr. Skeggs, the solicitor from Crowcombe, and Mrs. Duncliffe. Skeggs, Mrs. Duncliffe, and I are the core committee—we oversee things week to week. Mr. Handley, the mayor of Watchet, and Mr. Kempset, the town clerk of Taunton, attend once, at the end of each year, or if we summon them.”
    Charlie nodded. “How large is the orphanage?”
    “We’ve thirty-one children at present, ranging from babes to a few thirteen-year-olds. Once they reach fourteen, we find employment for them in Watchet or Taunton.” Sarah glanced at him. “Most come from one or the other of those towns. There’s so many factories in Taunton these days, and therefore more accidents, leaving children without fathers and too often their mothers starve, or fall ill and die, too. And from Watchet and the coast, we get those left when fishermen and sailors are lost at sea.”
    “So you’ve been involved with the orphanage for the last three years?”
    “For longer than that. Lady Cricklade was one of Mama’s closest friends. Her husband died soon after they were married, and she had no children. She and Mama set up the orphanage many years ago. Lady Cricklade always intended to leave Quilley Farm to me, so she and Mama made sure I knew all about it—I’ve been going to Quilley Farm almost every Monday for as long as I can recall.”
    The roofs of Crowcombe appeared ahead. The lane leading up to Quilley Farm joined the road just before the first house. They turned up the lane; it was wide enough for them to ride side by side as it climbed steadily, until eventually it gave onto the plateau that was Quilley Farm.
    “How big is the farm?” Charlie asked.
    Now on flat ground, they trotted toward the farm house that rose before them. Built of local red sandstone worn pink with the years, its long front façade was planted squarely east, facing the Quantocks across the valley. It boasted two stories in stone, with the attics above half-timbered. The roof was gray slate, common in those parts. The structure looked old but strong, secure, as if over the years its foundations had settled into the earth under the weight of the thick stone walls. A wide cleared space, lightly graveled, lay before the house. Fields stretched to either side.
    “To the south, the farm extends to that stream.” Sarah pointed down a long slope to where a line of trees marked the banks of a small brook. “But to the north not so far, just to Squire Mack’s fields two fences over.”
    She waved over the roof to the rocky hillside looming behind the house—a part of the western end of the Brendon Hills. “At the back, there are three wings, unfortunately not as solid as the main house. Beyond them, we’ve only got space for kitchen gardens and a narrow patch for animals before the hill rises too steeply even for grazing.”
    Sheltered by a shallow porch, the front door stood dead center in the long façade, with wooden-shuttered windows in perfect symmetry on either side. Sarah and Charlie dismounted and tied their reins to the rail set beside the porch. A gig with a placid mare dozing between the shafts was tied up at one side of the forecourt; Sarah nodded toward it. “Mrs. Duncliffe’s already here.”
    Stripping off her gloves, she headed for the door. Charlie glanced back and around, at the village of Crowcombe nestling some hundred feet below, then at the rising face of the Quantocks. From this