The Foundling

by Halls, Stacey

  I could not look at him, because his grief was raw and exposing. He did not know how to sit with it yet, or what to do with it. I knew that feeling well.

  ‘I am dreadfully sorry for your loss,’ I said. ‘To your grandfather.’ We clinked glasses and drank deeply, and he sat back in the stuffed chair as though something other than his coat had finally been removed.

  ‘When did it happen?’ I asked.

  ‘This morning.’ He ran a hand over his face and rescued the strands of hair fallen from beneath his hat. Then he removed the hat altogether and set it on the floor by his feet. ‘He was eighty. A remarkable age, as they say. Still, it only meant we had longer with him, and loved him all the more.’

  ‘Should you be at home? I am sorry to have called you here. Had I known . . .’

  ‘Home,’ he said hollowly. ‘With my servants?’

  ‘No, with your family.’

  ‘Grief falls to the women to manage,’ Doctor Mead said. ‘My mother is very busy at his house, and I would only get in her way.’

  I knew Doctor Mead had a flock of sisters, and a shepherdess of a mother who tended them, and was so consumed by them and their families that her only son was quite neglected. His father had died years before, and his mother still inhabited their Berkeley Square mansion and kept a busy calendar of appointments, though she must have been sixty. With so many women to provide for, and so many babies to care for at the Foundling, it was a wonder Doctor Mead found the time to shave.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘At least London is still left with one Doctor Mead.’

  He gave an effort at a smile, and with nothing more to say, we drank again.

  ‘What was it you wanted of me?’ he asked, after a short silence.

  ‘Me?’ For a moment I was lost, and then I remembered. Eliza. That encounter across the landing an hour ago. It all seemed quite insignificant now. I did not trust her, but then I did not trust anyone. I looked into Doctor Mead’s face, helpful and kind, and decided I could not disappoint him unnecessarily. The man had had enough unhappiness for one day. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Charlotte had a slight cough, but I think she shall live.’ Live! How callous. ‘What I mean to say is she is already recovered a great deal. A childish fever, gone as quickly as it arrived.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Would you like me to look at her?’

  ‘No, no. There is no need. You are not working tonight.’

  A trace of a smile passed his mouth. ‘That is most un-like you, Mrs Callard. Usually you have me check her at the slightest sniff.’

  ‘Perhaps I am growing negligent in my old age.’

  He smiled. ‘How many years have we known one another now?’

  ‘We moved here eleven years last month. You were still a scholar then, I think.’

  ‘I was. I remember thinking how grown-up Cal seemed, marrying you and starting his business, and I still at Cambridge.’

  ‘I forgot you called him that.’

  ‘I have called him worse still.’

  I was glad to see him diverted, that I had diverted him. We watched the fire crack and pop. The curtains were closed against the cold, and in my little ship’s cabin, with my eyes half-closed and the other chair filled, I could almost pretend Daniel was with me. The singular thing I missed about having a husband was masculine company. When women talked to one another it was of domestic things, like servants and drapers. Men spoke of ships and business and foreign shores. I could not contribute, but when Daniel brought acquaintances to the house I would listen in rapture. We were married four years, and though it was the shortest era of my life, I learned more in it than in all the years before and since. Four winters, four summers. Had I known that would be all, would I have tried to go out with him? Strolled around the square on a warm spring evening? Taken the carriage to the theatre? Should I have climbed the narrow stairs on the Strand to show him the elephant wreathed in chains?

  ‘Mrs Callard?’

  I started. Doctor Mead had narrowed the space between us, one side of his face warm in the firelight. He held it there and did not move, and before I turned away something passed between us.

  ‘Your glass is empty. How negligent of me.’ I filled it halfway again. ‘Tell me, will your grandfather’s funeral be held at the Foundling chapel? He was very fond of the hospital.’

  ‘Yes, that I know. But Temple Church is the place, according to his wishes. Will you come?’

  With great difficulty I shook my head.

  ‘Of course. Forgive me. It would cause you distress.’

  I imagined him climbing the stairs to his bedroom tonight, and blowing out his candle, and pulling the sheets over himself; the hollow space next to him. He’d said in jest he was married to his work, but his work could not place a comforting hand on his arm, or bring him a cup of chocolate, or hold him close when the grief came in the darkest part of the night. As well as his work at the Foundling, he attended the poorest neighbourhoods, going to the coffee houses at Holbourn and St Giles and administering to those who could pay a penny’s entrance. Sometimes he went with them to their homes, their dank rooms and hovels, if a baby or a wife was ailing. He would not charge them, but they would pay him: with flour, with candles – trifles that he could not refuse because to do so would be to offend them. His grandfather had done the same, even in old age, and was deeply respected for it.

  ‘You are tired,’ he said. ‘Thank you for the brandy.’

  ‘No, I am not. Stay. Tell me about your grandfather. Tell me about the other Doctor Mead.’

  He moved his glass from one hand to the other. The liquid glowed through the chasms of crystal. ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘We may as well start at the beginning, so I would like to know where he was born, first of all.’

  ‘Stepney, of all places.’

  ‘Then he has come a long way to Bloomsbury.’

  He smiled. ‘That he has. Do you know he lived in Italy? He had a degree from the university of Padua. That is the reason I studied there, too. And,’ he went on, warming to his instruction, ‘he attended Queen Anne on her deathbed.’

  ‘He did no such thing.’

  ‘That he did! She had a very great thirst towards the end, and no drink would quench it. He advised grapes, and the next time he went to her there were platters of them all around the room, hundreds of them.’

  ‘And he was the king’s physician, was he not?’

  ‘He was. Though, if I may be frank, I found his work at the coffee houses more impressive than the court. That was where he did his best work. That is the man I wish to become.’

  ‘That is the man you are,’ I said.

  A thoughtful silence. ‘One of his friends called at Great Ormond Street to pay his respects today. A writer. What did he say? Let me remember it . . .’ He narrowed his eyes and the tip of his tongue appeared thoughtfully at his lips. ‘“Your grandfather lived more in the broad sunshine of life than almost any man,” he said to me. I’ll never forget that, as long as I live.’

  We sat in contemplation, and I realised I had not once thought about anything other than where I was, and what was being said. It was an unfamiliar sensation. Maria would be preparing supper in the kitchen; Agnes would be warming the sheets; Charlotte would be put to bed on the floor above.

  And then, as though my remembering her had conjured her into the room, Doctor Mead said: ‘How is Eliza faring?’

  I thought of her quiet tread on the carpet, her curious flame. Her mouth filled with potatoes, and her tales of camels and elephants. She had been here a day yet it felt like a month, as though she fitted into some vacant space that none of us had known existed. I decided I would keep her in employment for now. For my friend.

  ‘She is tolerable,’ I said.

  He raised his brow. ‘Tolerable?’

  ‘It has not yet been a day.’

  ‘I hope she has not displeased you?’

  I could tell him. I could disappoint him, and splinter his spirit further. I set m
y glass on the table and licked my lips. ‘You are well acquainted with me by now, Doctor Mead. I would find fault with you if you began working for me, at first.’

  He smiled, and seemed pleased. ‘I confess I’m not certain I’d make a splendid nursemaid.’ What he said next surprised me. ‘What do you think Daniel would make of it?’

  ‘I have not given it much thought. He may have commented on the imbalance of females in the house, but then he might have found it quite entertaining, too.’

  ‘I am inclined to think it would be the latter.’

  ‘He had no siblings, after all. Though with no inheritance to speak of, he did not care so much for children.’

  ‘But you had Charlotte,’ he said kindly. ‘He did not leave you quite alone. What a shame it is that he never met her. What a shame it is that I was not here.’

  ‘You were abroad. I had my sister. Ambrosia was all I needed, and often too much.’ After a moment, I said: ‘I am sorry not to come to the funeral.’

  ‘Think not on it.’

  We sat in pleasant quiet. I had never asked Doctor Mead what opinion he had of me when we met, a week or two after the wedding. That I was twenty-nine and not a widow was deeply shocking; the only unmarried women of that age were either creatures of mourning or creatures of the night. I had no wish to be a society wife, with the door-knocker always going, serving custard tarts and punch from dainty cups, and at such an age I did not know if I would be a mother. Thankfully, Daniel did not give much thought to what he wanted, and took me for what I was. Most brides felt love and happiness on their wedding day, having pursued them for many years. I felt relief. I had searched for safety all my life and found it at last.

  Eliza settled into life at Devonshire Street, and her routine went like this: at six o’clock she rose, made the fire, brought the water and ate breakfast. At seven she woke Charlotte and washed her with a sponge, after which she rubbed her quite dry and dressed her. Charlotte had previously cleaned herself, but now Eliza could do it for her, and examine her for signs of approaching disease. When she was ready, Eliza delivered her to me for breakfast and returned to the nursery to open the windows, shake the beds and clear the slops. Charlotte read to me for an hour and we did our lessons as usual: arithmetic, French and the pianoforte, plus Italian one morning a week. Eliza mended Charlotte’s things while she was occupied, then Charlotte joined her for needlework, which I had never taught her. The two of them would play chess and cards in the afternoon, then Eliza would wash Charlotte’s hands and prepare her for dinner, to be served promptly at five o’clock. Within three days Eliza had fashioned two cotton handkerchiefs with plain borders from Charlotte’s outgrown nightdresses. On the fifth day we went to church together in the carriage, and sat in our usual pew, attracting several curious glances at our expanded party. Eliza kept her eyes down modestly, and was altogether meeker and more subservient than I had ever seen her. Doctor Mead was absent, and I said a prayer for his health, and for his grandfather.

  One morning, a week after Eliza had arrived, a letter from Ambrosia lay propped against the salt and pepper pots at breakfast like a fourth guest. I was overjoyed, and took it to my parlour to enjoy later, where it winked at me from the mantelpiece. It was a bright, cold day with a crisp white sky sitting atop the houses, and I was halfway through the General Advertiser when I was roused from my reading by an almighty noise above my head, like furniture being thrown about. I hurried upstairs to find Charlotte’s bedroom door thrown wide open, and a flurry of skirts through the doorframe. She and Eliza were hand in hand, flushed and smiling, with their hair come loose from their caps, leaping from one foot to the other and laughing.

  ‘What is this racket?’ I demanded.

  Eliza straightened at once, but Charlotte did not let go of her hands. ‘We were dancing, Mama! Eliza is teaching me a jig.’

  I was quite speechless.

  ‘We will stop, if we are making too much noise, madam,’ the nursemaid said.

  ‘You are making far too much noise. I thought the wardrobe was being chopped for firewood.’

  She put a hand to her mouth to cover her laugh, and Charlotte cackled with glee. It was an unfamiliar sound, bursting from her quite naturally.

  ‘If you please, madam, we could practise in the yard.’

  ‘Outside? No, that will not do.’

  ‘Please, Mama. Look, I have almost learned it.’ Charlotte began prancing about in a lively way, her cap skewed and her hair flying all over.

  ‘I cannot imagine a time nor occasion for which you should need to dance like that. Now stop crashing about, you are disturbing me.’

  ‘If you let us go outside we will stay where you can see us, madam. We’d be less noisy out there.’

  ‘Yes, the yard, the yard, the yard!’ Charlotte began shouting.

  ‘That’s enough!’ I sighed. ‘Go now, before you give me a headache.’

  They ran out before I could change my mind, tumbling over one another to get to the stairs, and I called after them to lock the back gate. Charlotte’s bedroom was a riot of toys and games, with spinning tops tipped on their sides, dominoes scattered like leaves and dolls flung on their backs. This would not do; I would tell Eliza later. But almost immediately a different thought arrived: this was what my own nursery had looked like when I was a child, when I’d involve Ambrosia in my elaborate games. Charlotte now had her friend, her companion, who I had never been able to give her. I sighed, and closed the door.

  The walled area at the back of the house was no larger than eight or nine yards long and four wide, with a coal store at the far wall. Eliza and Charlotte were bundled against the cold – Eliza in her plain wool cloak, though her hands were bare, and Charlotte in the thick serge one she wore for church. Her own hands were plugged into a muff, and peering from her cloak were kid leather boots that were so rarely worn outside they hardly needed cleaning. I watched the pair of them jig about, hemmed in by three brick walls like pigs in a pen, their breath steaming from them in little clouds. A large tabby cat appeared on the wall overlooking the alley, and Charlotte pointed in delight. The cat regarded them with indifference as they went to look at it, and the next thing I knew, Eliza was lifting Charlotte up and Charlotte was pulling a hand from her muff and reaching out to touch it. I felt my mouth fall open to shout at her to stop, but a pane of glass separated us. I could only watch as she stroked the fat creature once, twice, before it had had enough and toppled from the wall and out of sight. As though sensing my attention, Eliza glanced over her shoulder at the house and saw me watching, giving me a half-smile before crouching down to speak to Charlotte. She pointed up and Charlotte followed her finger, and they both waved. After a moment I raised a hesitant hand in return, noticing how similar they looked from a distance, with their pale round faces and dark hair and straight brows that huddled on their foreheads. I felt curiously detached, as though they were perfect strangers. Then they dropped their hands and turned again to each other, and I retreated self-consciously from sight, feeling as though I had waved them off on a ship bound for some faraway port, while I was left ashore.

  Searching for distraction, I reached for Ambrosia’s letter, and went to fetch the letter opener from the bureau beneath the window, glancing as I did through the panes again, and seeing not two shapes but three.

  A man was standing on the other side of the wall, peering over, and Eliza held a protective arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. Terror struck me at once, but before I could rush downstairs I was struck by the man’s expression. It was not fierce or leering, but pleading. He had red hair curling beneath a black cap, and paper-pale skin, and his coat was far too thin for February – a beggar, surely, for Eliza was shaking her head, telling him no, and I felt light-headed with panic as I imagined him taking out a knife or a pistol. I hurried downstairs with all manner of possibilities racing through my mind: him blowing holes in their heads, or slicing them into ribbons and leaving them to leak their life into the mud. I reached the kitchen stai
rs and bolted down them, barging past Maria, who was kneading dough at the scrubbed table.

  ‘Madam?’ she stuttered, as I flung open the door.

  Three faces looked upon me, startled by the noise.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I said slowly, clearly, as one might address a spooked horse. ‘Come to me at once.’ My breath clouded before me. She looked up at her nursemaid, who nodded, and came obediently towards me, standing at my side. Maria watched from the doorway, her rolling-pin brandished like a weapon.

  ‘Eliza, who is this man?’

  Her voice was weak and frightened. ‘It’s my brother, madam.’

  ‘Your brother?’

  My eyes travelled over what little of him I could see upwards of his dirty neck. He did not have his sister’s dark colouring, though they had the same wide mouth and prominent cheeks. Come to think of it, Eliza did have a glint of red about her hair, like firelight shining on a chestnut shell. I took the measure of him, and he me from half a dozen yards away, while Eliza stood mute between us.

  ‘Brush off, Ned,’ she said eventually. ‘Go on.’

  He nodded and scratched his head, and with a final glance at me he disappeared downwards, as though a trap door had opened beneath him. He must have been standing on something to look over the wall, which had been built at a height for privacy and security, so that people wandering down the path behind could not help themselves to whatever was drying in the yard, yet here was Eliza’s brother, doing precisely that, during a break from shovelling manure in the streets.

  ‘We do not have visitors at this house,’ I said, when we were all back in the kitchen, and the door locked. I was white with fury.

  ‘I didn’t invite him, madam,’ the girl said.

  ‘Then what was the purpose of his visit?’

  ‘Whose visit?’ Agnes came in with a pail of used tea leaves for cleaning the carpets, and set it on the table. The rolling-pin clattered to the floor, and Maria bent her wide frame to retrieve it.