Alexandra

by Lauren Royal

  Saturday, June 8, 1816

  LADY JULIANA Chase’s sisters often accused her of looking for trouble. Of sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Of exaggerating—if not outright imagining—other people’s problems and sorrows and miseries.

  But she would swear she’d never seen anything quite so sad in her life.

  Upstairs in the Foundling Hospital’s picture gallery, she stared through the window down into the courtyard. There, arranged in six neat, regimented lines, a hundred or more young girls performed calisthenics, resignation written on their faces. In all of her seventeen years, Juliana couldn’t remember ever feeling that grim.

  “William Hogarth was a genius.”

  Sighing, she turned from the window to see her younger sister scrutinizing the art on the gallery’s pale green walls. “I thought you preferred the Dutch masters.”

  “I do,” Corinna said. “But look at the characters in this painting.”

  The work was titled The March of the Guards to Finchley, and the people depicted were, indeed, characters. Humor, rowdiness, and disorder abounded. “The drummer looks quite amused,” Juliana said, swiveling back to the window.

  The painting seemed a striking counterpoint to the figures outside.

  Miss Emily Neville, Juliana’s eight-year-old next-door neighbor, stood beside her, gazing upon the same scene. “The girls don’t appear to be ill. So why are they in hospital?”

  “Hospital is an old word that originally meant ‘guesthouse,’” Miss Strickland, the battle-axe of a woman assigned to shepherd visitors through the orphanage, explained in her no-nonsense way. “This is a charitable institution for children whose mothers couldn’t keep them.”

  “My mother died.” Still gazing outdoors, Emily absentmindedly raised a hand to stroke her beloved pet, Herman, whom she always carried on her shoulder—or rather, draped around her shoulders. “May I play with the girls?”

  Ranging in age from about five to perhaps fourteen, the children all had identical haircuts and wore aprons of stiff, unbleached linen over brown serge dresses. Juliana smoothed her palms over her own soft yellow skirts. “I’m afraid your pet might scare them.”

  “The girls aren’t playing.” Miss Strickland crossed her arms. “They’re exercising. Outdoor exercise is advocated for maximum health. And you couldn’t play with them in any case, young lady, with or without that horrid creature.”

  “Herman isn’t horrid,” Emily said, turning to the older woman. “He’s quite friendly, and he couldn’t hurt a soul, I assure you. See the black bars along his sides and the yellow collar behind his head?” She lifted Herman’s head to show Miss Strickland. “He’s just a harmless, common—”

  “Get it away!” the woman shrieked.

  Juliana hid a smile. Not long ago, she’d received the very same lecture from her young neighbor. For a child of eight, the girl spoke with impressive eloquence and conviction. Not to mention persistence.

  Still, her pet snake would have to go.

  Emily was Juliana’s latest project, and Juliana was sure that with a bit of patience she could turn the child into a perfect little lady. A young lady of good grace and courtesy—most especially the courtesy to leave one’s reptile at home. A few more outings like this one ought to convince her that Herman would never be welcome in public.

  She took Emily’s hand and gave it a squeeze, then looked back to Miss Strickland. “Do the girls ever play?”

  “Of course they do,” Miss Strickland said. “For an hour every Sunday.” As though suddenly remembering her duty—principally to encourage donations—she stretched her lips into an unnatural smile. “Are you ladies enjoying your visit to the gallery?”

  “Very much.” Corinna moved to view the next painting. “George Lambert,” she breathed. An artist herself, she’d suggested this day’s outing to the Foundling Hospital’s gallery. “What a lovely scene.”

  Mr. Lambert’s picture was lovely, but Juliana couldn’t peruse the painted people for long. Not when there were real people—disadvantaged children—to consider.

  “What do the foundlings do all day?” she asked. “If they don’t play?”

  Miss Strickland began reciting by rote. “They rise at six and prepare for the day, the older girls dressing the younger children, the boys pumping water and such. At half past seven they breakfast, and at half past eight they begin school. At one o’clock they dine and return to school from two until dusk.” She paused for a much-needed breath. “After supper, those not employed about the buildings are instructed in singing the Foundling Hymns and anthems, and in their catechism. At eight they go to bed.”

  What a life. Thinking about her own days and nights filled with parties and shopping and dancing, Juliana swallowed a lump in her throat. Still, the children looked healthy, warmly clothed, and well fed—which she supposed was more than could be said for much of London’s youth.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

  “Certainly, my lady. We are always pleased to accept monetary donations.”

  Juliana knew that was one of the purposes of the gallery. Popular artists donated paintings and sculpture, a scheme that not only earned favorable publicity for the artists, but brought the Hospital wealthy and aristocratic visitors—exactly the sort of people who might commission works of art for themselves and be persuaded to become patrons of the Hospital. It was a most satisfactory arrangement for all concerned.

  But Juliana hadn’t the option to become a patroness just yet. While she had a substantial dowry and wasn’t in any way deprived—quite the opposite, in fact—as an unmarried girl she had no money of her own, other than a small allowance granted by her brother, Griffin. “I cannot donate significant funds,” she said apologetically.

  Miss Strickland aimed a rather disbelieving look down her knife-edged nose, pointedly skimming her gaze over Juliana’s fashionable dress.

  “I cannot,” Juliana repeated firmly. “But I should like to do something.” She could ask Griffin to donate, of course—and she would. But she wanted to contribute herself. “Perhaps I could make clothing for the children.” Her allowance was surely enough to cover the fabric.

  “The children have no need of clothing. They wear uniforms, as you’ve seen.”

  Juliana had seen the boys eating luncheon in their dining room, all wearing white linen shirts with military-style suits made of the same brown serge as the girls’ dresses. “But someone has to make the uniforms.”

  “The girls make and repair them during their sewing lessons.”

  “Then perhaps I can make treats,” she suggested. “The ladies in my family are rather renowned for our sweets.”

  “The children are all fed a plain, wholesome diet. Sweets aren’t allowed except on very special occasions. However, food does account for a large proportion of the Hospital’s budget, so your monetary donation would be much appreciated.” Before Juliana could repeat that she had no money to give, Miss Strickland continued. “This is a reception day. Perhaps looking upon the infants might persuade you.”

  Though Juliana knew nothing could change her mind, she adored tiny babies. “We should very much like to see the infants,” she said, drawing Emily toward the door.

  “I’m not finished looking,” Corinna said, finally moving to view the next painting.

  The battle-axe cast her a speculative glance. “Well, then, the horrid snake can stay with you.”

  “Herman isn’t horrid!” Emily said, pulling her hand from Juliana’s. “If Herman stays, I shall stay.” She marched over to take Corinna’s hand instead. “There’s an infant right here in this picture.”

  Corinna nodded her dark head. “It’s Andrea Casali’s Adoration of the Magi.”

  Juliana would never understand how anyone could stare at a single painting for so long. Two minutes with any painting, and she was finished. But then, she’d never been as interested in things as she’d been in people. “What’s a reception day?” she asked, trailing the battle
-axe out of the room.

  Miss Strickland led her down a corridor. “On the second Saturday of every month, mothers are invited to bring their babies for possible admission.”

  “Possible?”

  “They must meet specific criteria. An acceptable candidate must be under twelve months of age, the mother’s first child, and healthy, so as not to risk infecting other children. In addition, although only illegitimate offspring are admitted, the mother must establish her good character. A secondary purpose of the Hospital, you see, is the restoration of the mother to work and a life of virtue. Most petitions come from women who were seduced with promises of marriage and then deserted when they became pregnant. In such cases, many mothers can avoid disgrace and find employment only if they give up their children.”

  “How awful!” Juliana felt a twinge in her chest. She couldn’t begin to imagine the heartbreak of having a baby and then needing to give it up. She certainly wasn’t exaggerating these mothers’ sorrows and miseries.

  Miss Strickland opened a door. “The Committee Room,” she whispered.

  Inside the elegant chamber, a queue of young mothers clutched their infants tightly, the expressions on their faces a mixture of anguish and hope. Their simple cloaks and aprons were a poignant contrast to the silk gowns of the fashionable lady patronesses who’d come to observe the spectacle.

  And what a spectacle it was. Juliana’s chest began to ache.

  As she watched, a mother about her age was invited to the front, where a well-dressed man held out a cloth bag. Shifting her baby, the mother reached a trembling hand into the bag and pulled out a little red ball. She swallowed hard and, gripping the ball in her white-knuckled fist, stepped off to join a small group of mothers and babies huddled at one side.

  Abandoning the battle-axe, Juliana walked over to join the other spectators. “What does the ball mean?” she asked in a whisper.

  A tall, middle-aged woman answered in kindly tones. “The system is called balloting. These mothers have already been screened and deemed acceptable. But the Governors can accept only ten infants at a time. Balloting is the fairest method of allocating places.”

  As she finished her explanation, another young woman drew a ball—a black one—and let it fall to the floor, tears spilling down her cheeks as she ran from the room, taking her baby with her.

  “Black is bad?” Juliana asked.

  “Mothers who draw black balls are immediately turned out of the Hospital. A white ball means the baby will be examined and admitted if it is healthy. Mothers who draw red balls are invited to wait and see whether any babies are refused admittance, in which case they are given a second chance to enter the lottery.”

  An agonizing lottery. Juliana watched as two more mothers drew black balls and one lucky woman nabbed a white one. “How many mothers are hoping for placement today?”

  “About a hundred, which is typical.”

  And only ten would see their babies admitted. The fortunate woman with the white ball was ushered toward a corner, where a doctor waited to evaluate her child—a girl, if Juliana could judge by the scrap of ribbon crookedly tied in the baby’s sparse hair.

  During the short examination, a dozen more mothers drew balls—nine chose black, one red, and two ecstatic women got white. When the first baby was declared healthy, the mothers waiting with red balls visibly drooped, gripping their infants even tighter. The lucky mother—if one could call her that—was given a numbered document that certified the Hospital’s acceptance of her baby, and a lead tag with a corresponding number was threaded and placed around the child’s neck.

  Juliana’s heart squeezed as she watched the tearful parting, the mother kissing her baby girl over and over before regretfully surrendering her to a Hospital employee. “Is she given that paper so she can reclaim her child?”

  “Partly. The babies are baptized with Hospital names—the child is never told the identity of the mother, and the mother won’t know her child’s new name. But if at a later date she can convince the Governors of her reformed character and improved circumstances, the paper and matching tag will ensure she collects the right child.”

  “But you said partly,” Juliana prompted.

  The woman sighed. “Truthfully, that seldom happens. She’s more likely to use the paper for her own defense; if she’s accused of having disposed of her baby by murder, the certificate might save her from the gallows.”

  “Faith.” None of the mothers looked like criminals—they were just women in dreadful circumstances. “I saw no infants in either the girls’ building or the boys’. Have the babies lodgings of their own?”

  “The babies aren’t kept at the Hospital. They’ll be baptized with their new names at Sunday services tomorrow and then placed with wet nurses in the countryside on Monday. The nurses receive a monthly wage and keep the children until they are five years or thereabouts, at which time they return to live here.”

  Juliana watched as the infant was carried off. “Does anyone make sure the babies are treated well?”

  “Oh, yes. Inspectors visit regularly. They’re responsible for the nurse’s pay and the child’s medical fees, and for purchasing clothes for the infants—”

  “Purchasing clothes?”

  “Baby clothes. Babies are sent to their new homes with frocks and caps and clouts and coats and blankets—”

  “Don’t the girls make these in their sewing lessons?”

  “The baby clothes aren’t uniforms—”

  “Then I can provide them!”

  “Pardon?”

  “I can make them. I can make baby clothes and donate them to the Hospital.”

  The kindly woman blinked at her. “I don’t know about that. I don’t believe they’ve ever received any donations of a non-monetary sort.”

  Juliana watched another mother draw a red ball and, trembling, take her infant to join the small group of hopefuls. She imagined having to wish someone else’s baby proved ill so her own baby could have a chance at a decent life. Or at least she tried to imagine it. The very thought was enough to break her heart clear in two.

  Perhaps providing baby clothing could free enough funds for the Governors to accept another child or two. She wouldn’t let them refuse her donation.

  She turned back to the lady patroness beside her. “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

  SPICE CAKES

  Take three scoops of Flower and put into it a Spoon of ale-barm, crushed cloves, mace, and a goode deal of cinnamon. To a halfe Pound of sweet Butter add a goode deal of Sugar and mixe together. Stir in three Eggs and work until good and stiff, then add a little cold Rosewater and knead well. Knead again, pull it all in Pieces and bake your Cakes in a warm oven.

  I’ve heard tell that should you eat one of these before a gathering where you are likely to meet available men, their spiciness will clear your head and allow you to choose wisely. This did not, however, work when I baked them for my daughter. In any case, they are delicious.

  —Amethyst, Countess of Greystone, 1690

  “HOW MANY BABY clothes do you need to make?”

  “A lot.” In her bedroom at the Chase town house in Berkeley Square early that evening, Juliana set down her little pot of lip pomade and picked up the list the Governors had given her. “Three frocks, three caps, three nightshirts, one mantle, one coat, one petticoat, two blankets, and ten clouts. And that’s per child. There will be ten babies.”

  Emily bit into one of the spice cakes she and Juliana had baked after returning from the Foundling Hospital. “So you need to make thirty frocks?”

  “Yes.” The girl was articulate and good with arithmetic. “And thirty caps, thirty nightshirts, ten mantles, ten coats, ten petticoats, twenty blankets, and a hundred clouts. All within a month, before the next reception day.”

  Juliana set the list on her dressing table. Upside down, so it would stop taunting her. Whatever had she got herself into? She’d been thrilled when the Governors accepted her o
ffer to provide clothing for the next intake of infants—until she’d realized just how many clothes she’d need to make.

  She wasn’t worried about the cost of the materials, because she could easily cajole Griffin into paying for whatever her allowance wouldn’t cover. But the mere idea of making so many items was daunting. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

  Emily frowned. “I’m not very good with a needle.”

  “You can hem blankets and sew clouts. That’s not difficult, and it will be good practice.” Reaching over the girl’s snake, Juliana wiped a few spice cake crumbs off her delicate chin. “I’m going to invite my sisters to help, too. We’ll have a lovely sewing party.” She dipped a finger into the lip pomade. “But I think you’ll need to leave Herman at home.”

  “I told you, he’s not dangerous.”

  “His danger, or lack thereof,” she told the child, watching her in the dressing table’s mirror as she slicked pomade on her lips, “is not the point. Ladies do not keep company with snakes.”

  Emily’s chin went into the air. “I do.” She adjusted the reptile’s position around her neck, the better to reach for another spice cake. “What are these cakes supposed to do again?”

  “Help me choose the right gentleman to wed.”

  “All the gentlemen will want to wed you. You always look beautiful,” Emily said with a wistful sigh.

  Juliana lifted a pot of rouge. “You’ll look beautiful when you’re grown up.”

  It was true. Other than her unfortunate taste in neckwear, the child was a model of femininity. She always wore pink. Her cascading blond hair and large, luminous gray eyes held much promise, and she was tall for her age. Since Juliana was small in stature, Emily was nearly her height already.

  “I’m certain you’ll be wildly popular,” she assured the girl, “if only you’ll get rid of the snake.”

  “I’ll not give him up. Mama would be so disappointed.”

  Juliana sighed. When Emily was four years old, she and her mother had stumbled upon baby Herman while playing in their garden. Her mother had suggested they keep the critter and watch him grow; the very next day, she took ill, and faded away very quickly. Emily had clung to Herman ever since.