by Iris Cole
The same group of men who allowed me entry into this place. The same group of men who will tell me nothing of my real mother. The same group of men who have denied me my history and my lineage.
Her hands curled into fists as she kept walking, keeping her head down. She knew she ought to feel grateful for being one of the lucky ones, but the Foundling Hospital governors made it so very difficult when they continually denied her access to her birth mother’s information.
“It’s almost like they never want us to find out,” she grumbled. “They tell us they want us to be retrieved by our families but give us nothing to help us find them.”
She raised her hand to the neckline of her plain, cotton dress, half-concealed beneath a thick, white apron, and lifted out the chain that she wore around her neck. Dangling from the end, forever resting close to her heart, was an old copper coin with a hole in the centre. It was the only thing she had from her birth mother, who had left her here and never returned.
It had a rudimentary male figure carved into the surface; the edges worn smooth by Clary’s anxious rubbing. And around the edges, it had the words “St. Brendan” etched along the top curve and “St. Nicholas” along the bottom curve.
There but for the grace of God, go I. She was well aware she could have been another abandoned waif and stray, left to drift through the streets of London, merely waiting for exposure or violence or starvation to kill her. But the fact she had gained entry into the Foundling Hospital brought her a conflict of emotion.
On the one hand, it meant she had come from a woman of merit, at least in the governors’ eyes. It also meant that she must have been loved, in some way, or her mother would not have bothered to bring her to such a place, and fight for her to gain admittance here. But then, why had no-one come back for her? Why had seventeen years passed without so much as a whisper of the woman who had given her life? And why had her mother left her with no name of any kind? If it had not been for Dolly, she would still be nameless.
“Who am I?” Clary asked the empty hallways. “If not Clary O’Shea, then who?”
The silence echoed back, as always, susurrated by her weary sigh.
After almost two decades, why did she think she would get answers now? Perhaps, she was not meant to know who she was. Or, worse still, perhaps she would not like the truth, if she ever found out.
I must be content, she scolded herself. If not, I’ll surely drive myself to madness.
Most children who came to the Foundling Hospital were given a token, so they could be identified when their parents came back for them. But, in all the time Clary had been here, the majority were left with just that—a token of a life they could never have, belonging to a mother they would never meet. Why should she be any different?
Chapter Two
Three days later, Clary stood upon the damp lawn, lifting her face to the pitch dark of autumn’s early evenings. The clock had only just struck six o’clock, yet the stars were out in force, and a crescent sliver of moonlight added a glint of diamond to the water-jewelled grass. She pulled the collar of her cloak closer to her chin, to stave off the biting nip of the cold wind that rustled the trees in the distance.
“Come now, children!” Clary called to the small group of boys who were chasing a ball enthusiastically across the nearby grounds. Aged between eight and ten, they were older than her usual charges, but one of the matrons had taken ill shortly after dinner and Clary had immediately seized the opportunity to prove herself worthy of a position here at the hospital.
The boys pouted.
“Please, Nurse, can’t we just play one more game?” one implored, but Clary shook her head, knowing she had already allowed them ten minutes longer than she ought to have done. She supposed she had been carried away by their happiness, loath to be the one to interrupt their joy.
“I’m afraid not, or Matron Holmes shall box my ears.” Clary beckoned for the boys to come towards her, already fearing the wrath of the Head Matron. Where Dolly at least had a soft side, Matron Holmes had none whatsoever. Indeed, Clary often wondered what had possessed Matron Holmes to become a carer of children, for she seemed to despise them all.
The boys grumbled but followed Clary back into the hospital regardless. In the grand entrance hall, she urged them to clean their muddied shoes, and watched the clumps gather around the metal scraper.
Next, she had them brush the residue, until she was satisfied there would be no dirty footprints for anyone to complain about. That done, she ushered the suddenly weary boys down a labyrinth of parquet-floored hallways, towards their dormitories.
“Make sure to scrub your faces until they’re pink, and wash behind your ears. Clean your teeth thoroughly, too, until they gleam,” Clary urged, standing at the door to their dormitories. “One of the matrons will be along to check on you shortly, and I don’t want any of you being scolded for having a speck of dirt that shouldn’t be there.”
The boys all nodded obediently: their cheeks already flushed from the fresh air. It warmed Clary’s heart to see them all looking so vibrant and full of vitality. Indeed, it helped her to forget, at least momentarily, that there were so many unfortunates beyond the walls of this place, who would likely never know the innocent enjoyment of playing games with their friends.
These boys are safe and warm, with a roof over their heads, food in their bellies, and a bed to sleep in. In moments like this, she was grateful that there were some abandoned children who had been spared a lifetime of suffering. She would have preferred it if every child could have been given the same courtesy, but a saved minority was better than nothing.
“Goodnight,” she said, before turning and heading back along the maze of corridors, her footfalls heavy as they echoed between the walls.
Goodness, I’m tired. A yawn stretched her mouth wide, and she hurried to cover it with her hand, wary that someone might see her fatigue for her day of work was not even close to being over.
Shaking her shoulders to try and disperse the exhaustion in her bones, she carried on towards the infant ward, where she was due to begin her next vigil at seven o’clock. Another of the matrons had fallen ill with a terrible cold, prompting Clary to volunteer for the night watch.
Dolly had tried to dissuade her, but Matron Holmes had agreed to allow Clary the privilege, and though she was already burning the candle at both ends, she would not disappoint the Head Matron—the one person who stood between Clary and a permanent position at the hospital.
It’s only one night, she told herself, trying to urge some life back into her limp demeanour. One night, and I shall be in Matron Holmes’ good books. The thought immediately improved her mood, though it could do nothing about the gnawing ache in her concave stomach. She had only had the time to eat a chunk of bread and butter at dinner, before being called away to tend to a cluster of young girls who had been fighting.
Lunch and breakfast had been missed entirely, thanks to the hospital being lower on staff than usual. As for yesterday’s dinner… She could not remember if she had eaten or not.
“Bring me luck,” she whispered, rubbing her copper coin between thumb and forefinger. “Give me the strength to endure, until I’ve been given employment here.”
If St. Brendan and St. Nicholas heard her prayer, they did not reply. But feeling the metal warm beneath her skin gave her comfort enough, as though they had borne witness to her plea.
Pushing through the weighty double doors of the infant ward, fighting to ignore the slight wobble in her weary legs, she was met by the heavy-lidded gaze of Dolly, who paced back and forth across the wooden floor, cradling baby Rose in her arms.
“What’s the matter?” Clary hurried to Dolly’s side and pressed the backs of her fingers to Rose’s feverish brow. “When did she get worse?”
Dolly shook her head. “She’s cried herself into a state is all, me girl. It ain’t a fever ye’re feelin’. I only just got her to quiet, after screamin’ the place down for the last few hours.” She smiled
down at the child. “Ye’ve been causin’ me all kinds of bother, haven’t ye? Eeh, look at her, sleepin’ like an angel after howlin’ like a demon. Sweet as ye like, now, ye rascal.”
“She feels very warm, Dolly.” Clary pursed her lips in consternation. “Should we send for a physician?”
Dolly rocked the baby gently. “It’s naught but colic, lass. I’ve seen it enough times.”
“But what if she has this sickness that some of the matrons and nurses have?” Clary held a palm to her own forehead, but the lingering cold of outside made it hard to decipher her own temperature.
Dolly offered Clary a reassuring smile. “Ye worry too much, lass. Babies get red in the face all the time from howlin’, and soilin’, and even laughin’. Give her some more tonic in a few hours, and she’ll sleep through to dawn. Mark me words, she’s finally tired herself out.”
“Are you feeling unwell?” Clary turned her attention to the matron. Dolly had always had an extremely pale complexion, but there was a waxiness to the older woman’s skin, and a dark hollowness beneath her eyes that worried Clary. Even at seven-and-forty, her surrogate mother was as strong as an ox, able to heave double-stacked crates off the delivery carts and carry them to the kitchens with ease but, tonight, she looked unsettlingly weak.
Dolly waved a casual hand at Clary. “I’m formidable as ever, me girl. I just need me an hour’s kip and I’ll be right as rain.”
“Are you sure?” Clary swallowed thickly. With whispers of “malaria” and other such afflictions abounding in the city, how could she not fear the worst?
Dolly inclined her head. “I wouldn’t lie to ye, me girl.” Stiffly, she walked over to the chair beside Rose’s cot, and sank down with a grunt. “Get yerself away to the refectory for an hour. Eat somethin’, or take yerself for a walk, or have a rest of yer own whilst ye’ve naught to do. Ye’re not due to start until seven o’clock.”
“I don’t mind beginning early,” Clary insisted, seeing that Dolly needed rest far more than she did. “As you say, I’ve got nothing else to do. I might as well make myself useful after the trying few hours you’ve clearly had.” She held out her arms for Rose.
Dolly sighed. “There’s no tellin’ ye, is there?” She mustered a feeble laugh. “If ye’re sure, then I’ll take a brief respite and come back to look in on ye in an hour or two.”
“I’ve done the night shift before.” Clary took the baby girl as Dolly stood, pressing a readjusting hand to her ageing back as she was relieved of the precious cargo.
“I know ye have,” Dolly said quietly, “but that don’t mean I can’t take care of ye, and make sure all’s well.”
Clary jigged Rose lovingly in her arms, watching the child’s sleeping face. “Careful, people around here might think you’ve gone soft if they hear you talking like that.”
“I’ll deny it with all I’ve got.” Dolly laughed, bending from side to side to stretch out her crooked spine.
“And you’re certain I don’t need to call for the physician?” Clary took a closer inspection of Rose’s face, and though her cheeks were still a livid shade of puce, she did look adorably peaceful. Her little, perfect lips moved slightly, imitating a suckle, and a tiny, comforted sigh escaped her mouth.
Dolly patted Clary tenderly on the back. “I’d have sent for one meself if I thought there was anythin’ to be concerned about. I remember when I was yer age, doin’ all this for the first time. The slightest whimper of a wain, and I’d be frettin’ and hollerin’ for a physician, but ye come to learn that it’s never anythin’ but wind, or hunger, or a special surprise they’ve left in their napkins.” She grinned and dipped to place a kiss upon the baby’s forehead. “Let her sleep, give her some of that tonic, and a bit of milk if she starts cryin’ for it, and she’ll be a different wain in the mornin’.”
Satisfied that her fears were unfounded, for it was true that Dolly almost thirty years of experience in the whimsies and habits of children, whilst Clary had less than a year, she settled down in the chair that Dolly had just vacated.
“Wake me if ye need aught before I wake of me own accord, lass.” The older woman stooped to plant another kiss upon Clary’s brow. “Ye know where I am.”
Clary nodded. “Rest well, Dolly.”
“Aye, I will.” With that, Dolly left her charge to tend to the infants.
Changing Rose’s position, so the baby was resting against her chest, Clary looked out across the expansive room. There were six cots in here, at present, though only four of them were occupied: two little girls, and two little boys. They all had names upon their cots; a sign that they were remembered, and they were loved, and they had a hope of returning to their families one day. Fortunately, they were all sleeping, lulled into the soporific warmth of the ward, stoked by a roaring fire on the far side of the room. Beneath the crackle of wood burning, there was nothing but the peaceful rush of slumbering breaths, and the occasional rustle of a blanket.
How many more could find refuge here, if only the governors would see that there’s more to the worth of a woman, and a child, than the circumstance in which they were born? By judging them harshly, you resign them to destitution.
These notions were a constant thorn in Clary’s side, though how could she even hope to fight against such powerful men? They liked things the way they were, for it allowed them to feel righteous, when it was anything but.
Yet, even the mere mention of such revolutionary ideals would have her cast out without so much as a by-your-leave.
Listening to the sound of Rose sleeping soundly, the baby snuffling against her shoulder, Clary’s lids felt as though they were being tugged downwards by lead weights.
After being out in the cold, the heat of the room seemed all the more blanketing, loosening her body and welcoming it into the arms of slumber.
No, I mustn’t fall asleep. I’ve a duty to uphold. She shook her head and blinked rapidly, to try and fend off the soothing tendrils of warmth that wrapped around her and slipped within her veins.
Perhaps, if she had managed to rest last night, instead of tossing and turning with thoughts of the poorly staff and the threat of malaria and “fen fever” on the horizon, she might’ve succeeded in winning her battle against sleep. Perhaps, if she had eaten more throughout the day, to sustain herself, her entire being would not have felt so desperately overwhelmed with exhaustion. Perhaps, if she had insisted on Dolly remaining until seven o’clock, tragedy might have been averted.
As it happened, Clary was helpless to stop her eyelids from closing over her eyes, her breaths steadying into a slow hiss, her arms wrapped around sleeping Rose as she, too, gave into the pull of her fatigue.
Chapter Three
Clary awoke to screams and the purple haze of dawn seeping in between the heavy curtains that masked the ward windows. Rough hands seized her, dragging her out of the chair and shaking her so violently she feared her bones might crack.
“What have you done?” Spittle flew at Clary’s face as she opened her eyes to find Matron Holmes looming over her, gripping the younger woman’s shoulders with such violence that it sent barbs of pain shooting down her arms.
Clary blinked in confusion. “Done? What do you mean? I haven’t done anything.”
“You foolish, idle slattern!” Matron Holmes fumed.
Realisation struck Clary as she stared down to find her arms empty of Rose, and sensed a peculiar, dense silence in the room. T
hree nursemaids and another matron had joined Matron Holmes, all of them staring at her in abject horror. One of the younger nursemaids held a handkerchief to her mouth, as a strangled cry of sorrow spluttered from behind the cotton square.
“I m-must’ve fallen asleep,” Clary admitted, her heart racing as an icy rush of dread tore through her. “Where is R-Rose?” She hardly dared to ask, already knowing she would not like the answer.
“Matron O’Shea has her.” Matron Holmes gestured to the back of the room. Sure enough, Dolly stood there, her back to
Clary, her shoulders hunched in distress.
Clary swallowed past the lump that had formed in her throat. “I d-don’t understand, Matron. Has s-something happened?” She sucked in a tense breath. “D-Did I drop her when I fell asleep?”
“If only it had been something so harmless,” Matron Holmes replied, her eyes glinting with fury.
Clary tried to break away from her stern overseer, so she might reach Rose and find out for herself, but Matron Holmes held firm, gripping Clary’s shoulders harder so she could not move. “Rose? Rose? What’s wrong with her? Will someone p-please tell me!”
To her alarm, it was Dolly who answered, in a small, sorrowful voice. “She is dead, Clary.”
“What? No… that can’t be. She was… I saw her… She was… only sleeping.” Clary’s world span as though she were an image upon a phenakistiscope, turning around and around in bewilderment and terror. She tried to wrench away once more, unwilling to believe what she was hearing unless she could see the truth for herself. In retaliation, Matron Holmes delivered a stinging slap to Clary’s cheek, momentarily freezing the younger woman to the spot as she lifted a shaky hand to the injury.
“She is dead, you stupid girl!” the Head Matron hissed. “She could not breathe, and you were too lazy to notice!”
One of the nursemaids raised a trembling hand. “I saw her give something to the baby yesterday, Matron.”
“A tonic for her discomfort!” Clary protested, finding her voice. “I have used it countless times, and it has helped many of the infants here.”
Surely, they did not think she had poisoned the baby girl. Surely, they could not think her capable of something so evil.
Her heart cracked as she saw the suspicion and disdain in the eyes of her peers, for though she knew she should not have slept, she could not bear the idea that anyone considered her a threat to the children she adored.