The Foundling

by Halls, Stacey

  I walked up the steps and knocked, and a moment later the door swung open, and the face behind it was too astonished for words.

  ‘Good afternoon, Doctor Mead,’ I said, moving past him to step inside and closing the door gently behind me. The hallway was dim and quiet; outside, another horse and cart passed, and further away a dog barked. The doctor was in his shirtsleeves, and there was a smudge of ink at his neck where he had adjusted his collar. He smelled of wool and soap, and something else that no other man shared: his skin, perhaps.

  ‘Mrs Callard.’ His voice was hushed, as though he did not dare breathe. At the foot of the stairs, a long-case clock ticked. ‘What are you doing here?’

  I removed my gloves and put a hand to his cheek, which was warm. ‘Don’t say anything.’

  ‘Is it Charlotte? Is she—?’

  I put my lips to his and kissed him, and moved my mouth to his ear. ‘You and I in marble,’ I said. ‘All else in dust.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Bess

  April, 1754

  We went straight to Bloomsbury from the church at St Giles. It did not take long, being only half a mile from where Lyle lived in Seven Dials, though it felt a world away. His family had come to the wedding: as many sisters and brothers as he could find when we arrived, spilling as they were out into the street, and his mama, a tiny, broad woman like a wooden doll, with Lyle’s kind eyes and heavy eyebrows. His father was at his tailor’s shop and Abe at the market, but both had given their blessing, and Abe had that morning passed me a wedding present of a lace handkerchief I didn’t know he’d kept of Mama’s, with her initials, MB, on it. It was a quick, happy service, with two pews of Kozaks, who whispered throughout in a unique blend of Slavic and English, shushed now and again by their mother. Keziah and William came with the boys and sat proudly across the aisle; my friend had given me a new dress to be married in, one of the most beautiful I’d seen, of palest blue, with a bonnet and matching ribbon. One of Lyle’s brothers, Tomasz, waited outside with the pony and trap we’d bought, and we emerged afterwards to find him racing a crowd of dirty children down the street on the pony. We kissed all the Kozaks one by one, and Lyle’s mother pinched my cheek and said something in Slavic, and Lyle thanked her warmly and kissed her on the forehead. Moses and Jonas ran around with the children as Keziah squeezed my hands and wished me luck, and William gave me a fatherly embrace, and shook Lyle’s hand. Then we went north, through the light morning drizzle.

  The week before, we had moved our things to the Fulham countryside, where Lyle had signed a lease on three closes of land for growing vegetables: peas, turnips, parsnips and carrots, of which there’d be two or three crops a year, and corn and barley in between. A small cottage came with the tenancy – two rooms, with a dirt floor and large fireplace – and a fat pony, and the rickety old trap. I couldn’t believe the silence out there, which fell like a curtain over the countryside. It was four miles from Covent Garden but might have been four hundred. Not that I missed London. It had not been a wrench to leave. We’d had enough of selling shrimp and light.

  We drew to a halt at number 13, and a pale face disappeared in the first-floor window. The glossy black door opened before we knocked, and Charlotte flew out, barrelling into us like a puppy in a petticoat. Lyle lifted her up onto his shoulders and she swung her boots with glee. Several trunks were banked up in the hallway, and the painted woman in the red dress watched from her position on the wall as two figures glided from the shadows: Alexandra, and one I did not know, who was like Alexandra but larger, with the sort of good-natured face that had a permanent smile on it.

  ‘This is my sister, Ambrosia,’ Alexandra said. ‘Ambrosia, this is Bess Bright and Lyle Kozak.’

  ‘Actually, it’s Bess Kozak,’ I said, and Alexandra’s eyebrows lifted, and a smile broke her face as I showed her the slim gold band on my finger. ‘We just came from St Giles Church.’

  She looked at him admiringly, as did Ambrosia, who gave a saucy wink. ‘At least you know what you’re in for later,’ she told me. We all fell about laughing, apart from Alexandra, who looked so shocked it only made us chuckle harder.

  Charlotte pulled at my bonnet from Lyle’s shoulders and said, ‘What are you laughing at?’ which set us off again.

  ‘Lyle!’ she said suddenly. ‘Maria said I could give an apple to the horse. Will you take me to the kitchen?’

  ‘By your leave, miss,’ Lyle said. ‘Watch your head!’ He stalked off with her at a gallop down the hallway. We watched them go, and then it was the three of us.

  ‘So you,’ said Ambrosia, ‘are the infamous Bess. I’d know you still, to look at you.’

  ‘And I don’t know you at all.’ Something came to me then, which I’d wondered after I’d met Alexandra in the Foundling chapel, when we’d decided not to tear Charlotte in half any more. One evening the following week, like men drawing up military plans, we had spent the evening in Alexandra’s parlour designing what Charlotte’s life should look like. Alexandra had taken a quill and ink and paper from the bureau, and I told her that I would have to trust her because I couldn’t read. She’d put the quill down, then. While we talked she’d told me about her past, and why she had reacted with such fear and violence that night after the pleasure garden, and I had felt powerfully guilty, and hot with shame. I thought I’d had the measure of her all along, but really I’d not known her at all. It was strange to see her so intimately, as an equal almost. I had thought her so cold and unfeeling when I’d met her, with her straight back and stormy manner. I had thought her beautiful, too, but that word was too feminine, bringing to mind plump women and dreamy smiles. If she’d been a painting, she’d be a strong ship on crashing waves.

  ‘Ambrosia,’ I said, ‘something has bothered me since I learned it was you who saw me. How did you find out my name?’

  ‘I went to the court you lived in and asked somebody.’

  ‘What did they look like?’

  She frowned. ‘If I remember, a woman had seen me from a window and came out. She was large, very ordinary, though I couldn’t see much of her as it was so dark. I think she was carrying a broom.’

  I almost laughed. Of course Nancy Benson the brush- maker would have been beside herself, to have someone so fine as Ambrosia arrive at our court and ask for me. She might have known it was something to do with the baby, who had been born that morning. She would have heard me in childbed; it would not have surprised me to learn she’d placed a chair at the door and listened from start to finish.

  Alexandra and I looked at one another. ‘What became of Ned?’ she asked gently.

  My good humour faded, and I felt my heart deflate. ‘He was arrested two weeks ago for robbing a goldsmith’s. He’ll be transported next month to the colonies. He’s in the Fleet now, so not too far from home.’

  Her face was very grave. ‘I’m not sure I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Me neither,’ I said quietly, though I was, for the old Ned at least, who used to make puppets behind the red curtain. Sorry, too, for the old Bess. But not this one.

  Doctor Mead came carefully down the stairs with the final item – Charlotte’s budgie in its cage, cheeping fretfully – and set it gently on the ground beside the tortoise, which had been put in a fruit crate padded with straw. Charlotte came back then with Lyle and a shiny red apple and Maria following. She passed me a sponge cake wrapped in cloth, as a peace offering; I doubted she had truly forgiven me for stealing from her larder the night we ran away. I thanked her, and the two men began loading everything onto the cart. ‘Most of my books are there,’ Charlotte told me. ‘But I could not fit all of them. And my nicest clothes are here for church, because Mama said they are too good for Fulham.’

  Alexandra had blushed hotly then, and I’d smiled and said I thought that was very wise. And then it was time to say goodbye.

  Alexandra knelt in front of Charlotte, her navy silk skirts rustling gently, and we all grew quiet. Charlotte drew something from her dress poc
ket – a drawing she had made, of a man wearing a tricorn hat and smart coat with buttons and buckled shoes, and a woman with a large skirt and neat jacket. She wore no hat, as Alexandra didn’t, and her lips hinted at a smile. Between the pair was a love heart, with a jagged crack down the middle.

  ‘It’s you and Doctor Mead,’ she said.

  ‘That’s very good,’ Alexandra said. ‘You have a talent for drawing; I could never teach you.’

  Agnes appeared from somewhere, and put Charlotte into a wool coat – for though it was April it was not yet warm – and tied a straw hat with a blue ribbon beneath her chin. She was wearing a maize-coloured dress and white stockings, and looked quite the little country girl.

  ‘You will write, won’t you?’ Alexandra asked her. ‘I will make sure I always have coins for the mail boy, and I’ll be waiting by the door for him every day in case he has something for me.’

  ‘Does the mail boy come from Fulham?’

  ‘He comes from everywhere.’

  ‘How long will it take to get to you?’

  ‘The same day, if you ask the mail coachman nicely.’

  She nodded.

  ‘You must write in great detail about where you live. I want to know all about it. I want to know how many flowers you have in your garden, and what you can see from your window, and what the inside of your house looks like. I want to know what sort of plates you eat from, and what you eat, and how many times you brush your hair before bedtime.’

  ‘That’s too much to remember!’

  ‘Just write what you can remember, then. And I will see you every fortnight, and you will stay on Friday and Saturday, and then we will go to church in the morning.’

  ‘And have oranges and cream?’ she asked, and everyone smiled.

  ‘We will have oranges and cream.’

  ‘And Doctor Mead will be here?’

  ‘He will be here, yes. Have you remembered your French book?’

  She nodded.

  ‘She’s going to teach me,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you, Charlotte?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Charlotte, and everyone laughed again.

  I was eager to be gone, and perhaps Alexandra noticed, because she came to me and pressed a silk bag of coins into my hand. ‘For this month,’ she said. ‘Think of it as a wedding present.’

  I thanked her, and looked at Lyle, and he winked at me, and nodded. We moved in a little chorus to the door, and the men loaded the last trunk onto the trap, and covered the budgie’s cage with a cloth. Charlotte settled her tortoise on her lap, and it lifted its head, as though to see its old house one final time, before retreating into its shell. We were ready at last. I looked up at the window where we’d slept, and at the withdrawing room window, where I’d seen Alexandra waiting fretfully all those weeks before. I looked at her now, standing between Ambrosia and Doctor Mead in the doorway, and we smiled at one another in the way that people do who have been through something very significant, and come out the other side. The rain fell lightly onto the trap, and Charlotte was settled beneath my arm under our canvas cover, and we had our backs to Lyle, who took up the reins. We waved, and they waved back, with Agnes and Maria peering out and beaming from the gaps in-between. ‘Bye!’ Charlotte cried, waving very hard. Alexandra had one hand fastened in Doctor Mead’s and was waving back with the other. Her face was wet with tears, and alight with fear and love and pride.

  ‘Are we ready?’ I asked, and Charlotte cried yes. Lyle clicked his tongue, and the trap pulled away, and we moved down Devonshire Street, towards the river, against the tide.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  My utmost thanks to Sophie Orme, Margaret Stead, Jennie Rothwell, Francesca Russell, Clare Kelly, Ellen Turner, Stephen Dumughn, Felice McKeown, Sahina Bibi, Nico Poilblanc, Stuart Finglass, Vincent Kelleher, Alexandra Allden, Kate Parkin, Sarah Clayton, Jennie Harwood, Jeff Jamieson, Alan Scollan, Robyn Haque and Katie Lumsden. Two years ago I didn’t know your names, but you are all shining stars who have made my life brighter. And thank you, of course, to Juliet Mushens, who is master of the universe.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Stacey Halls was born in 1989 and grew up in Rossendale, Lancashire. She studied journalism at the University of Central Lancashire and has written for publications including the Guardian, Stylist, Psychologies, Independent, Sun and Fabulous. Her first book, The Familiars, was the bestselling debut hardback novel of 2019. The Foundling is her second novel.

  www.staceyhalls.com

  @stacey_halls

  @staceyhallsauthor

  LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you’ve enjoyed reading The Foundling. If you’d like to receive more information about it, and about my first novel, The Familiars, you might be interested in joining my Readers’ Club. Don’t worry – it doesn’t commit you to anything, there’s no catch, and I won’t pass your details on to any third parties. You’ll receive updates from me about my books, including offers, publication news and even the occasional treat! You can unsubscribe at any time. To register, all you have to do is visit www.staceyhalls.com.

  Another way of reaching out to me is via Twitter @Stacey_Halls. I hope to hear from you soon, and that you continue to read and enjoy my books.

  Thank you for your support,

  Stacey

  THE FOUNDLING MUSEUM

  The Foundling Hospital was established in 1739 by the philanthropist Thomas Coram, to care for babies whose parents could not look after them.

  If you would like to learn more about the history of the Foundling Hospital, you can visit the Foundling Museum in London. For more information,

  visit www.foundlingmuseum.org.uk

  TURN OVER FOR MATERIAL FOR YOUR READING GROUP

  READING GROUP QUESTIONS

  1. The Foundling Hospital was founded for babies at risk of being abandoned. Why do you think a parent would have no option other than to surrender the care of their child in the 1740s and 50s?

  2. Bess and Alexandra have both lived without their own mothers for many years – how do you think their lives would have been different had they still been alive?

  3. The Foundling is very much a book about motherhood, but how do you read Bess’s relationship with her father?

  4. Daniel Callard is an important character, although he is absent for much of the book. How do you view both protagonists’ feelings towards him? To what extent is he to blame for the difficulties in both women’s lives?

  5. Chance is at play throughout the novel and drives the narrative forwards, but to what extent do you think Bess and Alexandra are masters of their own destiny, and are they passive or active characters?

  6. What do you think is most crucial when it comes to raising a child: love or money? Do you think that question might have been answered differently by people in the eighteenth century?

  7. Bess and Alexandra come from incredibly different class backgrounds. How do you think their class and their financial status affects them as characters?

  8. Who was your favourite minor character and why?

  9. Bess is constantly looking forward to the future, while Alexandra spends much of the novel reliving her past. How does the author use time and memory in this novel?

  10. How does the setting of Georgian London affect the story? Do you think it’s significant that Bess ends her story moving to a more rural area?

  If you loved The Foundling, you’ll love Stacey Hall’s first novel, The Familiars

  Purchase now

  First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Manilla Press

  This ebook edition published in 2020 by

  Manilla Press

  80–81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE

  Copyright © Stacey Halls, 2020

  Cover design by Alexandra Allden

  Cover illustrations and internal illustrations © Lucy Rose Cartwright

  Ex libris and map © Patrick Knowles

  The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work
has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978–1–83877–008–2

  Hardback ISBN: 978–1–83877–006–8

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978–1–83877–007–5

  This e-book was produced by Palimpsest

  Manilla Press is an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  www.bonnierbooks.co.uk