Chapter Eleven

The Foundling Hospital

Brunswick Square, London

Two weeks later

 

Thunder cracked in the instant before the coachman opened the coach door. “What beastly weather,” Cornelia muttered to her maid.

Rain pelted the opening. Cornelia placed her hand in the coachman’s and ducked under the umbrella he held as she stepped from the carriage. He passed her the umbrella. She waited until her maid descended, then they dashed for the hospital door. Drops of rain stung Cornelia’s face as she fought to hold onto the umbrella. Her maid gripped the sides of her hood with both hands to protect from the weather.

Ordinarily, the housekeeper arrived immediately to admit them, but this time Cornelia’s knocks went unanswered for what seemed an interminable length of time. Rain drenched them as they huddled beneath the too-small umbrella.

“Mrs. Heath!” Cornelia shouted. “Can you open the door, please? It’s Miss Hard—er—Mrs. Warrington. We are drowning out here.”

Hasty footsteps sounded and soon the door opened. They hurried inside. The red-faced housekeeper reached for their wet wraps and paraphernalia. “I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. Good gracious, how wet you both are. You must dry yourselves right away before you come down with a chill.”

She led them into the drawing room, which was occupied by a very wet-looking young woman who sat next to the roaring fire cradling a babe in a dry, gray blanket.

“Miss Smith arrived just before you,” explained the housekeeper. “She was drenched to the bone, and I had just brought a blanket for the babe when I heard you call.”

Cornelia hurried to the young woman’s side. “Oh, the poor thing.” Thankfully, the mother had removed the babe’s wet clothing and wrapped it securely in the warm blanket. “I am Mrs. Warrington,” she said, and turned to Norton only to see her being escorted out by the housekeeper.

“She’s getting me some dry clothes,” said Norton. “I am soaked to the skin.”

“By all means.” Cornelia returned her attention to the young woman. “You are in need of a dry frock as well, Miss Smith. Why don’t you go along, too? I shall be delighted to hold the babe for you.”

Mrs. Smith hesitated. “Well, I suppose it won’t hurt nothin’. Iffen it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all. Is the babe a boy or girl?” Cornelia asked as she took the small bundle into her arms.

Miss Smith smiled as she rose. “Her name is Eliza, after my ma.” She gave the baby a last look, then hurried from the room.

“Eliza Smith.” Cornelia smiled into the child’s bright blue eyes. “What a sweet darling you are.” The babe smiled. Cornelia’s heart melted. What she wouldn’t give to have a baby of her own. A little girl with dark hair and eyes like hers, and a little light-haired, gray-eyed boy like Preston. Or a mixture of the two. She wouldn’t be particular about any of that. Any child of Preston’s would be a gift from heaven.

They had returned to London three days ago, reassured that Joanna was recovering and their presence, no longer needed. Cornelia’s eyes teared when she recalled Preston’s forbearance in granting her time to reflect on her marriage options. She still marveled over his calm, matter-of-fact reaction to the story of her detestable conception. Not only had he not been disgusted, but he had held her close and comforted her until long after darkness had fallen and the dinner hour had passed.

The journey home had been in many ways a re-creation of their honeymoon; although, this time, her maid accompanied them. Preston was once again the attentive beau, his amusing antics coaxing smiles from her until she was able to laugh and enjoy the pleasure of time spent with the man she loved.

Because she did love him. Who could not love a man like Preston? The irresponsible pleasure-seeker she’d thought she was marrying had turned out to be the most loyal, considerate, and tender man she had ever met. She should be thanking her lucky stars it had been him she had turned to with her foolish proposition and not some unscrupulous rogue. Marriage, she had learned, was not an institution to be trifled with. And marriage to a stranger…well, she could have found herself tied to a monster with very little power to do anything about it. Instead, she had come upon Preston—or, at least, Sir Stirling James—The Matchmaker of Inverness—had located Preston.

The babe in her arms squirmed and began to fuss. Cornelia gently rocked her, showering her with soothing utterances and melodies. At first, little Eliza was pacified, but before long, her little face turned red and she began to wail. She wasn’t wet—the blanket was as dry as ever—and Cornelia didn’t think she could be cold, not with the fire so near.

“She’s hungry.” Miss Smith entered, wearing the plain gray, white-aproned attire worn by the hospital staff. “I’ll feed ‘er now, before I leave.”

“Leave?” Cornelia bit her lip. Of course. Miss Smith had come to leave her babe at the Foundling Home.

Miss Smith swallowed hard. “Can ye help me with the dress?”

“Oh, of course.” Cornelia handed her the squalling babe and the two of them managed to unhook the bodice so that she could put the babe to her breast.

“Oh dear, not here!” Mrs. Heath breezed into the room, followed by Norton, similarly garbed in staff attire. “Not in front of Mrs. Warrington. Why, anyone could come in and see…”

Cornelia planted her feet in a wide stance in front of the nursing mother. “No, you must not disturb them, Mrs. Heath. After all, this is an institution for children, and this child is hungry. The room is warm, and they are both comfortable. We will simply close the door for now.”

Mrs. Heath’s eyes narrowed. “If you insist, Mrs. Warrington. But this is most unusual.”

“Thank you. Could I trouble you for another blanket to preserve Miss Smith’s modesty… and perhaps some tea? Those gingerbread cakes served at the last benefit tea would be perfect, if there happen to be any on hand.”

Mrs. Heath shrugged. “Yes, madam, if that is your wish. I am sure Cook will have something to offer, even if it is only bread and butter.”

“Bread and butter will be quite acceptable. Norton will assist you, since I am aware that the institution does not have servants to spare for such occasions.”

The housekeeper nodded curtly and strode from the room, followed by Norton. Cornelia turned to the nursing mother and shook her head. “You could use a good meal, by the look of it. More than bread and butter. And a good cup of tea won’t go amiss.”

“Yer very kind, ma’am. I truly never expected such when I came ta leave my babe.” She swallowed and unconsciously hugged the tiny bundle closer.

Cornelia sat down on the settee beside her and squeezed her shoulder. She knew that mothers who were unable to care for their children brought them to the Foundling Hospital—which was in most respects an orphanage, despite the name—in hopes their children would be given a better life. But she’d never before witnessed such an event, and now that she had, she found her heart bleeding for the poor woman’s predicament.

“I am sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Miss Smith’s chin trembled. “She deserves better ‘n I kin give ‘er.”

Norton returned with another blanket and Cornelia arranged it discreetly over the young woman’s torso. “She will be well cared for here, if that is any comfort to you.”

But she won’t have the mother who loved her enough to seek a better life for her, despite the pain it cost to give her up

her eyes and swallowed hard. When the babe began to fuss, she was all mother again, removing the blanket so that she could transfer the babe to the other breast. Cornelia’s heart ached at the sight of the tiny little mouth rooting around for nourishment. Replacing the blanket, she sighed. If this were her daughter—hers and Preston’s—she’d fight to the death to keep her.

For the first time, Cornelia believed she could understand her mother’s motivations in deciding to keep a child conceived in rape. Because she could have given up the child had she found herself unable to love a child whose very presence was a reminder of that horrible day. Her father—the admiral—could have dispatched the babe here, along with a sizable donation, or more likely, paid to send her to be raised in the country. She found it difficult to imagine what her life would have been like.

At fourteen, the Foundling Hospital sent girls out to be servants or apprentices. She might have been a baker’s assistant or a seamstress, more likely a parlor maid. If she were very fortunate, she might become an abigail, like Norton. Most likely, she would never have learned to read—the Foundling Hospital had only recently begun offering a basic education to the children beyond religious instruction and practical skills—and she would have had few marriage choices. Choices, in fact, would be almost non-existent.

But her mother and father had chosen to keep her and love her and, as a result, she’d enjoyed a privileged upbringing.

When Norton returned with the tea tray, Cornelia studied her in a new light. She knew little about the woman who had been her personal maid since the age of fifteen, when her mother decided it was time for her to learn to be a lady instead of a young hoyden. Amelia Norton’s father was a blacksmith in the village near the Hardcastle’s Sussex estate. She’d worked her way up through the household ranks until Léonie had deemed her worthy of training to become an abigail. Middle-aged, with graying hair, she was good-natured, obedient, and hard-working. She seemed content enough. Would Cornelia have been as content in her circumstances?

Having finished feeding the babe, Miss Smith reluctantly handed her over to Norton while Cornelia helped her rearrange her clothing. Aside from baby noises and an occasional belch, silence reigned for a few minutes. Miss Smith quickly devoured two slices of bread and butter with her tea. Cornelia thought she must be half-starved. If this were her house, she’d order a great deal more food, but she’d probably imposed on the institution as much as she dared.

“Where will you go?” Cornelia asked.

Miss Smith choked on her tea.

“Do you have a home?”

Miss Smith sagged back into her chair. “Please, ma’am.”

Cornelia took her hand and squeezed it. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

The young woman grabbed her arm with both hands. “All I ask is that ye see that the babe is raised good, respectable-like. Not like me. I will rest easy iffen I know she’s well.”

“Of course. I shall take a personal interest in her. But Miss Smith—”

Miss Smith shook her head. “No. It’s too late fer me. I know ye mean well, but it won’t work. The babe. She’s the reason I am still livin’.” She pulled away and stood. “I’ll be leavin’ now, if you’ll help me dress.”

“Of course.” The young woman’s clothing was still damp, but at least the rain had stopped.

Once dressed, Miss Smith pulled out a small silver cross. “This is for Eliza, to remember me by. Will ye see that it gets put away for ‘er?”

Cornelia closed her hands over the small token, hoping against hope that Miss Smith would someday be able to reclaim her child by describing the small object that had been left with her.

Miss Smith approached the babe in Norton’s arms and kissed her on the forehead, tears streaming down her face. When she started toward the door, Cornelia stopped her.

“Miss Smith, please know that if you ever need anything…I beg you, come to me.” She pressed a card into the young woman’s hand. “If I can do anything to help you reclaim your child…I would be pleased to do so.”

Miss Smith swallowed. “I thank ye, ma’am. Truly. But she’s…better off without me.” She turned away. “Take care of ‘er.”

And then she left.

Cornelia and Norton exchanged looks. Both had tears in their eyes.