‘Her name is Eliza Smith,’ Doctor Mead said.
‘And how old is she?’
‘She is in her mid-twenties.’
I raised an eyebrow. ‘How did you meet her?’
Doctor Mead shifted in his seat and I poured us more tea. ‘This is the delicate part. She is, shall we say, a patient,’ he said.
I looked at him. ‘An unmarried nursemaid can afford the fees of a Bloomsbury doctor?’
‘Her circumstances are extraordinary.’
‘Ah.’ I understood. He would not, of course, say that she was one of the unmarried mothers he had met at the Foundling Hospital, with an illegitimate child. Asking him would require him either to lie or else make known a shameful truth. I had long known that it was in his nature to help people, as if they were birds fallen from their nests, cared for in boxes by the stove. I looked to my parents. Mother’s face was encouraging, Father’s inquisitive.
There was a knock at the door, and I heard Agnes on the landing: ‘Dinner is served, madam.’
‘All I ask is that you meet her,’ said Doctor Mead.
I rose from my seat and he did the same, but instead of going to the door, I went to stand at the window. There was nobody much about, and the weak light looked as though it was ready to retire. A crossing sweeper completed one length of the street and disappeared, and two well-dressed gentlemen in frock coats let themselves in at number 40. The curtains had been closed at 28, directly opposite, likely to keep out the chill.
‘Then I will meet her,’ I said, turning my head a quarter of the way. ‘You may bring her here this week, on a day that suits me. Have you told her about me?’
‘About you, Mrs Callard?’
‘You know what I mean. Not many young women would wish to be confined to such a modest house, day and night.’
I felt him move closer to me, but kept my eyes on the bricks opposite. The space between us grew smaller.
‘Perhaps . . .’ he said, and then, more quietly ‘. . . perhaps she might take Charlotte out to the squares and parks. Many nursemaids and their charges—’
‘Charlotte does not leave this house, therefore neither will she. She may have a half-day off per month. If those terms suit her, by all means I will meet her to judge her suitability for the position. If not, there is no position. Now, let’s not keep Maria’s lamb waiting.’
CHAPTER 9
On a cold, foggy morning three days later, Doctor Mead’s black carriage glided up Devonshire Street and slowed to a stop outside the house. I was watching from the window, half-concealed by the curtains. I saw the doctor’s hat appear from the cab, and his slim, dark coat, then he held out his hand, and a smaller, ungloved one slotted into it, followed by a white bonnet, and beneath that a pale heart-shaped face that turned upwards to look at the house. I drew backwards into the shadows. The room was quiet, the oil lamps lit. I wondered how I should receive them: standing at the window or the fireplace, or seated, perhaps with a book in my lap, or a newspaper? The rap of the door-knocker came from the floor below, followed by voices in the hall. Agnes would meet her before me. The two servants had seemed pleased by the idea of my hiring a nursemaid, and said it was a splendid suggestion. I did not know what they said when the kitchen door was closed.
I’d spent the days since Doctor Mead’s proposal in a state of pensiveness, forgetting to eat my toast and lying awake when the house was asleep. The notion of a fifth member of the household was both frightening and intriguing, and a young woman, too – a creature as exotic at our house as Charlotte’s tortoise. I wished Ambrosia was here with me, but then, she did draw all the light and energy from the room, and from me, reflecting it back like a chandelier. It would not do; this I had to do alone. I could not recall the last time a stranger had visited. There were knife men and butchers’ boys and milkmaids always calling at the basement door, but Agnes and Maria knew to admit only those on the list pinned to the kitchen wall.
I heard Agnes’s polite knock of announcement at the withdrawing room door, and realised I was halfway between the window and my chair, and it was too late to settle on either. The door opened and Agnes held it for Doctor Mead, who came first, tipping his hat and smiling, and after him the young woman.
‘Mrs Callard,’ he said pleasantly. ‘This is Miss Smith.’
She was of ordinary height – neither short nor tall – with dark hair and eyes, and a scattering of freckles across her face. Her hands were clasped nervously, and she moved one towards her neck, where her cloak had been fastened.
‘I know you,’ I said.
Her dark eyes were very wide, and she stopped on the threshold, frozen like a porcelain maid, or a shepherdess, neat and plump with her large bosom and slim wrists. Her hair was deep brown and curled at her neck, and there was a pleasant rosiness to her cheeks.
Doctor Mead spoke first. ‘You are already acquainted?’
‘You were at the chapel last week.’
‘Oh,’ she said, and her voice was soft. ‘Yes, I was.’
She was dressed smartly, in a cream printed frock and black jacket trimmed with velvet. The way she pulled at her cuffs suggested it was new, though no doubt second-hand. She was looking at me in a peculiar way, and I wondered what Doctor Mead had told her about me. Certainly that I was a widow; perhaps she had expected me to be older, or infirm, or unfashionable. Ambrosia once said it was a shame I did not go out, because half the men in London would be in love with me. ‘The half that aren’t in love with you?’ I had teased, and she’d replied that all of them were in love with her, but many were not loyal in their affections.
After a moment Miss Smith must have realised she was staring, because she coloured slightly, though her cheeks and nose were already pink from the cold. She looked at her feet, and then at Doctor Mead, who gave her an encouraging smile.
‘Miss Smith, this is my dear friend, Mrs Callard.’
‘Eliza, please,’ she said.
Then she began glancing furtively about the room, at the portraits of my parents, and the oil lamps, and the ornaments, as though assessing their value. I watched her, and she saw me looking, and quickly moved her gaze back to her feet.
‘Eliza?’ I prompted, half-amused at her boldness.
‘I just thought, madam,’ she said, almost in a whisper, ‘that the little girl might be here.’ Her accent was strong, and she pronounced it ‘gell’.
‘It is not necessary for you to meet my daughter until I have decided you are fit for the role.’
Fleeting disappointment crossed her face. Then she nodded, and gave a small smile. Conscious, no doubt, to avoid unpleasant beginnings, Doctor Mead directed her further into the room, and I went to the little table and took a seat in a high-backed chair. Doctor Mead did the same, and held out another for Eliza, who hesitated above it, and then sat. The room was very quiet, the only sounds skirts rustling and chairs creaking into submission, and then I remembered I was to direct the conversation, and sat a little straighter, and so did she. Now I was closer to her, I noticed a very faint smell about her, of fish, or brine, as well as cold weather and a slight, cloying mustiness from the jacket.
‘Eliza,’ I said. ‘Doctor Mead informs me you are looking for gainful employment as a nursemaid.’
She nodded, and I realised I did not know what to say next.
‘Eliza was a nursemaid for two young boys,’ Doctor Mead remarked, with as much pride as if she was his own daughter. Briefly I wondered if he was in love with her, and decided it unlikely.
‘And why no longer?’ I asked.
She blinked, and looked blank for a moment. ‘They moved away,’ she said. ‘They went to live in Scotland.’
‘Doctor Mead told me they lived in Spitalfields. Were they silk weavers?’
‘No, madam. Mr Gibbons was – is – a musician.’
‘What instrument?’
‘Violin.’
‘A violinist from Spitalfields,’ I mused. ‘And have you a written reference?’
‘Yes.’ She reached inside her jacket and withdrew a folded piece of paper, setting it on the table between us and pushing it slowly and hesitantly towards me. I opened it and scanned it briefly. It was still warm from her body.
‘And you did not wish to move with them to Scotland?’
‘My home is London,’ she replied. ‘Madam.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Just off Poultry. Next to the Hog’s Head. Do you know it?’ Her eyes were bright, and she appeared very anxious – her shoulders were rigid, her eyes solemn.
‘I do not,’ I said, after a meaningful pause.
I knew she was lying. I decided not to examine her further, and folded the false reference that was riddled with spelling errors. My friend had brought me a nursemaid who had almost certainly had a child with her master and been cast out, and I suspected he did not realise it. He knew, of course, that she had an illegitimate child, and would know that I understood as much. There had been an unspoken agreement that Sunday, over the sponge biscuits. I wondered if she had written the letter; the handwriting was literate, but barely. It was not Doctor Mead’s. Besides, he would not be so duplicitous. It was her deceit, then, not his. I knew I would likely never discover the truth, and thought it a shame, because I wished women could speak more freely of these things. Perhaps they did in the chophouses and taverns; I would not know. Just as I would not know if Eliza’s musician master had forced himself on her, or if she was in love with him. Neither would I know how it was to give birth to a child and surrender it to the Foundling Hospital, never to see it again. The woman before me had lived a life I could only vaguely imagine – she had been a mother, and was now no longer. She had loved, and lost. We had something in common, Eliza and I.
I sighed deeply, and she held her breath. Her eyes took on a resigned look: one of guardedness, and pride, and there was fear there, too, though she did not wish to show it.
‘I would not move to Scotland either,’ I said.
She paused for a moment, and then broke into a wide smile. Her teeth were small and neat. One at the front had chipped slightly, and was shorter than the other.
‘Are you employed now?’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘Where?’
‘Rag Fair, by the Tower.’
‘You sell clothes?’
‘Yes, madam. Helping a friend. But I’d like my old work back.’
‘And why is that? You have freedom, I presume, as a trader? A family to go back to? Friends to see?’
‘It don’t pay well. And I like living in, madam.’
I sat back and regarded her. ‘I presume Doctor Mead has told you of the nature of the job?’
The girl nodded. ‘Yes, madam.’
‘And the nature of the . . . lifestyle I have?’
She looked blank. ‘Lifestyle?’
‘In relation to the proximities in which Charlotte and I exist.’
A small frown puckered her forehead, and she looked first at Doctor Mead, then at me. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I do not leave the house.’
Comprehension swept her face. ‘Oh, yes. I know that.’
‘And neither does my daughter.’
She nodded, though her dark eyes were troubled. ‘Not anywhere?’
‘Only to church on Sundays. That is the limit of our world. And that, therefore, will be the limit of yours, too.’
I waited for her reaction, and she seemed to consider it, and licked her lips, looking as though she was burning to say something, but contained it, and extinguished it. Her face went smooth and blank.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘And I’d be happy with living that way. You’ve a lovely house and you’ve no need to leave it. Why would you, when you have all you need? Food, and a cook, and lovely fires. And no man about the place. That sounds rum to me.’ She allowed herself a small, private smile, which I could not help but return.
‘You have no intention of marriage at this time?’
‘No,’ she said, with conviction, and then again, as an afterthought: ‘No.’
I took the measure of her, and she me, and in that moment I made two decisions: one of which I could act on immediately, the other later. I rose from my seat and Doctor Mead sprang up beside me.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ I said, and left them in the withdrawing room, closing the door quietly behind me and going upstairs.
Charlotte was not in her bedroom. I sighed and called her name, and heard a scuffling above, where Agnes and Maria slept. A moment later her round face appeared at the top of the staircase, looking thoroughly guilty.
‘Charlotte, come down from there at once! You know you aren’t allowed up there.’
Silently, she slid down the staircase and streaked past me like a cat, darting towards her nursery. ‘There is someone I want you to meet, but if you are misbehaving I shall have to tell them you are too insolent today.’
‘Who is it?’ she asked, pausing on the turn and fixing me with a curious stare.
‘Are you misbehaving?’
She shook her head.
‘Where is your indoor cap?’
Her shoulders lifted to her ears.
‘Find your cap and put it on, then come to the withdrawing room.’
She brightened visibly and threw herself into her bedroom. In the withdrawing room, I found Doctor Mead and Eliza in furtive conversation. Charlotte appeared behind me and stayed behind my skirts. Her cap had been stuffed hastily on, and I arranged it more neatly and pushed her forwards.
‘Charlotte,’ I said. ‘You know Doctor Mead, of course, and this is his friend, Eliza Smith.’
At once, the strangest thing happened: Charlotte, who was wary of strangers, not having met many in her short life, moved towards the young woman. Eliza in turn got down from her chair to kneel on the carpet. A smile – that easy smile – split her face, and she reached to take Charlotte’s hand. The gesture was so instinctive, so unrehearsed, and I watched with mild surprise as Charlotte shyly gave it to her. Doctor Mead and I looked at one another, and he was delighted.
‘Hello, Charlotte,’ Eliza whispered. Her eyes shone. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Charlotte’s dark hair spilled down her back, and dust streaked her skirt. I hoped she had not been rummaging around upstairs again. A year or so ago, Agnes had found under Charlotte’s bed a box of trinkets she’d stolen from all of us – thimbles, bits of paper and even a hairbrush Maria had missed for months. From my room she had taken a miniature looking-glass, a dried pressed flower and a love token Daniel had given me years before: a heart made of whalebone, cut in half. As punishment, I had taken all her toys, games and books and locked them in my bedroom, and she had to do without them for a week. She had been so bored and vexed it had been punishment for me, too, and I was as glad as she when the week was over.
‘Your mother has told me all about you,’ Eliza was saying. ‘What a nice home you have. Do you have lots of toys?’
Charlotte gave a small nod, her cap bobbing up and down. Eliza was still holding her hand. I signalled to Doctor Mead that I wished to speak privately with him, and he rose again and followed me to the fireplace.
‘She has great affection for children,’ I said in a low voice. ‘But I worry she may spoil the child, or make her soft.’
‘She has a natural, feminine touch,’ Doctor Mead said, looking at her. ‘She will set a good example for Charlotte.’
‘She does seem very easy with her.’
‘Better than difficult, is it not?’
‘Perhaps. Though Charlotte is not a kitten to be petted.’
‘Of course not.’
We stood for a moment, watching them. Charlotte was telling her something, swinging her arms in a carefree way, and Eliza was listening, enraptured, as if it was the most fascinating story in the world. I decided to share with Doctor Mead the decision I’d made earlier.
‘Eliza has a position here, should she want it,’ I said. ‘I am willing to grant you this f
avour, as your friend, if it benefits both of you as much as you say it will. But I will not hear another word of you paying her wage, and will find it insulting if you offer again.’
Doctor Mead gave a winning smile, and put a hand on my sleeve and squeezed. I flinched, and brushed at where he had touched me,as though it had been dirtied, but he did not look offended.
‘Mrs Callard, I am so glad,’ he said. ‘Thank you. You will not regret it.’ He grew confidential, and his clear eyes clouded. ‘I wish I could tell you what hardship she has been through.’
‘Say nothing of it.’ My arm felt hot. Since Daniel died, nobody touched me save for Charlotte, and that was seldom. Even with her I was uneasy; I did not have Eliza’s maternal instinct, or Doctor Mead’s merry generosity. Intimacy was something I endured, rather than indulged in, and so it was one of the things Daniel had sought elsewhere. I knew that his urges were fulfilled, and was glad of it. Besides, Ambrosia told me it was as natural for men as visiting the chamber pot. That I could not provide that side of things did not concern me, but what did was the other type of intimacy I could not provide either, which came naturally to wives: removing their husbands’ hats after a day’s work, and tidying their hair, and knowing when they wanted a bath or a glass of brandy. I suppose you would call it affection. I would watch couples walking down Devonshire Street arm in arm, twisting this way and that, pointing, laughing, kissing and stroking, feeling as stiff and inanimate as one of Charlotte’s dolls. To those women, women like Eliza, brushing a little girl’s hair and making a seat of their knee came without effort, without thought. I stood watching them, and felt, very faintly, the tiniest splinter opening inside me. Whether it was envy, or grief, or guilt, I could not name it, and did not care to examine it.
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