Honourable Doctor, Improper Arrangement

Honourable Doctor, Improper Arrangement Mary Nichols A woman worth fighting for!Dr Simon Redfern has risked his heart - and his reputation - over a woman once before. So when he meets Kate Meredith, who is helping a ragged child, he’s shocked to find himself longing to make the warm-hearted young widow his wife…Despite family disapproval, Kate volunteers to work at Simon’s children’s home, and her growing feelings for him throw her into confusion. For, longing to have children of her own, she has accepted a viscount’s proposal. But Simon is the only man she can now contemplate as their father… The night air was cool, much pleasanter than the stuffiness inside. The moon hung just above the rooftops. ‘It seems almost near enough to touch and make a wish,’ Kate said, gazing up at it. Simon put his free hand over hers as it lay on his sleeve. ‘What would you wish for if you could wish for anything in the world?’ ‘The same as you, I expect. A world where children can grow up strong and healthy. A world without cruelty.’ ‘A tall order, but you are right. I wish it too.’ They strolled on in companionable silence until the strains of another waltz drifted out to them from the ballroom. He turned and held his arms out to her, and without speaking she stepped into them. He guided her unerringly into the dance. It was cool and dark and they were alone, with the canopy of a star-filled sky above them and the muted strains of the music guiding their steps. It was magical. When the music faded they stood still, looking at each other in the semi-darkness, silent, a little breathless, unwilling to break apart. He still had hold of her hands, which he raised one by one to his lips. She felt the warm pressure on her skin and a little shiver passed through her. Was this a man who could break hearts? AUTHOR NOTE Although the Hartingdon Home and The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children are figments of my imagination, they were inspired by the work of Thomas Coram who, appalled by the sight of destitute children living and dying in the slums of London, founded the Hospital for the Maintenance and Education of Exposed and Deserted Young Children, which became known as the Foundling Hospital. His particular interest was in illegitimate children who had been abandoned, or could not be looked after by their unmarried mothers. He was a persuasive man and appealed to the aristocracy for support. Notable fundraisers were the composer Handel, who gave concerts to raise money, and the painter Hogarth, who displayed his pictures on the walls of the hospital. Other artists followed his example, and the pictures were on show for the public to view, when they were encouraged to donate to the charity. The charter founding the hospital was signed by George II on 14th August 1739, and the first children were admitted in 1741, seventy-six years before the time of my story, but it was still going strong and was so popular that mothers queued up to leave their children there. A selection procedure became necessary, and it was limited mainly to children of mothers who it was judged could be redeemed from their ‘wickedness’ to lead useful lives. The children’s names were changed and they rarely had contact with their mothers again. At a time when a quarter of children did not live beyond the age of five, when health care and education were almost non-existent and the only help was through the Poor Law, these children were given a home, good food and an elementary education to fit them for work. The charity later became known as the Thomas Coram Foundation for Children, and is now known as the Coram Family. It still exists, 270 years after its inception, though in a much changed form. Its history, some of its records and the tiny artifacts that arrived with the children are on display, together with priceless pictures, at The Foundling Museum in Russell Square. Well worth a visit. Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown-up children, and four grandchildren. Mary loves to hear from her readers, and you can contact her via her website www.marynichols.co.uk Recent novels by the same author: TALK OF THE TON WORKING MAN, SOCIETY BRIDE A DESIRABLE HUSBAND RUNAWAY MISS RAGS-TO-RICHES BRIDE THE EARL AND THE HOYDEN HONOURABLE DOCTOR, IMPROPER ARRANGEMENT Mary Nichols MILLS & BOON www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/) Chapter One 1817 Dr Simon Redfern, strolling in Hyde Park, stopped to watch the young lady with the children. They looked healthy and well dressed, and were playing a complicated game of tag, running round and round, shrieking with laughter in which the young lady played a full part. She seemed too young to be the children’s mother and he concluded she was perhaps a nursemaid or a governess, but if she was, she was unlike any nursemaid he had ever met, because she was completely uninhibited, holding her pretty muslin skirt up with one hand and displaying a neat turn of ankle. In his experience, nursemaids and governesses were sticklers for correct behaviour. As he watched, an open carriage drew up and the four children abandoned their game and ran to it, scrambling in beside an elegant lady who was evidently their mother. She had a few words with the young lady and then drove off. The governess, if that was what she was, picked up a parcel from the ground where she had evidently left it while she played, and walked on alone. Kate had declined Elizabeth’s offer to be taken up because she was on her way to Hookham’s library and could easily reach it on foot. She was out of breath from running with the children and her cheeks had a rosy glow that her grandmother would deprecate but which made her look very attractive. She tucked strands of her nut-brown hair into the coil on the back of her head from which they had escaped and replaced her bonnet, which had slipped down on its ribbons. She had no idea what she looked like and walked down to the Serpentine to use the water as a mirror. ‘Oh, my goodness.’ The reflection that looked back at her was unladylike in the extreme. She was flushed, her hair was untidy and the ribbon securing her bonnet was crushed into a sad pretence at a bow. She tried to straighten it and it was then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the child, sitting on the edge of the lake, with his little legs dangling over the water. He could not have been more than three or four years old and was dressed in filthy rags and had nothing on his feet at all. She looked about for his parents or someone looking after him, but there was no one that she could see. It was up to her to rescue him before he fell in. Not wanting to startle him, she moved slowly and then grabbed him from behind. He started to squirm and yell and it was all she could do to hold him. ‘Hush,’ she said. ‘I won’t hurt you.’ But he screamed the more and pulled the brim of her halftied bonnet down over her eyes. ‘Allow me.’ Her burden was taken from her and she swung round to face the gentleman who had spoken, pushing her bonnet back as she did so. He tucked the child under his arm. ‘If you do not leave off that noise, you will feel my hand on your rump,’ he told him, with a pretence at severity. The child looked up at the man and, deciding he probably meant it, subsided into silence. The man was, Kate judged, about twenty-seven or -eight, a little above average height, dressed in a plain brown frockcoat and leather breeches tucked into brown boots. His starched muslin cravat was tied in a simple knot. Not one of the haut monde, she decided, but definitely not the child’s papa. He was holding the lad firmly as if he were used to dealing with recalcitrant children, so perhaps he was a schoolmaster. He was a very handsome schoolmaster, if he was. ‘I thought he might fall in,’ she said, looking about her, as much to avoid the amused gaze of his grey eyes as to ascertain that no one was claiming the child. ‘He seems to be all alone.’ ‘Do you know who he is?’ ‘No, do you?’ ‘No. We had better try to find out.’ He fetched the child out from under his arm and stood him on the ground and, without letting go of him, squatted down beside him, so that he was able to talk to him on his own level. ‘Now, you imp, can you tell us your name?’ The boy knuckled his eyes, depositing more dirt on an already filthy face. ‘Joe.’ ‘Well, Joe, we should like to know where you live.’ Without speaking, the boy pointed in the general direction of the park gate. ‘That is not much help. Can you take me to your home?’ This was answered with a silent look of incomprehension. ‘Judging by his clothes, he must come from a very poor area,’ Kate said. ‘How did he get here?’ ‘I imagine he walked.’ He looked up at Kate, standing hesitantly beside him. The expression of concern on her lovely face did her credit, he decided; not many young ladies would bother about a little urchin and would certainly never think of touching one. ‘Do not look so worried, miss, I will take charge of him, if you have other things to do.’ Kate hesitated. How did she know this man was trustworthy? And supposing he could not find the child’s parents, what would he do? London was a huge place and the boy’s little legs must have carried him quite a long way if he lived in the rookeries of the city, which his ragged clothes indicated he almost certainly did. ‘What are you going to do with him?’ ‘Try to find his parents.’ ‘How?’ ‘That is a good question,’ he said, noting her wariness. ‘I shall take him to the areas where I think he may be known and ask if anyone recognises him.’ ‘It will be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’ ‘Probably. Have you a better idea?’ ‘No. But will you be safe?’ ‘Oh, I think so,’ he said. ‘I am a doctor, you see, and sometimes I have to venture into places that respectable young ladies can know nothing of.’ ‘Of course I know of them,’ she said sharply. ‘I do not go about with my head in the sand.’ He looked down at the boy, now contentedly sucking his thumb, the only bit of him that was clean, and looking from one to the other, as if wondering which one to cling to. ‘You want to go home to your ma and pa, don’t you, my lad?’ Joe nodded. ‘Are you sure you wish to take responsibility for him?’ Kate asked. ‘After all, it was I who picked him up.’ The child had tugged at her heartstrings and his welfare was important to her, as was the welfare of all children, whoever they were, rich or poor. She couldn’t help it; if she saw a child needing help, she must do what she could. It had got her into trouble with her grandmother on more than one occasion. ‘Giving to the poor is one thing,’ she had said. ‘I applaud that in you, but to touch them is entirely another. You never know what you might pick up. And you will get yourself talked about.’ None of which discouraged her. ‘What would you do if I left him with you?’ he asked. ‘The same as you, I expect, try to find his parents.’ ‘How?’ His question gave her a moment’s pause, but she was not going to admit she was floored. ‘Talk to the boy,’ she said. ‘Gain his trust, ask him to take me to his home, as you have done.’ ‘You think you can go into the slums knocking on doors?’ ‘I would if I had to.’ ‘I do not doubt it, but you would soon be in trouble. No, I think you should leave it to me.’ ‘Very well, but if you do not mind, I will come with you.’ ‘I do not think that is a good idea, Miss…’ He paused, waiting for her to supply a name. ‘I am not a miss. I am Mrs Meredith and I am not a delicate flower, nurtured in a hot house, so you may take that condescending smile from your face.’ ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. Doctor Simon Redfern, at your service.’ He doffed his hat and swept her an exaggerated bow, which made her laugh. It was a pleasant sound and, in spite of himself, had him smiling in response. ‘So, Dr Redfern, let us see where this young man leads us, shall we?’ ‘I think you will regret it.’ ‘I will regret it if I leave him.’ ‘Why? Do I look like an abuser of infants?’ She looked up into his face and felt herself colouring to think that he had so quickly taken her up on what she said. She hadn’t meant that, had she? On the other hand, just because a man dressed like a gentleman and had a smile that would melt ice, did not mean he was not capable of wickedness. But she did not want to believe that of him. ‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘It is only that I feel responsible and I cannot rest until I know he is safely back home.’ She looked down at Joe, who was looking bemused rather than afraid. He was thinner than he ought to be, but he was not cowed. Life had already taught him some harsh lessons. Taking his hand, she asked gently, ‘Will you show us where you live?’ Simon gave a grunt of a laugh. ‘On your head be it.’ He could no more abandon her than she could the child. He fell into step beside her. She was talking cheerfully to the boy, though she received no reply except a pointed finger, which might or might not have been meant to indicate a direction. When she asked him if they were going the right way, he nodded. ‘I do not think he knows where he is,’ Simon said, as the boy led them from the park and down to the river where the mudlarks paddled, picking up flotsam and jetsam to sell. He called out to the scavengers, asking them if they recognised the child, but they shook their heads. ‘It is a long shot, but we could try Covent Garden,’ he said. ‘Unless you would rather I took him on alone?’ ‘No. I have come this far, I am not leaving now. His mama must be frantic with worry.’ ‘If she has even missed him.’ ‘How cynical you are!’ ‘With good cause. You cannot know the half of it.’ She wondered what he meant, but decided not to comment. By this time the child’s little legs were too tired to carry on, so Simon hoisted him on to his shoulders, apparently unconcerned about the dirt being transferred to his good clothes. Kate walked purposefully beside him, determined to stay with him. ‘Supposing we cannot find his parents, what shall we do?’ she asked. ‘I shall have to take him to a home which looks after destitute children.’ ‘Do you mean the Foundling Hospital?’ ‘No, that only takes the children of unmarried mothers and only then if the mother can be enabled to find work and redeem herself. I am thinking of the Hartingdon Home.’ ‘Hartingdon?’ she queried in surprise. ‘Yes. Do you know of it?’ ‘No, but can it have anything to do with Earl Hartingdon?’ ‘Not the Earl, but his daughter. Lady Eleanor is its main benefactor, through a charitable trust. Why, do you know her?’ ‘We are distantly related,’ she said with a wry smile. She did not know Eleanor well and, on the few family occasions when they met, she had found the lady aloof and distant. She could not imagine her stooping to handle an urchin such as she had just rescued and spoiling her fashionable clothes. ‘I did not know she had given her name to an orphanage.’ ‘It is more than an orphanage. It is the headquarters of The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children. We also find foster homes for some of the children.’ ‘We?’ she queried. ‘I am one of its trustees and, though we take children into the Hartingdon when there is no help for it, I firmly believe that a loving home is far more beneficial to a child’s well-being than an institution.’ ‘A loving home, yes, but how many foster homes are? You hear such dreadful tales about foster mothers beating and starving the children in their care and not only in London. The countryside is as bad, if not worse. I cannot understand why the women do the job if they have no feeling for children.’ ‘It is a way of earning a few pence,’ he said. ‘And it can be done in conjunction with looking after their own.’ ‘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.’ He had first hand experience of bruises, both physical and mental—they had stayed with him all his life. His own governess, Miss Nokes, had been a tyrant who had tried beating his lessons into him. He had soon learned not to complain because his uncle would not believe him and told him, ‘Miss Nokes knows what she is doing. If you misbehave, you must be punished.’ The fact that his back was lacerated and purple with bruising carried no weight at all. ‘It is time you learned to take your punishment like a man. You should be more like Charles. He never complains.’ Simon supposed it was only natural that his uncle should favour his own son over his nephew, but he made no effort to hide it and Simon was left feeling like a cuckoo in the nest. What the beatings had done for Charles, who was three years older, was to make him as cruel as the governess. He could not take his anger out on the real perpetrator and so he vented it on animals, his horse and dogs, and any wild animals he found. Simon had often nursed an injured animal, binding up its wounds and hiding it until it was well again. He had been glad when he was sent away to school, only to find that was even worse for thrashings, which he endured stoically, while vowing that if and when he had children they would never be beaten. Strangely enough, it was the army that allowed him to be himself, to find an occupation that gave him fulfilment. The army existed to kill, but on the other hand it offered him comradeship and a purpose to his life, especially when he found his doctoring skills could often make the difference between life and death, between a man being crippled and having a whole body. There had been times when he had not succeeded, but no one blamed him—they knew he was doing all he could. He had been silent so long that Kate wondered what he was thinking. His expression, so easy and relaxed a few moments before, was severe and uncompromising, his jaw set. Had she said something to upset him? ‘I suppose being a schoolmaster and being a doctor are not so very different when it comes to children,’ she said for want of something to say. His face relaxed and he smiled, his innate good manners taking over from his grim memories. ‘One looks after the body and the other the mind.’ ‘But mind and body are one when it comes to the whole person.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘That is a very profound statement for a summer afternoon, but I suppose having a father who is a Reverend makes you more thoughtful than most.’ ‘Perhaps. But he has no parish. He gave it up when—’ She stopped suddenly as if about to utter an indiscretion. ‘When he decided to write a book about comparative religions and needed to be in London close to sources of research and bought the house in Holles Street. My grandmother lives with us. I will introduce you to them….’ ‘I am hardly fit to go calling,’ he said, looking down at his clothes, sadly crumpled after dealing with Joe. ‘Perhaps you will allow me to call on you tomorrow afternoon, when I am fit to be presented. And then I can let you know how Joe is settling down,’ he added. Why, when he had decided that women were best kept at a distance, did he suddenly want to learn more about her? She was unsettling him. ‘Yes, I shall look forward to that.’ They were turning into Holles Street. She pointed to one of the houses. ‘That one.’ He pulled up, jumped out to hand her down, doffed his hat and watched as she let herself in the door, then climbed back to go to his lodgings in Piccadilly, musing on the events of the day. Was it fate that brought him to that spot in Hyde Park just in time to help rescue the little urchin? Fate or not, he wanted to see Mrs Meredith again, though he told himself it was only because he wanted to enrol her help for the Society. Chapter Two Lady Morland was sitting in the drawing room, a cup of tea in her hand and a plate of sugar plums at her elbow when Kate entered the room. ‘Good heavens, Kate, whatever has happened to you?’ she queried. She was a little plump, due to her partiality for sweetmeats, but was still, at seventy, very active both in mind and body. ‘Have you had an accident? Have you been set upon and robbed?’ ‘No, nothing like that. I am sorry I am late, Grandmama, but I have had such an adventure.’ ‘You had better tell me at once, for a more bedraggled sight I never did see. It is to be hoped no one of any note saw you or it will be all round town.’ ‘Oh, Grandmama, of course it will not. I am not one of the ton, I do not move in such exalted circles, you know that very well.’ ‘But you will when the Viscount comes back. He will take you out and about and there must be no hint of gossip. You know how particular he is.’ She did. Viscount Robert Cranford, one-time Colonel of a line regiment and now a diplomat, was very particular indeed, which was why Kate sometimes wondered why he had picked her out for his attention. She had first met him when he called to commiserate with her on Edward’s death. He had known and admired her late husband as a valiant fellow officer and felt he owed it to him to visit his widow. He knew and understood the grief felt on losing a loved one, he had told her; his wife had died, leaving him with two daughters to bring up. They were being cared for by his sister, Mrs Withersfield, on his estate near Cookham. ‘When Harriet’s husband died and left her in rather straitened circumstances,’ he had explained, ‘I offered her a home. It has worked very well because, being so often away from home myself, I needed someone to run the house and look after the girls.’ Her grandmother had plied him with refreshments and invited him to call again. He had done so several times while he was in England; when he went back to Spain, he and Kate had kept up a regular correspondence. After the war ended, he had left the army to pursue a career in the diplomatic corps and was working at the British Embassy in Paris. He had proposed by letter three months before. She had adored Edward and there had never been a moment’s doubt about her answer when he asked her to marry him, coupling it with a declaration of undying love that had delighted her. Six months after the wedding, he was dead. Did the love die with him? She did not think so, but it changed, became a lovely memory, not something of the present, and should she not grasp a second chance at happiness? She would have a kind husband, two homes, two stepdaughters and, most important of all, the chance to have children of her own. But she had wondered why the Viscount, who had a tendency to stand on his dignity, should choose her for a wife over others more worthy. She was an easy-going sort of person, not particularly tidy, nor one to make a fuss if something was not exactly where it should be. Nor did she complain if the servants left a speck of dust in a dark corner. She dressed neatly and cleanly without the help of a maid, did not care too much about fashion and the latest fads and, having no children of her own, it was her joy to play with her cousin’s children, the more boisterous the better. Grandmother said she undervalued herself, that she was beautiful, knew how to behave in elite company when she wasn’t rushing about after the objects of her charity. She would make a splendid stepmama for his lordship’s motherless girls, which was more than could be said for most of the empty-headed d?butantes being turned out nowadays. It was four years since Edward had died and it was time she considered marrying again. ‘You want to have children of your own, do you not?’ ‘Of course, it is my dearest wish.’ It was more than a wish, it was becoming an obsession. She longed to hold her own baby in her arms, to love it and care for it. She would never consider sending it to a wet nurse, or even having one live in. She distrusted them profoundly. She would look with envy at her friends and relations who had children and could not understand how they could bear to see so little of them. They would visit them in the nursery, stay a few minutes and then hand them back to the nursery maid, as if they were bored by them. Did they never cuddle them, have meals with them, play with them, listen to their childish problems? If she had children, they would be loved and considered, but not spoiled. She would instruct them herself and take them out, show them the countryside, teach them to appreciate all God’s creatures and not be snobbish. It was a dream she indulged in more often than was healthy. ‘Then you must marry again,’ her grandmother had said. ‘Amusing yourself with Lizzie’s children and spending more than you can truthfully afford on the poor and needy is not the answer.’ Kate loved her cousin’s children dearly, but they did not need her money and others did, so what better cause could she choose? But she had to admit her grandmother was right about marrying again. ‘So you think I should accept?’ ‘Kate, it is your decision, but you must be honest with yourself. You are twenty-five years old, it is the only suitable offer you are likely to have and his lordship will make a splendid husband.’ ‘Yes, but what sort of wife will I make?’ she had asked. ‘I have become so used to living here with you and Papa, I do not know if I can manage a large country house or stand at the Viscount’s side at diplomatic functions. I might not fit in.’ ‘Of course you will,’ her grandmother had said briskly. ‘You have as much breeding as he has. The Hartingdons are a very old and respected family and so are the Morlands. Viscount Cranford will certainly not be demeaning himself by marrying you.’ Her father was sincere in his Christian beliefs and did not behave like an aristocrat in spite of his connections with Earl Hartingdon and the fact that he was the second son of the late Lord Morland, her grandmother’s husband. They were not wealthy, not in the way their illustrious relations were, but they were certainly not poor. After considering the proposal for over a week, she had written to accept, though the engagement had yet to be gazetted. Robert was waiting until he came back to England to do that. ‘I want to tell my sister and daughters first,’ he had written. Only last week he had said he had applied for leave and was hoping to return home shortly when they would celebrate their engagement and arrange a wedding. Kate wondered why she was not as elated as she expected to be, but came to the conclusion that it was because it was a second marriage and nothing could recapture that first wonderful sensation of marrying the man you had fallen in love with, especially when both were young and looking forward to a long and blissful life together. She could not expect to feel the same as she did when she married Edward. That did not mean this marriage was not right or that she would not be happy. Her feelings for Robert were strong; he had been her rock and comforter when she was mourning Edward. It was simply that this time it was different, but no less valid. ‘Grandmother,’ she said now, ‘what exactly is my relationship to Lady Eleanor Hartingdon?’ ‘Let me see,’ her ladyship said. ‘The third Earl was my brother, so his son, the present Earl, is your father’s cousin. That makes Eleanor his second cousin and your second cousin once removed. Something like that. Why do you ask?’ ‘Her name was mentioned to me today.’ ‘By whom and in what context?’ Kate took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of all that had happened in the park and afterwards. ‘I never knew Lady Eleanor had a children’s home named after her.’ ‘Neither did I. She never struck me as the maternal sort, but then you do not have to be motherly to have a conscience and support a charitable cause, do you?’ ‘I suppose not. I wonder how Dr Redfern is getting on with Joe. I can’t stop thinking about him.’ ‘Dr Redfern?’ Kate laughed to cover her embarrassment. ‘No, I meant the little boy. He was in the most pitiful rags and so filthy it was difficult to tell what colour his hair was.’ ‘And you picked him up!’ Her ladyship was so shocked she almost recoiled. ‘You must strip off those clothes this minute and have a hot bath. You can finish telling me after you have changed.’ Kate went to obey. She was soon down again, dressed in a blue jaconet gown with little puffed sleeves and a boat-shaped neckline. Her hair was once again brushed and neatly coiled. By then her father had joined her grandmother, ready to go in to dinner, and she went over the afternoon’s events again for his benefit. ‘What do you know of this Dr Redfern?’ her father asked. ‘Nothing, Papa. He was simply there and helped me to restrain the child. He seemed a gentleman. He was certainly dressed like one. We took the child to the Hartingdon Home.’ She decided to leave out the visit to the rookeries, which would have given her grandmother a fit. ‘You will meet him tomorrow. I have said he may call.’ ‘Was that necessary, Kate?’ her grandmother put in. ‘A stranger you met in the park without the benefit of an introduction. He could be anybody, a rake, a scapegrace or worse.’ ‘I am sure he is not, and how else am I to find out how the little boy is faring?’ The old lady sighed. ‘I shall be glad when you are safely married and have a family of your own, then perhaps you will not concern yourself with every little urchin you meet.’ ‘I shall always be concerned about the lives of poor children,’ Kate said. ‘Being married will not make any difference to that.’ ‘I think Lord Cranford might have something to say on the matter.’ ‘Why should he object? Anyone with an ounce of pity would feel the same as I do. He is not a hard man.’ ‘Hmph,’ the old lady said and fell silent. Kate could not stop thinking about the little boy and thoughts of him were all mixed up with thoughts of Dr Redfern. He did not look a bit like a doctor. Doctors usually dressed in sombre clothes and were often a little shabby, but Dr Redfern was elegantly, if simply, dressed. She had admired the way he dealt with the child, in firm but friendly fashion, and he had not been afraid of dirtying his fine clothes. Such a man must be a wonderful papa. Was he married? Did he have children of his own? Would a married man interest himself in other people’s children if he had offspring of his own? But if he was single, surely he should be looking for a wife and setting up a nursery of his own, not concerning himself with slum children? Kate was sitting in the drawing room with her grandmother the next day when Dr Redfern was announced by their parlour maid, Susan. She put down the book she had been reading and jumped up eagerly, almost too eagerly, to receive him. He was wearing a long-tailed coat of green superfine, yellow-and-white striped waistcoat, skin-tight pantaloons which showed off his muscular thighs and well-polished boots. His shirt was white and his starched cravat was tied neatly between the points of his shirt collar which were high, but not so high he could not turn his head. He had removed his top hat and held it in the crook of his arm. ‘Mrs Meredith, your obedient,’ he said, bowing. ‘Doctor Redfern.’ Kate bent her knee slightly and inclined her head, as good manners dictated, then turned to her grandmother. ‘Grandmother, may I present Doctor Redfern. Doctor Redfern, the Dowager Lady Morland.’ ‘My lady.’ He managed to contain his surprise and bowed again. How could he have imagined Mrs Meredith was a nursery maid? He felt himself grow hot, remembering how he had treated her with condescension. Why, she came from aristocratic stock! She had said she was related to Lady Eleanor too, and he had simply imagined she was the poor relation. Nothing he could see about him now bore that out. The room was elegantly furnished and the old lady was regal in her bearing. She was looking him up and down through a quizzing glass, taking in every detail of his apparel, and he was glad he had taken trouble with his appearance. ‘Redfern,’ she said, at last. ‘Any relation to the Redferns of Finchingfield?’ ‘Yes, my lady. Lord Redfern of Grove Hall is my uncle.’ ‘Ahh,’ she said, as if he had answered some conundrum that had been puzzling her. ‘Please be seated. You will take tea?’ ‘Thank you.’ He took a seat opposite her and put his hat on the floor at his side. Kate found another chair close by. ‘How is Joe?’ she asked him, as her grandmother instructed Susan to bring the tea things. They did not employ a footman. They had a cook, a kitchen maid and a chambermaid besides Susan. Her grandmother had a maid whom Kate shared on special occasions and her father had a valet who also acted as his secretary. Two women came daily to clean and to do the laundry and a man came to see to the garden. Daniels, their coachman, lived in the mews. ‘He has settled down well. I am trying to find the family a more wholesome place to live, so that he can be returned to his mother.’ He noticed Kate slowly shaking her head and realised she had not told her grandmother the whole of what had happened the previous day and he must tread carefully. ‘How did you come to be involved in such work?’ her ladyship asked. ‘The plight of poor children has always interested me; since the war it seems harder for men to find work and there are so many poor, unwanted children about. I thought something should be done, so I approached as many influential and wealthy people as I could and one of those was Lady Eleanor. Between us we set up an association of like-minded people to raise funds and the result has been The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children and a home for those we cannot foster out.’ ‘And why did you choose to be a doctor?’ the old lady persisted in her questioning. ‘It seems a strange thing for a gentleman to do do.’ He laughed. ‘I was always picking up injured birds and animals when I was a boy and looking after them until they either died or were cured, then I would release them back into the wild. And when a choice of career was being considered, I decided on the army. But I would rather preserve life than end it, so I trained to be an army doctor…’ ‘A far cry from looking after children,’ the old lady went on, as Susan returned with the tea things and, having set them out, left Kate to pour it and hand it out. ‘There are children with the women who follow the march,’ he told her. ‘Many were born in camp. I acted midwife on many an occasion, but my main occupation was treating the sick and wounded after the battles.’ Although Kate would not have dreamed of quizzing him as her grandmother was doing, she listened with growing admiration as he talked. If she had been a man, she would have pursued the same calling or something very like it, but such a career was not open to a woman and she had to content herself with visiting the poor and sick and taking them little comforts like food and clothing and helping them in any way she could. ‘I collect you were brought up by your uncle, is that not so?’ Lady Morland queried, changing tack suddenly. ‘Yes, my lady. Both my parents died when I was very young and he became my guardian.’ ‘But you are not your uncle’s heir?’ ‘I was not, but nine months ago my cousin died in a hunting accident, which has unexpectedly put me in that position.’ ‘I see.’ Kate looked at him with renewed interest. She could feel for him; her own mother had died when she was seven and she knew the sense of loss never entirely went away. It might account for the bleak look she sometimes saw in his eyes. Lady Morland was not done with him yet. ‘And do you do your work with your uncle’s blessing?’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Not exactly. He told me to go to the devil in my own way. Fortunately he is in prime kilter and I do not expect to inherit for a long time yet.’ It was a mild way of describing his relationship with his uncle, which had been, and still was, a stormy one, especially since the death of his cousin. He was expected to step into Charles’s shoes, marry an heiress and give him a brood of grandchildren. ‘You should be looking for a wife and setting up your own nursery, not taking on other people’s bantlings,’ Aunt Matilda told him repeatedly. ‘You will catch some dreadful disease, or be set upon and robbed by the very people you are trying to help…’ And that was mild compared with what his uncle said. ‘I assume from that you have not married.’ ‘No, I have yet to meet the lady who will put up with my peccadilloes.’ It was his stock answer, if not entirely accurate. ‘I would not call the wish to help your fellow creatures a peccadillo, Dr Redfern,’ Kate put in. ‘It is an admirable thing to do.’ ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He paused and plunged on, unwilling to continue being quizzed on the subject of marriage. ‘If you are interested in the work of the Society, there is be a lecture at Somerset House on Friday evening at eight o’clock with the object of raising funds. If you are not otherwise engaged, would you care to attend?’ ‘Yes, I think I would.’ As Kate spoke, her father came into the room. He was, Simon judged, about fifty, grey-haired and dressed in the dark clothes of a cleric. Kate introduced them. ‘Oh, you are the fellow my daughter met yesterday,’ the Reverend said, shaking Simon’s hand. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘What happened to the little boy she rescued?’ ‘He has been taken into the Hartingdon Home. I am hoping something can be done for the family and then he can be returned to them.’ ‘Kate has told me a little of the work you do,’ the Reverend went on. ‘It is a thankless task, I think.’ ‘There are times when I feel despondent, but when things go well and a family thrives, then I am glad that I have done my small part in bringing it about.’ ‘I think the government should do more,’ Kate said. ‘Children should not have to rely on charity for the basic things in life, like food, clothes and a home. If I had my way, ex-soldiers would have decent pensions—’ She stopped suddenly, realising she was becoming heated. ‘I beg your pardon. I am sometimes a little too forthright.’ Simon smiled, admiring her heightened colour, the brightness of her eyes and the passion with which she spoke. How he wished there were more like her! ‘I agree with you. The war has ruined so many lives—children left either without fathers or ones so badly disabled they cannot work, and mothers who must work to keep the family from starving and in the process neglecting their children.’ ‘Papa,’ Kate said, ‘Dr Redfern has invited me to attend a lecture about the work of The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children on Friday evening. I have a mind to go. Would you accompany me?’ ‘That is the charity Lady Eleanor is involved with, is it not?’ he asked Simon. ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Then I see no harm in attending. But if you are looking for a large donation, I am afraid you have come to the wrong person.’ Kate laughed. ‘One must not forget the tale of the widow’s mite. And perhaps there are other ways to help besides money, even if it is only spending a little time with the children at the Home.’ ‘Kate, how can you think of anything like that?’ Lady Morland remonstrated. ‘You don’t know where they have come from. You might pick up anything…’ Kate did know where most of them came from, but she was not going to tell her grandmother about her visit to the slums. ‘Then I can help raise funds. There is no harm in that, is there?’ Simon, unwilling to witness an altercation between the old lady and her granddaughter, picked up his hat, before standing up and bowing to everyone. ‘My lady. Reverend. Mrs Meredith. I thank you for your interest.’ Kate rose to go to the front door with him; it was not their habit to ring for Susan to see callers off the premises. ‘I really would like to help you,’ she told him. ‘I am sure you will be able to find something useful for me to do.’ ‘But ought you to go against your family’s wishes?’ ‘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 soir?es 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.’ ‘You will have children of your own one day,’ he said, knowing he was probing, but curious to know why she had not married again. ‘I hope I may, but that is some way off yet and has no bearing on my wanting to help you.’ He turned to her with a grin. ‘Me or the Society?’ She laughed. ‘Is it not one and the same?’ It suddenly occurred to him that she might be using the opportunity to banish demons of her own—her childlessness perhaps. Ought he to encourage her? But he could not send her away, could he? They had not been so besieged by people offering to help that he could afford to turn anyone away. And he understood about demons. ‘Very well. Let us go and meet the children.’ He took her to the schoolroom, where about twenty children were assembled. The girls were dressed in the uniform of the home: plain grey cotton dresses, white aprons, white mob caps, black stockings and the boys in grey smocks over calf-length trousers. All wore sturdy boots. They were being supervised by a girl of fifteen or so. ‘This is Martha,’ Simon told Kate. ‘She can read a little and it is her task to keep the children occupied when they are not doing their allotted tasks about the house.’ ‘Is that all the schooling they get?’ ‘No, I have been teaching them myself, but my time is limited and, as you must have deduced last night, educating the children is not considered the most important of our tasks. If you can take over, it will be a great help.’ He clapped his hands to get the children’s attention. ‘Now, you little monsters,’ he said cheerfully, making them grin, ‘Mrs Meredith has come to teach you…’ He ignored the concerted groan and went on. ‘Stand up and say good morning to her.’ They obeyed and Kate returned the greeting with a smile and told them to sit down again. They did so and silently waited. He could almost see their minds ticking over, wondering how far they dare go in tormenting the new teacher. He began to wonder if he had been wise to put her among them; he might have been better giving her some office work to do where she would have minimum contact with them. ‘If I hear of any misbehaviour, there will be beatings and no cake for a week,’ he said. Turning to Kate, he went on, ‘Martha will tell you where the slates and chalks are kept and the books. They have been donated by the church and other improving societies, not designed to grab their attention, I am afraid.’ ‘Then we must find some that do,’ she said. ‘But first I must get to know them all.’ ‘They will take advantage if they can, so do not stand for any nonsense. Send Michael to fetch me, if you need me. That’s Michael.’ He pointed to a boy of about twelve sitting at the end of the row. ‘I am shocked that you would even consider beating them,’ she murmured. ‘I would not dream of it, but they don’t know that.’ It was whispered with a mischievous grin. ‘Oh, I see. And I am to perpetuate the myth.’ ‘It helps,’ he said laconically. ‘Shall I leave you to your fate?’ ‘Are you doing your best to make me nervous, Doctor?’ He smiled. ‘I have a feeling I would not succeed, at least not where children are concerned. When you have had enough, just let me know and I will escort you home.’ He left the room and she turned back to the children. They were staring at her silently, sizing her up, and she knew the next few minutes would be crucial. She had spotted Annie Smith, still clutching her doll, and Joe, whose hair, having been washed, turned out to be the colour of ripe corn. ‘Now, children, I need to know what to call you. Stand up, one at a time, and tell me your names; if you know how to spell them, then tell me that too. I know Joe Barber and Annie Smith, and Michael, though I do not know his surname…’ ‘Sandford,’ the boy called out, grinning at her. ‘And this ’ere’s Sarah Thomsett.’ He pointed to the girl sitting next to him. ‘Let her tell me herself.’ Simon, standing outside the door listening, smiled to himself. Mrs Kate Meredith was going to be a great asset to the Society—that is, if she did not become discouraged by the children’s lack of progress and decided not to continue. As he walked away, he heard her lilting voice singing ‘oranges and lemons’ and encouraging the children to join in. He could hear them as he returned to his desk and sat down to continue with his work on the records. How happy she sounded! The time flew by and, before Kate realised it, the morning had gone and Dr Redfern was back to dismiss the children and take her home. He found her sitting on the floor, with Joe on her lap and the others sitting in a circle about her, playing a game that involved remembering a list of everyday articles one after the other in the right order. They seemed genuinely sorry when she stood up and said she must go, carefully removing Joe’s hand from her skirt and promising to come back soon. ‘Did you manage to get your work done?’ she asked Simon as they set off for Holles Street in his gig. ‘Yes, I did, thank you. You were a great help.’ ‘I did not teach much in the way of reading and writing,’ she said. He laughed. ‘They will think that singing and playing games is all there is to education.’ ‘It is a great part of it. Learning should be fun. Besides, I needed to hold their interest and gain their trust. I would never do that teaching them from those religious tracts I saw.’ ‘Tut tut, and you a parson’s daughter.’ She joined in his laughter. ‘I will bring some more suitable books tomorrow.’ ‘So you intend to come again?’ he asked, careful to avoid the worst of the slums and taking a longer route via Pall Mall and Piccadilly, although parts of that were being dug up and houses demolished to make way for the Regent’s new road. ‘Of course, if you will have me.’ ‘Have you! My dear Mrs Meredith, you are a godsend. It is not a question of will I have you, but will you want to come.’ ‘Oh, I do. I have not enjoyed myself so much in years.’ He was not as calm as he looked. He was acutely aware of her sitting beside him, so close her yellow skirt was brushing against his leg. She was a ray of sunshine and colour in those noisy dust-laden surroundings, but it was not only her external appearance that was so charming, but the inner woman, caring, practical and restful. She was looking straight ahead and he could not see her face properly for the flower-laden brim of her bonnet, but her hands were still in her lap. He did not know why he did it, but he took his left hand from the reins and put it over hers. ‘Thank you for that.’ She looked down at his strong brown hand with puzzlement as if she could not understand how it got there nor why its warmth was spreading down her fingers, making her shiver in spite of the warmth of the day. She knew she ought to remove her hand from under his, but somehow did not want to. It was, after all, only simply a friendly gesture, a sign perhaps that she had pleased him with her efforts with the children, and it would be churlish to take offence. He seemed suddenly to realise what he had done and put his hand back on the reins without speaking. She turned to look at him, wondering if he noticed the effect his touch had had on her, but he appeared to be concentrating on his driving, carefully going round the road works and turning up Bond Street. ‘I will be glad when they have finished tearing up the streets,’ he said to cover his discomfiture. ‘And all to please the Regent. It is a pity they cannot spend the money on a more worthy cause.’ ‘Oh, how I agree with you, though I suppose when the new road is finished, it will be very grand.’ ‘Everything our future king does is extravagant. I sometimes wish I could take him by the collar and drag him into Seven Dials. He should see how some of his subjects live while he builds roads and palaces and spends money on his mistresses.’ ‘Oh, dear.’ She laughed. ‘You do feel strongly, don’t you?’ ‘Yes. It makes my blood boil.’ ‘What else excites you?’ He was tempted to say, ‘You do’, but decided that would be a folly. ‘Oh, many things. The plight of the soldiers who have fought for their king and country and are now turned out on the streets to make what living they can. The dreadful business of the slave trade. The way the aristocracy will go to any lengths to keep their estates intact.’ ‘Ah, I collect you are the heir to an estate.’ ‘Oh, I do not care about that, but when a man is ordered to wed…’ ‘Have you been ordered to wed?’ ‘I would not obey if I were. At least, not unless I was in love with the lady in question.’ He laughed suddenly to relieve the tension. ‘How did we come to be talking about me? Tell me about yourself.’ ‘I am not very interesting. I cannot say I have travelled or served in the army, or healed the sick.’ ‘That does not mean you are not an interesting person. Have you always lived in London?’ ‘No, my father had a living in Hertfordshire when I was small, but when my mother died…’ ‘I am very sorry to hear that.’ ‘Thank you. It was a long time ago, when I was seven. She died after giving birth to my brother.’ ‘You have a brother?’ ‘No, he died too. He was put out to a wet nurse who—’ She stopped. Did she really wish to go over that ground? ‘Papa could not get over his grief and Grandmama suggested he give up the living and move to London. If it had not been for her, I do not know what we would have done. He has since immersed himself in his writing.’ ‘I am sorry if I have upset you with my questions,’ he said, beginning to understand some of what drove her to help poor children and why she became so heated over the question of foster mothers. ‘I did not mean to make you sad.’ ‘You have not made me sad. It was eighteen years ago and I have learned to accept it was God’s will. We cannot know what He has in store for us and perhaps good will come of it.’ ‘Let us hope so.’ They turned into Holles Street. ‘Here we are,’ he said, drawing up outside her door. ‘Are you coming to the Hartingdon again tomorrow?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ ‘I will fetch you.’ He laughed when he saw her mouth open to protest. ‘And do not argue, it will not make me change my mind.’ She thanked him and he jumped down to hand her down, then drove back to his rooms, musing on the events of the last few days. The arrival of Mrs Meredith was having a strange effect on his state of mind. It was very disturbing, but in a most pleasurable way. He had been so busy with his work for the charity he had had no time for a social life, except when forced upon him by his aunt or the need to raise funds. Mrs Meredith made him want to change all that. He was beginning to look forward to Lady Eleanor’s ball. It was some time since Kate had been to a society ball; according to Lady Morland, none of her gowns was at all suitable and she must have a new one made and so they had taken a cab to Madame Lorette’s in Bond Street. The woman called herself Madame Lorette and affected a French accent, but Kate suspected she was as English as she was. On being told Kate’s requirements, she fetched out bolt after bolt of silks, satins, nets, lace and velvet in a myriad of colours. Soon every available surface was covered with material and patterns. It made it harder, not easier, to choose. If Kate liked a particular material, Lady Morland did not; if Lady Morland found a pattern that she considered just the thing, Kate dismissed it as too fussy. ‘But you cannot wear something plain to go to Hartingdon House,’ the old lady said. ‘It will undoubtedly be a very select affair considering the price of the tickets. Fifty guineas is a scandalous amount.’ ‘It is in aid of the charity.’ ‘Yes, and Eleanor has made sure it will be a very select gathering and there will be no one present who is not of the ton. It will be reported in the newspapers and journals, who was there and what they wore, so you must be suitably attired.’ Kate was unconcerned about what the newspapers might report, but she was looking forward to the ball and perhaps standing up with Dr Redfern. He worked so hard, he deserved a little relief and she hoped he would relax enough to ask her to dance. ‘Well, which is it to be?’ Lady Morland became impatient with her apparent indecision. ‘If you do not choose the material today, there won’t be time to have it made up before the ball.’ ‘The aquamarine, I think,’ Kate said, running her hand down the delicate silk. ‘And this pattern.’ She picked up a drawing of a simple round gown with tiny puffed sleeves and a scooped neckline edged with pearls. The high gathered waist was outlined with a ribbon studded with more pearls. ‘Madame will require accessories?’ the modiste enquired, having agreed to deliver the gown three days hence, the morning of the ball, and do any necessary alterations on the spot. ‘Of course,’ her ladyship put in quickly before Kate could say that she would make do with whatever she had in her clothes press at home. ‘Green shoes and cream gloves and that.’ She pointed to a sumptuous silk shawl draped over the back of a stuffed chair. ‘And you may send the account to me.’ ‘Grandmother!’ Kate protested; the shawl alone looked very expensive. ‘There is no necessity for you to do that. I can afford to buy my own clothes.’ ‘I know you can, but it pleases me to treat you. Considering your father has given me a home, I have little to spend my money on. Now let us go to Gunter’s and have a cup of tea and a slice of cake. I am famished.’ It was only a short step from Bond Street to Berkeley Square and they were soon sitting at a table in the confectioner’s, enjoying the refreshments. ‘I think the green will make up very well,’ the old lady said. ‘It is a pity his lordship will not be back to escort you.’ ‘His lordship?’ Kate repeated vaguely. ‘Yes, Cranford. Has he written when he will be home?’ So much had happened in the last week, Kate had almost forgotten about the man she had agreed to marry. Being with the children and Dr Redfern, too, had occupied her mind to the exclusion of all else. ‘No, only that he hoped it would be this summer. He is at the beck and call of the Foreign Office and if they want him in Paris, then he must stay there.’ ‘Perhaps you should consider going out to join him.’ ‘Marry him in Paris, you mean? Oh, no, I could not do that. I want to be married here, with all my family and friends round me. Besides, if he wanted me to do that, he would have suggested it himself.’ ‘Are you not impatient to see him again?’ Kate had to think about that. Was she? Did she have doubts? Had anything changed? The only thing that had altered was that she had had some firsthand experience of looking after children and that made her longing for one of her own greater than ever. ‘Of course I am, but I must be patient. We must both of us be patient.’ The old lady looked closely at her, but decided not to comment. She beckoned to the waiter to pay for the refreshment and asked him to send out for a cab to take them home. Hartingdon House was in Hanover Square and was a substantial mansion with a wide frontage. On the night of the ball every window was lit and lanterns were strung across the railings. The long line of carriages waiting to go up to the front door contained the cream of London society and people in the street stopped to stare and comment on the guests as they arrived and were admitted. Kate, with her father and grandmother, took over an hour to travel the short distance from Holles Street. They could have walked it in a quarter of the time, but that would not have been considered the thing and so they sat in their coach and waited, moving up a few yards at a time as each carriage disgorged its load, rattled away and the next one moved up. But at last they were making their way up the steps to the front door. The Reverend’s hat was taken from him and they moved towards the ground-floor ballroom, where they were announced by a liveried footman. The room was brilliantly lit and rather hot and airless. Kate stood and marvelled at the fine decorations, the gilding of the plasterwork, the painted ceiling, the swathes of greenery round every pillar, the huge bowls of flowers on stands in every niche, and the polished floor, already crowded with people dancing to the music of an orchestra sitting on a dais at the far end. ‘Come, let us find chairs,’ Lady Morland said, as the Reverend disappeared in the direction of the library where he planned to take advantage of the Earl’s large collection of books. They moved into the room just as Lady Eleanor spotted them and came forward to greet them. She was magnificently dressed in amber crepe with a head-dress of curling green feathers, which bobbed as she walked. Kate, whose own hair had been arranged ? la grecque by Corinne, her grandmother’s maid, and threaded with ribbon, was fascinated by them and wondered if they would last the evening without drooping. ‘What a squeeze!’ Lady Morland said. ‘Eleanor, I fear you have overdone the invitations.’ Lady Eleanor laughed. ‘But every one of them has paid fifty guineas for the privilege. If it becomes too crowded, we can open up the windows on to the terrace. I believe Dr Redfern has saved seats for you near one of the windows. I hope it will not be too draughty.’ She waved a hand in his direction. He had seen them and was coming towards them. He looked nothing like the man Kate had been working alongside all week. Gone was the brown-and-beige clothes, the untidy hair, the look of harassment, the worried frown. Here was a pink of the ton in a blue brocade coat, white pantaloon trousers, dark-blue satin waistcoat, frilled shirt whose cuffs fell over the backs of his hands, and a starched muslin neckcloth that was an art form in itself. He stopped and bowed. ‘Ladies, your obedient.’ Kate bobbed a curtsy, almost open-mouthed in admiration, but managed to say, ‘Good evening, Doctor.’ ‘May I escort you to seats? I am afraid it is a dreadful crush. We did not expect so many.’ ‘But that is good thing, don’t you think?’ Kate said, putting her hand on the arm he offered, while her grandmother took the other. ‘All the more for the Society’s coffers. You will be able to do so much more for the children.’ ‘We certainly hope so. Our aim is to buy land and build a new home designed for its purpose, but we are a long way short of our target.’ ‘Then I wish you well of it.’ They reached their seats. Lady Morland sat down immediately and began using her fan vigorously. 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