A Mother's Courage

by Dilly Court

  Eloise tossed her head. 'I wasn't to know that you were about, sir. It seems that I am not the only one who cannot sleep.'

  'I do not need much sleep, Miss Monk. I catch up on my paperwork at a time when I can usually be certain of working without any interruptions.'

  Eloise huddled beneath the satin lining of his frock coat and a shiver ran down her spine. Wearing a man's garment that was still warm from his body and had the scent of him in every fibre was oddly disconcerting and too personal for comfort.

  'You are still cold,' Caine said, frowning. 'Please go and sit by the fire.'

  This time, Eloise did as she was told, and she went to sit in a wingback chair at the side of the carved oak fireplace, watching silently as Caine moved to a side table and poured something from a cut crystal decanter into two glasses. He crossed the floor to hand one to her and a wry smile curved his lips. 'It seems that we have been here before, Miss Monk. Am I always to find you in a state of distress?'

  She eyed Caine warily and was surprised to see how much more human and approachable he looked in his shirtsleeves. Seeming to sense her scrutiny he met her gaze with a questioning look, and for a brief moment it felt as though they were equals and she was not afraid. If he had been really angry, surely he would have dismissed her on the spot?

  Caine stood with his back to the fireplace, cupping his hands around the bowl of the glass. 'Well, Miss Monk. You are unusually silent. Would you like to tell me why you were in the nursery in the middle of the night?'

  'As I said, sir, I heard a child crying. There did not seem to be anyone about and so I went into the nursery to comfort him.'

  'To comfort him? You recognised the boy's cry?'

  Realising her mistake, Eloise shook her head emphatically. 'No, sir. What I meant to say was that I discovered a boy who was very upset, and I – I . . .'

  'And you went into the nursery to comfort him?'

  The brandy was making her feel slightly muzzy in the head and Eloise suspected that he was trying to catch her out. 'I was looking for the night nurse, sir.'

  'But you've already said there was no one about, Miss Monk. Would you like to begin again and tell me why you were wandering about the hospital at this hour? You couldn't possibly have heard a child crying from the staff quarters in the attic'

  'I – I must have been sleepwalking. I found myself in the corridor outside the nursery and that's when I heard the child crying.'

  Caine took a seat in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. 'Do you really expect me to believe such a ridiculous story?'

  Stung by his attitude, Eloise took refuge in anger. 'Are you calling me a liar, sir?'

  'Miss Monk, the aim of this hospital is not only to save the lives of abandoned children, but also to reclaim their mothers from a life of poverty and degradation. We try, if at all possible, to reunite mother and child. Women who have been driven to leave their children on our doorstep do occasionally return, either to reclaim them or, more often than not, just to reassure themselves that their offspring are being looked after properly.'

  Despite the warming effect of the brandy and her proximity to the roaring fire, Eloise shivered beneath the folds of Caine's coat. He was so close to the truth that it had taken her breath away and she did not know how to respond. He leaned towards her and his piercing blue eyes challenged her to tell the truth. 'You do not have anything to say, Miss Monk? I find that strange since you have not been so reticent before.'

  'I have nothing to say because there is nothing to say,' Eloise countered. 'I am sorry for the women of whom you speak, but I am not one of them.'

  'And yet you have been seen going in and out of the nursery as if you could not keep away.'

  'I like children, Mr Caine. I feel sorry for the foundlings.' Eloise rose rather shakily to her feet. 'Sir, if you are going to dismiss me, please do it now. Don't keep me in suspense. I cannot stand it.'

  Chapter Seventeen

  Caine rose from his seat and took the glass from her trembling fingers. 'You may have broken some of Matron's cast-iron regulations, but I am not going to dismiss you. As far as I can see you have done no harm, but I would advise you to abide by the rules in future.'

  'Yes, sir. I will. May I go now?'

  He turned away to set the glasses back on the side table. 'Yes, go back to bed and get some sleep.'

  'Good night, sir.' Eloise shrugged off his coat and was struck by a sudden chill. It was like slipping off someone's skin and she felt suddenly vulnerable. She hung the garment tidily over the back of a chair and was about to leave the room when he called her back.

  'Miss Monk.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'It's nothing. You may go.' He walked round his desk and sat down, bending his head over a sheaf of papers.

  Eloise needed no second bidding. She hurried from the office, closing the door behind her. She paused for a moment, leaning against the wall in an attempt to control her erratic heartbeats. She had had a reprieve, but it was a close call and she must be more careful in future. The sound of movement inside the office galvanised her frozen limbs into action and Eloise raced along the dark corridor as if the devil himself was on her heels. When she reached the safety of her room, she crept in without disturbing Tibbie and Becky and she climbed into bed, but sleep eluded her as she lay shivering beneath the coverlet. Her conversation with Caine had been disturbing. He was not a likeable man, she decided. His manner was harsh and he was arrogant, but he was not the sort of person who could be easily fooled. She knew that he did not believe her story, although he could prove nothing. She decided that she must be more careful in future. If she lost this job she would be separated from Joss and Beth for the foreseeable future, and that was unthinkable. Eloise closed her eyes. If she worked hard and avoided getting into more trouble, perhaps she could persuade Matron that she was a suitable person to work in the nursery. She must try harder. She would try harder.

  After her confrontation with the governor, Eloise was extra vigilant when she crept down to the nursery every night. She had discovered the night nurses' routine and she knew that just after midnight they congregated in a room on the first floor to chat and drink cocoa. She waited until she could smell the fragrance of hot chocolate, mixed with the faint waft of illicit tobacco smoke, before creeping silently to the nursery. Joss was never asleep. It was almost as if he knew that she was coming and he forced himself to stay awake so that he could see her. She was certain now that he recognised her, but he still did not speak. The day staff had written him off as a mute, but no one seemed unduly worried about his condition. Perhaps they were relieved to have a silent child on their hands, as it made life easier for them.

  When she entered the nursery, Eloise always went straight to Joss, lifting him from his cot and talking to him in a low whisper. He listened attentively, never taking his eyes off her face, and his small hand would reach up to touch her lips or her cheek, which made her want to cry, but she held back the tears. She must never allow him to see that she was upset or that might distress him even more. Beth was always asleep when Eloise arrived in the nursery but the sound of her mother's voice seemed to penetrate her dreams and she too would wake up, outstretching her arms in a plea to be picked up and cuddled. These moments alone with her children were more precious to Eloise than the snatched minutes she spent with them during the day. She had organised her routine so that she reached the nursery at dinnertime when she knew that Phoebe would be glad of some help, and again at teatime. She had to be careful not to pay too much attention to her own children, and this was a form of torture in itself, but her clash with the governor had made her even more wary of discovery.

  As the weeks went by, Eloise lived in two worlds. In the daytime, she was just Ellen, the charwoman with ambitions to be a nursery nurse, but at night she was able to give Joss and Beth all the love that was denied to them by day. The other infants usually slept, and if they awakened and began to cry, she would sing lullabies until they fell back to sleep
. She dared not linger for too long and risk being caught again, but the pain of leaving her children never seemed to ease. Each time she left the nursery it felt as though she left a piece of her heart clutched in their tiny hands. Soon she would have none left, and perhaps the agony would go away. Eloise had never believed that a heart could physically break – now she was not so certain.

  After her nocturnal visits, Eloise was in the habit of looking up and down the corridor to make sure that the coast was clear, and every night she saw a faint pencil line of light beneath Caine's office door. She could almost feel pity for such a tortured soul who never seemed to sleep, and she began to wonder what it was that had turned a comparatively young man into a block of ice. She had even gone so far as to question Tibbie, who was an inveterate gossip and had been only too delighted to pass on what little she knew about the governor. His wife, she said, had been almost too beautiful for words. Not that Tibbie had ever seen her; she was just telling Eloise what she had heard, and there was a portrait of Rosamund Caine hanging in the drawing room of the governor's house. It was said that little Maria was the image of her blonde and blue-eyed mother, and just as lively. Rosamund had been a talented musician; she had played the pianoforte and had the singing voice of an angel. The older members of staff waxed lyrical when they spoke of how Mrs Caine had played and sung for them at their Christmas party. They said how light she was on her feet when she danced with the governor, and how devastated he had been when she had died in childbirth. He had never got over it, so Tibbie said, wiping a tear from her eye. Some said that he used to be a charming fellow, with a ready wit and a smile for everyone. His heart was broken, and that was a fact. It was well known that he worked all night. Perhaps he never slept at all. Tibbie was not certain about that, but what she did know was that he spoiled his little daughter something rotten, and little Maria Caine had had so many nannies that everyone had lost count. Miss Maria's tantrums were something to behold. If she was thwarted in anything her screams would even drown the sound of traffic in Guildford Street. What she needed, in Tibbie's opinion, was a firm hand. 'Matron would sort the young lady out good and proper,' Tibbie said, nodding wisely. 'Spare the rod and spoil the child is what she always says, and I think she's right.'

  Eloise listened to this diatribe with interest, although privately she thought that Miss Maria would gain little from corporal punishment. Her mother would be just the person to deal with a child such as Maria Caine. If only Mama were here now. Eloise had gone straight away to her room and taken the writing case from its hiding place beneath her mattress, and she had begun the first letter to her mother that she had attempted to write since she left Ephraim Hubble's house in Clerkenwell Green. At least now she could say that she had a respectable position in the Foundling Hospital, although she omitted to add that her children were institutionalised and that she was merely a charwoman. She made no mention of all the traumas they had suffered in the intervening weeks, and she said nothing about working in the dust yard or her failed attempt at earning her living as a prostitute. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never tell either of her parents how low she had sunk during that long, hot summer.

  She thanked Mama for her letters and said she hoped that Janet was now settling in more happily at the mission, and that Papa had not suffered a recurrence of the fever which had laid him so low. It was just a short letter, but Eloise was satisfied that it would set her mother's mind at rest after so many weeks of silence. On her afternoon off, Eloise went to the post office in Holborn and sent her letter on its way to Africa. As it was a fine late September afternoon with mellow sunshine and a degree of warmth, she decided to walk as far as the Missionary Society offices to see if there was any correspondence awaiting her. To her delight there was a letter addressed to her with the envelope written in her mother's neat hand, but there was another which bore a Yorkshire postmark. Eloise did not recognise the handwriting and her heart skipped a beat at the thought that it might have come from Cribb's Hall. With her imagination running riot, she hurried out into the street and made her way to Lincoln's Inn Fields where she found a bench beneath the trees. She sat for a moment, staring at the envelope which had come from the north, hardly daring to open it. Suppose the Cribbs had gone through with their threat to make Joss and Beth wards of court? If they knew that she collected mail from the Missionary Society, it would be easy for Pike to lie in wait for her there and follow her back to the Foundling Hospital. All would be lost then. Mr Caine would be forced to dismiss her, and her children would be wrenched from her arms. She could see it all in her mind's eye and she sat trembling, hardly daring to open the letter. Dry leaves drifted from the trees, floating to the ground where they lay in heaps of golden brown, like mounds of fools' gold. She took a deep breath and ripped the envelope, exposing the letter inside. She hardly dared to unfold the paper, but when she eventually plucked up courage to read it, she uttered a sigh of relief.

  Danby Farm

  Driffield

  Yorkshire

  1 September 1879

  Dear Ellie,

  I hope this letter finds you, as it leaves me, well and in good health. We have missed you and the dear children since you left the farm, but I hope that you have found yourself a good position and that you are settled back in London.

  The reason I am writing to you, my dear, and it do not come easy to a woman like me, is to tell you that Reggie is engaged to be married to Maud Fosdyke. He was courting her for several years before you came to stay with us, although, as you know, there was no formal contract between them. Reggie told me all about his asking you to marry him and I cannot say I was surprised that you had turned him down. I could wish it was different, but I know it was not to be. You must not be surprised or hurt at the way he has acted, which might seem to be fickle, but I think he knew all along that you were above his reach. I am sure that Reggie will always hold you dear in his big, soft heart, but the time has come for him to settle down and Maud is a good and homely young woman who will adapt well to life on the farm.

  There have not been any more visits from those people, you know who I mean, but I put flowers on poor Ada's grave every time I visit the church.

  Do write to me if you have the time, my dear. I always think of you warmly and remember with pleasure the time you spent with us.

  Your very good friend,

  Gladys Danby.

  Eloise read and reread the letter to make certain there was no mention of further visits from the Cribbs. She smiled ruefully at the idea that she might be upset by Reggie's apparent fickleness. In fact she could understand his sudden decision to marry his old sweetheart and she sincerely wished him well. It was a relief to think that she might have bruised his male pride by rejecting his proposal of marriage, but that he had recovered sufficiently to honour his previous commitment to Maud, who was either extremely good-natured or rather desperate to catch a husband, if she was prepared to be second best. Eloise folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Second best would not suit her. She could never marry a man whose heart belonged to another, or one whose heart was buried in the grave. She snapped back to the present with a jolt. What could have put that thought in her head? She had a fleeting vision of Barton Caine walking in the sunlit gardens of the Foundling Hospital with his young daughter, and her first impression of him as a cold and haughty man. Nothing had happened to change her mind, so why had thoughts of him suddenly come into her head, and in such a context? He was the last man on earth whom she could ever think of as a prospective husband. Shocked by her own thoughts, Eloise applied herself to reading the letter from her mother. It had been written in response to the first of Eloise's letters to reach the mission house, in which she described the grandeur of her new surroundings in Cribb's Hall. With her customary insight, Mama had sensed that all was not right with her daughter, even though Eloise had been at pains not to mention the bullying tactics of Hilda and Joan. As she read her mother's words, Eloise thought grimly that what had happen
ed in Cribb's Hall was as nothing compared to the dire consequences of her return to London. She would never be able to tell Mama even half of what she had suffered.

  She read on, and despite her mother's attempts to remain positive, it seemed that life in the bush was fraught with hardship and danger. Whether it was poisonous snakes, lions prowling round outside the compound and crocodiles lurking in the undergrowth on the riverbank, or the various diseases that threatened their health, it was certainly not a vision of paradise. Both Papa and Janet suffered recurrent bouts of malaria, although by some strange quirk of fate Mama seemed to have escaped the scourge. Janet was having difficulty in coping with the heat and discomfort, but Mama put a brave face on matters, saying that the mission was thriving and she had started up a school for the village children who were such dears and so responsive to her. Papa, she said, was working hard, and even though his ill health was making life difficult, he really seemed to have found his true vocation and he loved his flock with a deep and burning passion. Eloise read the brave words but she was not fooled by them. It was obvious that both her mother and Janet were suffering. She struggled with the unworthy thought that her father was a selfish man whose vaingloriousness had brought misery to the women who loved and depended upon him. She sighed as she folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. Her parents seemed even further away, and reading about their strange existence in the wilds of the African bush only widened the gulf between them.

  As she set off in the direction of Guildford Street, Eloise felt more alone than she had for a long time. But it was a glorious autumn day, and it was hard to be sad when the sun was shining and the rain which had come in the night had done much to wash the grime from the streets and dilute the stench of horse dung and overfull sewers. Soon the November gales would strip the leaves from the trees and there would be fog and frost to contend with. Life in the Foundling Hospital was far from ideal, but at least they were warm, well fed and safe from the prying eyes of Pike and the machinations of Hilda Cribb. If her arithmetic was correct, her parents were due home on leave in less than eighteen months, and there would be a joyful reunion. If Papa felt that he had done his duty, maybe he could be persuaded to accept a country parish and then Mama would be able to see her grandchildren growing up and Janet would be able to spoil them as she had spoiled Eloise.