by Sharon Sant
‘I should have sold you anyway,’ Ernesto muttered. ‘You’re always sticking your nose into my business.’
‘So you didn’t buy her because you thought she were a witch too?’
‘I wanted someone to work, because you certainly don’t.’
‘A bairn? She’s too young to work. But just think of the money you could make off an urchin with real magic.’
Ernesto ignored the statement. ‘She was with Annie and thrown in for the price I paid for her. That’s all there is to it,’ he said irritably. Then he smoothed his expression. ‘I want you to find out what you can from the others about the disappearance,’ he said. ‘Start with young Annie. She was supposed to be taking care of her and she knows more than she’s saying.’
Polly grinned. ‘I already have.’
Four
Charlotte woke early as the thin November sun lit her room with lemony light. For a moment, she forgot the events of the previous night. It was only when she turned over that she saw, where she had tucked into her own blankets, the baby, sleeping peacefully. Charlotte rubbed her eyes and scrambled quietly out of bed, taking care not to disturb it. Without stopping to pull her bed socks back on, she hurried to her mother’s room and gently tapped on the door.
‘What is it now?’
‘Sorry to disturb you mother…’ she paused, wondering how she was going to explain that she had been out on the heath in the middle of the night in the damp and cold. She took a deep breath. ‘Mother, can I show you something?’
‘I cannot believe that you went out in that terrible storm!’ Charlotte’s mother stood in doorway of Charlotte’s room in her nightdress. Her plaited hair draped long over her shoulder, copper red threaded with gold, and although she was pale and washed out from her recent bout of illness, it was clear why she had received so many offers of marriage when Charlotte’s father had died the previous year.
‘But, mother….’
‘Whatever you heard out there, you should have left alone, or come to wake me. You never do that again – understand?’
Charlotte hung her head. ‘I’m sorry.’
Her mother sighed, reached over for Charlotte and pulled her close and tight, kissing her on the forehead. ‘I know you meant well. Let’s be friends now.’
‘How do you feel this morning?’ Charlotte asked. ‘Do you think your infection has passed?’
‘Well, I suppose as I just kissed you I must do,’ she laughed. ‘So what shall we do with this baby of yours?
Charlotte twisted herself round in her mother’s arms so she could see the bed where the baby was still sleeping. ‘I was hoping you would know.’
Charlotte’s mother approached the bed. ‘Pretty little thing,’ she said thoughtfully peering into the blankets, ‘who would abandon a baby on a night like that? And you say there was no one to be seen?’ Charlotte shook her head. ‘I wonder if this poor child’s guardian is lying somewhere injured or ill. Perhaps they were hidden from you in the dark last night. I’ll get dressed and take another look over the heath and you keep watch on the child.’
As soon as the front door closed, the baby woke. First it yawned and rubbed its eyes, gazing around in bright interest at its new surroundings. But this was for only a short while, and then it suddenly grimaced, stretched into a scowl and erupted into a deafening wail. Charlotte picked it up and started to rock it in her arms, murmuring soothing words, but it had no effect. She walked to the window and tried to distract it by showing it the scene outside the window. But still it cried. Charlotte suddenly realised that its clothes were wet.
‘You must need a nappy,’ she mumbled.
She started the search for some spare cloth. There were tea towels and cleaning cloths in the kitchen but they were harsh and rough. Spare clothes? She was quite sure that they didn’t have much in the way of spare clothing; they barely had enough dresses to see them through the week, but perhaps there was something she had outgrown lying forgotten in a cupboard.
What she found in the old chest in her mother’s room made her forget her task, just for a moment, as her eyes brimmed with tears. Inside the chest, were three carefully wrapped brown paper parcels tied with string. Charlotte slipped the knot on a parcel and opened it. Inside were some of George’s clothes, freshly washed and dried. She picked up a soft vest and held it to her face. Her mother was still clinging to her son with everything she had. She shook herself and dried her eyes. Re-wrapping the parcel, she put it to one side and dug deeper into the chest, finally finding a moth-eaten cotton shawl which she set about cutting into pieces to fit the baby. Rushing back into the bedroom she noticed with horror that the baby had somehow left the bed and was now crawling and clambering around the floor. She clearly had a lot to learn about babies.
When she had finished tying the baby’s nappy in a cumbersome knot, Charlotte picked it up for a cuddle. The baby gurgled in cute little rasps and tried to squeeze Charlotte’s nose.
Just as she was thinking about what to feed the baby, Charlotte’s mother swept in, bringing the crisp smell of cold fields blustering into the house with her. She unwound her shawl from where it was tightly wrapped around her shoulders and smoothed stray hairs that had been tugged free by the bitter wind back into her bun. She smiled and gestured to the makeshift nappy.
‘Very resourceful.’
‘How old do you think the baby is?’
‘I’d say perhaps a year, perhaps a little more? It’s hard to tell.’
‘So what can she eat?’
‘She?’
Charlotte nodded.
‘Of course, you changed her nappy. I would imagine she’s been weaned so she shouldn’t have much trouble with bread and milk.’ She looked at the baby thoughtfully. ‘I suppose we’d better think about what to do with you, little one.’
‘So you didn’t find anyone on your search?’
‘No. I didn’t. I did find the basket, though. I left it out on the porch. Run and fetch it would you?’
Charlotte handed the child to her mother and went out to get the basket. It was damp from being outside overnight and there was a ragged silver line traced along one of its rattan sides from a curious visiting slug, but otherwise perfectly intact. She dragged it over to the cavernous stone fireplace and set it to one side to dry.
‘We may need that tonight if Mr Finch is not available. I’m not sure she should be sleeping in your bed.’
‘Are we taking her to Mr Finch?’
‘We must. We cannot keep her.’
Charlotte felt her spine ripple in a cold shiver. She had only encountered Mr Finch a few times in her short life, but he had made a lasting impression. Not a good one, either.
‘We can’t take her to Mr Finch, surely?’
‘I’m sorry, Charlotte. I wish it weren’t so.’
‘Can she at least stay tonight? The sky looks as though it holds another storm.’
Charlotte’s mother glanced out of the kitchen window. The morning’s bright sunlight was rapidly fading and low, leaden clouds were billowing across the sky to press down onto the distant trees. ‘I fear you may be right. Then, she can stay tonight.’
They had tea – boiled eggs followed by fruitcake. Outside, the heath succumbed to the creeping dusk. Charlotte’s mother set about lighting the lamps and building the fire, transforming their cottage into a cosy haven of warmth. Charlotte, content and comfortable, sat on a large cushion near the fire with her arms gathered round the baby perched on her knee, and gazed down at her.
‘It’s such a shame we don’t have any dresses to put on her.’ She stroked the baby’s rough gown. ‘Don’t you have anything old of mine that you have kept?’ As soon as she had said it, Charlotte wished she hadn’t, remembering the chest full of George’s clothes that she had found earlier in the day.
‘No, dear. I don’t have anything. Besides, in the morning we shall take her to Mr Finch and he will find her a proper home.’
‘In the orphanage?’ Charlotte asked. She was hop
ing that her mother had forgotten about taking the child to Mr Finch, or would at least go off the idea.
‘I expect so.’
‘It must be an awful place.’
Her mother paused, thinking about what to say next. ‘I have a feeling it may be. But in this life, Charlotte, things are not always happy. It is God’s will and His plan that things are a certain way, and whatever He means for the child is what will happen, no matter what we do to try to change things. The baby must go to the orphanage if she is an orphan. And as we cannot find a guardian, we must assume that she is.’
Charlotte looked down again at the little girl, who had now stretched herself over Charlotte’s knee, her long lashes dropping over her dark eyes as she grew quiet and ready for sleep.
‘Mother….can’t we look after her?’ She asked falteringly, even though she knew what the answer must be.
‘Charlotte, I’m sorry, but we don’t have enough money.’
‘But…’
Her mother held up a hand. ‘This conversation is at an end.’ She rose from her chair and scooped up the sleepy infant, placing her gently into her now dry cot near to the low-burning fire. The flames made warm flickering shadows on the baby’s face as she snuggled down into her freshly dried blankets with a tiny, contented sigh. Charlotte knew her mother’s tone meant just that; the conversation was at an end, and there was no point trying to argue.
It took Charlotte a long time to find sleep. Usually, she would put out the candle, but she wanted to keep it burning this night in case the baby became frightened of the dark. She kept a vigilant watch, every now and then peering over the side of her bed into the cot, only to find the infant as peaceful as the last time she had checked. When the candle had burned down to a spitting stub, she finally blew it out and succumbed to sleep and her restless dreams. Not filled with images of George, as they usually were, but with pictures of the baby, unhappy and hungry in a cold, grey room, high walled and damp, surrounded by other babies and children, all crying, all unloved and unclaimed. God watched impassively from above and Mr Finch’s booming voice reached for her from out of the darkness: SILENCE OR THERE WILL BE NO FOOD.
Charlotte twitched and woke. Outside, the moon was high, its milky light creeping in through her small window. There was a faint sob from her mother’s room, and Charlotte knew that she had been dreaming too.
When Charlotte woke, her mother had already started to build up the low fire to make breakfast and it cracked, smoky with new fuel, the flames licking their way through the dark peat her mother had just laid onto it. She never let the fire in the small, stone flagged kitchen go out completely during the winter months as it was such a painstaking task to start it again. Charlotte came into the kitchen, yawned and dropped to the floor, holding out her hands to its friendly warmth.
‘Good morning, Charlotte.’ Her mother raised an eyebrow.
‘Sorry. Good morning.’
Charlotte’s mother looked more closely, narrowing her eyes. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
‘No.’ Charlotte answered more truthfully than she wanted to.
‘The baby kept you awake?’
‘No,’ Charlotte replied quickly. ‘I had the most terrible dreams… about the orphanage.’ She looked up at her mother hopefully.
‘I haven’t changed my mind. And in a few days, you will have forgotten all about this business.’
Charlotte’s mother was wrong; she would not forget about this for a long time.
The baby continued to sleep through breakfast. In the end, Charlotte’s mother woke her so she could be fed before the long walk to the village to see Mr Finch, who took care of the parish poor. Though, Charlotte wasn’t sure that take care was how the way would describe it. The workhouses and orphanages around the area were notoriously foreboding places, but the one Mr Finch took care of was the worst of all, or so she had heard. Charlotte was not yet an adult, but she understood how close to the workhouse she, George and her mother had come after her father had died, and every day she thanked God for the tiny cottage out on the heath that they had somehow managed to keep. Her mother took in odd jobs; sewing, crocheting, even singing lessons. Mother grew food and they had a goat and a few precious chickens (fewer by the month as they were picked off by foxes) to make the money stretch further. Charlotte knew how hard it was for her mother to do all this, especially after George had died and all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and never speak again. But she did it for Charlotte, her one remaining child.
The morning turned out to be fine. The sun, low on the horizon, skimmed the heath, its dazzling winter rays reflected off the dew-soaked bracken. It was so bright that Charlotte and her mother had difficulty seeing the road ahead. The raw wind of the night had settled into a brisk, chill breeze, whipping the smell of damp vegetation into the air. Charlotte’s mother held the baby, tightly wrapped in a blanket, against her chest. The baby burrowed into her shoulder to keep warm, quiet and subdued. Charlotte was silent, deep in thought, her eyes downcast, partly to concentrate on her footing, but in part, to hide the sadness. Every step closer they took to the village, and the imposing sandstone house of Mr Finch, the greater Charlotte’s sadness became. She still could not quite believe that her mother was going to leave the baby there.
Eventually, Charlotte looked up and blinked with surprise as the house loomed before them. She had hardly noticed that they had walked so quickly, or that the house had been rearing in front of them for some few minutes.
‘Charlotte, would you pull the bell for me?’
Charlotte stepped forward and yanked on the long cord. The bell sounded solemnly somewhere inside the house. There was a brief silence, then the door was opened by a grey haired lady with a ruddy face that reminded Charlotte of freshly kneaded dough. Charlotte curtsied shortly.
‘Mrs Harding… Miss Harding. Good morning to you both.’ The lady greeted them with a brisk courtesy and then peered at the bundle in Charlotte’s mother’s arms with a bright, inquisitive look. ‘What’s this then?’
Charlotte’s mother turned the baby’s face the lady. ‘We found this little one, abandoned, out on the heath.’
The lady clicked her tongue in disapproval. ‘How dreadful. I suppose you’ll be wanting Mr Finch then.’
Charlotte’s mother nodded. ‘We do indeed, Mrs Brown.’
The old lady moved back from the doorway. ‘Come and stand in the hallway, out of the cold. I’ll see if he has some time to see you.’
Charlotte and her mother stepped into the vast entrance hall. Charlotte had never been inside Mr Finch’s house before. On visits after her father’s death, her mother had spared Charlotte that humiliation by going alone to beg for help. It was dusty and echoing, and the high windows, though large, let in little daylight. The room they stood in smelt strongly of heavily polished wood, and there were stuffed animal heads on the walls alongside dreary paintings of ridiculously fat horses and cows. Charlotte and her mother said nothing to each other, both of them gazing around the lobby, though Charlotte knew that her mother had seen it many times before. Perhaps because of the circumstances in which her mother had seen it before, Charlotte could almost sense the shudder that rippled down her spine. Even the baby seemed dumbstruck by the solemn surroundings she now found herself in. She made no sound but buried her face in Mrs Harding’s shoulder. Mrs Brown shuffled away, her stiff skirts rustling in the dusty silence.
A few moments later, Mr Finch, tall, broad-shouldered, cruelly handsome, with a voice that could shake the dust from the old portraits hanging on the panelled walls, entered the hallway. Charlotte dipped into a curtsey. He ignored her.
‘Mrs Harding… My housekeeper tells me you have found a child.’ His gaze settled on the baby. ‘This, I take it, is the infant in question.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Charlotte’s mother answered quickly. ‘My daughter, Charlotte, found her out on the heath in that dreadful storm two nights ago. We searched for a guardian, someone perhaps injured on the road, but we found
no one.’
‘The usual case, I imagine.’
‘Usual case?’ Charlotte’s mother repeated.
‘A mother in trouble. Or perhaps it just eats too much, cries too much, sleeps too little, a drain, Mrs Harding, quite simply, a troublesome child. It’s no bother for me to take it off your hands…’
‘Oh, I do not think so…’ Charlotte began, but stopped, quickly, blushing. Mr Finch fixed her with a dark stare.
‘What do you mean by this, child?’
‘What my daughter means to say,’ Charlotte’s mother said, half in defiance and half apologetic, ‘is that we have taken care of this babe for two nights, and she has been no bother at all.’
‘Well then, Mrs Harding, answer this: if that is the case, pray, why has she been abandoned?’
Both Charlotte and her mother looked at the floor. There were all sorts of reasons why the baby could have been left, but Mr Finch was not a man that would have listened to any of them.
‘Do you want me to take the child or not?’ he demanded.
‘Yes… I mean…’
‘Well, I’ll have Mrs Brown take the infant down to the orphanage straight away.’ Without another word, Mr Finch turned and left them standing in the vast hallway.
Charlotte cast an anxious glance up at her mother, who seemed to be clinging to the baby much more tightly than she had done before, and the baby seemed to be nuzzling into her neck much more desperately than before, as if she understood her fate. Mrs Brown returned and held out her stubby arms to take her. Charlotte’s mother hesitated. It was then that Charlotte realised her mother didn’t really want to part with the child either. But they had very little money, hardly enough to feed themselves, let alone another mouth.
‘I’m sorry, Charlotte,’ she said.
Charlotte looked away, her eyes brimming with tears. Her mother held the baby out to Mrs Brown, but then stopped as the child clung onto her arm and uttered a noise, a word perhaps? And it sounded like: Mama.
Five
