Anna's Refuge

by Kerryn Reid

  At least the children showed snatches of curiosity or mischief. The adults had nothing but apathy or resentment. Anna looked not much different from that young mother over there, uniformed like all the rest, her eyes vacant and shoulders hunched in hopelessness. She folded sheets with a tot sniveling at her knees and an infant besides, wrapped up against the cold, asleep in a plain wooden crate. What hateful circumstance had brought her to this pass? Something like Anna’s own, perhaps.

  Lewis’s teeth and lips clenched tight, his innards seethed with bitterness. Against Gideon and Anna, her parents and his own. Against Sir John for insisting, back in London, that Gideon’s flirtations would cause no lasting harm. Against himself, and Cassie too, for not seeing what was in front of them.

  “How do they get out of here?” he asked. “Children and adults alike?”

  “The wool and linen mills take the largest number of our inmates, get them on their feet to earn an independent living. Children included.”

  Lewis grunted. “Not much of a childhood. How young do they start?”

  “Eight or nine, sometimes younger.” He pictured Kate Redfern going off to make her living as a mill girl instead of playing with a wooden sword.

  Brumbage pulled open a door into the next building. “I know what you’re thinking. I have children myself; my son turns eight come February. But there are always a dozen more needing a place, and a child’s wages can help lift a whole family out of here.”

  They passed a windowless classroom filled to overflowing with youngsters, lined up on benches in their gray-and-white uniforms. “We teach them all some skills if they stay long enough,” said Brumbage. “A bit of reading, signing their names, some arithmetic. If a lad shows a particular talent with numbers or letters, we’ll try to find him an apprenticeship that makes use of it.”

  “And here are the little ones.” The master’s smile brought warmth to his voice as a couple of tots attached themselves to his legs. Another dozen or so scampered around the small room or played with a paltry assortment of mismatched blocks and broken toys. The place smelled of shit and urine and sour milk. Every nose needed wiping, every head needed a comb. The only light came from an oil lamp hanging high on the wall, out of reach of little hands. Did these children ever see the sky? Sunshine, grass, a tree? Did they ever feel the rain?

  Lewis followed Brumbage through a darkened doorway into a dungeon of a room. A lamp burned low on a table in the far corner. Between that and the doorway, twelve or fifteen rough-hewn cribs and cradles stood in ranks on the bare stone floor. The walls had once been whitewashed, but not in recent memory. No chains dangled from the walls, but it could easily have served as a prison. The coldest room in the building seemed an odd place to install its most vulnerable residents.

  The cradles held the tiniest ones, swaddled in coarse woolen blankets. No arms, no legs, just bundled shapes with faces in the appropriate place. Some eyes were open, some closed. A muffled coo came from one little mouth, a whimper from another.

  The older infants were swaddled too. He had no knowledge of childrearing, but surely it was unnatural to keep them so confined. Certainly it was not the Redferns’ way. Would Toby be quiet if he were swaddled? Lewis thought he’d be livid!

  A chill crept up his spine, sending gooseflesh down his arms and erupting from the nape of his neck in a shudder of…cold? He started to sweat.

  The place was like a crypt, these bundles like baby corpses laid out in their shrouds. Lewis’s breathing echoed off the cold stone, harsh and ragged. His heart pounded as though he’d just run to Wrackwater Bridge and back.

  He rushed through the outer nursery and into the corridor beyond. His ears did not stop ringing until he reached the main hall, where he waited for Brumbage. He must apologize, and pretend to be grateful for the tour.

  He had certainly learned something. The workhouse was not an option.

  Lewis trudged back to the Rose and Crown in the late afternoon twilight, beyond curses, beyond useful thought. His mind floated among images old and new, ideas sensible and insane, seeking order in the chaos. Like bits of colored paper he was charged with assembling into a mosaic of something recognizable, or individual letters that would create words, sentences, solutions—If only he could figure out which ones went where. In all this cocked-up mess with Anna, where should he begin?

  Gideon was to blame, and God damn him for it. Gideon should bear the responsibility and the suffering. Since God had not made the necessary arrangements, Lewis must fit that into the puzzle along with everything else.

  Chapter 29

  Anna didn’t look up when the knock sounded. It was all she could do to choke down her bread and butter, with the baby occupying the space where her stomach used to be. No doubt the caller would be Mrs. Stritch from down the hall, come to gab. Mrs. Stritch could gab the bray out of a donkey, as Putnam said. As soon as Anna won the war against breakfast, she would go to her room and leave them to it.

  Lewis’s voice shocked her into immobility, her mouth full. The way he’d bolted yesterday without his hat, barely observing the basic courtesies, she’d thought he was gone for good.

  She had revealed far too much yesterday. How was she to maintain the façade she needed under that keen, solicitous gaze of his? She didn’t need him, didn’t want him…except during the night. Then—oh, then what she would give to feel his strong arm about her shoulders, listen to him tell her all would be well.

  She passed him by without a look or a word and disappeared into her bedchamber. She must have time to buttress the wall she’d built to protect herself from the inevitable conclusion of this whole sordid affair.

  But Putnam followed her in, fussing with Anna’s hair, busying herself with the blankets. All completely unnecessary. “Get in there now and talk to him.”

  Anna pulled in a few deep breaths and schooled her expression into the mask that served her well enough. Except when it mattered most.

  Lewis stood by the window as she entered the parlor, frowning down at an open page in Childe Harold.

  “You do not approve of my reading choices?” Her tone of voice hit just the right note to deflect sympathy, strident and jarring. She sounded like her mother—a ghastly thought.

  He stared at her in surprise. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove. I’ve not read it myself, and even if I had, I wouldn’t presume to dictate what you should read.”

  “Humph. In all yesterday’s excitement, I never got the second volume from the library.”

  She made her clumsy way to the table and carried her plate and knife to the shelves where they kept their little stock of food and utensils. So far from embarrassment at her living conditions, today she was ready to flaunt them, make him sorry he ever befriended such an ugly, disgusting harlot. Because she did need him, and she hated him for that. Lewis Aubrey was the last man in England she could turn to as her Samaritan.

  He cleared his throat and went on, ignoring her pettiness. “Byron would be a welcome change from my recent reading. I’ve spent the past few months catching up on some of the studies I missed. History and philosophy, mostly. Giving my Latin some exercise.”

  “How nice for you.” She gave him a very artificial smile indeed, not even pretending interest or pleasure. “I, on the other hand, have wasted every possible minute on poetry and novels. Exercising my desire to escape reality.”

  He plowed the fingers of one hand through his hair. “God, Anna. I’m sorry.”

  She thumped down into one of the hard chairs by the table. The fire burned bright and hot at the other side of the room—she would rather be cold. It was his coal. He had brought food this morning, too, food she would not eat. She carried his brother’s child, for heaven’s sake! Why was he not miles away from here?

  He sat across from her and leaned forward, his arms resting on the little deal table. It thudded down onto its short leg and he jerked away, scowling as he rocked it to and fro to make sure it was not about to fall apart. In the end, he sat
isfied himself with resting one fist on its unvarnished surface. She could see the muscles in his jaw working.

  “This is ridiculous. I want to move you into suitable accommodations. I’ve not had a chance to explore the options, but—”

  “No.”

  “This place is a sty, Anna! There are rats in the alley and cockroaches in the stairwell. This isn’t where you belong.”

  “There are rats and cockroaches in the best neighborhoods of London, Mr. Aubrey.” She jabbed her finger at the tabletop. “This is precisely where I belong. It’s cheap.”

  “I can help, sweetheart. Let me—” He leaned forward again as he spoke and the table did what it always did. “Damnation!”

  “I won’t leave this place.” Dear God, does he know he called me sweetheart?

  “Why not, for heaven’s sake? You won’t persuade me you like it here.”

  “It suits us. Putnam’s cousin takes care of us.” She tried to sound calm. “Besides, I’m… It’s too late. The baby…” Her voice quavered, tears building behind her eyes. She clamped her lips shut.

  Putnam spoke from the bedroom doorway. “I fear I must agree with Anna, sir. We leave come February. There’s no call to pay five times the price for something very little better. Plus the inconvenience of hauling everything.” She swung the kettle over the fire.

  “Do you have so much then? A couple of trunks and a few bandboxes?” He sounded incredulous, as well he might. The actual count was one trunk, two boxes. “That’s easily managed. A matter of sixpence to some burly fellow out in the street.”

  Moving toward them, Putnam continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “And then, sir, the babe could arrive at any time. The midwife lives on the floor below. We’ve met her, she knows what to expect.”

  Lewis jumped up, his chair scraping across the floorboards. He paced to and fro, his hands mauling each other behind his back. “I should hope so, if she’s a midwife! Is she good enough, ma’am? Is she experienced? Has Anna seen a physician? I’m not sure I like the way you and your precious cousin are taking care of her. Walking all over town on the ice! Things can go wrong, did you know? Princess Charlotte died in childbed last month, and she had the best doctors in the land.” Beneath the caustic mockery, so unlike him, he sounded frightened.

  Anna stared at him. He turned toward her and she looked down, but not quickly enough. He must have seen her quivering chin, her welling eyes. She could use a champion like that, if only it weren’t him.

  “Anna.” He came to squat by her side, one hand on the chair back, the other on her knee. His voice quivered too. “Anna, I only want to keep you safe.”

  Blessedly, the fury returned, banishing the tears. She knocked his hands away, nearly dropping him on his backside as she forced her unwieldy body to its feet.

  “That’s not your job, Mr. Aubrey. What do you know about childbirth?” Damn it, she was shaking. “Do you think I don’t know every single thing that can go wrong? Do you think I haven’t heard stories that would make the devil’s blood run cold? Do you think I don’t have nightmares?”

  He reached out an arm. She slapped it away. “Don’t touch me. And don’t call me sweetheart!”

  His eyes grew wide in a face flushed with embarrassment. As she suspected, he had said it without even noticing. A rote, meaningless calmative, condescending male to hysterical female. Either that, or he was so accustomed to thinking of her that way, it had slipped out without conscious intent. She hoped it was the former—that would justify her anger. But oh, she wished it could be the latter!

  “Anna!” Putnam scolded.

  There was hurt in his eyes, and then shutters came down to hide all expression. “If you tell me the midwife is all you need, I’ll have to accept that. As you say, I know nothing about it.” His voice was quiet, but she could hear the quiver of tension like a thread pulled taut.

  “Putnam,” Anna said, “get Mr. Aubrey his things. Don’t forget the hat.” Putnam did not move.

  Lewis watched her, bleak and brooding. He sighed and turned away, those hands at work again behind his back. “I’m afraid there’s more.”

  Anna caught up with him. She clutched his sleeve, her hand so white it might have been marble. “Lewis, please go. There’s no solution to this disaster. You can only make it worse.” Her pale, pleading face broke his heart. He drove a nail through the two halves to hold it together until he finished.

  “I’m sorry. There’s something else, and it’s the most difficult of all.”

  The spirit she’d shown all morning seemed to evaporate, that determination to best him in every suit. It drove him mad, yet he admired her for it. Was she fighting him, or her own fears?

  Lewis moved his right hand to cover hers. It felt like ice. “Come, let’s sit by the fire.”

  “Goodness yes,” Putnam said. “All that coal you sent over, going to waste.” China and utensils clattered as she loaded a tray.

  Lewis led Anna to the fireside, aiming for the sofa where they’d sat the day before. She resisted, choosing the side chair. Keeping him at a distance. He tightened his jaw and sat on the sofa without her. Remember, she’s not yours and never will be.

  Putnam poured hot water into the teapot and returned to the table to get the tray of cups and spoons. She stood tense and anxious, wringing her hands and biting her lip, her gaze on Lewis as though he might work some magic.

  “Please sit down, Putnam. Your role in this is far more important than mine.”

  Anna rocked back and forth in that hard chair, cradling the hot cup in her hands. Lewis took a sip from his own and then set it down, clearing his throat.

  “I can hardly comprehend it, but Putnam tells me your parents refuse to take the child in. Is that true, Anna?”

  She nodded, never raising her eyes.

  He rose and paced some more, along the narrow walkway in front of the fire, around the sofa and back again. One question at a time.

  “Do you believe them? If you climbed down from the carriage with the babe in your arms, are you persuaded they would turn you both away?”

  Anna rocked. He’d about given up on a response when she spoke.

  “Mama might not. But my…” She shook her head, apparently at a loss.

  “Mr. Spain is an arse,” Putnam declared, nodding once for emphasis. “Though God strike me dead for saying so.”

  Lewis smiled a little. “I think we need some truth-telling today. You may say the same of my father, and I’ll applaud you.”

  Passing behind Anna’s chair, he stopped and rested a hand on her shoulder. She went still. “Gideon didn’t fall far from the tree. You and I, Anna, are misfits. Cassie and Jack used to say I must be a changeling, left by the fairies.”

  Her teacup nestled between her hands, though it was surely cold by now. Say something, Anna! But she did not, and after a moment he moved on in his little circuit, faster now. Time to finish off this scene of torment.

  “So tell me, Anna.” His voice sounded harsh. He tried to soften it. The words must be said—no need to make it worse than it had to be. “Tell me what you plan to do.”

  She looked up at last and locked her gaze with his, stopping him in his tracks. Her color was a bit better here in the warmth, but her eyes were a wall of glass, cold and impenetrable.

  Only a moment she held his gaze before her lids came down. “I don’t see that I have any choice.”

  Putnam gave him a shrug and a grimace.

  “There are always choices, Anna.” Lewis resumed his pacing, desperate now. “They may be unpalatable, but there are always choices. Surely you would not leave a babe-in-arms to the mercy of the workhouse! I visited there yesterday and…” Assailed by the image of those little shrouded bodies awaiting death, he halted and pressed his palms over his eyes to blot it out. Scraping his hands down his cheeks and fisting them by his sides, he rasped, “You can’t do it.”

  Anna heaved herself to her feet. “What gives you the authority to dictate what I can and cannot do? You st
and there so self-righteous, a man with money in his pockets and a nearly endless list of ways you can earn a living if you need to. My father has disowned me and unlike you, I have no wealthy uncle to leave me even a shilling. What would you have me do? I can’t sew a hem, and I hardly know one dratted end of a Yorkshire sheep from the other. Shall I clean fireplaces, perhaps? Or go to work in the flax mills? Tell me, Mr. High-and-Mighty Aubrey, what shall I do?”

  Lewis stared at her, bewitched. Fury had put color in her cheeks, sparkle in her eyes, life in her voice. So bright, so vivid! Joy would be better than rage, especially since it was directed at him. But even rage was better than mute acceptance.

  No doubt she would feel vindicated to hear that all those occupations had occurred to him—except the sheep farmer—and he’d eliminated all of them out of hand. Anna would not survive a year in the mills.

  “There, there, now.” Putnam stepped forward as Anna drooped. “Shall I get the vinaigrette?”

  Before she finished speaking, Lewis was at Anna’s side. He took her hands and lowered her onto her chair. “Of course no one expects you to do those things, Anna.” He sat at the end of the sofa, where he could maintain his hold on her hands and her attention. “But what if we could find you genteel employment? There must be many gentlewomen, ruined by one circumstance or another, who manage to make ends meet. Perhaps Lady Wedbury or some other lady of my acquaintance knows someone who needs a companion? Such a position would provide room and board, perhaps a clothing allowance. Or a governess. You wouldn’t need much in the way of wages to…”

  At first, she gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Then she shook her head until he stopped talking. “Not with a child in tow, Lewis. No one would hire a companion eighteen years of age with an infant in her arms. Even less a governess.”