The Girl From Poorhouse Lane

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Of course I’d like something better for him. Haven’t I said as much? Dermot would like to start a family too, if he could afford one.’ She made for the door, ready to flounce off home in high dudgeon, to put her child to bed and hope and pray she could find something for his breakfast on the morrow. And try to think of some way to soften the disappointment for her poor brother. In any case, where was the point in going round and round in bloody circles, repeating the obvious. Her hands were actually reaching for the handle when his next words brought her to a skidding halt.

  ‘I have come to the decision that it would be by far the best thing for me to adopt him.’

  She stared at him in stunned silence for a full half minute. ‘What?’

  ‘That is, for my wife and I to adopt the child. We can give him a much better home than you could ever hope for. He would be properly fed and cared for, schooled and educated, turned into a fine gentleman to live a life beyond your wildest dreams. What do you say to that?’

  ‘I’d say you’ve run stark, staring mad.’

  ‘It’s a generous offer. Take it or leave it. You’ll not get a better. How else can you be sure he’ll even survive?’

  Chapter Four

  Amelia gazed at her husband in astonishment. Had she not been so properly brought up, she might very well have allowed her mouth to drop open in shock.

  ‘I’m sorry Eliot, but I think you’re going to have to explain this all over again. You plan to do what?’

  He’d wisely left the girl kicking her heels in the hall while he brought his wife around to the idea. Despite Amelia having suffered a disastrous end to three pregnancies, the last more than two years ago with no sign of another since, he knew that she still hadn’t given up hope. Her longing for a child was such that whenever he’d tried to reassure her that it really didn’t matter, that he loved her anyway, it always upset her. It seemed too cruel to simply tell his beloved wife that Doc. Mitchell had confidentially informed him that it was highly unlikely she would ever bear another. Aware of his desire for a family, she longed to provide one. In the end, they’d stopped discussing the matter as it was far too painful a subject for them both, and generally reduced Amelia to tears. Even the small remnants of her dreams that she clung to had seemed better than no hope at all. Until now. ‘The boy is healthy and strong, and in need of a good home.’

  ‘You speak as if he were a stray dog or cat.’

  ‘Then I am sorry if I have given that impression. He will, I am sure, grow into a fine young men. He does have a mother who loves him but she is penniless, without the facility to care for him properly. My plan is that we adopt him as our own.’

  Amelia looked at him askance. ‘And she is agreeable to this? Is she asking for money? What kind of mother is she?’

  ‘A desperate one. And no, she has asked for nothing for herself. The suggestion - the idea - was mine. She isn’t, as yet, too comfortable with it but is prepared to consider it, for the child’s sake, and is willing to meet you.’

  ‘But handing over her own child, that seems so heartless. Can’t you simply give her some work?’

  ‘She has work, but neither home nor family beyond a rapscallion of a brother. She lives in Poor House Lane but wants something better for the boy, and who can blame her? I wouldn’t let a dog of mine live there. Will you speak to her at least? Will you agree to see the boy? He needs our help. Can you imagine, Amelia, how it must feel to be starving?’

  Amelia could not, unfortunately, imagine anything of the sort. Not out of any sense of unkindness or lack of caring on her part. She held a strong sense of noblesse oblige, loved to give to those less blessed than herself, indeed felt it her bounden duty to do so. She would take them the preserves made by Mrs Petty in the kitchens; the flowers or fruit which grew in abundance in their garden, thanks to Eliot’s green fingers and to Askew’s back breaking efforts. But it never crossed her mind to worry over the differences between her own good fortune and station in life, and those of the blighted poor. ‘The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate,’ were to Amelia facts of life over which she had no control. God had ordered their estates, as the words of the old poem clearly stated, and therefore could not be altered.

  Amelia certainly believed that she treated her servants with benevolence and generosity. They were well fed, had access to regular hot baths, fresh air, and ample time off. Some mistresses, she knew, were cruelly unkind to their maids, so it was more than likely that she could be accused of pampering hers. Social change, with its connotations of politics, economics and other business matters, was a philosophy best left to men, in her opinion. It was a part of their rhetoric and therefore quite beyond her. In Amelia’s world, a woman should concern herself with the moral tone, with social etiquette. She must train her daughters to be ladies and her sons to take over the business, assuming she was fortunate enough to have children. Which Amelia, sadly, was not.

  ‘I - I’m not sure, Eliot. I’m not certain that I can do that. I mean - take on another woman’s child. Indeed, it is asking a great deal of me when we may yet have our own.’ She turned her lovely, pale face up to his, eager for his assurance that this was true, but instead read bleak disbelief in his eyes. A small sob escaped her throat and she got up from her chair and fled to the window, pressing her lace handkerchief against her mouth to stifle her tears.

  Following his wife, Eliot quickly gathered her into his arms, holding her close against his chest, stroking her too slender shoulders till the weeping eased. ‘I don’t mean to be unkind, my darling. I would never ask this of you if I thought there was some other way, but you know – we both know – in our hearts, that there is little chance of that now. And if you did have a child of your own, all well and good, then we would have two children. What is so wrong with that? And you will love him on sight, as I did. I know you will. Shall I bring him to you?’

  ‘He is called Callum. Say hello, Callum, to the nice lady. He’s only just starting to talk but he’s bright as a button, ma’am.’

  Kate was aware that she was talking too much but the woman in the dark grey dress, a dull muddy shade that did nothing for her complexion and made Kate think of old ladies and funerals, was sitting bolt upright, saying nothing at all. Kate had placed Callum on the rug before Mrs Tyson then stepped quickly back, mindful of her boots, but the woman had scarcely given him more than a passing glance.

  Kate sent a silent appeal up to Eliot Tyson, standing behind her chair. He seemed anxious and uncomfortable and rested a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘Speak to the child, Amelia. Perhaps he would like one of your sweets.’

  Obedient to his direction, Amelia took a peppermint drop from the bag on the small round table beside her and held it out to the child with a trembling hand, rather as if he were a rabid dog and she half expected him to snap her fingers off. Callum had never in his life tasted such a thing but curiosity and the sweet, peppermint scent of it, intrigued him. He reached up and grasped it with one small fist and, as is the way with babies, put it straight to his mouth. His eyes suddenly opened wide in delight and he began to suck upon it noisily. In seconds it was gone and he was reaching out a sticky hand for more. ‘Again,’ he said. Amelia burst out laughing and gave him one.

  ‘What a greedy boy you are,’ she said, reaching for another, her blue eyes suddenly shining. ‘Say please.’

  ‘Peas.’

  Amelia clapped her hands with delight, half turned to look up at Eliot. ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘I did.’

  Kate moved a step closer. ‘Not too many, ma’am. He’ll get belly ache.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I wasn’t thinking.’

  Satisfied that some progress at least had been made, Eliot muttered something about having one or two matters to attend to. ‘I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.’ And when Amelia put out a hand to him in alarm, he grasped it, kissed her fingers and assured her that he wouldn’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes at most.

  When he w
as gone, closing the door softly behind him, Kate felt quite at a loss to know what to do, or to say next. Standing there in her rags and tatty boots on this expensive Persian rug, made her feel like something the cat had dragged in. She glanced anxiously down at her footwear, at the shameful trail of dried mud behind her, and thought that perhaps she should have taken them off, after all.

  The house had astounded her. Built of limestone, as was usual in these square, Lakeland mansions, with tall, wide windows looking out over the river, its roof a complicated arrangement of gables, even sporting a tower with a battlemented top in one corner. The coachman, Dennis, had driven them into a big paved yard surrounded by a bewildering number of outbuildings and what she took to be stables, larders and dairies. Kate couldn’t imagine how two people could need so much space, and why they didn’t frequently lose each other within it. She guessed there must be a number of servants living here too. She’d already met Fanny, the maid who had opened the front door to them, and peered at Kate with frowning curiosity as she’d sat waiting on the carved wooden bench in the hall, with Callum on her knee. Clearly Fanny wasn’t accustomed to seeing ragamuffins in their dirty boots spoiling her mistress’s polished floor, and had stared pointedly at them.

  ‘Are you here for a job, because by rights you should come in t’back way and see Mrs Petty, the housekeeper,’ she’d asked Kate, in her blunt way, implying that she was getting above herself by sitting there, even though the master himself had instructed her to do so.

  Kate had shaken her head. ‘No, I’ve not come for a job.’

  ‘I didn’t think you could have, because there isn’t one going. Not that I know of.’ A short silence and then, ‘So why have you come, if I might ask.’

  Kate had smiled. ‘I’m not too sure. Perhaps he’s not the only one to have gone funny in the head.’

  And since this made no sense at all, Fanny had redirected her attention to the offending footwear. ‘Were you planning on going into t’parlour in them things?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Are your socks any cleaner?’

  Kate had managed a little giggle at this. ‘What socks? And before you ask, me feet are filthy too, so they are.’ Fanny had put her nose in the air and stalked off.

  Now it was too late to take the boots off, the damage was done, and she would really have to risk stepping on the rug again before Callum sicked up all the peppermints Mrs Tyson was stuffing into him. ‘I think mebbe he’s had enough, ma’am.’ And very daringly, Kate did indeed step further on to the beautiful cream rug to reach for her child.

  ‘May I hold him? Just for a moment. He’s such a cherub, isn’t he? Just look at those enchanting blue-grey eyes.’

  Warming to her kind words, Kate picked Callum up and placed her son on the other woman’s lap. She was used to others holding him, to Ma Parkin minding him, and Millie once or twice putting him to her own breast when she’d been overflowing with milk and Kate had dried up. Yet this felt different. Seated on this woman’s clean, sweet scented lap, he seemed slightly removed from her, distanced by the strangeness of the situation.

  Kate saw how poor and grubby her baby really was, even in the borrowed clothes. His eyes were indeed bright, and his hair undoubtedly marked him as her own, but his skin had that dingy quality of all underfed babies, and he was much too thin. Dribbles of peppermint juice ran from the corners of his laughing mouth and when he suddenly reached up and playfully tweaked Amelia’s nose between his finger and thumb, making her giggle with delight, Kate saw the woman’s earlier resistance instantly melt away. She saw love spring into her eyes, and felt, in that moment, a deep sinking of her own heart.

  ‘Oh, he’s wonderful. What a little dear!’

  Uncaring now of the rug, Kate marched across the huge expanse of it and made to reclaim him. Callum wriggled his legs with excitement as his mother approached and reached up his arms to her. Kate would have taken him but Amelia held him fast on her lap, preventing her from removing him, stayed her with a gentle touch of her hand.

  ‘Eliot says you are willing to allow us to adopt him. Is that correct?’

  ‘It’s a mad idea. The daftest I ever heard.’

  A small frown puckered Amelia’s smooth brow. ‘I can see that it would be hard for you to part with him. When he first put the notion to me, I asked Eliot what kind of mother would give up her child, but I can see you have no wish to do so, not deep down. You love him too much to give him up, is that not so?’

  Kate dropped her hands to her side, not knowing what to do with them since the urge to snatch up Callum and run from the house was almost overwhelming. ‘I want a better future for him, tis true. I’d got no further than that,’ she said, speaking so quietly that Amelia had to lean forward slightly to hear the half whispered words.

  Amelia again smiled into the grubby face of the child. ‘And doesn’t he deserve it? He’s a delight, and healthy?’

  ‘He’s never ailed a thing, by a miracle, praise be.’

  ‘All the more credit to you as his mother that you have kept him so fit and well, particularly considering the circumstances you must have had to endure.’

  ‘Life is never easy for the likes of us, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m quite sure that it is not.’

  ‘And after me husband was drownded, I’d no choice but to manage on me own.’ Wanting to make her son’s status quite clear, yet the bitterness in Kate’s tone spoke volumes, implying the additional, unspoken thought - what would you know of dire poverty?

  But Amelia seemed unaware of it. ‘You have done a grand job, Kate.’

  Neither woman spoke for some moments after this little exchange, as they both watched the child. He was playing with Amelia’s beads now, jiggling and sucking on them, making her laugh all the more. And then Amelia suddenly gasped. ‘I’ve had a marvellous idea. There’s no reason at all why you should give him up, not entirely.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am?’

  ‘We shall adopt him, as Eliot suggests. We’ll bring him up as our very own son to be a fine gentleman, and won’t we be proud to do so,’ she said, rubbing her nose against his in just the manner Kate herself was fond of doing; a gesture which brought an ache to her heart. But then smiling up at Kate, Amelia added, ‘And you shall stay and care for him too. You shall be his nursemaid, his nanny. How would that suit? Isn’t that the perfect solution?’

  Kate stared at her, unspeaking. Was she truly being asked to give up being the mother of her own child to be his nursemaid instead? This seemed to bring a whole new twist to the judgement of Solomon. But what was the alternative? To take him back to Poor House Lane, or up to the Union Workhouse where they’d take him away from her anyway. Kate shuddered at the thought. Or he could very likely take sick and die in Poor House Lane. And she had to admit this was an unbelievable offer, a marvellous opportunity for him. Had she the right to deprive Callum of it because of her own over-sensitivity? Kate knew she could not. She loved him too much for that.

  ‘You’re background, or lack of it, will not be a problem. Maids are treated well here, so long as they are willing, good-tempered and honest.’

  ‘I’m sure they are, ma’am.’

  ‘Are you a regular church-goer, Kate? Ah, perhaps you’re a Catholic, because we would expect you to attend family prayers. Would that be a problem for you?’

  Kate stared at her, her mind in a whirl. This woman was asking her to give up her son, and yet was fussing about family prayers! ‘I’m sure it would not, ma’am, so long as I had time off to go to mass.’ Kate, who had never been much of a church-goer in her entire life, managed to give the expected answer. Her gaze, and her thoughts, were fixed on Callum. The way his bright little eyes roved about the room, seeking mischief, his hands reaching out again for the bag of peppermints on the nearby table.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like time to consider the offer,’ Amelia kindly suggested.

  Kate swallowed, cleared her throat as if about to speak but still no sound c
ame. Her eyes were still fixed upon her child, drinking in the sight of him as if she were dying of thirst and he alone could quench it. Yet what she’d seen of Eliot Tyson’s wife had impressed her. Amelia Tyson may be a woman of her class, sheltered and pampered, very moral and proper, no doubt with strict rules on etiquette and fussy about how he must hold his knife, how he must say please and thank you and learn to share and take his turn. But was that a bad thing? If Callum was to make his way in the world he’d be much better equipped if he knew all about such niceties. And she’d give him book learning, and figuring, no doubt put him up on one of them fine horses they kept in the stables. Wouldn’t it be cruelly selfish, a crying shame in fact, to deprive him of such a grand chance in life?

  And this fine lady was even offering her the chance to stay with him.

  Kate found her voice. ‘I don’t need no more time. Tis very thoughtful of you to consider my feelings, and I’d be pleased to accept.’ Not for a moment had she considered the effect of this decision upon her own life, Kate’s one thought being for the well being of her son, and of course eager to grasp at any opportunity to stay close by him.

  When Eliot Tyson returned, some twenty minutes later than he’d promised, all the details had been finalised. Kate was to occupy the nursery landing, close by his side at night, and entirely responsible for his day to day care except for the hours each afternoon and evening he would spend with Amelia. This regime would continue at least until he was old enough to have a governess. It seemed, to Kate, like a miracle. They would both have clean clothes provided, regular meals and a warm bed to sleep in. One each, in fact. It might have seemed like paradise, save for the fact that from this day forward, he would be deemed to be the son of the house, the child of Amelia and Eliot. Callum Tyson, not Callum O’Connor. That would be hard to come to terms with, but she’d do it, for his sake.

  When these arrangements were explained to Eliot, he looked momentarily taken aback. ‘Then you’ll be staying too?’ Kate detected a note of surprise, a hint of irritation in his tone. The eyes, as brown and hard as polished pebbles, were glaring at her, as if he believed the suggestion had come from her. He clearly hadn’t bargained on having the mother around, a thorn in his side, which gave Kate a surge of satisfaction as if she’d scored a small victory over him.