The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga)

by Nicola Thorne

  She presided over a spotless kitchen where the frugal food was prepared. It was thought that if the inmates were nourished too well none of them would wish to leave, so the fare, though nutritious, was basic: broth, bread and milk, vegetables and chicken or meat on Sundays.

  Mrs Bland was an efficient administrator. She also didn’t like to allow the mothers to keep their babies too long in case they formed an attachment to them. Sometimes, if the baby was sickly, the orphanage would not have it, so an undersized and undernourished baby stayed with its mother until, rather as an animal destined for the slaughterhouse, it was fit for the orphanage.

  There were no such qualms about the baby Nelly had called Alexander. It seemed a fine name for a baby, to offer him a chance in a life where the cards were stacked against him.

  Perhaps not surprisingly, seeing that his father was a robust man, Alexander weighed in with an additional advantage: he was a big, sturdy baby. He also had an extrovert personality and a bewitching smile. Given even half a chance, he appeared to exude the confidence that would take him far in life.

  Mrs Bland had never shown any special fondness for babies. Perhaps it was just as well, since having to give away so many to an uncertain future might have been distressing for someone with more delicate sensibilities. To her, babies were a commodity, an unfortunate by-product of the inhabitants of her home, most of whom were there, in her opinion, entirely through their own fault.

  Before they left, she would always lecture her girls on saying ‘No’ to the demands of a man; but it was a plea that invariably landed on deaf ears. Sometimes, without any means or prospects, the girls went from the Frances Roper straight back onto the streets, and within eight months they were back again, awaiting yet another birth.

  Mrs Bland stood beside Alexander’s crib with a notebook in one hand, a pencil in the other.

  ‘He is now ten pounds,’ she wrote. ‘That will give him a good start in life. Did you give him a name yet, Nelly?’

  ‘Alexander,’ Nelly said defiantly. It was a far cry from the names the girls usually gave their babies, if they took the trouble to name them at all.

  Mrs Bland frowned.

  ‘That’s quite a mouthful, Nelly. How about Sam, or ...’

  ‘Alexander,’ Nelly repeated. ‘That is ‘is name.’

  ‘Well, it can always be changed, and he’s such a nice baby, so well-proportioned, he’s sure to find a good home.’

  Mrs Bland carefully made another note in her book, as though the matter was settled.

  ‘I would like to keep the baby, mum,’ Nelly said breathlessly. ‘I’ve grown fond of ‘im.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Nell.’ Mrs Bland went on writing.

  ‘I really mean it.’

  ‘That Massie has been getting at you, hasn’t she?’ Mrs Bland turned wrathfully around as though to pinpoint the corrupting influence. Whenever there was trouble, Massie was behind it. The next time she sought admission to the home – and there would be a next time, that was for sure – Mrs Bland would try and have her turned away.

  ‘Massie has nothing to do with it, madam,’ Nelly said stubbornly. (They always had to address Mrs Bland as though she were an employer.) ‘I only made up me mind today, ‘e’s such a darling.’

  ‘Then unmake it, Nelly,’ Mrs Bland said firmly. ‘Or else I am afraid that next time you seek admittance here, it will be refused.’

  Nelly passed a finger across her nostrils and sniffed.

  ‘There will be no next time, madam ... I intend to keep meself clean.’

  ‘And what will you do with your baby?’ Mrs Bland was a portly woman, ample-bosomed and full-hipped. She wore her hair in a bun, and a pince-nez perched on the tip of her nose. She enjoyed her reputation as a person feared rather than loved; it also protected her from involvement with the inmates, many of whom were looking for a mother.

  ‘I hope to go into service, madam,’ Nelly, who had none of the cheek of Massie, said humbly. ‘A good position in the country, maybe.’

  ‘You will be extremely fortunate if that is the case,’ Mrs Bland sniffed. ‘I know of no one who would, in any circumstances, take in a serving-maid with a child.’ Suddenly and unexpectedly, her features softened, and she put a hand on the young girl’s head. ‘Everyone knows it is sad to give up a baby, Nelly; but Alexander is as bright as a button, you can see that. If you allow it, he would seem to have every chance of life, given the unfortunate circumstances of his birth. He may even be only a few months in the orphanage before some lady of refinement and breeding, unable to have children of her own, sees him. Who knows ... ?’

  Mrs Bland raised a podgy hand in the air as though to suggest that Alexander’s future knew no bounds.

  At that moment Nelly had an idea. Something Mrs Bland had said: a lady of breeding and refinement ... Carson had told her about such a person, a compassionate woman who had been unable to have children of her own. Once he had taken her to the very house in which she lived.

  Well, it was worth a try. At least that way she would know that Alexander had a future and, one day perhaps, she might even see him again.

  That night she told Massie of her plan, but her stalwart friend was dubious.

  ‘It’s true that I can’t keep ‘im,’ Nelly sniffed loudly. ‘He would die of cold in the streets. I love him too much, Massie, and, one day, I may get him back ...’

  ‘But how do you know she’ll keep him?’ Massie gnawed at a fingernail, torn between her doubts and a desire to help her new friend.

  ‘If she don’t, she won’t fling him back on the streets. Surely she’ll have him on her conscience and see that he has a home somewhere else? At least I’ll know what’s become of him.’

  But Massie wasn’t sure. She was touched by such sentiment, having had three babies of her own and allowed them to be taken away without the least idea of what would become of them.

  Because of Nelly’s obvious reluctance to part with her baby, Mrs Bland decided to hurry up the formalities for his removal to the orphanage. She had seen girls who tried to cling after their time was up, during which they usually breast-fed their babies to save the cost of milk. It was always a sad, unnerving experience, even to one as cushioned to the misfortunes of others as she was. They cried, they clung, the babies had almost to be wrenched out of their hands. Everyone suffered, and those who were next in line to give up their babies seemed to develop doubts too. It affected morale.

  Mrs Bland accordingly made arrangements for an official to come from the orphanage the following day and take Alexander away.

  But Nelly, too, had laid her plans, aided by Massie, who knew that if a girl said she would like to keep her baby, it mysteriously disappeared, was whisked away without the girl’s knowledge. She would be given some task in the kitchen, kept well out of sight, and when she went up to feed her baby later in the day, it would have gone. That was the time of weeping, and easing of painful breasts overflowing with milk that would never be needed.

  Massie desperately wanted to keep Nelly as her friend. It was lonely on the streets, lonely and dangerous, and Nelly seemed to have a little more spirit in her than most of the girls she met in the home. In some oddly indefinable way, Nelly was a cut above the rest.

  Besides, Nelly talked about going away, maybe to the country, maybe to Dorset, where some day she might find Carson. Maybe, who knew, she might even see Alexander again?

  That night Nelly held Alexander closely to her breast as she fed him. She had so much milk that as the baby gorged on her nipple, the milk dribbled from the sides of his little mouth. He gazed at her with such lazy contentment that the thought of parting from him brought tears to her eyes. But she had to. She had no choice. Massie had heard through the home grapevine that the man from the orphanage was due the following day. He was rather a cruel-looking man, chosen no doubt because of the unpleasant job he had to do, and no one liked him. He usually arrived in a carriage, with a woman who whisked the baby out of its crib, wrapped it in a blanket, and
then they were gone.

  Frequently the hapless mother ran after the carriage for some time, crying piteously, her hands flung out despairingly towards it. Sometimes the mothers leaned out of the window, helplessly watching until the carriage was out of sight or, sometimes, they just lay inert on their beds for days, clutching the sheet or blanket or pathetic piece of rag that was associated with the baby.

  It was true that Alexander was such a bonnie, sturdy, thriving baby he would have every chance in life, provided he was given one. But a life with Nelly and Massie on the streets would mean he had none at all; he would frequently have to be left alone, totally deprived of the security of mother and home.

  After she fed him, Nelly lay on her bed cuddling him, trying as hard as she could to impart to him the love of a mother he might never see again. If only she could tell him how she felt, why she was doing what she was doing.

  Eventually, worn out, she dozed off until Massie roused her. She already had her coat on, and in her hand was the large linen bag she had stolen from the market the day before and in which they would carry the baby.

  Nelly began to weep, to cling to Alexander, until with gentle fingers Massie prised him from her, wrapping him in his blanket and carefully placing him in the bag.

  Nelly had already put her few pathetic possessions in a bundle and, with a farewell look round the corner of the dormitory which had been her home for several months, she tiptoed along the floor, being careful not to disturb the slumbering girls who, worn out by their labours, slept like the dead.

  Massie was waiting for her at the top of the staircase leading to the kitchen and, each taking a handle of the bag, the two women tiptoed downstairs as quickly as they could. Their main fear was that Alexander would start to cry or whimper, but he seemed to know his fate depended on his silence, and not a sound emerged.

  Once in the kitchen, they swiftly crossed the floor, turned the iron key in the lock and arrived in the backyard, which gave onto a maze of streets leading to the main road from Clerkenwell to the West End, the smart part of London for which they were aiming.

  Then, with grim purpose, they began to stride steadily along the almost deserted streets in which only stray dogs or alley-cats prowled.

  Roberts had been with Prosper Martyn before he and Lally were married. He had been engaged as under-footman and progressed to under-butler and, finally, butler.

  He was devoted to his employers. He saw himself as the captain of a ship, ensuring that everything ran smoothly; and the staff were treated rather like a complement of sailors from whom instant obedience was expected.

  Roger was less devoted to Roberts who, almost from his arrival in the house as nothing better than a street-urchin, had treated him with a certain arrogance and superciliousness that Roger deeply resented. The further away he got from his origins the less he wanted people to know about them, and Roberts was a constant reminder.

  Roberts had never married, thinking it would interfere with his duties to his employers. He accompanied them to the country, where he ran the Dorset house as expertly as the one in Montagu Square, striking terror into the hearts of all who worked there. The easy-going staff were quite unused to the draconian measures adopted by Roberts and, if he stayed too long, one or two of them left. Occasionally Roberts formed an attachment to one of the maids in the employ of the Martyns, but it was only in order to satisfy his lust. Not one had ever yet succeeded in capturing his heart.

  Roberts was always first up in the morning so that he could check on the other members of staff, and woe betide any who were a second late starting their duties. Woe betide any maid, footman, or under-footman, houseboy or tweeny who didn’t start work on time. As soon as they came into the servants’ hall, Roberts was there by the door with his large timepiece in his hand, checking them all in.

  As usual Roberts had arisen just as the faint blush of dawn appeared on the horizon over Hyde Park. He would watch it from the attic bedroom which had been his home for so many years. He imagined he could see the tops of the highest trees in the park, waving slightly in the breeze, and he would lean on the parapet outside his window to enjoy for a moment communion with nature. This was the soft underbelly of Roberts, the only moment that indicated he had anything like a soul. He seemed to fill his lungs with air, and pretend it gave him a good start to the day.

  Roberts, standing by the window in his nightshirt, flung the window open and, as was customary, craned over the parapet to view the day and inhale his measure of fresh air. The square was deserted. He knew that he was, invariably, the first riser, and not even a lazy cat lurked under the trees or a cheeky blackbird on top of them.

  Suddenly his eyes were riveted by an object on the immaculately-kept steps of the Martyns’ house, and Roberts, slightly horrified, leaned as far forward as he could to see what it was.

  He literally could not believe his eyes. He flung his dressing gown over his nightshirt and ran all the way down the back stairs. He emerged by the green baize door which led into the still deserted servants’ hall in the basement.

  Unlocking the back door, Roberts ran lightly up the steps to the pavement, where he peered at the bundle lying on the bottom step.

  Cautiously, he bent down to inspect it closer. Suddenly the bundle moved and started to cry.

  ‘“Alexander”,’ Lally said, reading the note pinned to the blanket which had covered the child. ‘“I know as how you are a good wimmin and will look after him.”’

  They were in a state of alarm, summoned from their beds by Roberts on a matter of urgency. They were to leave for the Continent that day on a train, mixing as usual business and pleasure, and the shock of being aroused from a deep sleep to be confronted by a baby abandoned on the doorstep, was considerable.

  Certainly he was a beautiful baby, and he smiled winsomely up at Lally, stretching his tiny fists towards her as though he found her captivating. It was hard not to fall in love with him instantly.

  ‘He is a darling,’ Lally cooed and, with an involuntary smile, took his tiny clenched fist in her hand. ‘But why leave him here?’

  ‘And how do they know us?’ Prosper was gaping at the ill-written note. ‘“I know as how you are a good wimmin...” How do they know you, Lally dearest?’

  Lally was obviously mystified, but her attention was concentrated on Alexander, by whom she was clearly captivated. Roger, having inspected the baby with an air of indifference, sat with crossed legs in a chair, smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Sheer chance, Uncle,’ he said. ‘Most houses in this square will be presided over by a “wimmin”.’

  ‘But why pick on us?’ Lally removed her eyes from the baby to look at Roger.

  Roger yawned. It was an awful time to be got out of bed. ‘Well, it need not detain us long, Aunt. You must call the police and get rid of it.’

  ‘Oh Roger...’ Lally was by now down on her knees, cooing at the tiny thing, who was still half in and half out of the cheap bag in which he had been bundled.

  ‘Now, Lally.’ Prosper wearily ran a hand over his tired face. ‘Don’t think of anything absurd ...’

  ‘You’re surely not thinking of keeping it?’ Roger, with an incredulous laugh, got to his feet. ‘Whatever would the Hills say?’

  Oh yes, that was important. With the date of the wedding fixed, one had to be careful of the Hills.

  ‘Oh I never thought of keeping ...’ Lally’s voice trailed off as she gazed at Roger, and she could recall, as if it were yesterday, the day she parted with her own baby, the almost indefinable sense of desolation and loss. Also of shame and indignation that it was a thing she had to do.

  And she had known where her baby was to go. Her heart went out to the unknown mother who had been forced to such an act of desperation as this.

  In time she had got over the intense emotion of the moment in the effort of staying alive, but now she could recall the experience so vividly that it became exactly like a physical pain.

  ‘Roberts, go and telephone the pol
ice,’ Prosper ordered.

  ‘Oh, no ...’ Lally put out her hand. ‘May we just not keep him for a little while, dearest? He must be hungry.’

  ‘Aunt, don’t be absurd.’ Roger impatiently stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You could be accused of kidnapping. At least you must report it.’ He looked at Lally and gave her a curious, again almost incredulous smile. ‘Aunt Lally, I honestly do believe you would like to keep the little thing.’

  The policeman was dumbfounded. A baby abandoned on the doorstep of a police station, a hospital, or some other institution, was not uncommon; but a private house in the best part of London ...

  ‘And you have no idea how the little creature came to be here, madam?’ The policeman scratched his head.

  ‘Of course we have no idea.’

  Prosper, now bathed, shaved, dressed and breakfasted, felt more civilised, but his irritation remained. They were due to depart by the boat-train from Victoria in the early evening.

  ‘Please remove this child, officer, and do ... whatever it is you have to do. It has absolutely nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Or you, sir?’ The policeman turned to Roger, now dressed in his grey business-suit, with grey spats over his polished black shoes.

  ‘Of course it has nothing to do with me.’ Roger got indignantly to his feet. ‘I am engaged to be married and my fiancée is a lady of impeccable virtue.’

  ‘What a thing to suggest.’ Prosper’s face was like a thundercloud. ‘Your superior will hear about this.’

  ‘I am not suggesting anything, sir,’ the officer said quickly. Then he scratched his head again. ‘’Tis a fair muddle. Well ... I’ll inform the authorities and have them arrange to collect him.’

  ‘And what will happen to him?’ Lally asked with a catch in her voice.

  ‘Why, madam,’ the policeman explained patiently, ‘what happens to his class of person, unwanted, abandoned, found in unfortunate circumstances. He will be taken to an institution, a foundlings’ home or suchlike ... poor little beggar.’ The constable gazed sadly at the waif who, as though sensing his imminent danger, made a play for him.