by Iris Cole
She waited for Dolly to whirl around and defend her, but the older woman kept her back turned.
“Dolly? You know I would never… I could never do something so terrible.”
A frightened sob wracked her chest.
“Please, if you would just let me see Rose, I might be able to figure out what happened to her. Please, Dolly.”
Finally, Dolly turned, clutching the limp, swaddled body of Rose in the crook of her arm. “I… don’t think we can blame Clary, Matron Holmes.” Her eyes were rimmed with red, as a gleaming rivulet trickled from her nose. “It looks to me like Rose weren’t well. She’s got… discoloration on her lips, and there’s crustin’ around her eyes and nose. It means she couldn’t breathe, but not ‘cause of anythin’ Clary did. It looks the same as wains I’ve seen, what died of “fen fever” or somethin’ like it.”
“We are nowhere near the fens!” Matron Holmes raged. “It can’t be “fen fever.” Even if it were some kind of affliction, this wretched girl should’ve been awake to notice a change in the baby’s demeanour! The poor thing would’ve been fiery to the touch and wailing in pain, yet Miss Clary saw and heard none of it, for she was slumbering without a care in the world. She should have been able to send for a physician, then we might not have a dead child on our hands!”
Clary’s devastated gaze met Dolly’s, though the older woman immediately looked away again. Understanding settled upon Clary, though Dolly had evidently figured out the details of Rose’s untimely demise long before her charge had even awoken. Last night, when Clary had felt the child’s feverish temperature, and remarked upon the need for a physician, Rose had needed medical attention. She had been sick.
If Clary had followed her gut instinct, the baby girl might still be alive. At the very least, she would not have died without anyone to comfort her, and soothe her, and they might have called for a priest to perform last rites.
You made the mistake, not me. You were wrong, and now Rose is dead. And the older woman clearly knew it, for Clary could almost see the weight of that terrible responsibility pressing down on her mentor’s shoulders.
“Please, Matron Holmes, don’t chastise Clary too harshly.” Dolly hiccoughed through a sob, as she held the child closer. “Ye see, I—”
“I’m to blame,” Clary cut in, before her surrogate mother could finish. “You’re right, Matron. I should have been awake. I should have seen how unwell Rose had become, and I should have sent for a physician immediately. It was my fault.” The words tumbled off her tongue, forging a protective shield around Dolly and the error she had made. After everything the older woman had done for her, these last seventeen years, this seemed like the least Clary could do.
I won’t let you suffer, Dolly.
If Matron Holmes discovered that Dolly had instructed Clary not to worry, and not to send for a physician, then it would be the older woman’s future employment upon the chopping block. And Clary would not have Dolly sent away from this hospital, especially not in her advancing years, with winter on the way.
Beyond these walls, with this tragedy following her, Dolly would find it difficult to scrape a living. Clary, on the other hand… Well, there were many things a young woman could do to earn money, out there in the oppressive fog of London.
Matron Holmes snorted like a bull. “I want you out, Clary. You are almost of age, and if anyone should ask questions, you will say you decided to leave of your own accord.” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “If you refuse, I will take this to the governors, and they may not be as lenient. I should hate to see you swing from the gallows for causing the death of a child.”
Shaking like the last autumn leaf upon a tree, lashed by a storm, Clary gave a small nod. “I understand, Matron.”
“Ye can’t do that!” Dolly tried to intervene. “How many of yer nurses have made mistakes over the years, eh? How many blind eyes have ye turned? She’s only new to this, and she’s been runnin’ herself ragged, takin’ care of everyone whilst matrons and nurses have been sick. Of course she were goin’ to fall asleep at some point. Aye, it’s unfortunate it ended like this, but she’s worthy of a second chance!”
Matron Holmes puffed out her bosom. “If you continue in this manner, you may join Miss Clary in leaving the Foundling Hospital. Her actions leading up this tragic event do not concern me. A real nurse would have known better than to exhaust themselves, and this only goes to show that she has no place here.”
“But—” Dolly took a step forward, but Clary stopped her.
“It’s all right, Dolly. This is my responsibility, and my wrongdoing, and I must obey my punishment.”
Clary sounded stronger than she felt, for her insides were in turmoil, and her heart beat so furiously that she feared it might suddenly come to a halt. But she would not allow anyone to put her surrogate mother in harm’s way, least of all herself.
Dolly shook her head. “This isn’t fair, me girl.”
“Someone must pay for Rose’s death.” Clary approached the tiny child in Dolly’s arms and brushed a gentle fingertip across the stone-cold forehead of the unmoving, unbreathing body. This time, no one prevented her. “I could’ve helped her if I hadn’t fallen asleep. I could’ve called for you and made this right. I am to blame, because I wasn’t awake.”
Dolly’s eyes widened in despair. “Nor was I, me girl. I said I’d come back to look in on ye, and I… never did.”
“It wasn’t your duty, Dolly,” Clary assured. “Your shift was finished, and mine had begun. Matron Holmes is correct—if I didn’t think myself capable of undertaking my duties, for any reason, I should have sought assistance.”
Dolly stared at her charge; a thousand emotions coursing across her weathered face, whilst her lips parted slightly, as though there were more she wanted to say. Anything, to prevent Clary being tossed out into the bitter world, with no-one to watch over her. But Clary simply gave her head a subtle shake, as if to say: “Don’t worry, Dolly. I’ll find my way. I’ll be all right.”
“At least you have some semblance of decency about you,” Matron Holmes muttered. “Now, gather your belongings and we shall reconvene at the front gates in twenty minutes. If you are late, I might be forced to rethink my benevolence.”
Clary dipped her head. “Yes, Matron.” She paused for a moment, to place one parting kiss upon Rose’s brow. “I’m sorry, little one. I’m sorry I didn’t do more.”
With that, she turned and exited the infant ward, saying a silent farewell to the other babies who had been under her care since their arrival.
She refused to let Matron Holmes see her bawl, for that would only have brought the old crone a sense of satisfaction. However, as she walked out into the cavernous hallway, and made her way to her private chambers for the very last time, she let the tears come.
They rolled hot and fierce down her cheeks, salting her tongue as they trickled into her mouth, making her cracked lips sting.
I deserve it, she told herself. It doesn’t matter the part Dolly played. I should’ve been awake. I should’ve listened to my fears. If I had, that sweet little girl might have a life to look forward to. Now, she’ll only know the dark, cold ground for a cot, and… that is my fault.
Opening the door to her bedchamber, she halted on the threshold. It was not much, only a stark room of stone and wood, with a narrow window to let in the dawn light. But it was hers. She had lost count of the nights she had cried herself to sleep upon her Spartan bed, thinking of the abandoned children who slept in the dormitories and wards of the hospital, weeping for families they had never met. And though the woollen blankets were coarse and thin, they had always brought her comfort, like a baby being swaddled.
Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the corner of her apron, she stepped into the bedchamber and removed a carpetbag from beneath the bed. Crossing to her small armoire, she packed the two dresses she owned, alongside undergarments and an ivory hairbrush that Dolly had gifted her two years ago.
She did not ha
ve much else to call her own, and though she knew it was wrong, she could not help but slip the apothecary books into her carpetbag, with the last few candles she possessed, and a box of matches. If nothing else, she knew she could sell them if she became desperate.
That done, Clary took a few moments to breathe in the homely scent of her bedchamber: a mix of fresh lavender and the dill oil she had meticulously pressed with her own hands.
“Goodbye,” she whispered, though it was not just a farewell to this room, and the life she had known. It was a farewell to all the children she had cared for, whom she would not be able to say goodbye to. Most of them would not yet be awake, and those that were would be on their way to break their fast in the refectory. Moreover, she did not believe Matron Holmes would give her the opportunity to say everything she wanted to say to them.
“I wish you all well,” she added. “I hope you find a light in the darkness and make something out of yourselves. And… I hope your mothers and fathers come back for you.”
Dabbing fresh tears from her eyes, she took up her cloak and exited her bedchamber, striding back through the maze of corridors until she reached the front doors of the hospital.
She looked around frantically, expecting to see Dolly there, so she might say a proper farewell to the woman who had been more of a mother to her than anyone. But the entrance hall lay empty, and Clary knew her time was running out.
She sucked in a heavy breath, and stepped out into the brisk dawn air, where the first strands of daylight fractured the gloom. It would be a mockingly beautiful day, she thought, unable to spy a single cloud in the sky.
Lowering her head, she made her way down the long driveway, the dew-soaked grass winking at her from either side of the path. She thought of the boys playing with their ball, and her throat constricted, for she knew she might never see such an innocent display of joy again.
A few minutes later, she reached the tall wooden gates. A guard post took pride of place between the two sets, where a steward sat day and night—the gatekeeper to this sanctuary. He passed on first impressions of desperate women to the governors and could be the difference between a child gaining entry and one being refused outright. Personally, she had never warmed to a single one of them, for that reason alone.
“How timely of you,” Matron Holmes said, as Clary came to a halt.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting, Matron.” Clary lifted her gaze, praying to see Dolly, but there was no-one here but the Head Matron.
Without hesitation, Matron Holmes called to the sentry. “Open the gates, if you please. Miss Clary will be leaving today, and she will not be returning. If she appears at these gates again, you are not to grant her entry without express permission. Do you understand?”
The sentry shrugged. “Aye, Matron.” Coming out of his guard post, an iron ring of keys jangling on his hip, he went to a smaller door within the entrance walls. Swinging it wide, he stood back to let Clary pass.
“Might I speak with Matron O’Shea before I go?” Clary struggled to hide the note of anguish in her voice.
Matron Holmes shook her head. “I have sent her to the mortuary with the infant.”
“But… I can’t leave without saying goodbye to her!” Clary protested, wondering if she would be able to outrun Matron Holmes… and if it would be worth the retribution that would surely come afterwards.
Matron Holmes sniffed. “You should have thought of that before you neglected your duties. I will not have you causing a scene, Miss Clary. Please, go, whilst I still have some mercy left.”
Clary glanced back over her shoulder, willing Dolly to appear. Her eyes scoured the windows of the hospital in the distance, and her heart leapt into her throat as she spotted a lone figure, silhouetted in one of the rectangular panes. It had to be Dolly. No one else would be watching out for her. No one but Dolly ever had. But still, it was clear there would be no tearful parting, nor even a warm embrace to send Clary on her way.
“Must I throw you out?” Matron Holmes grumbled, tapping her foot impatiently.
Clary sighed, blinking back tears. “No, Matron. I will go.” Shouldering her carpetbag, she walked toward the open gate. She was about to step over that border, when she paused and looked hard at the Head Matron. “I hope you know what you’ve lost today, and I don’t just mean darling Rose. I would’ve given my life for any one of these children. I would’ve done anything for them, to make sure they led happy lives.”
Matron Holmes glared at Clary. “Get out” she spat.
Clary’s lip trembled but she held her ground “I agree, I made a grave mistake, and I shall have to bear the weight of that for the rest of my days, but the Lord preaches forgiveness. Perhaps, you ought to look to your Bible, and see if you have made a mistake this day, too.”
The Matrons eye’s widened outrage burning in her face.
Clary did not give the matron time to respond. Instead, she marched through the door and out into the wider world for the very first time in seventeen years.
And she kept on walking, putting more distance between herself and the hospital. Now she felt the first true shiver of dread snake up her spine. For what did she know of the outside world? All she had ever known was the hospital, and its walls, its corridors, its grounds. The city of London was unknown, perilous territory, yet she had no choice but to step into it and pray it did not devour her whole.
Chapter Four
Utterly alone, Clary wandered, following the current of hackney carriages, rattling carts, and grim-faced workers as they flowed toward the bustle of the city from the squalid district of St. Pancras, not far from the Foundling Hospital’s location in Bloomsbury.
In the gathering daylight, the young woman’s nerves began to ebb, for the filth and despair and sordid secrets of London were well concealed behind the veil of the sun’s illumination. Indeed, rather than horror, she saw a great deal of beauty in the lush, green squares that she passed, where refined governesses walked with impeccably attired children. She marvelled, too, at the elegant sandstone structures that appeared around a bend, their tall, sleek pillars and triangular pediments reminding her of Grecian monuments she had seen in books at the hospital.
I had no reason to be afraid. She smiled as she ventured onward, cutting down a narrow side-street in pursuit of a group of ruddy-cheeked flower girls who seemed to know where they were going. She trailed them for a while, at a polite distance, until the city seemed to transform before her very eyes, like she had somehow stumbled through a gateway into an entirely different realm. The fine buildings vanished, and gave way to ramshackle terraces, packed so tightly they reminded her of sardines.
Unconsciously, she held her carpetbag closer to her side as she continued to follow the flower girls down a long street, filled with shawled women, hollow-eyed children, and men who did not seem capable of standing without swaying from one side to the other. Her skin prickled as she felt their eyes observing her, likely knowing she did not belong here.
“Oi! How much are ye sellin’ for?” A yellow-toothed wretch leered at her from a doorway as she passed, a tin cup of something potent clutched in his hand.
A woman appeared behind him, her face scarred with pock marks, her dress covered in so many stains it looked like a deliberate pattern. Wielding a frying pan in her hand, she clocked the lecherous man over the back of the head, prompting him to stagger forward.
Clary jumped back in alarm as the fellow almost collided with her, wishing she had not come this way.
“Next time I hear you hollerin’ at a girl what’s mindin’ her business, when you’ve six wains inside what need feedin’, I’ll kill you where you stand, Alfie Cropper!” the woman shrieked, causing a band of women down the street to cackle at the man’s fate.
The drunkard regained his footing, having miraculously avoided spilling a single drop of whatever was in his cup. “Aye, and I’ll kill ye an’ all for havin’ the six wains! I never asked ye for ‘em! Never even wanted to marry ye!”
> Clary hurried forward, seeking any semblance of safety. And not a moment too soon, for the woman with the frying pan marched straight out of the house and struck the inebriate in the face, sending him sprawling to the cobbles. Clary did not stay to see what might befall the wretch, as she broke into a quicker lope, and soon found herself in a strange circle with seven streets shooting off at steady intervals.
“You look lost, girl.” A willowy woman with bright red splotches painted upon her cheeks, and loose stays that almost revealed too much of a bony bosom, approached Clary. “Where’ve you come from, eh? Mary can always tell when someone’s new to the city.”
Clary hesitated, resisting the urge to wrinkle her nose as she smelled the acrid aroma of stale gin on the woman’s breath. “I’m from London, Ma’am, but I don’t know these parts. Could you tell me where I am?”
“Ma’am, is it?” The woman chuckled. “I ain’t been called that before. I like your manners, girl, and for that I’ll give you what Mary knows for free. Would’ve cost you a penny, otherwise.” She leaned closer to Clary; the scent of gin mingling with the stench of urine and something much fouler. “You’re in Seven Dials, girl. Head down Mercer Street, you’ll find yourself in Covent Garden. Keep going south, you’ll get to the river. Where is it you’re headed, eh?”
Clary tried to hold her breath, knowing it was not this woman’s fault she smelled the way she did. “I… need a boarding house of some kind. A… safe one, if possible.”
“Aye, very wise.” Mary, or so the prostitute seemed to be called, gave a nod. “I’d go to the river. Walk along the bank ‘til you get to Blackfriars Bridge. Turn north toward St. Paul’s Cathedral, and you’ll find plenty boarding houses around there.”
Clary mustered a smile. “Thank you.” She was about to turn away, when a thought occurred to her. “Are there any orphanages hereabouts?”
“What would you be wantin’ one of them for?” Mary snorted.
“I’m a… nurse.” Clary did not care what Matron Holmes had said about her having no place as a caretaker of children. It was the only thing she knew, for certain, that she was any good at. And, perhaps, she might be able to find employment and a roof over her head, if she used her talents to her advantage.