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‘But that is half the trouble. If it comes to a choice between feeding their own or feeding the foster child, there is no question who will come first, is there?’ She spoke with such feeling, he looked sharply at her and wondered what had brought it about. ‘Did you know that less than half the children sent out like that survive?’
‘Yes, I did,’ he said quietly. ‘I deplore the practice of sending little children away from home to be fostered, just as much as you do, Mrs Meredith. The gentry do it in order not to have a troublesome baby on their hands, but they are usually careful to choose a woman who is known to them and whom they can trust. At the other end of the scale there are poverty-stricken mothers, with no husbands, or husbands that cannot be brought to book, who cannot cope with unwanted children and farm them out for a few pence a week. That is where the trouble lies.’
It was coming upon one such foster mother quite by accident that had set Simon on the course he had taken. The war against Napoleon had ended and he had been making his way to Grove Hall, his uncle’s estate, simply because it was the only home he had known; until he set up an establishment of his own, there was nowhere else to go.
He had stopped for refreshment at a wayside inn and was sitting outside in the evening sunshine enjoying a quart of ale while his horse was fed, watered and rested, when he saw three small children being driven along the road by what he could only describe as a hag. The children were in rags and the woman was filthy. She had them tied to each other by a rope, and was hauling them along like cattle. She stopped in the inn yard, tied the children to a rail normally used for tethering horses and went inside.
She was there a long time, while the children, unable to move about, sank to the ground and waited. They were so thin as to be skeletal, eyes sunk deep in their sockets and their arms bruised by fingermarks. They were so listless they did not even try to fight against their bonds. He walked over to them, squatted down and tried to talk to them, but they looked blankly at him. It was more than he could stomach. He went into the parlour where the woman was sitting with a pot of ale and a meat pie in front of her. ‘Madam, are you not going to share your pie with your children?’ he had asked mildly.
He was answered with invective and a desire that he should mind his own business. ‘If you thinks I’mpaid well eno’ to indulge them with meat pie, you thinks wrong,’ she told him. ‘They’ll get their gruel when I get ’em’ome.’
He had begun arguing with her, telling her she was a disgrace to womanhood and more besides. He had been so angry he did not notice the rest of the inn’s clientele had turned on him until one of them spoke. ‘You leave us alone, mister. If it weren’t for coves like you, taking your pleasures wherever you fancy, there’d be no need for parish nurses. The brats have been abandoned by their mothers and, if Mother Cody ha’n’t taken ’em in, they’d be dead in a ditch long afore now.’
‘That is no reason to treat them like animals.’ He had refused to be intimidated, although the dreadful woman was threatening him with the knife she had been using to cut up her pie. Had she been a man, he would have had no compunction about disarming her and knocking her to the ground, but he could not do that, repulsive as she was, and he could not beat a room full of men, especially as no law had been broken. Instead he had given her half a guinea, told her to spend it on food for the children, and left, musing about those poor mites. How many more were there like those three? And should women like that not be regulated and their homes inspected periodically?
If he had not been so disappointed by his reception when he arrived at Grove Hall, he might have put the matter from his mind. His aunt, who was never as hard and unbending as his uncle, was pleased to see him, but the presence of Isobel, at one time betrothed to him, but since married to his cousin, stirred up all his old anger and he knew, much as he loved the place, he could not stay there. He needed an outlet for his restless energy, something to make him feel he was doing some good and it was then he remembered those children. It was not enough to say something should be done, he must do it himself, and thus was born The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children, intended, in some small way, to address the problem, not only of the children, but also his own restless spirit. The first children he had rescued were the three he had seen at the inn, though Mrs Cody demanded an exorbitant sum by way of compensation for the loss of her livelihood.
‘Then I am surprised you condone it.’ Kate’s voice brought him out of his reverie.
‘We are very careful where we send the children in our care,’ he said stiffly. ‘The women are questioned closely and their homes inspected.’
‘So they may be,’ she said. ‘And no doubt the women put on a good show when they are being interviewed. What happens when you turn your back on them?’
‘You are very scathing,’ he said. ‘You ought not to brand them all with the same iron. Some do their best.’
‘I am sorry. I am a little too outspoken sometimes.’
‘Do not be sorry. It is good to speak one’s mind occasionally.’
She laughed. ‘I do it a little too often, I think. But the question does not arise here because you cannot take this child anywhere if his parents are looking for him.’
‘I shall do my best to reunite them. The Home is full to overflowing as it is; finding more room will be difficult.’
The area around Covent Garden was extremely busy, with stall holders, costermongers, porters and farmers with loaded carts all rushing about as if they did not have a minute to lose, and he wondered why he was persevering. He could just as easily have taken the boy straight to the Hartingdon Home and squeezed him in somewhere, but, like Mrs Meredith, he imagined the boy’s mother frantically searching for him. On the other hand, she might not be searching; she might have abandoned him as many another mother had done who could not cope. In which case, the Home it would have to be.
They went from stall to stall, spoke to several of the little urchins who congregated there because there was a chance that they might either be given or filch some food from the stall holders, but no one recognised Joe. ‘Now what?’ Kate asked. She had been right about the needle in a haystack. London was a very big haystack and perhaps they were looking in the wrong area after all.
‘Let us try over there.’ He pointed to the steps of a church, surprised that she was still with him. He had expected her to have given up and gone home long before now. He wondered what she would have done about the little urchin if he had not been there. She was evidently very fond of children and not afraid of a little dirt.
Young Joe gave a sudden cry of recognition and wriggled to be put down. Simon set him down and he ran to a woman sitting on the tail of a cart, nursing a mewling infant, surrounded by squashed fruit, cabbage leaves and horse droppings. She looked up from contemplating the baby’s head to address the boy. ‘Where ‘ave yer bin, you little devil?’ she said, clipping him round the ear with the flat of her hand. ‘I’ll tan your hide, that I will. I told you not to run off, didn’t I?’
Kate was surprised how young she was. Her hard life made her look older than she was, but she could not have been more than twenty. She must have conceived Joe when she was about sixteen and was probably at that time a pretty little thing, probably could be again if her circumstances were different.
The woman stopped berating the boy to look up at Simon and Kate, her eyes widening at what appeared to be a couple of gentry. ‘Did you fetch him back?’
‘Yes, he had wandered quite a long way from here,’ Simon said.
‘Then I am beholden to you.’ She paused. ‘I reckon I’ve seen you around ‘ere afore.’
‘You may have,’ he said. ‘I am Dr Redfern.’
‘I’ve ‘eard of you. I ‘eard tell you take children and give them a good ’ome, clothes and food and learnin’.’
‘Yes, but only under certain circumstances and if their parents agree.’
‘Oh, is that why you brought ’im back, so’s you could take him?’
‘No, I thought you might be worried about him.’
‘So I was, but I can’t keep an eye on ’im and do me work at the same time. I have to mind the stall. And there’s the babby to look after too.’
‘Do you want me to take him?’
‘Be better than runnin’ wild about ’ere.’
‘Will your husband agree to that?’ Kate asked, horrified that she could even think of parting with her child.
‘You c’n ask ’im if you can find ’im,’ she said flatly. ‘I ain’t seen ’ide nor ’air of ’im these last six months. I’m at my wits’ end.’
It was just the sort of family the Society had been set up to help and Simon, having discovered her name was Janet Barber, asked to be shown where they lived.
Mrs Barber led them from the market into the area known as Seven Dials, a notorious slum where seven of the meanest roads in the city converged. Here she took them down Monmouth Street, lined with second-hand clothing shops, pawnbrokers and cheap food shops, and into an alley, where she stopped outside a tenement whose front steps were black with grime and whose door hung drunkenly on one hinge. ‘There,’ she said, pointing.
Kate, who fully expected the doctor to turn away in disgust, was surprised when he indicated the woman should lead on. They had attracted quite a gathering, but none seemed hostile and she supposed it was because the doctor was well known and respected. They simply stood and stared.
Kate, worrying about the little boy, was even more concerned when she saw the filthy room, which was hardly fit for animals, let alone human beings. There was a bed of sorts, heaped with rags, a table and a couple of chairs, a few pots and pans on a shelf and that was all. Everywhere was covered in a thick layer of grime and the smell was nauseating.
‘You goin’ to take ’im, then?’ Mrs Barber asked, as Kate stood on the threshold, reluctant to venture inside.
‘If you are sure, I will take him until you can get on your feet again. If your circumstances improve, then Joe can come home again.’
She laughed. ‘Pigs might fly.’
He gave her half a crown, which she gleefully accepted, then told the boy to say goodbye to his mother and hoisted him once more on his shoulders. It was not a satisfactory state of affairs and he wished he could do more. He wished with all his heart that such poverty did not exist and that all children were as plump and happy as those Mrs Meredith had been playing with earlier in the day.
‘I hate separating families,’ he told her as they set off for the Hartingdon Home. ‘And would not do so, if any other way could be found.’
‘Could they not be helped with a little money, so they could stay together?’
‘That might be possible, but a decision like that is not mine alone. The Committee have to consider all aspects. If the father is a wastrel or a drunkard, then it would be throwing good money after bad. If there is some hope, then we will do what we can and the boy can return to his parents. That is where we differ from the Foundling Hospital. Once children are taken in there, their names are changed and they rarely see their mothers again. We do our best to restore them to their families.’
The Hartingdon Home was situated in a converted building in Maiden Lane. It was a busy area, being so close to Covent Garden market, but it was certainly a step above Seven Dials. Joe was handed over to the housekeeper who gave him a slice of bread and jam and a glass of milk, which he downed with relish.
Simon waited until he was settled, then took Kate to the office where he invited her to be seated while he completed the necessary paperwork for Joe’s admission. ‘Keeping accurate records is an important part of the work,’ he explained. ‘If it is not done immediately, it might be forgotten. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all.’ She took a chair on the opposite side of the desk. ‘I am very interested in your work.’
‘We have to record their names and addresses, the names of their parents and occupations and exactly what action we took and why,’ he said, wondering how genuine her interest was. She did not look like the usual wealthy matron who visited and inspected everything before donating. She was young for a start, and though she looked delightful in her simple gown, she was not dressed to impress. ‘And when they leave, we write down the circumstances and where we have sent them. In another book we have the details of all the foster mothers we use and how much they are paid. And, of course, there are accounts to be kept up to date.’
‘Are you here every day?’ she asked him.
‘I come most days, but I also visit the foster homes and report on those.’
Kate had lost most of her nervousness and all of her distrust and sat down to watch him at work. His hair, as he bent over the desk, was fair and very thick. One strand fell over his face as he wrote. He had a straight nose and a firm mouth. She noticed his hands, one spread across the ledger, the other holding a pen, strong, capable hands with long fingers and nails neatly manicured. She could easily imagine him comforting the sick and all his female patients falling head over heels in love with him.
He put down his pen and carefully dusted the wet ink before looking up at her and catching her watching him with a slight tilt to the corners of her mouth as if she had found something amusing in what he was doing. He wanted to ask what it was, but decided he did not know her well enough. ‘Now that is done, would you like me to show you round?’
‘Oh, yes, please, and then I must go home. Everyone will be wondering what has become of me.’
He took her all over the house, showing her the dining room, the dormitories, the schoolroom, the infirmary where he treated the sick and the nursery where the tiny infants were looked after by nursemaids. Some were sleeping, some bawling lustily, others, almost too weak to cry, were whimpering. It touched Kate’s soft heart to see them. ‘Are they all abandoned?’ she asked.
‘Most of them. Some are brought in anonymously, others are simply left on the doorstep. Sometimes there is a note attached, telling us the child’s name and why they have been left, sometimes a small memento that has some meaning for the parent. Those little items, most often quite valueless, are often the only means we have of identifying the child and they are carefully preserved in case the mother wants to reclaim her offspring. It is the most heartbreaking side to our work.’
‘How sad.’ She felt the tears pricking her eyes. ‘It must be a terrible decision for any mother to be forced to make.’
‘Yes.’ He led the way back down the stairs to the kitchen and introduced her to some of the other helpers, and even showed her the patch of grass they called a garden and where the smaller children played. ‘The older children are all given their allotted tasks about the place,’ he told her. ‘So we do not have a large staff.’
The children themselves were a mixed bunch. Some were noisy and laughing, others subdued and withdrawn, but all were neatly dressed and well fed. ‘It is the quiet ones I worry about,’ he said. ‘They are the ones who will benefit most from going into a foster home and having a little extra attention.’ He indicated a little girl sitting on the floor in the corner of the classroom intent on playing with a rag doll. ‘This is Annie Smith,’ he said. ‘She is nine years old. I was called to her mother when she fell ill. She could not be nursed at home, so I recommended hospital. Annie’s father cannot look after her because he has to go to work as a docker and there are no other relatives, so she has come here, but as soon as her mother is well again, she will go home. The family is poor, but she was never neglected. She is bewildered by the other children and has found it difficult to settle.’
Kate went over to the child and squatted beside her. ‘Hallo, Annie,’ she said. ‘I am Kate. What do you call your doll?’
‘Dolly.’
‘Of course, how silly of me not to know that.’
The child smiled at that, a wan little smile that told Kate she was missing her parents. She talked to her for several minutes, while Simon looked on. So her name was Kate. She was special, was Mrs Kate Meredith, a born mother, able to relate to children in a way that made them feel comfortable. She made him feel comfortable too. He wondered at that; it was a long time since he had felt at ease in the presence of a woman. He did not know a thing about her, except that she was married and had a taste for novels, judging by the books she carried looped to her wrist by the string.
‘Poor little things,’ she said, as they returned to the front hall. ‘I wish I could do something to help.’
‘We are always short of money…’
‘Oh, I did not mean money, I am afraid I cannot manage more than a small donation. I meant help on a practical level.’
He looked sideways at her. Was that what he had been hoping she would say? She had such a sunny, compassionate nature, she would be an asset to the Society if she became involved. ‘We are always glad of help in whatever form: a few hours at the Home, help with the paperwork, raising funds, fostering. But none of it is easy and it takes up time, so you need to think carefully before committing yourself.’
‘I understand that, and I will think carefully, I promise.’
‘Good. Now, if you have seen all you wish to see, I will escort you home.’
‘Oh, do not trouble yourself,’ she said. ‘I can walk.’
‘Not to be thought of,’ he said. He had no idea what sort of home she came from, but she was well dressed and well spoken and should not be left to find her own way through the poorer streets of the city, not after sticking to him like a leech all afternoon. He realised, with a jolt, that he had enjoyed every minute of it. ‘I have my gig nearby. It is no trouble at all.’ He picked up a bell from the table and gave it a sharp shake. It was answered by an urchin of perhaps twelve years old, whom he sent to the stables to have the vehicle brought to the door.
‘But you have no idea where I live, have you?’ she said with a smile. ‘It might be miles away.’
‘All the more reason to see you safely home.’ He paused. ‘Is it miles away?’
She laughed. ‘No. Holles Street.’
He was surprised. Holles Street, though not the most affluent address in the capital, was not far below it, and if he had known that was where she came from, he would never have allowed her to accompany him into the slums, nor taken her to the Home. How shocked she must have been! But she had shown no sign of shock. She had held Joe in her arms for all his filth and had squatted down beside Annie and talked to her without a hint of distaste. Perhaps he had been right in his first assessment of her and she was a nursemaid or governess to a wealthy family. It would account for the address. But if that was so, what had happened to her husband? ‘Not so far, then,’ he said. ‘But it makes no difference, I would be less than a gentleman if I allowed you to walk.’
The boy came back to say the gig was outside the door and Simon conducted her out to it and settled her in her seat before jumping up and taking the reins from the ostler who had brought it round for him.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘shall we go to the library first?’
‘Library?’
‘Was that not where you were going when we met?’
She laughed, holding up her hand with the books dangling from her wrist. ‘I had quite forgotten these. It seems an age ago. No, I think it is a little late and I had better go straight home. My father and grandmother will be wondering where I have got to.’
‘You live with them?’
‘Yes. My father is the Reverend Thomas Morland. I have been living with him since I was widowed four years ago.’
Once again she had surprised him. Not only that she was not a servant, but she did not look old enough to have been married that long ago. She was beginning to confuse him. ‘My condolences, ma’am.’
‘Thank you. We had only been married six months when my husband went away to war and I never saw him again.’ She did not know why she was explaining that to him. It was really nothing to do with him, though he would have to know all about her if she was going to help at the Home, which was an idea that had been growing in her head ever since he had shown her round the place.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘That must have been hard for you.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘I assumed you were the children’s governess.’
‘Children?’
‘Those you were playing with in the park. Very happy you all looked too.’
‘They are my cousin’s children. Jamie is ten, Charlotte, eight, Henry, six, and little Rosemary is four. I love to take them out when their governess has a day off. They are such a delight to be with.’
‘You have no children of your own?’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘One day, perhaps.’
‘Perhaps.’ She did not want to go into that on so slight an acquaintance. ‘I thought at first that you were a schoolmaster.’
‘Did you? Why?’
‘Because of the competent way you handled little Joe and the strict tone of your voice when you spoke to him.’
‘One has to be firm with children.’
‘Naturally, but not hard or cruel. Their young minds can be so easily bruised.’
‘Oh, indeed. We are at one on that.’
