The Foundling Page 6

  CHAPTER 5

  I lingered in front of the gates for five minutes before announcing myself at the porter’s lodge, knowing he had probably seen me wandering back and forth, rehearsing what to say. I’d worn my best dress – of the three I had – a cream cotton frock printed with flowers that Keziah had set aside for me a few years ago. She’d said the dark red of the flowers set off my hair, and brought out the colour in my cheeks. I’d also cleaned my bonnet, borrowing some starch from Nancy downstairs in exchange for a needle and thread. At half past three I’d locked my shrimp hat in the storehouse and hurried home ahead of Abe to change before walking quickly across town to the Foundling. It was as cold and dark as the November night I’d first come, and I felt as I had then: determined, and just as frightened.

  The porter admitted me and I walked alone up the drive. The lawns either side were black and empty – the children would most likely be eating, or else in their beds. In Black and White Court the children went to sleep when their parents did, but here I imagined they were washed and brushed after supper, lined up like dolls in the candlelight. I mounted the three steps and went in, closing the door behind me. The stone corridor was quiet, and I wondered if I ought to have shut it with force to announce myself. I tidied my hair and waited, but no one came. A minute, two minutes, three passed, each second measured by two beats of my heart. I walked towards the staircase and stood at the foot of it. Hanging on the first landing was a vast portrait of a man. He had large eyes, and was wearing a cap and sable-coloured coat. There was a prominent scar on his forehead, and a little dog sat to his left. I examined his face and found it to be alert, and so lifelike I should not have been surprised had he reached through the frame to unhinge it from the wall and let himself out.

  A voice startled me. ‘Can I help you?’

  The speaker was a woman coming down the stairs, large and pig-like in a frilly apron and cap. Her face was pink with disapproval. I looked down and realised I’d trodden on the immaculate claret-coloured carpet, leaving very faint marks. ‘We take no infants in from the street, you must apply the proper way and we’re full to capacity at present,’ she said, without taking a step further.

  ‘I don’t have an infant. I mean, I do, but she’s not here.’ The woman waited, her dark eyes little shards of coal, and I felt my cheeks go hot. ‘Can I speak to a governor?’

  ‘A governor?’ A cackle escaped. ‘I needn’t think they oughter be troubled by you.’

  ‘Who can I speak to then?’

  ‘You’re speaking to me, ain’t you?’

  I felt my temper rise. I looked down at my shabby boots, and my shawl that needed darning. My best dress was no disguise here.

  ‘Six years ago,’ I said, matching her tone, ‘I left my daughter here to be cared for, and the next day she was collected by someone who claimed to be me.’

  The woman was very still, and a frown drew her beady features together. Her eyes hardened even more.

  ‘I don’t know who it was, or why they did it, but . . . I’m her mother. I want to find out what happened, and speak to someone who might remember what she – the woman who said she was me, that is – looked like.’

  There was a pause, and I heard a door close somewhere. Then a horrible noise; I realised the woman on the stairs was laughing. It was too loud and brash in this quiet, carpeted place, too much like what I’d come from, and not where I was. I wanted to stride up the stairs and slap her bacon face.

  ‘We’ve a mad one here!’ she cackled into the empty hall. ‘A live one! Have you escaped from the Bethlem?’

  Before I could speak, a voice came from behind me. ‘What is this?’ A young man was leaning out of a doorway near the clock. He was small and slim, a few years older than me, with straw-coloured hair. He was hatless, wearing only his shirtsleeves – we had clearly disturbed him at work. In the slice of the room behind him I could see the glimpse of a desk and papers and the soft, inviting glow of an oil lamp. He was staring at me.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘Is Marjery assisting you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I?’

  I stood in dumb silence. They were two simple words, but I was not used to hearing them. ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  He glanced briefly at Marjery, and turned to me again. ‘Would you like to come into my office?’

  Leaving the unhelpful woman trembling like a vexed jelly, I followed him into his little room, and he closed the door. It was not unlike the other rooms I’d sat in here – warm and bright and purposeful. The ceiling was high, but the walls close and comfortable, and a marble fireplace framed a cheerful little fire. Pictures hung on the rail, of seascapes and farmland, and a carpet stretched to all four corners. I could hardly believe such fine rooms were made to work in; I would have happily lived there.

  The man went behind his desk and sat down. ‘I am Doctor Mead,’ he said. ‘I work here at the hospital as a physician for the children. My grandfather is one of the founding governors.’

  I had never met a doctor before, but thought it would be an ignorant thing to say. ‘I am Bess,’ I said.

  ‘Are you a mother of one of the children here?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Well, you aren’t with child, and you don’t work here, and it is a Tuesday evening, and nobody has taken your coat, so . . . an educated guess.’

  I smiled. ‘I was last here on Sunday, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Let me get you a drink, and you may sit down and tell me who you are here to collect. Do you have your child’s number?’

  ‘I know it,’ I said, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I realised how thirsty I was. ‘But the thing is, sir, she’s already been claimed.’

  Doctor Mead blinked, and I tried to put my words together. ‘I brought her here six years ago, when she was a day old, and the next day she was taken by someone pretending to be me. I know it sounds false, like I’m lying. And I ain’t mad,’ I added firmly, realising too late that saying this was in itself a sign of madness. ‘I want to find out where she might have gone.’

  The doctor’s eyes were blue, which looked cold in some people but not him. He narrowed them like Marjery had, but not in mistrust. It was as though he was trying to see me properly.

  ‘Will brandy do?’

  Before I could reply, he went to a low cupboard beside the fireplace and brought out a decanter and two glasses. Setting them on his desk, he poured an inch of golden- brown liquid into both and handed one to me. I sniffed; it was rich and spicy and powerful. It was a man’s drink, but not for men I knew – it was for doctors and lawyers and captains. It was for men like Daniel. I looked at it for a moment, as though I might find a clue there. Then I swallowed it down, and felt it scorch my throat and warm my empty stomach. My eyes stung, and I blinked.

  ‘I presume you have already told someone here what you have told me?’ Dr Mead said.

  I nodded. ‘Mr Simmons, sir. I was told I was mistaken.’

  ‘And he sent you on your way?’

  I nodded.

  There was a thoughtful silence. Then Dr Mead said: ‘The child’s father? Might he—?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘You know that for certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You weren’t married?’ There was no judgement in his face.

  ‘No. He died before she was born.’

  ‘Do you have family? Could a relative have taken her in?’

  ‘There’s only my dad and brother – my mum’s dead – and it weren’t neither of them.’

  ‘Grandparents?’

  I shrugged. ‘All dead.’

  Dr Mead ran a hand through his hair and propped an elbow on the table. His hands were small, like a woman’s. He was calmly expressive: I could see him thinking in a neat, contained sort of way, and lighting on a suggestion or an idea, then dismissing it. ‘Do you have any . . . how do I put this? Anyone who might wish to
seek revenge? Any enemies, let’s say.’

  I stared at him. The drink had done something funny to me – where I’d been warm, I now felt cold all over. I set the glass down on the desk. ‘Enemies?’ The word felt strange in my mouth; I don’t think I’d said it aloud before. I’d had no reason to. ‘Like who?’

  He exhaled loudly. ‘A feud with a neighbour or . . . I don’t know . . . an old friend.’

  Nosy Nancy Benson appeared in my mind’s eye, and I almost laughed. ‘No one who’d do something so wicked, I’m sure. I’ve never offended no one, or at least I never meant to.’

  ‘Could it be extortion? You aren’t . . . wealthy, or expecting an inheritance?’

  Now I did laugh. ‘No,’ I said, and then I said it again, more kindly because his cheeks had gone pink. I flushed in turn: not once had he laughed at me, or not taken me seriously. ‘I’m not. In fact, I saved two pounds, thinking that would be enough to get her back. It wasn’t. Not that it matters now. So perhaps I am for the moment. Well, more wealthy than I’ve ever been, and likely ever will be in my life.’ I drained the drops from the brandy glass for something to do.

  ‘I suppose there is only one question remaining: you’re certain it’s the same child?’

  ‘I can’t read, but yes. Child 627. They changed her name, but it was Clara. Same token as well. And, like I said, the person who collected her knew all about me. I can’t understand that part. That means it weren’t a mistake.’

  Dr Mead nodded. ‘I will see what I can find out. Do you have the time to wait, if I fetch her papers now?’

  I almost smiled again, and nodded. He left, checking the date, and I sat by myself in the comfortable little room. I was curious to realise I felt calm, where half an hour before, pacing outside the gates, I had felt so full of dread I was almost crippled with it. Within minutes Doctor Mead returned with the little bundle of papers I had seen a few nights ago, wrapped in the blue ribbon. He untied it with gentle fingers, scratched his head and examined the contents with a frown. I watched him carefully, and when he’d finished he put it down before him and clasped his hands.

  ‘When a child is returned to its family, a memorandum is made and signed by both parties – the mother, usually, and the secretary. The secretary present at your daughter’s collection on the twenty-eighth day of November was Mr Biddicombe.’ He sighed, and his shoulders sagged. ‘He passed away just last year.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said in a small voice.

  ‘Oh, indeed. We might have been able to ask him if he remembered anything about Elizabeth Bright, of Black and White Court, Ludgate Hill. That is your full name, and address?’

  I nodded, and he drew his lips into his mouth. My crystal glass was empty now, and I wondered if he would pour more. I wondered how much I’d get for the glass if I pocketed it without him noticing.

  ‘Well,’ he said after a silence, ‘I dare say this has never happened before. My grandfather would have told me.’

  ‘Who is your grandfather?’

  ‘He is Doctor Mead, too. He was the chief physician when the hospital opened; he’s retired now, but still involved. He would be astonished at what you have told me.’

  ‘He wouldn’t believe me.’

  ‘I am certain he would. But I’d like to find out as much as I can first before I go to him. And, of course, we need to make certain this never happens again – new measures may have to be introduced. Aside from the person fraudulently claiming to be you, what’s to say more children couldn’t be claimed in this way? Or indeed have been. But there’s the token . . .’ He was thinking aloud, his eyes moving rapidly. ‘The person must have correctly named your token. What was it?’

  ‘It was one side of a heart, made of whalebone.’

  ‘Whalebone. How unusual. Most women leave tears of fabric from their dresses. Extraordinary.’ He threw the rest of his liquor down his throat in a gallant way, not greedily like Ned, and put the glass down with a determined smack. ‘Tell me, are you able to come back on Sunday? The governors will be here for the church service, and we can appeal to them when they are all in one place. They will be very interested to hear your story, no doubt. In the meantime, I will look into this.’ He fixed me with a blue, clear gaze, and there was a beat of silence, during which I held my breath. ‘My sincere apologies.’

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. Words failed me. After a pause, I said: ‘It ain’t your fault.’

  ‘Sunday,’ he said. ‘I will meet you outside the chapel at half past nine, and you will be my guest.’

  My belly was warm with liquor, and something else that I had felt only days before, and had thought lost altogether. My belly was warm with hope.

  Ned was sitting in Abe’s chair when I arrived home, his legs spread wide. One hand dangled over the arm, the other rested on his belly, as though he’d eaten too much. But that was not it: he had been pale and thin for a while now, and complaining of pain in his stomach. He only visited to ask for money. Occasionally I gave it to him. At some point he had stopped promising to pay it back. He never brought his wife Catherine with him, never brought their children, never brought a hot pie or a custard tart to share with us. He didn’t invite us to his house, or save room for us on a church pew next to his young family. His children were the only reason I gave him money, if I had it to spare.

  I looked more closely at him now. His jaw was tight, his face flushed.

  ‘Come to wish us a Merry Christmas, have you?’

  ‘That was last year.’

  ‘I know. We haven’t seen you.’

  ‘I been away.’

  ‘Catherine’s thrown him out,’ said Abe, from the other side of the room, where he was sitting on his cot, removing his boots.

  ‘She ain’t. I left.’

  ‘Left her for Madam Geneva, have you? Your cruel mistress?’

  He said nothing, and I looked between him and Abe; they both had the glum appearance of men who’d lost badly at a card game. There was no fire built, and I glanced around at the muddy footprints, the dirty bowls and laundry strewn around the room that took twice as long to dry in the cold. Empty ale bottles on the side needed washing, next to a pile of clothes that needed mending. Every surface was filled with some task or other that would fall to me.

  ‘Any news, Bessie?’ Abe asked.

  I shook my head

  ‘About what?’ Ned was looking at me now. At seven-and- twenty, he had the face of a much older man, with broken red threads beneath his skin and a dry, grey complexion.

  The liquor Doctor Mead had given me had lightened my head and made my tongue sharp. ‘If you ever asked after me, you’d know I went back to the Foundling to collect my daughter.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, softening, and looked around in surprise. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Not here and not there. Not anywhere.’ I had missed supper, and there was no food left. The effort of going back downstairs and onto Ludgate Hill for something hot seemed too great. I began tidying the room for something to do, while Abe knelt creakily to build a fire. I would clean the plates and cups, wipe the coal smoke from the windows, and then go to bed.

  ‘Eh? What’d you mean?’

  ‘She was collected. By Elizabeth Bright, of Black and White Court, six years ago.’

  ‘What you leaking on about?’

  ‘She’s gone, Ned, and I don’t know where. Someone pretended to be me – what’s the word he used? – fraudulently.’

  ‘Queer thing to do, ain’t it? Who would do that?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘The dad’s gone to peg, ain’t he?’

  ‘Last time I checked.’

  Ned was thoughtful, and watched Abe hunched over the fireplace without offering to help. My brother sat like an aristocrat at leisure, as though the labour and hardship we were forced to endure glanced off him and did not affect him at all. I supposed he would stay for a night or two – he did, sometimes, snoring next to me in his old bed that was now supposed to be Clara’s.
How disappointed Catherine must be that she’d married him.

  He ran a hand over his unshaved chin. ‘What a headscratcher, eh?’ he said.

  He did not care. His mind was elsewhere. I watched him, with his boots planted on our floorboards, planted in our lives, wondering when he’d get around to asking for money. I felt myself slowly fill up with hatred and turned away, flicking a roach off a dirty plate. The room was freezing, and all the comfort I’d felt just an hour earlier in that warm, pleasant little room had disappeared at the doorway as soon as I’d seen my brother.

  ‘What you gonna do, then?’ he asked, after a while.

  I moved things about with my back to him. ‘I’m gonna try and find her, of course.’

  He laughed, a short, sharp note of mirth that made me want to smash the dish I was holding over his head. I imagined the pleasurable crack it would make. But we couldn’t spare it.

  ‘And how you gonna do that in a place like London?’

  ‘Don’t pretend you care. Don’t sit there and make like you’re paying a call to see how we are, because you’re not. Come on then, out with it – why have you really come? How much do you need? A shilling? Three?’

  ‘Ten.’

  Abe gave a low whistle, wiping his coal-streaked hands on a rag and getting to his feet, with difficulty. ‘I think you’re mistaking us for bank clerks, my lad.’

  ‘He mistakes us for a lot of things. Fools, mainly.’

  ‘That ain’t fair.’

  ‘No, it ain’t. What do you need it for, then?’

  ‘The baby needs medicine.’

  I folded my arms and looked hard at him. ‘If you tell me what you really need it for I’ll give you a crown.’

  His eyes flicked away and back again, landing somewhere near my shoulder. ‘I have a debt to pay. I’m already behind on it and they won’t wait no more.’ There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, but they might have been blackened with a fist.

  I went to the bedroom to fetch my domino box from beneath the mattress.

  ‘This goes to your debt, nothing else. Do I need to come with you?’