‘You may take one of those pennies,’ she said gently, ‘for being such a help to your poor mama.’
A smile replacing the tears on her face, the little girl departed and Harriet sat down once more on the seat, her arms cradling the baby. He was no longer whimpering, and seeing his wizened little face she rocked him gently and wondered how so young an infant could survive the journey with all its discomforts.
It crossed her mind suddenly that perhaps it would not live, and she was filled with a sudden fierce desire to prevent such a tragedy. The girl had left the feeding bottle but it was empty. Harriet stood up, a look of determination on her face. Someone on board must have milk to spare now they were so soon to land and she had money still to pay for it.
Wrapping her cloak around the infant, she hurried along the deck where the queues for the galleys had almost disappeared. Then she caught sight of Lady Cavanagh’s maid, who looked pale and tired. She greeted Harriet with an apology for not having visited her as had been promised, but explained that she as well as Her Ladyship had been ill throughout the journey, and only now that they were in calmer waters did she feel able to take food or drink. In her hand was a pitcher of milk.
Harriet felt a sudden irrational desire to wrench it from her but managed to keep her voice quiet as she pleaded to be given some, explaining that she was caring for another passenger’s baby who was only two weeks old and might die if it was not fed.
The maid looked surprised as she stared briefly at the tiny, pinched face of the baby. ‘You’re more than welcome to most of this,’ she said. ‘Her Ladyship thinks it might be a whole day on dry land before she can keep food or drink down her. We shall be home, at Castle Killbray, just outside Dublin by midday, so all this will not be needed. Give the bottle to me and I will give some of it to you.’
Five minutes later, Harriet sat in her cabin watching the colour return slowly to the face of the starving infant. She remembered suddenly Sister Brigitte’s comforting words when she had been recuperating. ‘The Good Shepherd always watches over his flock’, she had said, adding that He would bring comfort to those who believed in Him. Was it possible that she, Harriet, alone and childless, had been sent to help his unfortunate mother?
Far from sure whether or not she was being unduly fanciful, Harriet continued nevertheless to care for the unwanted baby until the ship docked in Howth harbour on the northern edge of Dublin Bay. She went as promised to the waiting room where she sat down on an uncomfortable wooden bench and awaited the arrival of Mrs Lawson and her children. Staring at the clock above the ticket office, she began to feel uneasy when an hour had passed and there was still no sign of them. At first she wondered what could have detained them, but as the crowd of passengers dispersed and eventually left her the sole occupant but for a porter, she was shocked by a sudden thought that the woman was not coming to collect her baby.
Another half hour passed and a porter came into the waiting room and approaching her, touched his cap and said, ‘One of the passengers with a heap of youngsters gave me this letter for you, madam, said as you’d be dark haired, tall as herself and nursing a babe, and you’d be waiting here for her. Well, there not being a soul here but yourself, I’m thinking as how this must be for you.’
Her hand trembling, Harriet thanked him, unfolded the piece of paper and started to read.
If you can find it in your heart to do so, please forgive me for what I am about to do when we land. May God forgive me, but I can never love the baby nor could I afford to keep him if my parents will not allow my children and me to return to the safety of their roof.
I am now praying that, as you seem so kind a person, and so caring with my poor unwanted child, that you might think of him as God’s replacement for the baby you so recently lost. If you are horrified by this thought, please take him to the orphanage in Dublin, which was my intention before I met you.
You may think this cruel and irresponsible of me as I know you only as Harriet and neither your surname nor where you live. Perhaps it is best that way as if you did decide to raise my child as yours, you can be assured that I can never find you or ask you for further help.
Whatever you decide, I will never forget you or cease to thank you in my prayers for your great kindness to me and my children.
May God bless you.
Joan Lawson
It was several long minutes before Harriet could come to terms with what she had just read. The woman’s suggestion was, of course, ridiculous. She could not possibly undertake such a responsibility, least of all without Brook’s agreement. Even if she wanted to agree to such a crazy notion, he would not be home for at least another twelve weeks. The baby would have to go into an orphanage. Mr Dickens’ heart-breaking story of an orphan called Oliver Twist came unwanted into her mind.
She looked down at the baby in her arms, who seemed to be staring back at her. The bone structure of his little face was delicate, and she was reminded that both the mother’s family and that of his musical father were of gentle birth. What would happen to such a fragile infant in the harsh rough and tumble of an orphanage?
Her heart jolted as she realized suddenly that she might just consider taking a live new-born baby in place of the one she had lost, and were it not for her certainty that Brook would veto such an idea, she could … would welcome it. Having held him in her arms and fed him, she cared for him; how could she now bring herself to abandon him to an orphanage where, sickly as he was, he might not even survive?
‘Are you wanting a hansom cab, missus?’ asked the porter who was still standing in front of her unnoticed. ‘There’s one awaiting outside for a fare.’
Slowly Harriet got to her feet. The porter reached down for her basket and she followed him out into the bitter cold of a November day. Suddenly, she was longing quite desperately for the warmth of her sister’s house and the welcome she knew she would receive. The infant started crying – a thin, sad wail – as she climbed into the cab and gave the driver Una’s address.
‘Hush now, baby!’ she said as she settled him on her lap. ‘We will be warm and well cared-for soon. There is no need for your tears. My sister will look after you until we decide what to do with you. Just stop crying, please.’
As if the infant understood what she was saying, he suddenly looked up at her with what Harriet swore later was the hint of a smile.
SEVEN
1865–1866
By the time the hansom cab arrived at the door of Una’s beautiful home in Ballsbridge Street, on the outskirts of Dublin, both Harriet and the infant she was holding were in no state to be received. The few towelling squares that were on the child had long since been soaked. Shamefaced, she paid the driver and, holding the basket with her few belongings as best she could, rang the front doorbell.
After one look at Harriet’s bedraggled figure and the now wailing baby in her arms, the footman told her sharply that Her Ladyship was not at home and he was unsure when she would be back.
Harriet started to explain to the disbelieving servant that she was Una’s sister when someone approached from behind him. For a single moment, Una’s nanny stared at Harriet and then, smiling in delight, she pushed the footman aside and pulled Harriet gently into the hall.
‘Lord save us!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever has befallen you, Miss Harriet … and the baby …?’
She reached out and took the wailing infant from Harriet’s arms, her face taut with shock. As the footman closed the big front door, she gasped, ‘Surely to goodness you aren’t on your own, Miss Harriet! Have you no maid? No nanny?’
Harriet burst into tears, partly from exhaustion, but also at the half-remembered comfort of her old nanny who she now recalled saying the familiar words when she cut her knee or fell off the hay cart. ‘Surely to goodness, Miss Harriet,’ she would exclaim as she dealt with the subsequent cut or bruise, ‘you shouldn’t never have been doing such a thing!’
Nanny Rogers was now staring down at the pale, wizened face of the hungry
baby and, tut-tut-tutting at its wet clothing, recognized the cry from forty years of experience with tiny infants. She looked questioningly at Harriet. ‘Are you not able to feed your child?’ she asked. ‘That’s a hunger cry if ever I heard one.’
Attempting to stem her tears, Harriet shook her head. She was on the point of replying that she could not do so because the infant was not hers, but her old nanny was already barking instructions to the footman. He must send the nursery maid upstairs as quickly as possible, she told him, with hot milk, and the tweeny must go, too, with jugs of hot water for the south-facing spare room together with the tin bath, soap and towels. One of the maids must light the fire in the bedroom nearest to the nursery, make the bed and put a stone water bottle in, and he must ask Cook to warm some of her broth and have that sent upstairs in twenty minutes time.
Noticing that Harriet had no luggage large enough to contain clothes, she turned to Una’s personal maid who was staring at the curious visitor from the foot of the stairs. She must find one of Her Ladyship’s night dresses and put it to warm by the fire in the spare room, she ordered.
Turning back to Harriet, she said gently, ‘Whatever mishap has befallen you and your baby, Miss Harriet, you’re safe now. Nanny will take care of you and your little one.’ Her tone was once more one which Harriet instantly recalled from her nursery days.
‘No more talking!’ Nanny Rogers was instructing her. ‘Up we go and you shall have a nice hot bath and go straight to bed. Then I want you to have some of Cook’s chicken broth and afterwards, you’re to have a good sleep. I never in my life saw you look so poorly!’
As they walked upstairs, she informed Harriet that Miss Una and Sir Patrick weren’t expected home until the next day, as they were away visiting Sir Patrick’s parents, so Harriet should sleep for as long as she wanted.
‘I’ll see to your baby,’ Nanny added as if there wasn’t any doubt that Harriet would wish her to do so. ‘Goodness me, Miss Harriet, she’s that small she can’t be more than three weeks old! You should be resting after the birth, not travelling. No wonder you’re in such a state!’
Harriet was too exhausted to explain that the baby was not hers and that it was a little boy, not a girl, and that he had been given to her by his mother to take care of. Still less was she able to explain how she had been given no real option but to do so. Now that her old nanny had relieved her temporarily of all responsibility for the baby’s – as well as her own – welfare, she wanted nothing more than to enjoy the cleansing bath, and sleep. She would explain everything later, she told herself, and then make up her mind what she must do.
It was tea-time when she awoke from a deep, dreamless refreshing sleep of utter exhaustion. It was a moment or two before she realized that she was not in the narrow iron bedstead at the convent, but in a soft feather bed in Una’s house. A fire was burning brightly in the grate and soft chintz curtains were keeping out the bitter November wind now rattling the panes of glass. For a moment, she was conscious of nothing more than the feeling of comfort and safety which encompassed her. Only then did she remember her arrival. At that moment Siobhan, the nursery maid, came into the room and put a tea tray on her lap.
‘Nanny is in the nursery, madam,’ the girl said as she crossed the room to put some more coal on the fire. ‘She told me to tell you that Violet, Her Ladyship’s maid, will be in presently with some clothes for you, and when you are dressed, will you go up to the nursery where the children are having their tea.’
A quarter of an hour later, Harriet made her way upstairs to where Siobhan had said she would find the nursery. For the first time in months she felt more like her old self. Una’s maid had found drawers and petticoat trimmed with lace and with broderie anglaise insertions. Over them was a lovely emerald green, moiré silk gown which, surprisingly, fitted her perfectly, and the maid had washed and dressed her hair in a fashionable style.
Long before she reached the landing, she heard the shouts and laughter of the children. The noise stopped abruptly as she entered the room. All the little girls curtsied and the boys bowed as Nanny introduced them. The formalities over, they all started to talk at once without shyness but with avid curiosity. Was she really their aunt as Nanny had said? What was her baby called? Why was it so small? The questions poured from them, their small faces alight with curiosity and friendliness.
Answering them as best she could, Harriet crossed the room to where Nanny was sitting, the baby sleeping peacefully on her starched white aproned lap.
‘Don’t look so worried, Miss Harriet,’ she said comfortingly. ‘Your little boy, bless him, is going to be just fine. He’s keeping his food down and hasn’t cried once.’ Smiling, she pointed to one of the little girls. ‘Constance wants to know if you will allow them to keep him. She says we haven’t had a new baby since Colin and she likes babies better than dolls. Cedric wants to know how long you can stay and will the baby grow quicker than Colin who he is still waiting to be old enough to join in the ball games he enjoys. At present he only has Clifford and his sisters to play boys’ games with.’
Harriet sat down at the nursery table beside the three little girls who had been finishing their tea before her arrival. They began plying her with questions: where was her baby’s father? Was it pretty where she lived? Had she any older children? Finally, they asked her if she would like to see them dance.
‘Not one of them knows the meaning of shyness,’ Nanny said, then insisted they tidied their books and toys away before going down to the drawing room where the pianoforte was. ‘Their parents have quite different rules from the ones you children had when you were little. They like to see them running all over the house, hearing them laughing and singing and such. Running wild, I call it, but I have to say, they are never impolite, and they do what is told them.’
Constance, the eldest girl, came to stand beside Harriet. ‘Would you like to come downstairs now? I can’t dance for you as I will have to play Mama’s pianoforte since she isn’t here to play for us. I don’t play as well as she does but I learned to play a jolly Irish jig. Some of the boys and the smaller ones aren’t very good dancers, but Papa says we will all be splendid performers when we grow up. The pianoforte is in the drawing room so we have to go downstairs.’
‘I would love to watch you!’ Harriet replied. ‘That is, if Nanny says it is permitted.’
The elderly nanny returned her smile. ‘I’ll be happy to have a few minutes’ peace and quiet before bedtime!’ she said. ‘I’ll just sit quiet here with the little one.’
Harriet looked down at the sleeping baby, thinking how he had been transformed from a pale, wizened, wailing scrap of humanity into this angelic-looking infant now cradled in the old woman’s arms. As she stood there, the children waiting patiently for her by the nursery door, the baby opened his large blue eyes and, so it seemed to Harriet, focussed upon her. Seeing the expression on Harriet’s face, Nanny said gently, ‘Do you want to hold him awhile, Miss Harriet? Seeing the way you used to be with your dolls, I don’t wonder you love this little one: you was born to be a mother. Miss Una – I mean, Her Ladyship – and I have wondered from time to time why you haven’t had babies before and …’
Seeing the look of distress on Harriet’s face, she quickly changed the subject, telling the waiting children not to make their parents’ drawing room untidy, and not to stay for more than half an hour as it would soon be the youngest two children’s bedtime.
The next half hour was one of unbelievable happiness for Harriet. Although not very practised, the older children performed the dance remarkably well, and very sweetly offered to teach her the steps next day if she wished. The younger two cuddled up to her, putting their arms round her shoulders and telling her how pretty she was, and vying with one another to think of a name for her baby. The eldest of the boys informed her that all of them had the letter ‘C’ to start their names. Nanny had told them he was a cousin, which made him a part of the family, so could she give her baby a boy’s name also
beginning with ‘C’.
How, Harriet wondered, was she going to confess that the baby was not hers: not their cousin, and almost certainly must be going to an orphanage? Would she ever be able to find the courage to do so? Must she do so?
The children were still discussing possible names for the baby as they made their way up the wide staircase to the nursery quarters at the top of the house. They were now adding to Harriet’s discomfort by begging her to invite them all to the baby’s christening. They had never yet been to England, they informed her, and their papa had promised them they would go there soon. Mama, too, had often talked about her family in England.
When finally they had all bidden her goodnight and disappeared off to bed with the nursery maid, Harriet found herself alone in the nursery whilst Nanny was downstairs discussing supper with the cook. The baby was now sleeping peacefully in the outgrown wooden cradle one of the maids had brought down from the attic. Somehow, she told herself, she must tell Nanny and these friendly, happy children that the baby was not hers: that it was unwanted, and must go to an orphanage. They would not understand how his mother could bring herself to part with him; still less how she, Harriet, could now give him to an orphanage where he would have no father or mother of his own. Nanny, she reflected, would not only be incredulous, but deeply shocked by her deceit in allowing so much time to pass before admitting that the baby was not hers.
Why was she finding it so difficult to do so? she asked herself. She had known all along that she could not keep him however much she might want to do so. If she had not been so certain of Brook’s reaction, she might well have taken him with her when she returned home. Charles, the children had decided he could be called – after the former king of Ireland who had also been a king of England. They would shorten the name to Charlie. Not only did it begin with a ‘C’ as they wanted, but Charles was their grandfather’s Christian name: her father’s, too, Harriet thought, imagining how pleased he would have been, had he not died the previous year, to have a grandson named after him.
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