The Orphan Collector

by Ellen Marie Wiseman

  Pia was puzzled, starting to wonder if Mrs. Hudson was as tolerant as she seemed. She had just taken a bath and changed into fresh clothes. Not that she wanted to stay in the girls’ room—in truth she was exhausted and couldn’t wait to have some time alone—but maybe it was going to be more important to watch her step than she’d thought. Thank goodness she hadn’t admitted to being German.

  “Well, now that you’ve met the children,” Mrs. Hudson said, “shall we get you something to eat?”

  Pia nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “All right, my darlings,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You need to play nicely for a few more minutes; then I’ll send Pia back up to fetch you.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Margaret said, pouting. She crossed her arms and made her way back to the table. Sophie followed, giving her big sister a comforting pat with a chubby hand.

  The sound of Leo crying drifted in through the door behind them. Mrs. Hudson hurried out of the playroom, padded along the hall, and slipped into the nursery. Pia followed and stood at the open door, not sure what to do. Mrs. Hudson scooped Leo up and whisked him out of the room, closing the door partway behind her.

  “Is Elizabeth awake too?” Pia whispered. “Do you need me to get her?”

  Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “I swear,” she whispered. “This child doesn’t like to eat or sleep.” She snuggled Leo against her shoulder and patted his back. He settled down and stopped whimpering. “Elizabeth, on the other hand, would sleep half the day if I let her. And, sadly, sometimes I do because I don’t have the energy for all four of them at once.” She sighed and started toward the stairs. “There are times when I feel like I’ll never have the energy to leave this house again. If I’m ever able to leave this house again.”

  Then she stopped and looked at Pia with miserable eyes. “I agree with my husband’s concerns, and I’d never do anything to risk the health of my children. I’m scared to death of the flu. But to tell you the truth, sometimes I worry I’ll never be able to have lunch with my friends again. Does that make me a terrible mother?”

  Pia shook her head, surprised by the confession and that Mrs. Hudson would care about her opinion. “I don’t think so, ma’am. My mother used to say the only time she got any rest was when my little brothers were sleeping, and the only time she felt sane was when she could go to the market alone.”

  Mrs. Hudson gave her a weak but grateful smile. “You know what? I’m starting to like your mother more and more. I bet we would have been fast friends.”

  “I’m sure you would have, ma’am,” Pia said, wondering if she would have felt the same way if she knew where Mutti was born.

  Back in the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson pulled a chair out from beneath the table, told Pia to sit, then stood rocking Leo gently back and forth. “Have you had much experience with young children?”

  Pia nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I worked in the baby ward at St. Vincent’s. And I...” She bit her lip to stop herself from mentioning her brothers, hating herself for becoming careless. “I liked it very much.”

  Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson seemed unaware of her hesitation. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I was afraid they’d sent someone who’d never handled babies before.” She moved closer and held Leo out to her. “I guess you might as well get to know each other.”

  Pia clenched her jaw and gathered the baby in her arms, tucking the blanket around his little legs. She forced a smile at Mrs. Hudson, then looked down at his tiny face, her heart pounding. He cooed and lifted one arm from beneath the blanket.

  “Oh, how precious,” Mrs. Hudson said, laughing. “He wants to hold your hand.”

  Pia couldn’t let Mrs. Hudson see her reluctance, so she let him wrap his tiny hand around her finger.

  “While you two get acquainted,” Mrs. Hudson said, “I’ll fix you something to eat. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Yes, please,” Pia said, trying to keep her voice steady as she waited to see if she’d feel anything strange. “Ma’am.”

  Mrs. Hudson scurried about the kitchen like a little bird, lighting the fire under the teakettle, reaching into cupboards for cups and saucers and plates, putting tea bags into cups. She took a loaf of bread from a drawer and began to unwrap it.

  “Today is a little different because I was surprised by your arrival,” she said. “But normally I like to stick to a strict schedule. Well, I had a better one before, when I had help. Now that you’re here, though, I’m determined to get back to it because the best thing for children is routine. The girls are to be woken up and dressed while Dr. Hudson and I have breakfast and read the paper; then you can bring them down to the kitchen to eat their morning meal. I’ll prepare all the food. After breakfast, they can play either upstairs or in the backyard, depending on the weather, of course, and then . . .”

  Pia tried to listen, but a strange sensation had come over her, as if she hadn’t eaten for days. She felt weak and a little shaky but couldn’t figure out why. Perhaps it was fatigue, or maybe she was hungrier than she thought. She’d been too upset to eat much of anything before she left St. Vincent’s. Then, with growing dismay, she realized the sensation was coming from Leo. He wasn’t sick, but he wasn’t as strong as he should have been either. Not for his age. Even orphan babies who’d been abandoned and half-starved felt stronger than he did. Maybe he was coming down with a cold, or perhaps he’d been born too early and was still catching up. She wanted to ask but didn’t think it was a good idea to pry into such personal matters. Not yet, anyway. She wrapped the blanket tighter around his little body and held him close, hoping it wasn’t anything serious.

  Mrs. Hudson returned to the table with a cup of hot tea and two slices of brown bread spread with marmalade. “Is this all right?” she said. “The bread is fresh this morning. I can warm up some leftover cream of spinach soup too, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you, ma’am,” Pia said. “This is plenty.”

  “Good,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I must tell you, I have little tolerance for picky eaters.”

  Pia almost laughed. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever had a slice of fresh bread spread with marmalade. When her family could afford bread, it was always two or three days old, purchased from a peddler who sold bakery leftovers. And they’d never had enough money for marmalade. Her last cup of tea was before Vater had left for the war, made from tea leaves that had already been used three times. The bread on the plate in front of her smelled delicious, all yeasty and warm, and the marmalade looked sugary and sweet. But how could she eat such wonderful food when she had no idea if her brothers were being fed, or even if they were alive? She didn’t deserve it.

  Mrs. Hudson put cream and sugar on the table, took the baby, and sat down across from her. For the first time since Pia’s arrival, Leo started to fuss. Mrs. Hudson kissed his forehead and bounced him gently up and down on her arm.

  “It’s almost time to nurse,” she said. She put the tip of her little finger in his mouth and he quieted down. “I just don’t seem to have as much milk for him as I had for the girls. Maybe it’s because he came right after Elizabeth.” She smiled and rubbed her nose softly against his. “But that’s all right because we couldn’t be happier to finally get our sweet little boy.”

  Pia sat with her hands in her lap, wishing she could be honest with the doting mother, who was smiling and oblivious to the fact that something might be wrong with her baby.

  As if sensing Pia’s discomfort, Mrs. Hudson said, “Please, go ahead and eat so I can get you settled.”

  Leo spit out her finger and started to whimper.

  Mrs. Hudson stood. “Oh dear,” she said. “It looks like you’ll have to excuse me for a few minutes. It’s the gosh-darnedest thing, he doesn’t nurse for very long, but he wants to eat quite often.”

  Pia pressed her lips together, her fear for Leo’s well-being growing.

  Mrs. Hudson nodded toward the stove. “Help yourself to more hot water if you’d like. And bread too. When I come back, I’l
l show you to your room.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Pia said.

  When Mrs. Hudson left the kitchen, Pia looked down at her plate, a sinking feeling in her stomach. Then she remembered Mrs. Hudson saying she didn’t tolerate picky eaters. She picked up a piece of bread with marmalade and took a bite. It had no taste.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PIA

  Sitting on opposite ends of the linen-covered table beneath a sparkling chandelier, Dr. and Mrs. Hudson made small talk between bites of roast beef and sips of wine. Pia sat next to Margaret, the oldest girl, and across from Sophie, trying to mimic the way the adults put their napkins in their lap and held their silverware. Elizabeth sat picking at her food in a wooden high chair beside her mother, and Leo lay swaddled in a cradle next to the fireplace. Behind Mrs. Hudson, platters of meat and barley biscuits lined the sideboard, along with bowls of carrots, peas, and scalloped potatoes. Pia had never seen so much food in her life.

  Chewing slowly on a small mouthful of biscuit, she couldn’t help but think about Ollie and Max—how they had known nothing but hunger since the day they were born; how she’d watered down broth and cut mold off of old bread to keep them alive; how they very well might have starved to death inside the bedroom cubby. Guilt tightened her throat and she could barely swallow. It didn’t help that Mrs. Hudson, after fixing her husband’s plate and cutting his meat while he watched with a mixture of irritation and embarrassment, had insisted on giving Pia extra servings. She was already struggling to eat what was in front of her, and every whimper from Leo set her on edge.

  Earlier that day, Mrs. Hudson had taken her upstairs to show her where she’d be sleeping, and between that and the staggering amount of food on her plate, she felt like she was in a foreign country. Having expected to stay in the servants’ quarters, which Mrs. Hudson had explained were only accessible by a separate staircase behind the pantry, Pia was surprised to be taken into a bedroom with a double poster bed made up with an eyelet quilt and flowered bed skirt, just down the hall from the nursery. A dark oak dresser sat between two wingback chairs below a tall window with tasseled curtains, and the rug felt as thick as a goose-down pillow beneath her feet.

  “There’s a closet too,” Mrs. Hudson said, hurrying around the foot of the bed to show her. “I’ve already hung up the rest of the clothes I found for you. I even dug out another pair of shoes that should fit.”

  Pia stood in the middle of the bedroom, stunned and embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said. “But I can’t stay in here.”

  Mrs. Hudson’s brows shot up. “Why on earth not?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I don’t need... I mean... it’s too fancy for me.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Hudson said. “No one else is using it. Plus, I can’t imagine what you went through in that orphanage. You deserve to be comfortable.” She slapped the quilt, raising a small cloud of dust, then smoothed it flat with both hands.

  “I appreciate it, ma’am,” Pia said. “I really do. But I don’t deserve anything.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could take them back.

  Mrs. Hudson waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Of course you do.” Then she looked at Pia with a furrowed brow, suddenly realizing the weight of her words. “Is that what they told you in that place? Well, they’re wrong. You deserve good food and a warm bed just as much as anyone else. If it makes you feel better, I want you to sleep here to be close to the children, and because you won’t be much use to me if you don’t get adequate rest.”

  Pia let out a silent sigh, relieved Mrs. Hudson hadn’t asked why she’d said such a thing. And being close to the children made sense. Not that she had a choice in the matter anyway. “All right, ma’am,” she said, “Thank you.”

  Now, sitting in the Hudsons’ fancy dining room and trying to eat to be polite, all she could think about was how little food the orphans at St. Vincent’s had, and how much longer she and her brothers could have survived on her plate of meat and vegetables alone. Finn was right when he said whatever situation you were born into was a matter of luck. But it didn’t seem right or fair that some had so little while others had more than they could ever need. If she and her brothers had access to even half the bounty on the sideboard, they could have lived on it for weeks. And she wouldn’t have had to leave them in the cubby.

  “Is the food to your liking, Pia?” Mrs. Hudson asked. She fed a spoonful of potatoes to Elizabeth, who opened up like a baby bird as soon as she saw the food coming.

  Pia wiped her mouth with her napkin, hoping no one noticed the tears in her eyes. “Yes, ma’am. It’s delicious. Thank you.”

  “No need to be shy,” Dr. Hudson said. “Eat up. I’m sure you didn’t get this kind of food in the orphanage.”

  “No, sir,” Pia said. “I didn’t.” She wanted to tell him about the thin stew and cold porridge she’d eaten day after day after day, but didn’t think it was a good idea. What could he do about it? Instead, she picked up her knife, cut a thin slice of meat off the massive slab on her plate, and put it in her mouth, hoping she’d be able to chew and swallow without choking.

  “What’s an orphanage?” Margaret said.

  “Never mind, Margaret,” Mrs. Hudson said. “It’s not anything you need to know about. Now sit up and eat your dinner, or there’s no dessert.” She fed Elizabeth a spoonful of carrots, then regarded her husband with a worried look. “Have you heard anything? Do you have any idea how long it will be before... you know... things start getting better?”

  Dr. Hudson took a long sip of wine and set his glass back down, his forehead furrowed. “They’re fairly certain a third wave has started. And this February cold keeps everyone inside buildings and crammed together on trolleys, which doesn’t help.”

  Mrs. Hudson put down Elizabeth’s spoon, pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, darling,” Dr. Hudson said. “I know it’s difficult staying cooped up in the house all the time. But it’s for the best. We have everything we need right here, and anything we don’t have, we can get delivered. You’d never forgive yourself if one of the children got sick.”

  Mrs. Hudson sniffed and wiped her nose. “Of course, you’re right. I’m worried more than anything. I just wish you’d stop seeing patients again. At least for a little while.”

  “Tato,” Elizabeth said, patting the wooden tray of her high chair. “Tato.”

  Mrs. Hudson fed her another spoonful of potatoes, still blinking back tears.

  “I understand,” Dr. Hudson said. “But I have to do my part, even if I can’t do everything I used to do.” He glanced at the stub of his arm, irritated, then looked at his wife again. “We all have to make sacrifices right now. And we need the money, remember?”

  Mrs. Hudson stuffed the handkerchief back in her sleeve with trembling fingers. “Of course, dear,” she said. “It just makes things more difficult worrying about that too, that’s all.”

  “I know,” Dr. Hudson said. “But as I assured you, if anyone comes in presenting with symptoms, I won’t come into the house until I’m sure I haven’t been infected.”

  Mrs. Hudson held his gaze for a long moment, nearly vibrating with nerves. “But if you do get infected...” She paused and dropped her eyes, fidgeting with her napkin. “It was hard enough worrying about you during the war, and now this—”

  “What’s infected?” Margaret said.

  “It’s not anything you need to worry about, sweetheart,” Dr. Hudson said.

  “Daddy’s right,” Mrs. Hudson said. “You don’t need to fret about a thing.” She picked up Elizabeth’s spoon again, her face pinched, and went back to feeding her youngest daughter.

  Dr. Hudson regarded Pia. “‘Not leaving the house’ includes you too, Pia. We still don’t understand why this particular flu is so virulent, or how it’s spread. And we don’t know if surviving it means you can’t get sick again. My guess is you aren’t apt
to, but we can’t be one hundred percent sure. So we can’t allow you to take the children to the park, or anywhere else, for that matter, until this latest wave has passed completely. If the weather is fair, they can play in the back garden for a little while, but they’re not to set foot outside the fence.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pia said. The news that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave was no surprise, but it sounded like she might be able to eventually. When the time came, if it came, searching for her brothers with the children in tow would be difficult, if not impossible, but it was better than nothing. And right now she was grasping at any straw.

  After a dessert of cranberry tapioca was served and eaten, Mrs. Hudson stood and clapped her hands. “Come along now, girls,” she said. “You too, Pia. It’s time to get ready for bed.”

  Nerves tightened Pia’s overly full stomach, making it ache even more. Getting the girls ready for bed meant touching them—helping them change into their nightclothes, washing their faces, and brushing their hair. But she had no choice. Taking care of them was why she was there. She got up from her chair and pushed it beneath the table.

  Mrs. Hudson wiped Elizabeth’s face and took her out of her high chair. Elizabeth reached toward Leo’s cradle with one arm, her hand opening and closing.

  “Eo,” she said. “Want Eo.”

  “Not right now, my darling love,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Daddy will bring Leo upstairs in a little bit.”

  Sophie, the middle girl, padded over to her father, stood on her tiptoes to kiss him good night, then started out of the room. Margaret slumped in her chair, pouting and pushing her leftover peas around with her fork.

  “You too, Margaret,” Dr. Hudson said.

  “But I’m not tired,” Margaret whined.

  “Listen to your father now,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I need you to help me teach Pia our bedtime routine.”

  With that, Margaret perked up and put down her fork. “Do I get to pick the bedtime story?”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Hudson said. “And I’m sure Pia would be happy to read it to you.”