**9th October, 1892**
Emily Whitaker had served the Gregson household—Charles and Eleanor—for many years. Today, the master and mistress had gone out, and with her chores finished, the housemaid sat by the window to rest. Suddenly, her eye caught a small boy in the street. Thin, in tattered clothes, he wandered along the fence of their estate.
“Likely starving,” Emily sighed, pity swelling in her chest. She glanced at the grand clock in the drawing room—still hours before the Gregsons would return—and stepped into the yard.
“What’s your name, lad?” she asked gently. The boy, studying the cobbles intently, looked up with wary eyes beneath a tangled fringe.
“Tom,” he mumbled.
“Come along, Tom. I’ve a fresh apple tart inside,” she offered. Without hesitation, he followed, his stomach growling—he’d had nothing to eat all day.
In the kitchen, Emily cut a generous slice and set it before him.
“Oh, it’s proper lovely!” Tom exclaimed, devouring the soft pastry. “Me mum used to bake like this.”
“And where is she now?” Emily ventured.
The boy froze, his eyes dropping. “Lost her, didn’t I? Been searchin’ ages,” he whispered.
“Eat up, dear,” she soothed. “You’ll find her, I’m sure of it.”
Just then, the front door creaked—Charles and Eleanor had returned. Emily stiffened at their footsteps.
“Who’s this, then?” Charles demanded, peering into the kitchen. His brows shot up at the sight of the boy.
“Emily, explain yourself!”
“The child’s lost his mother, sir. I only gave him a bite,” she said evenly.
“So you’re feeding strays now? Have we no say in our own home?” Charles snapped.
Tom’s lip quivered. “I’ll go,” he muttered, pushing the half-eaten tart away.
Eleanor stepped forward. “Wait, dear,” she said softly. “Tell us—where are you from? How did you lose her?”
She’d always been gentler than her husband. Charles often scolded her for it, but her kindness remained unshaken.
“Live wi’ me grandad, but he’s cruel. Hits me, so I ran off,” Tom admitted, pulling a yellowed photograph from his pocket. “This is me parents. We was together once.”
Eleanor took the photo—and went pale. It was their daughter, Margaret!
“Charles, look—it’s our girl!” she cried, hands trembling as she passed it to him.
Charles frowned. “Tom, how d’you come by this?”
“Stole it from Grandad. There’s an address on back, so I came. Thought me mum might be ’ere.” Tom wiped his face. “Grandad says she’s a wastrel, abandoned me. But I know she wouldn’t!”
“Impossible,” Eleanor breathed, recalling their Margaret, who’d run off with that Roma lad, Elias. They’d disowned her, and when she returned, broken, an accident had taken her soon after. That day had left them alone in this vast, empty house.
“And your father?” Charles asked.
“Gone six months now,” Tom wept.
The couple froze. A grandson—theirs. Loneliness had gnawed at them for years.
“Come, Tom,” Eleanor said softly. “You’ll have a room here.”
“Will me mum come too?”
“She’s with your father now, love,” Eleanor murmured.
The boy turned ashen.
Before long, adoption papers were signed. The grandfather, hearing of wealthy benefactors, made no protest.
Emily rejoiced. That chance meeting had brought light back to the Gregsons. Soon, Tom was no longer that starving waif—but a well-dressed boy, taught manners, cherished.
**Lesson learnt:** Kindness often leads us where we’re needed most, even when we least expect it.
