by Micki Miller
Claude, his dark hair curling from the steam, dragged a tall chair to the other side of his worktable. By the time Rose settled into her seat, he’d set a simple white porcelain plate out for her with three plump strawberries and a hot, flaking pasty.
“Thank you, Claude. It looks wonderful.”
“These are especially good, if I do say so myself,” the cook said with humble pride.
Piercing the delicate crust with her fork released an aromatic rush of Claude’s talent with seasonings. After the first bite of soft, chunky potato, Rose was honest when she told the cook his accolade was an understatement.
She ate her meal and listened as Claude told her more stories about his childhood on a farm while he worked across from her. When he rotated back to the stove for a moment to stir his pot, she reached over and stole a carrot round. Claude caught her, scolded her in French, giving her a mock scowl, and making her laugh before placing two more slices of carrot on her plate.
After she finished the last delicious bite, Rose thanked Claude and once again praised his culinary skills. She then left to pace the oriental carpet in the front parlor while waiting for Ashton to return. It was already half past one, and they were losing precious time.
The cozy room, decorated in peach and pale blues with a white marble fireplace at one end, usually had a calming effect. Today, past the time morning had relinquished the day to afternoon, Rose’s impatience to get going only grew.
When the sun seemed hurried, as if it wanted to finish the day before something marred its perfection, Rose stopped her pacing. She knelt on the powder blue settee and peered out the clean glass of the front window.
A curricle drawn by two horses rolled past the house. The driver had drawn back the hood, taking advantage of the day’s sunshine. A man and woman, both in dove-gray day clothes, strolled by arm in arm. There was no sign of Ashton.
Something had detained her husband and there was every chance he might not be back in time to make any good use of this glorious day. Or what yet remained of it. She could not let that happen. If he arrived home early enough, he could ride to the foundling home in another carriage and meet her there. She would not waste any more of this afternoon waiting. Rose marched through the house, out the back door, and straight toward the stables.
Following the slate walkway, breathing in spring’s fresh air, Rose cursed herself for waiting so long to take the day in hand. Her steps were brisk, but not so much that she couldn’t soak in the splendor of her surroundings.
Glimmering, golden rays poured from the sky and wrapped around her like a hearth-warmed blanket. Birds chirped and twittered from high atop flowering trees. The scent of lilacs Ashton had planted all around the house floated on a subtle, balmy breeze. Yellow and white crocuses all but glowed along the curving walk, drinking in the gilded warmth like an elixir.
The air cooled the instant she entered the shadows of the stables, and sweetened with the smell of freshly turned hay and the animal musk of the horses.
“Bart?” she called out. “Is anybody here?”
Strolling past the stalls, her favorite horse, Winnie, nickered and nodded her big head. The darling mare, a deep chestnut color with white socks, and a streak of white on her nose, was a wedding gift from Ashton. After everything he’d already done for her, installing her with a proper chaperone until they were wed, and then giving her a wonderful home and a wonderful life, seeing to her every need. The man was a gift from heaven.
“Of course, I remembered to bring you a treat,” Rose said as she stopped to pet Winnie’s velvety nose. From the pocket of her skirt, she scooped out an apple she’d taken from the kitchen on her way out, and held it in her flat palm for her horse. Winnie chomped the apple down in but a few bites.
“’Ello, milady.” Rose recognized the voice of Horace, the skinny young stable lad with a thick mop of coffee colored hair and an ever-present smile. The hand was nineteen-years-old, but his baby face and thin body made him look much younger.
“Hello, Horace. How are you today?”
“Fine, milady, thank ye for asking. ’Ow couldn’t I be on such a lovely day?”
“Indeed.”
“Are ye and the misters’ takin’ a ride this afternoon? Tis a fine day for a trot through Hyde Park. Or mayhap ye’d prefer to take an open carriage.”
“I’ll be taking a carriage today, but not with either Lord Sennett or Lord Da Ville. Is Big Bart around?”
“’E just left. ’Ad to go see the smithy about some ironwork, won’t bore ye with the de’ails. We was up ’alf the night tryin’ to fix the problem ourselves. Finally gave up.” Horace puffed out his narrow chest with pride as if he wore fine livery instead of his down-at-the-heels stable clothes. He lifted his chin and said with a nod, “I’m in charge while Bart’s away. I can ’elp ye with anythin’ needs doin’.”
Rose considered it for a moment. She’d told Ashton if she were to go without him, she would take Big Bart with her, as she normally did. Ashton worried for her safety. Of course, the rascal should have been back by now and if she waited much longer, the beautiful day would be nothing more than a memory.
“I was going to have Bart drive me down to the foundling home,” she said, looking around the stables as if she missed Big Bart on her first pass.
“’E won’t be back for at least a couple of hou’s. I can drive ye,” he said, muffling a yawn.
Horace didn’t weigh much more than she did. No matter the want, his good intentions would not satisfy Ashton’s concerns for her protection. Rose flicked a quick glance behind her. In just the few minutes since she walked out of the house, it appeared as if the sun had taken on weight and was sliding down the sky.
After but a moment’s consideration, Rose said, “Yes, Horace, that would be wonderful. Thank you.”
Horace jumped to, readying the Berline carriage for her. While he did, Rose dashed back into the house to retrieve her reticule, her small, straw bonnet, and a light wrap, should the air grow chill later. When she returned, Horace had the closed carriage ready to go and he helped her in with gallant grandeur. Moments later, they were off.
Rose stared out the window at the scenery, then at its change.
They passed elegant homes fronted with maintained lawns and flowerbeds tended with meticulous attention. Cared for in kind, was the park. The paths full of riders, while other paths hosted walkers in their neat day clothes, governesses watching from iron benches as children laughed and frolicked about. Many Barouche and Calash carriages with their open or partial tops covered their distance at a slow roll, allowing the well-attired occupants to see and be seen.
Her regret at taking a closed carriage came and went without pause. She was already traveling alone, and her familiarity with the territory ahead forbade such recklessness. Even young Horace knew enough to pack her within and not leave her exposed.
In a little while, when they would leave this scenery of maintenance and decorum, an open carriage would do naught but invite trouble for her and her skinny young driver. For now, she satisfied herself by lowering the window and breathing in deep the fresh air.
When she got to the small, high-walled yard at the foundling home, she could be outside with the children then. The air wouldn’t be so fresh there. But with the way things were moving along with the growing funds for the Foundling Home Project, she had every confidence the children would be moving to a better home.
Nearing the edge of the park, they rode beneath a long row of Oriental Planes lining the street on both sides. Their bushy leaves tall overhead created an intricate patchwork of shade through which they passed.
Eventually, they rolled by London’s most elegant shops. The street bustled with gentry, aromas, and a cacophony of sound. Horses, people, drivers, and all manner of carriages maneuvered their way through the busy streets.
Men and women in their tailored garments strolled along the walk while footmen helped ladies with their packages. Voices rose up over the braying of horses an
d the clomping of their hooves, carriage wheels over cobblestones, the jingle and clank of riggings, and the shouting barks of coachmen.
A well-dressed man stepped from the sidewalk, and then shouted as a horse and rider nearly trampled him. The horse reared. For a moment, Rose feared the rider would take a hard fall to the street where he might be trampled himself. The man held tight, though, and was efficient at calming his horse.
The other man, the one who had to jump out of the way, waved his fist while swearing a string of solid oaths at the rider before crossing the street, much more careful of his route.
Rose caught a whiff of sweet treats and baking bread, and scooted across the tufted seat to lower the other window. Yes, there it is. They were passing a bakery. Aromas of every kind of pastry and bread wafted through the carriage. Right then, Rose would argue with anyone that it was indeed possible to smell warmth.
Beside the bakery sat a blue-painted, brick front of a clockmaker’s shop. A man walked out holding bucket-sized packages in both hands. He wore fine clothes and a pleased expression. The next business over was a bookseller with a large front window displaying his latest arrivals posed upright on cloth-covered blocks.
After a while, a notable lessening of formality reformed the scenery outside the carriage windows.
Goods sold in shops became goods sold by street merchants. A thin man with a bushy, black mustache stood at his apple barrow. A grizzled old man wearing rough-spun garments and a very august bicorn hat leaned against his one-horse cart, from which he sold brooms and woven blankets in a variety of colors. From other carts, handbarrows, and makeshift tables fashioned of boards and barrels, sellers offered everything from shoelaces to second-hand clothes.
The carriage made a turn just past a berry vendor. In less than a block, the number of merchants trickled down to none.
The landscape slid into quick degeneration. Buildings sat in forlorn abandonment, awnings sloped over broken windows behind which lay a thick darkness even the bright day couldn’t light. Farther down, the odor of open sewers, desperation, and sour rot permeated the air.
Rose closed both windows. She was almost there.
Horace stopped the carriage in front of the tall, crumbling stone walls of the foundling home. Beyond the ancient barrier with the old, iron gate in the center, lay a treeless, dirt courtyard too small to accommodate the needs of the two dozen or so children who called the place home.
The building itself, formed of the same stone as the wall, was soot-stained from the nearby breweries and textile factories whose smoky output left the skies above the foundling home ever gloomy. Untainted sunlight rarely made an appearance here, though enough got through today to add a small glimmer of cheer.
Each new patch of mortar holding the structure together had faded to different degrees in accordance with its age. To look at it now, the face of the downtrodden home appeared fatally stricken with pox.
Through the iron bars of the gate in the center of the wall, Rose caught glimpses of about ten of the children who lived there playing out in the courtyard. Some were orphans, others abandoned at the gate as if they were nothing more than yesterday’s trash. They were too old for the foundling hospital, who seldom took children over twelve months old. Without this poor old building, and the women who worked here, they’d have no hope whatsoever.
Their good fortune came by way of the women who resided here with the children. They were kind and caring, doing the best they could to make a home for all of them from the decrepit old building. A small handful of charitable organizations were its lifeblood. The Foundling Project, started by Ashton almost a year ago, set out to build them a more suitable home.
Before a yawning Horace even had the front gate to the home opened all the way, the children were upon her like hummingbirds to nectar. The smiles and hugs, and shouts of joy surrounded Rose in a crush of love she savored. She took in all they wanted to give and returned it tenfold.
“Miss Rose, Miss Rose,” little Brennan shouted when the initial excitement settled a bit.
Marion, all of four years old with yellow hair and a smile to charm anyone who saw it into instant love, threw her arms around Rose’s neck as soon as she knelt. The little girl hugged her with a laugh and a happy, disjointed story that made no sense at all.
“Miss Rose, Miss Rose,” Brennan repeated.
Finally, Rose gave sole attention to Brennan, seven years old, dark hair a bit shaggy, all smiles in his drab clothing which fit a little too big. His small arms were crossed in front of him. No, not crossed, but nestling something. Already kneeling on the ground, Rose leaned toward the boy. Held in a secure grasp against his body, Brennan cuddled a puppy.
“Well, who is this?” Rose asked the boy.
“His name in Raisin, cause he’s all black, ’cept for the patch a brown between his ears.”
“The little guy just wandered in here one day through the front gate.” This from Ellen, the boisterous twelve-year-old who fancied herself as a bit of a mother figure. “We’re not supposed to have pets here, but Miss Abigail says we can keep him long as he don’t make no trouble.”
“Doesn’t make any trouble,” Rose said. Ellen had asked her for some polish for her grammar. The girl was a quick study and retained corrections with minimal repeating.
“Doesn’t make any trouble. Thank you,” Ellen said. She then repeated the sentence several times, committing the words to memory.
“I sang to him,” Brennan said. “And he came right to me.” The boy held the puppy out for Rose to take, brows raising high over his soft, brown eyes. “You can hold him if you wanna. He’s real friendly.”
Rose took the squirming ball of black fluff. As she held him, several little hands reached over to pet the pup. He was clean and plump; signs the little guy endured extreme care ever since he had the good sense to wander onto the grounds. By the soft feel of the pads of his little paws, Rose wondered if the pup’s feet ever even touched the ground.
“Well,” Rose said. “I do believe Raisin is the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”
The children all smiled their joy at her approval of their new friend. Word must have spread she was there, for a sudden stream of children poured from the open door of the home in a flood of cheers and smiles, a sharp contrast to their plain clothing.
For the next couple of hours Rose played games and sang songs with the children. Later, she made some private time for a couple of the older girls who had questions and comments about their developing bodies.
Hester, a motherly woman with a big heart squeezed into her reed-thin body, came out to chat a while. Rose filled her in on the funding progress and told her of the new hope for procuring the land. Hester offered a few wonderful ideas of her own for the new building and Rose promised to incorporate them into the plans.
Too soon, the day wound down. One of the women would be calling the children in for their supper soon, and if she didn’t get herself home by the time Stefon served their evening meal, Ashton would be in a tizzy with worry. As she made her round of goodbye hugs, Brennan burst through the crowd, tears streaming down his frantic little face.
“Brennan, love, what’s wrong?”
“He’s gone. Raisin’s gone! Someone left the front gate open and he got out.”
“Are you sure he got out?” Rose asked. “Maybe he went inside.”
“No. I was up by the door when I seen him run out. I ran to the gate, but I didn’t get there in time to grab him, and we ain’t allowed to go outside the gate. I seen him run that way,” Brennan said, pointing a small finger to the left.
Rose spun around toward the gate. It was indeed open about a foot. She was always careful to close it when she entered so none of the little ones would wander out. But the love of the children had swallowed her before she even stepped all the way through. Had she forgotten to close the gate behind her? Yes, it must have been her, as she was the last one to use it. The puppy was gone, and it was her fault.
&
nbsp; “Don’t worry, Brennan,” she told him with a fierce hug. “I’ll go find Raisin.”
The little boy sniffled. “Miss Margaret says it’s dangerous out there.”
“I’ll be careful. Don’t worry. I’ll bring him back,” she promised, hoping it was a promise she could keep.
Rose closed the gate behind her, noticing how the children had tied cross rows of string on the bottom to keep Raisin from getting out. Even at their young ages, they understood there were perils outside the walls of this home. Another wave of guilt washed over her.
She went right and walked the few steps to the front of the carriage. Horace lay on the seat curled on his side, his head pillowed atop his skinny arm, fast asleep. Well, if she didn’t find the pup in a few minutes, she’d wake him up and get him to help her.
Crouching down, she looked for Raisin beneath the carriage. Even though Brennan had seen him run to the left, she hoped he’d come back and was hiding. But the pup wasn’t there.
She peered down the gloomy street, empty of traffic both ways. After calling his name a few times and getting no response, Rose directed herself left and took several steps, calling for him as she went. At the gate were dozens of worried eyes, some trying to hold back their tears, others, like Brennan, gave up the fight and let them flow. She had to find that puppy.
Half a block past the high wall of the foundling home, a narrow alleyway separating two abandoned buildings tunneled off to the left. It was quite a bit dimmer than the street. Between the tall buildings and the sooty, late day air, light struggled to give her a clear view of what lay down there.
Varying sized piles of rubbish littered the ground like random tombstones. The odor of rotting garbage and sewage assaulted her sense of smell. Rose used her hand to cover her nose and mouth, but it did little against the foul stench of destitution slithering from the alleyway.
“Raisin,” she called.
