CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

August 9th, 1812

Tiverton, Devonshire

THE DAY DAWNED clear, but the roads were still wet and it was past ten o’clock before the traveling chaise reached Tiverton. Georgiana Dalrymple’s directions took them through the town to a cottage on the northern outskirts. Mordecai watched for churches. Tiverton didn’t know it yet, but a marriage would take place here today. He took Eleanor’s hand as the carriage trundled over the cobblestones, not caring if Tompkin and Bessie saw.

Eleanor didn’t seem to mind that they had an audience. She gripped tightly back. He was aware of her trembling, eager anticipation.

Mordecai was eager, too. By tonight I’ll have a wife and a daughter. A family. His very own family. He felt an upwelling of emotion. His chest constricted. His eyes stung briefly.

The carriage slowed and drew to a halt. Mordecai saw a small cottage with an apple tree in the front yard, exactly as Georgiana Dalrymple had described.

Eleanor scrambled down from the chaise, not waiting for Walter to let down the steps. Mordecai lengthened his stride to keep up with her as she hurried along the path.

The door had lost most of its paint, the cottage most of its whitewash, and one the windowpanes was cracked and boarded over, but a jar of Michaelmas daisies was bright in the window and the faint, sweet sounds of a lullaby came to Mordecai’s ears.

Eleanor knocked.

The lullaby broke off. A few moments later, the door opened. “Mrs. Rundle?” Mordecai asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Rundle was a tiny, birdlike woman with bright brown eyes and graying hair tucked up in a bun. She reminded Mordecai of a sparrow.

“We understand you have some infants in your care.”

“That’s right, sir. Six of them. I look after them for the parish.” Mrs. Rundle’s gown had once been black but was now a faded gray. It was patched at the hem and her apron was neatly darned in two places.

“My niece,” Eleanor said eagerly. “You have my niece, Felicity.”

“Felicity?” Mrs. Rundle’s head cocked to the side. She looked even more like a sparrow. “I’ve got three girls at the moment, ma’am. I don’t know their names.”

“She has a yellow ribbon around her wrist.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Rundle’s face broke into a smile. “She came in a fortnight ago. A wee darling, she is. Step inside, won’t you? I’m so glad you’ve come for her.”

“How is it that Felicity’s here in Tiverton?” Mordecai asked as they followed the woman. The cottage didn’t smell of camphor or vinegar; it smelled of stewed apple. “Do you know?”

“The lady that was looking after her didn’t want her, so she gave her to her aunt, here in Tiverton, but the aunt didn’t want her either. So the parish gave her to me.”

“Are all your charges orphans?”

“Orphans, foundlings. No one wants them, the poor wee mites.” Mrs. Rundle opened a door and stepped inside.

Eleanor gripped his arm tightly. She vibrated with urgency, with eagerness.

Mordecai glanced around, seeing a small room with bare floorboards and three cots crammed together, side by side. The bedclothes were thin and gray, but the floor was swept clean. Another jar of Michaelmas daisies stood on the windowsill.

The six infants lay two to a cot. One whimpered fretfully; the others slept.

“Felicity?” Eleanor said, and her voice trembled with hope.

“I’ve been calling her Buttercup, on account of the yellow ribbon.” Mrs. Rundle bent over one of the cots. “The babies sometimes do come in with ribbons. I always leave them on, in case the mothers come for them.”

“And do they come?” Mordecai asked.

“It’s never happened before.” Mrs. Rundle gently peeled back a threadbare blanket. “And I’ve been doing this nigh on fifteen years. Ever since my husband passed away, God rest his soul.” She carefully gathered up one of the babies and handed it to Eleanor Wrotham.

Despite Mrs. Rundle’s care, the baby woke with a startled wail.

Eleanor took the child and held her close, cradling that downy head in one hand, rocking her, kissing her, soothing her. “Hush, hush, you’re safe.” And if little Felicity didn’t understand the words, she understood the love behind them. The wail died to a whimper. She gave a hiccupping sob and nestled close.

Eleanor turned to Mordecai, tears on her face, joy in her eyes. “Mordecai. Look at her. Isn’t she perfect?”

Mordecai looked at the feathery whorls of fair hair, the delicate eyelids, the tiny nose—and as he looked he felt a fierce surge of protectiveness, a visceral emotion centered in his chest. He discovered that tears were leaking from his eyes. He wiped them away. “Perfect,” he said, and carefully hugged both Eleanor and Felicity to him. My wife. My daughter.

Mrs. Rundle beamed at them. “I can’t tell you how it gladdens my heart to know she has a home.”

Mordecai looked past her at the cots, at the babies. He felt an unexpected and painful kinship with them—because he was illegitimate himself, because he’d been unwanted for the first eight years of his life. “What will happen to them?”

Mrs. Rundle lost her smile. “The poorhouse, sir.” She turned back to the cots. Four of the infants slept, but one still whimpered. She picked it up and began to rock it. “I try to give them as much kindness as I can, poor wee souls. Heaven only knows they won’t get any in the poorhouse.”

No. That was a certainty. There’d be no kindness for these children once they were old enough for the poorhouse, and very little hope for them. How many of them would reach their fifth birthdays, let alone their tenth? And for those few who did reach that milestone, what bleak future awaited them?

Mordecai glanced around the room, noting the signs of poverty: the bare floor, the threadbare blankets, the chipped jar of daisies. The ceiling was stained with damp in one corner. “How much does the parish pay you?” he asked Mrs. Rundle.

“Sixpence a week for each little one, sir.”

“What do you feed them?”

“Gruel,” she said. “And stewed apple. And a little milk.”

Mrs. Rundle looked as if she survived on gruel and stewed apple and a little milk, too. And she’d be short sixpence a week with Felicity gone. Mordecai released Eleanor and reached for his pocketbook. “I’ll compensate you.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you.”

Mordecai opened his pocketbook and thumbed through the banknotes, and then looked at the babies, looked at Mrs. Rundle. He thought of Great Wynthrop, with its empty rooms waiting to be filled and its wide, sunlit lawn.

Eleanor glanced up at his face—and then at the three cots. He saw her gaze rest on each infant. She cradled Felicity even closer, one hand protectively cupping that downy head, looked at the cots again, and then at him. “Mordecai?”

Mordecai stared down at her, thinking. He had a vacant house. He had servants to spare. He could give Mrs. Rundle a home that wouldn’t leak and the children a place to grow up in that wasn’t the poorhouse.

“Mordecai?” Eleanor said again, a note of hope in her voice.

“I think Great Wynthrop is a better place for Mrs. Rundle and these babies,” he said. “Don’t you?”

A luminous smile lit Eleanor’s face. “Yes,” she said emphatically. “I do!”