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‘Oh, take no note of Grandmama, her bark is worse than her bite. I can easily bring her round my thumb and I know my father will let me have my way; he thinks as I do. You have not seen the last of me.’
‘Then I wish you good day, Mrs Meredith. I shall look forward to seeing you at the meeting on Friday.’ He clamped his hat back on his head and strode down the path to the gate.
Kate returned to her grandmother. Her father had disappeared into his study again. ‘What a strange man,’ her ladyship said.
‘Do you mean Dr Redfern? I do not find him strange.’
‘An heir to a baron, grubbing about in the dirt, playing nursemaid to a horde of filthy children is strange, Kate, believe me. But if my memory serves me, there was a scandal there somewhere in the past, a falling out between uncle and nephew. Unless it was his cousin. I cannot be sure. I shall have to make enquiries.’
‘Why, Grandmother? Whatever it was has nothing to do with us and if he chooses to spend his time helping the poor, that is commendable, not strange.’
‘Nothing to do with us! Of course it is. If he expects to be received, then his character is important. We do not want our friends, and particularly Viscount Cranford, to think we encourage the man if he is not acceptable in polite society. And is a man who spends his time among the riff-raff in the rookeries acceptable?’
‘Grandmother, that is unfair. I did not think you were like that.’
‘If it were left to me, I would not be so particular, but others might not be so tolerant. We must be careful.’
‘Lady Eleanor seems to find him acceptable.’
‘As a working colleague, perhaps—that does not mean she is prepared to meet him socially. Your father is going to the meeting with you next week, he can question Eleanor.’
‘Grandmother, I think it is reprehensible to go behind Dr Redfern’s back like that. If he finds out, I hope he will not blame me, for I find a great deal to admire in him.’
The old lady looked sideways at her, but did not comment.
The meeting at Somerset House was well attended, which was a testament to Dr Redfern’s persuasiveness and also to Lady Eleanor’s wealthy connections. The room had been arranged with seats facing a dais on which were a row of chairs and a lectern. Kate and her father found places just as half a dozen dignitaries filed on to the dais and took their seats. All except Lady Eleanor, who stood at the lectern to begin proceedings.
She was regally upright, a handsome woman, if not exactly beautiful, with glossy black hair that was carefully arranged under a bonnet that Kate decided must have cost a small fortune. Her dress was of green silk trimmed with rows of dark green velvet, over which she wore an embroidered cape. Kate wondered idly why she had not married, coming as she did from a very old and wealthy aristocratic family. She could no doubt command an enormous dowry; instead, she chose to be a spinster and spend her money on her various charities.
She introduced the trustees who sat behind her and then invited Simon to take the stand. He was impeccably attired in a black evening coat and pantaloon trousers, a waistcoat in figured brocade and a neat cravat. His fair hair had been carefully arranged. This, Kate knew, was his public persona, that underneath there was a caring, almost boyish figure who loved children and did not care how grubby they made him.
He spoke well, describing how he had met a parish nurse who was ill treating the children in her care and that, on investigation, had discovered the woman was not the only one. The practice was widespread and often resulted in the death of the children, either from physical ill treatment or simply neglect. It was a disgrace to any civilised society. He gave many instances, which appalled Kate and many of his audience, who called out, ‘Shame!’
Kate risked a glance at her father, wondering if the doctor’s words had brought back bitter memories; he appeared to be listening, but not distressed. Did he never think of his tiny son who had died in the care of a wet nurse? Kate had only seen her brother George briefly the day he had been born, but she could never forget him. Seven years old she had been, left to her own devices in the schoolroom of the rambling old rectory in Hertfordshire with instructions not to leave it until she was sent for. She had known something out of the ordinary was happening and strained her ears for any sound from the room below where she sat, supposedly doing some arithmetic her father had set her.
What she had heard curdled her blood and she longed to go down to her mother, whose cries of pain and distress filled the house. And then she heard the cry of a baby and nothing could keep her in the schoolroom. She had run helter-skelter down the stairs and skittered to a stop outside her mother’s bedroom door as their doctor came out of the room, followed by her father.
‘Papa…’
‘I told you to stay upstairs.’
‘I know, but I heard a baby.’
‘Yes, you have a little brother.’
She remembered her reaction as one of huge joy. She had been an only child for so long and had always longed to have a brother or sister. Some of the women in the village had very large families; though the children did not appear to have much in the way of clothes and toys, they made their own fun and were company for each other. When she was out with her mother, primly taking a walk in her smart clothes and dainty shoes, she had seen the children romping about and making a great deal of noise. Oh, how she had envied them!
She had once asked her mother why she did not have any brothers and sisters and had been told, ‘It is God’s will’, a statement she had learned to accept, but it did not stop her adding the wish to her prayers in the hope that He might change His mind. Then it seemed He had.
‘May I see him? Oh, let me see him, Papa, please.’
‘Let her come in.’ Her mother’s voice, though weak, was clear.
Her father stood to one side. ‘A minute, no longer.’
She had darted into the room and run to the bed where her mother lay. She had a shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms. ‘Here, Kate, here is your baby brother.’ She pulled the shawl away to reveal a tiny pink screwed-up face. ‘We are going to call him George.’
Kate had gently touched his face with her finger. He opened bright blue eyes and seemed to be looking straight at her. In that moment something happened to her. Her heart seemed to melt with love. Here was the playmate she had prayed for. ‘He is very little,’ she said, overawed.
‘He has only just come into the world, but he will grow.’
‘How did he come into the world?’
‘I will tell you one day when you are a little older and able to understand.’
But she never did. Mama died that night and the whole house went into deep mourning. It had been a terrible time. She never saw George or heard his cries again. Her grandmother had moved in to take charge of the running of the house because her father seemed incapable of doing anything, and one day she asked her what had become of the baby. ‘He has been sent to a kind lady who is looking after him until he is a little bigger,’ she had said. Kate could not understand why he had to be sent away and she was convinced her father, whose grief was terrible, had given him away because he did not want him. He did not seem to want her either. He shut himself up in his study, had his meals sent in to him and took no interest in the parish or his parishioners. Kate had mourned alone.
She had not even had her brother to console her. Whenever she saw someone with a baby, she would run up to them and look at the child, wondering if it was her sibling, until her governess or grandmother dragged her away, tight-lipped and disinclined to tell her what she wanted to know. Where was her brother?
She had been passing through the hall one morning, when she had overheard her grandmother remonstrating with her father. ‘If you cannot minister to your flock,’ she was saying, ‘then give up and do something else. Move away. There are too many unhappy memories here. Brooding will not bring them back.’
Kate, listening outside his study door, waited a long time for his answer and when it came, it shocked her to the core. ‘It was my fault. I killed her. Him too.’
She had stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop herself crying out. Why would her father do such a horrible thing? He had loved her mother, everybody did. And what did he mean, ‘Him too’? Had Grandmother lied to her when she said George had been sent to a kind lady? She had run and hidden herself in the shrubbery in the garden, half-afraid he would kill her too. It was a long time before she understood what he had meant and it was her grandmother who had enlightened her.
‘What is the matter with you, child?’ she asked her one day about a year after her mother died. By then her father had come out of his torment enough to make plans to move to London. He was trying his best to be the father he had once been, but Kate was too wary of him to respond. ‘You flinch whenever your papa comes anywhere near you.’
She had mumbled something incoherent about not wanting to go to London.
‘Why not?’
‘We will be leaving Mama behind.’
‘No, your mama’s spirit will be with us wherever we go. She is watching over you now, just as she always did. She would be ashamed of the way you have been behaving of late.’
‘Does she know Papa killed her?’
‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’
It had all spilled out, what she had overheard, her fear. And then to her consternation, her grandmother had laughed. ‘Of course he did not kill her,’ she said. ‘Your papa felt bad because your mama had died and he did not think he had done enough to save her. People often think like that when they are torn with grief, even when there is nothing they could have done. One day you will understand.’
‘And the baby?’
‘That is another matter altogether.’
‘Where is he? Why hasn’t he come home?’
‘Kate, he was a puny little thing. He did not thrive…’
‘You mean he is dead too and Papa did not do enough to save him either.’ It was an accusation delivered in an angry voice. She had been looking forward to having her brother home, thinking, in her childish way, that his presence would make everyone happy again.
‘No, I mean he was born too weak to live. You see, he was not ready to come into the world and the woman who looked after him did not have enough milk for both him and her own child.’
‘We could have given him milk, we always have plenty. There is a whole herd of cows on the farm. And you let him starve to death.’ She was furious and stamped her foot. ‘That is what Papa meant, isn’t it? Oh, how could he? How could you?’ And she had burst into tears. ‘You lied to me,’ she said between sobs. ‘You said he was with a kind lady and he wasn’t. He wasn’t at all.’
Her grandmother had grabbed her and pinned her arms to her sides because they were flailing about. ‘Don’t take on so, child. I see I shall have to try to make you understand or you will brood over it for years.’ And so Grandmama had taken her on to her lap and, after taking a deep breath, tried to explain about pregnancy and premature births and the need for human milk to make a baby grow strong.
Kate’s seven-year-old brain could not take it all in and it had not made her feel any less bitter at the loss of her mother, nor convince her that if her brother had not been sent away, he would have been well and happy and a playmate for her at the rectory where she was often lonely. She did not want to believe he was dead. Dead of neglect, that was the worst part of it.
As time went by and she grew up, she had begun to understand, to accept that both her mother and brother had gone and that her father was not the ogre she imagined him to be, but an unhappy man who had loved his wife, a little too well, for he had been told she should not have more children. That was why he felt so guilty.
She dragged herself back to the lecture, which was coming to a close.
‘Children are the future of our country,’ the doctor was saying. ‘If they are badly treated, they will grow up knowing nothing else but cruelty and indifference and will pass that on to future generations in the way they treat their own offspring. All children should be adequately fed, clothed and educated, even the poorest…’
There was a slight murmur of disagreement at the mention of education, but he ignored it. ‘We call ourselves civilized, yet we allow cruelty to our children that we would not condone if they were dogs. Foster parents should be licensed and controlled and their premises and the children they care for regularly inspected, but until that happy state is realised, we must do what we can privately. The Foundling Hospital is doing excellent work and there are orphanages who do their best for their inmates, while others are less to be commended. But what of those children who are not orphans, those who have at least one parent without the means and often without the will to look after them?
‘The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children has been set up to remedy some of these ills. We find respectable and responsible foster homes for the children, until they are able to be returned to their own families, or, when they are old enough, found suitable occupations. We have many influential subscribers, but the list of children needing help in the metropolis alone is growing at an alarming rate, especially since the war, and we need your donations, however small. We also need foster parents to take a child into their homes on a temporary basis. Some of the women who apply are only doing it for the money and have been known to neglect and sometimes ill treat the children. We investigate everyone very carefully before we put them on our books and we pay them enough so there is no excuse to neglect the children.’
He sat down amid restrained applause. Kate turned to look at her father. He was very pale and his hands were trembling. Perhaps she should not have asked him to accompany her; some wounds never heal.
Lady Eleanor rose to introduce the treasurer, who outlined the finances of the society and told his audience what was needed to keep a child in a foster home and visit regularly and how much it cost to keep a child in the Hartingdon Home. The meeting was wound up by the Chairman of the Trustees, who said that their members would be on hand to answer any questions his listeners might have.
Although neither Kate nor her father joined in the debate, the question-and-answer session revealed the disparate views of the audience, some decrying what the society was trying to achieve, others praising it, while still more wanted more information about how the finances were managed. When there were no more questions, the evening was brought to an end and Kate and her father found their way to the front where Simon and Lady Eleanor were in conversation.
Simon’s eyes lit up at the sight of Kate. He bowed. ‘Mrs Meredith, your obedient. Reverend, how do you do?’
Lady Eleanor turned to them. ‘Cousin Thomas, I did not know you were acquainted with Dr Redfern.’
‘We met earlier in the week and he prevailed upon us to attend this evening.’
‘How do you think it went?’
‘You have given us all a great deal to think about.’
Simon smiled. ‘That is all we can ask—that people think about it and do what they can, however little.’
‘I should like to do more,’ Kate said. ‘Even if it is only helping at the Home or raising funds with soirées and concerts. I am sure there are musicians and singers willing to give their services free for such a worthy cause.’
‘We do that already,’ Eleanor said. ‘There is to be a subscription ball at Hartingdon House next Thursday. Would you like tickets?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I will have them sent to you,’ Simon said, mentally deciding to deliver them in person.
‘How is little Joe?’ Kate asked him as Lady Eleanor left them to speak to one of the other trustees.
‘He is well, but I think he misses his mother, for all that she was glad enough to hand him over to me. He would perhaps be happier in a foster home, but we are very short of those because, as you heard, we are very particular about those we employ.’
‘I am glad to hear that,’ Kate said.
The room was emptying; her ladyship and the other trustees had gone. They bade each other goodnight and went their separate ways.
‘Kate, I do not see how you can become involved,’ her father said as they settled in the family carriage to be driven home. ‘The Viscount will be back in England shortly…’
‘So? If he comes before the ball at Lady Eleanor’s, he can come too. His presence can do nothing but good.’
‘Kate, beware you are not assuming too much. You cannot dictate to Viscount Cranford what he should do.’
‘I would not dream of dictating, but I do not see why he should not listen to my views and support me in something I feel strongly about.’
‘It will not help, you know,’ he said quietly. ‘Regulating foster homes will not undo the past.’
‘No, but it might stop other families grieving as we did.’
‘You blame me, don’t you?’ It was the first time he had ever talked to her about it. ‘You think I did not make sure the wet nurse was clean and healthy. If I had had my wits about me at the time, I would have, then…’ He paused, swallowed and went on, ‘George might have lived.’
‘Papa, stop it. Stop torturing yourself. No one was to blame. I wish now I had not asked you to accompany me tonight. It has been too much for you.’
‘No, it has made me see that something must be done and I shall support Dr Redfern wholeheartedly. I think I will write a tract about it.’
‘Yes, you do that,’ she said, reaching out to cover his hand with her own. He could write tracts or whatever made him feel better; she would offer to help at the Home.
Chapter Three
Next day, Simon, busy in the office of the Hartingdon, going over the case notes of some of the inmates, looked up when the door opened and Kate was ushered in by one of the children who had answered the front door bell. He scrambled to his feet. ‘Mrs Meredith, what are you doing here?’
‘I have come to see how I can be of help,’ she said. She was a picture in her striped gingham dress, with her glossy brown hair peeping out of a very fetching bonnet with silk flowers along its rim and a wide ribbon tied in a bow to one side of her determined little chin.
‘But how did you get here? This is hardly an area for a lady to venture alone.’
‘I assume Lady Eleanor visits, so why not me?’
‘Her ladyship arrives in her own coach and is always accompanied by her companion and a male servant.’
‘None of which I have.’ She said it pleasantly without a hint of envy. ‘I came in a cab. The driver was not anxious to wait, so I let him go. Now tell me, how can I be of use?’
‘Mrs Meredith, you remember I did advise you to think carefully before committing yourself. The children who are housed here are not like the children you were amusing in the park, you know. They are rough and ready and sometimes their language is appalling. Others are withdrawn and uncommunicative.’
She smiled. ‘I am well aware of that, Dr Redfern. There are poor children everywhere. I have always tried to do what I can for them.’
His immediate need was for someone to cook and clean but, mindful of her rank, he could not ask that of her. ‘Do you think you could teach some of the younger ones their letters?’ he asked. ‘Their minds must be fed as well as their bodies.’
‘Of course. I shall be delighted. May I start at once?’
‘I am afraid there is no remuneration apart from expenses.’
‘I do not want wages or expenses; my husband left me adequately provided for and my needs are few. Just being with the children will be payment enough.’
