“Why has it taken her so long to seek out her grandchild?”
Jules had expected the question. “She did not confide the reason to me. But the girl’s father was an only child and passed away leaving no other children, so I gather she has no other family.”
So that she could not see the distaste in his expression he looked down at the two slips of paper he was withdrawing from his waistcoat pocket. He leaned forward and stretched out his arm to hand over the first, a legal document.
“Mary Tomkin, now Mrs. Hogarth, relinquishes the right to any future claim on the child,” Jules explained unnecessarily, for she was reading the words herself. Fearful that she would ask if Mrs. Hogarth had been paid for her childish scrawl—which had earned her fifty pounds—he stretched out the second paper toward her. “And Mrs. Blake has commissioned me to present you with this. All we have to do is sign your name.”
Mrs. Forsyth took it from him and stared at it. “One hundred pounds?”
Jules could appreciate the wonder in her voice. It was a small fortune, representing at least two years of his own wages. “As an expression of gratitude for caring for her granddaughter.”
“An expression of gratitude?” Over the slip of paper her eyes met his. “Or an appeasement of conscience?”
She was voicing something Jules had wondered himself. He glanced around at the shabby furnishings. “Surely the money could be put to good use, no matter what the motive.”
“Obviously it could.”
“Very well,” Jules said with a nod. “I suppose there are other papers to sign. . . .”
“Mrs. Blake intends to become legal guardian, then?”
“But of course.” He had to look away from her scrutinizing eyes for a second. “But she asks that the girl not be told of the kinship they share.”
“And why is that?”
“She fears that knowledge will cause the child to harbor some bitterness against her.” He could not voice his suspicion that Mrs. Blake also wished to maintain some distance at first, just in case the girl did not meet with her approval. And she’s probably off to boarding school in that case. One institution for another. But that’s none of your affair, he reminded himself.
Mrs. Forsyth nodded. And then she did a curious thing. Rising to her feet, which prompted Jules to do the same, she held out the check. “I’m afraid I must give this some thought.”
He stared in disbelief at her outstretched hand. “Some thought?”
“I shall have to peruse my records to see if this is indeed the right child.”
“I don’t mind waiting. In fact, I would be more than willing to assist you.”
She shook her head. “And, I must confess some misgivings at the care a child would receive after being allowed to languish in an orphanage for over thirteen years.”
“But Mrs. Blake was unaware that the mother no longer—”
“Surely she could have found out. You may return tomorrow, Mr. Swann. And I will give you my decision then.”
“Your decision?”
“The girls in my charge are not a litter of kittens, sir. They are not handed out to just anyone who stops by.”
Jules did not consider himself a volatile man, but a vein in his temple began to throb. “I would hardly call Mrs. Arthur Blake just anyone.”
“Your loyalty to your client is commendable. But my decision is firm.”
While her tone remained calm, the hazel eyes told him it was useless to argue any further. He had no legal maneuvers at his disposal, for the home was a private institution, and as Mrs. Blake’s son had not married Mary Tomkin, the child was not a legitimate heir. “Very well,” he sighed, taking the check and pushing it into his pocket. “I’ll return tomorrow.”
She did not reply but turned toward the door. Jules followed. He did not anticipate telling his client she would have to wait a little longer. As he took his hat from the rack, he remembered the question Mrs. Blake asked the day he had informed her that he had located Mary Tomkin. At least he could give her a reply to that.
“The child,” he said to Mrs. Forsyth. “What is her name?”
The door opened with a click. “Tomorrow, Mr. Swann. We will discuss everything tomorrow.”
Chapter Five
When her visitor was gone, Olivia held the doorknob and wondered if he had noticed the tension in her voice. She suffered an inner battle over whether to fling open the door and go after him, but then she turned to walk through the parlor. Lily Jacobs limped down the corridor toward her. Raised in the home since the age of six, she worked in the kitchen—and industriously so, not expecting preferential treatment because of a club foot.
“Gertrude says Mr. Brody is here?”
“He had some concern over the quality of his merchandise,” Olivia told her. “He’ll return before nightfall.”
“Mercy!” Lily’s eyes widened. “How did that happen?”
“I’ll explain later.” Had Mr. Swann not paid a call, Olivia would have lingered long enough to share the story. But she walked on up the corridor, past the classroom, and up a flight of stairs. From the open door to the nursery she could see Beth Woodward tending five infants, including the newborn recently left in the comfort room of Paddington Station in a basket. When she reached her chamber she closed the door, went over to her bed, and lay across the quilt.
Why didn’t you tell him? she asked herself, drained by the tumult of her thoughts. There was no need to look at her records, even after so long a time span. The child in question had been woefully underweight and exposed to the cold for too long to thrive under even Beth’s tender ministrations. Her two-day-old body was buried in Saint Matthew’s churchyard under a small wooden cross.
While she had not said that the child still lived under her roof, lies of omission were just as sinful as those spoken. The urge to pray was strong, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Not when she was still considering going through with the plan she had impulsively set into motion in the parlor.
If only Samuel were here! Her dear husband would not be wrestling with this temptation. It was not enough that he walked the straight and narrow—Samuel had kept himself in the middle of that path so as not even to place a foot near the edge.
Mrs. Blake’s money could help the children in so many ways, but it wasn’t the primary reason she had not been forthright with Mr. Swann. Olivia was used to squeezing pennies—in fact, she halfway expected to look down at her thumb one day and see the image of Queen Victoria. She had another, more compelling reason for her duplicity. But could she carry through with it?
A gentle knocking sounded at the door. “Mrs. Forsyth?”
“Yes?” Olivia raised her head.
“Lily says you look peaked,” said Mrs. Abbot, the cook. “Shall I bring you some broth?”
“No, thank you.” With a sigh she got out of bed and brushed the wrinkles from her gown made of the same coarse fabric as the girls’. Her staff had enough to do without having to look after her, and she could struggle with her conscience just as well with busy hands.
That evening when the house was quiet, Olivia took a candle and went up another flight of stairs to where the oldest girls were housed. The topmost storey was divided into two rooms. What had once been a supply closet now served as a bedchamber for Mrs. Kettner, the schoolmistress, and, like Olivia, the widow of a minister. The long room was almost too narrow for the twenty beds arranged toe to toe along the plastered brick walls. According to Mr. McDonald, this was where porcelain teeth and gums were painted before being fired downstairs in what served now as the kitchen.
Olivia moved between the rows listening to the sounds of steady breathing. Sometimes before retiring in the wee hours of morning, she would pass through one or another of the dormitories. Never did she feel more maternal than when looking upon sleeping children, from the infants in their iron cribs to the oldest girls here. A child in peaceful slumber indicated one who was well tended and that she and her dedicated colaborers were “doing for the leas
t of these as unto Jesus.”
She turned into the narrow space between two beds, shielding her candle with her hand so as not to wake Sarah Matthews, lying on her left side with her blanket tucked up around her shoulder. The cap of blond hair reflected a bit of the light that escaped through Olivia’s fingers. Typically, the girl’s left elbow was bent before her, her hand under her thin pillow, as if hiding it even in her sleep.
A fisherman had brought her to the orphanage almost eleven years ago, when she could not have been older than three. He said he had “pulled her from the Thames when she was an infant,” and his family could no longer afford to tend her. Olivia had had misgivings over his story, but the fact that the child was undernourished and filthy and that the man reeked of alcohol had hastened her decision to make a place for her.
Little Sarah was bright enough to know her given name and to be aware that her deformity attracted looks of pity and even disgust. Even at that early age she kept the fingerless hand with its nub of a thumb down at her side in a fold of her ragged little gown.
No one came to claim her. Sarah was given the surname that all the foundlings without known family were given—Matthews, for Saint Matthew, who wrote the account of Jesus Christ admonishing His disciples to suffer little children to come unto Him. And she was loved by Olivia and the staff with as much love as could be divided over sixty ways. The other children loved her, too, for her quiet, helpful manner. Why, when surrounded by so much acceptance, she would still be ashamed of her hand was a puzzle.
Olivia blinked away tears. She seldom reminisced, knowing that for every sleeping child there was a tragic past. But it was Sarah’s future that concerned her. While she capably performed chores such as making her bed, washing clothes, and helping tend the younger children, she naturally took longer than did the other girls her age. In an overcrowded labor market, who would care to hire someone who could not keep up with the other servants? The workhouse was the only possibility, but Olivia felt she would rather die than send a child there.
And so she had resigned herself that Sarah, like Lily, would spend the rest of her years at the home. It was not a bad life. She was bright enough to become a teacher to the younger girls one day. But her world would be so narrow, composed of the four walls and a tiny walled garden. Even Sunday chapel was conducted in the schoolroom by three local ministers on a rotating schedule. Because the workload was so great, advanced schooling would be impossible. Opportunities to meet decent, eligible young men were nonexistent in Drury Lane, and so, again like Lily, she would probably never marry.
Unless this is a way out.
If Mrs. Blake wished to atone for past injustices, shouldn’t she be allowed to do so? Mr. Swann had mentioned that she had no other family. Surely it would be kinder to substitute another child instead of telling her that her actions probably contributed to her infant granddaughter’s death.
Olivia frowned at her rationalizations. Mrs. Blake’s angst means nothing to you, she thought. You wouldn’t consider committing such a sin for someone you’ve not even met. It was for Sarah’s sake that such a plan had formed in her mind.
Something troubled her. Just because Mrs. Blake did not wish to tell her she was her granddaughter now did not mean she wouldn’t change her mind in the future. Miss Tomkin’s poor little infant was brought in shortly after birth; therefore, this plan would only work if Sarah believed she had also been here her whole life. How much of her early childhood did she remember? She would have to find out before proceeding further.
And if Sarah had no memory of anything but the orphanage, she would have to lead the girl to believe that she was but thirteen years of age, not the fourteen she was most likely to be. That should be relatively easy, for birthdays and approximate ages were acknowledged only in Olivia’s records—not from a lack of sentiment, but from lack of time and funds for celebrations, and because at least half of the children had no idea of the specific dates of their births. Being as slight of build as she was, Sarah could easily pass for one year younger.
There would be even more deception necessary concerning her staff, especially Beth, Mrs. Kettner, and Mrs. Abbot, who were employed when little Sarah was brought in. She could make them believe that Mrs. Blake wished to take in an orphan simply out of kindness, but Sarah could not be told of her fictitious past until the last minute.
Oh what a tangled web we weave, Olivia thought.
“They look like angels when they sleep . . . don’t they?” came a whisper from her right.
Olivia turned to see Mrs. Kettner standing there with a wrapper over her nightgown and a nightcap over her short white hair. “Yes, they do,” she whispered back. “Did I wake you?”
“You didn’t, Olivia. I often finish my prayers by passing through and whispering them to the Lord by name.” Her face glowed in the light of her own candle. “It’s the only way I can be certain I’ve not left anyone out.”
The girl in the bed stirred, causing Olivia to move back into the aisle. Mrs. Kettner stepped aside to give room. “I should go before I wake them all,” Olivia whispered.
“Good night to you, then. May you have pleasant dreams.”
They won’t be pleasant, Olivia was certain. She touched the older woman’s sleeve. “While you’re praying for them . . . pray for me as well?”
Mrs. Kettner studied her face in the candlelight. “Is there something wrong, Olivia?”
“A decision I have to make.” She wished she could pour out the whole story. But the good woman would only tell her what she already knew, that deception was wrong even for the purest of motives.
“Ah, then,” Mrs. Kettner said. “I’ll be praying God grants you an extra dose of wisdom.”
After thanking her, Olivia went back downstairs to her room, took a drink of water from the chipped glass carafe at her table, and knelt down by her bed.
“Father,” she murmured at length. “Dear Mrs. Kettner promised to pray that I would have wisdom. I ask you instead that the punishment for the sin I intend to commit not be more than I’m able to bear.”
****
Sarah was halfway through her bowl of porridge on Tuesday morning when she felt a hand upon her shoulder. She twisted in her seat to look up at Miss Jacobs.
“Mrs. Forsyth wants to see you in the dormitory when you’ve finished,” Miss Jacobs leaned down to say in a low voice. Though she wore a smile, her face was oddly splotched and the whites of her eyes stained pink.
“Yes, Miss Jacobs,” Sarah whispered, wishing she could ask if she was ill. But because the dining hall was only large enough to seat half the girls at once, silence was strictly enforced during meals in the interest of saving time. She watched the worker limp toward the open doorway.
Turning back to her bowl, she discovered her appetite had forsaken her. She could only shrug at the wide-eyed looks sent to her from the other seven girls at the table. Mrs. Forsyth was a kind woman, but a busy one. A summons from her usually meant one of two things. Some serious breech of the rules had been committed, or someone would soon be leaving to take on a position. Sarah tried to recollect any of the former of which she may have been guilty of lately and was disappointed when none came to mind. But why would anyone want to hire you? she asked herself, shifting the fingerless hand in her lap.
Wasting food wasn’t allowed, so she lifted her bowl a bit and raised her brows questioningly. Lucille waved from the foot of the table.
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Mary whispered on her right when Sarah handed her the bowl to pass.
She glanced at Mrs. Kettner at the next table. “I don’t think so,” she whispered back, then pushed out her chair.
Mrs. Forsyth stood at the far end of Sarah’s dormitory room in the stream of light slanting in from the lone window facing Drury Lane. She turned to smile, which should have reassured Sarah but instead swept away all doubt that she was here for the second reason.
It was not that she was lazy. But Saint Matthew’s was her home, and the staff a
nd girls were her family. And she felt safe inside these walls. From what, she wasn’t certain.
“I like to look out over the fog and grime,” Mrs. Forsyth said when Sarah reached her. She nodded toward the glass. “It reminds me that there are things which extend far beyond our limited vision.”
Sarah didn’t think the headmistress was referring only to rooftops. And she thought she understood a little. After all, she fervently believed in God, whom no one but Moses had seen, and then only from the back.
“You’ve finished your breakfast?”
“Half of it,” Sarah confessed.
“Very good,” Mrs. Forsyth said as if she had not really heard her reply. There was a space of silence, and then, “Do you recall anything about your life before you were brought here?”
“Brought here?” She had not expected that question.
“Yes. Think hard, Sarah.”
After a second of concentration, all that came to Sarah’s recollection was a pungent and yet musty odor, like rotting apples. But no images or faces other than those already familiar. “I must have been very young.”
The woman turned to the window again. Through the glass Sarah could see the clay roof of the public house across the lane. “It was thirteen years ago on January thirtieth. And you were only a few hours old.”
“I was? But I’m fourteen.”
Mrs. Forsyth shook her head. “I looked through my records last night and discovered we’ve somehow accidentally added a year onto your life.”
“I see.” The disappointment at suddenly being a year younger lasted only long enough for it to dawn upon Sarah that she wasn’t in trouble. And even better, she was too young to be sent away. “But who brought me here?” she asked. While she took for granted that her parents had died, it had never occurred to her to wonder about other people in her life. Had she aunts or uncles somewhere?
“You were left in the doorway of Saint Mark’s. That’s a chapel on Chancery Lane.”
A scene sparked in her mind. She was very young, perhaps four or five, and an older girl was helping her write her alphabet on a slate by guiding her right hand. She could not recall the girl’s name or even face—so many had grown up and left over the years—but she was saying, “I was out sweeping the pavement when a filthy-looking man appeared, carrying you on his shoulder. You stared at my broom as if you’d never seen one before. All I could see of your face was dirt and those wide green eyes.”
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