Читать книгу Honourable Doctor, Improper Arrangement - Mary Nichols - Страница 8

Lady Morland was sitting in the drawing room, a cup of tea in her hand and a plate of sugar plums at her elbow when Kate entered the room. ‘Good heavens, Kate, whatever has happened to you?’ she queried. She was a little plump, due to her partiality for sweetmeats, but was still, at seventy, very active both in mind and body. ‘Have you had an accident? Have you been set upon and robbed?’

‘No, nothing like that. I am sorry I am late, Grandmama, but I have had such an adventure.’

‘You had better tell me at once, for a more bedraggled sight I never did see. It is to be hoped no one of any note saw you or it will be all round town.’

‘Oh, Grandmama, of course it will not. I am not one of the ton, I do not move in such exalted circles, you know that very well.’

‘But you will when the Viscount comes back. He will take you out and about and there must be no hint of gossip. You know how particular he is.’

She did. Viscount Robert Cranford, one-time Colonel of a line regiment and now a diplomat, was very particular indeed, which was why Kate sometimes wondered why he had picked her out for his attention. She had first met him when he called to commiserate with her on Edward’s death. He had known and admired her late husband as a valiant fellow officer and felt he owed it to him to visit his widow. He knew and understood the grief felt on losing a loved one, he had told her; his wife had died, leaving him with two daughters to bring up. They were being cared for by his sister, Mrs Withersfield, on his estate near Cookham. ‘When Harriet’s husband died and left her in rather straitened circumstances,’ he had explained, ‘I offered her a home. It has worked very well because, being so often away from home myself, I needed someone to run the house and look after the girls.’

Her grandmother had plied him with refreshments and invited him to call again. He had done so several times while he was in England; when he went back to Spain, he and Kate had kept up a regular correspondence. After the war ended, he had left the army to pursue a career in the diplomatic corps and was working at the British Embassy in Paris. He had proposed by letter three months before.

She had adored Edward and there had never been a moment’s doubt about her answer when he asked her to marry him, coupling it with a declaration of undying love that had delighted her. Six months after the wedding, he was dead. Did the love die with him? She did not think so, but it changed, became a lovely memory, not something of the present, and should she not grasp a second chance at happiness? She would have a kind husband, two homes, two stepdaughters and, most important of all, the chance to have children of her own.

But she had wondered why the Viscount, who had a tendency to stand on his dignity, should choose her for a wife over others more worthy. She was an easy-going sort of person, not particularly tidy, nor one to make a fuss if something was not exactly where it should be. Nor did she complain if the servants left a speck of dust in a dark corner. She dressed neatly and cleanly without the help of a maid, did not care too much about fashion and the latest fads and, having no children of her own, it was her joy to play with her cousin’s children, the more boisterous the better.

Grandmother said she undervalued herself, that she was beautiful, knew how to behave in elite company when she wasn’t rushing about after the objects of her charity. She would make a splendid stepmama for his lordship’s motherless girls, which was more than could be said for most of the empty-headed débutantes being turned out nowadays. It was four years since Edward had died and it was time she considered marrying again. ‘You want to have children of your own, do you not?’

‘Of course, it is my dearest wish.’ It was more than a wish, it was becoming an obsession. She longed to hold her own baby in her arms, to love it and care for it. She would never consider sending it to a wet nurse, or even having one live in. She distrusted them profoundly. She would look with envy at her friends and relations who had children and could not understand how they could bear to see so little of them. They would visit them in the nursery, stay a few minutes and then hand them back to the nursery maid, as if they were bored by them. Did they never cuddle them, have meals with them, play with them, listen to their childish problems? If she had children, they would be loved and considered, but not spoiled. She would instruct them herself and take them out, show them the countryside, teach them to appreciate all God’s creatures and not be snobbish. It was a dream she indulged in more often than was healthy.

‘Then you must marry again,’ her grandmother had said. ‘Amusing yourself with Lizzie’s children and spending more than you can truthfully afford on the poor and needy is not the answer.’

Kate loved her cousin’s children dearly, but they did not need her money and others did, so what better cause could she choose? But she had to admit her grandmother was right about marrying again. ‘So you think I should accept?’

‘Kate, it is your decision, but you must be honest with yourself. You are twenty-five years old, it is the only suitable offer you are likely to have and his lordship will make a splendid husband.’

‘Yes, but what sort of wife will I make?’ she had asked. ‘I have become so used to living here with you and Papa, I do not know if I can manage a large country house or stand at the Viscount’s side at diplomatic functions. I might not fit in.’

‘Of course you will,’ her grandmother had said briskly. ‘You have as much breeding as he has. The Hartingdons are a very old and respected family and so are the Morlands. Viscount Cranford will certainly not be demeaning himself by marrying you.’

Her father was sincere in his Christian beliefs and did not behave like an aristocrat in spite of his connections with Earl Hartingdon and the fact that he was the second son of the late Lord Morland, her grandmother’s husband. They were not wealthy, not in the way their illustrious relations were, but they were certainly not poor. After considering the proposal for over a week, she had written to accept, though the engagement had yet to be gazetted. Robert was waiting until he came back to England to do that. ‘I want to tell my sister and daughters first,’ he had written. Only last week he had said he had applied for leave and was hoping to return home shortly when they would celebrate their engagement and arrange a wedding.

Kate wondered why she was not as elated as she expected to be, but came to the conclusion that it was because it was a second marriage and nothing could recapture that first wonderful sensation of marrying the man you had fallen in love with, especially when both were young and looking forward to a long and blissful life together. She could not expect to feel the same as she did when she married Edward. That did not mean this marriage was not right or that she would not be happy. Her feelings for Robert were strong; he had been her rock and comforter when she was mourning Edward. It was simply that this time it was different, but no less valid.

‘Grandmother,’ she said now, ‘what exactly is my relationship to Lady Eleanor Hartingdon?’

‘Let me see,’ her ladyship said. ‘The third Earl was my brother, so his son, the present Earl, is your father’s cousin. That makes Eleanor his second cousin and your second cousin once removed. Something like that. Why do you ask?’

‘Her name was mentioned to me today.’

‘By whom and in what context?’

Kate took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of all that had happened in the park and afterwards. ‘I never knew Lady Eleanor had a children’s home named after her.’

‘Neither did I. She never struck me as the maternal sort, but then you do not have to be motherly to have a conscience and support a charitable cause, do you?’

‘I suppose not. I wonder how Dr Redfern is getting on with Joe. I can’t stop thinking about him.’

‘Dr Redfern?’

Kate laughed to cover her embarrassment. ‘No, I meant the little boy. He was in the most pitiful rags and so filthy it was difficult to tell what colour his hair was.’

‘And you picked him up!’ Her ladyship was so shocked she almost recoiled. ‘You must strip off those clothes this minute and have a hot bath. You can finish telling me after you have changed.’

Kate went to obey.

She was soon down again, dressed in a blue jaconet gown with little puffed sleeves and a boat-shaped neckline. Her hair was once again brushed and neatly coiled. By then her father had joined her grandmother, ready to go in to dinner, and she went over the afternoon’s events again for his benefit.

‘What do you know of this Dr Redfern?’ her father asked.

‘Nothing, Papa. He was simply there and helped me to restrain the child. He seemed a gentleman. He was certainly dressed like one. We took the child to the Hartingdon Home.’ She decided to leave out the visit to the rookeries, which would have given her grandmother a fit. ‘You will meet him tomorrow. I have said he may call.’

‘Was that necessary, Kate?’ her grandmother put in. ‘A stranger you met in the park without the benefit of an introduction. He could be anybody, a rake, a scapegrace or worse.’

‘I am sure he is not, and how else am I to find out how the little boy is faring?’

The old lady sighed. ‘I shall be glad when you are safely married and have a family of your own, then perhaps you will not concern yourself with every little urchin you meet.’

‘I shall always be concerned about the lives of poor children,’ Kate said. ‘Being married will not make any difference to that.’

‘I think Lord Cranford might have something to say on the matter.’

‘Why should he object? Anyone with an ounce of pity would feel the same as I do. He is not a hard man.’

‘Hmph,’ the old lady said and fell silent.

Kate could not stop thinking about the little boy and thoughts of him were all mixed up with thoughts of Dr Redfern. He did not look a bit like a doctor. Doctors usually dressed in sombre clothes and were often a little shabby, but Dr Redfern was elegantly, if simply, dressed. She had admired the way he dealt with the child, in firm but friendly fashion, and he had not been afraid of dirtying his fine clothes. Such a man must be a wonderful papa. Was he married? Did he have children of his own? Would a married man interest himself in other people’s children if he had offspring of his own? But if he was single, surely he should be looking for a wife and setting up a nursery of his own, not concerning himself with slum children?

Kate was sitting in the drawing room with her grandmother the next day when Dr Redfern was announced by their parlour maid, Susan. She put down the book she had been reading and jumped up eagerly, almost too eagerly, to receive him. He was wearing a long-tailed coat of green superfine, yellow-and-white striped waistcoat, skin-tight pantaloons which showed off his muscular thighs and well-polished boots. His shirt was white and his starched cravat was tied neatly between the points of his shirt collar which were high, but not so high he could not turn his head. He had removed his top hat and held it in the crook of his arm. ‘Mrs Meredith, your obedient,’ he said, bowing.

‘Doctor Redfern.’ Kate bent her knee slightly and inclined her head, as good manners dictated, then turned to her grandmother. ‘Grandmother, may I present Doctor Redfern. Doctor Redfern, the Dowager Lady Morland.’

‘My lady.’ He managed to contain his surprise and bowed again. How could he have imagined Mrs Meredith was a nursery maid? He felt himself grow hot, remembering how he had treated her with condescension. Why, she came from aristocratic stock! She had said she was related to Lady Eleanor too, and he had simply imagined she was the poor relation. Nothing he could see about him now bore that out. The room was elegantly furnished and the old lady was regal in her bearing. She was looking him up and down through a quizzing glass, taking in every detail of his apparel, and he was glad he had taken trouble with his appearance.

‘Redfern,’ she said, at last. ‘Any relation to the Redferns of Finchingfield?’

‘Yes, my lady. Lord Redfern of Grove Hall is my uncle.’

‘Ahh,’ she said, as if he had answered some conundrum that had been puzzling her. ‘Please be seated. You will take tea?’

‘Thank you.’ He took a seat opposite her and put his hat on the floor at his side.

Kate found another chair close by. ‘How is Joe?’ she asked him, as her grandmother instructed Susan to bring the tea things. They did not employ a footman. They had a cook, a kitchen maid and a chambermaid besides Susan. Her grandmother had a maid whom Kate shared on special occasions and her father had a valet who also acted as his secretary. Two women came daily to clean and to do the laundry and a man came to see to the garden. Daniels, their coachman, lived in the mews.

‘He has settled down well. I am trying to find the family a more wholesome place to live, so that he can be returned to his mother.’ He noticed Kate slowly shaking her head and realised she had not told her grandmother the whole of what had happened the previous day and he must tread carefully.

‘How did you come to be involved in such work?’ her ladyship asked.

‘The plight of poor children has always interested me; since the war it seems harder for men to find work and there are so many poor, unwanted children about. I thought something should be done, so I approached as many influential and wealthy people as I could and one of those was Lady Eleanor. Between us we set up an association of like-minded people to raise funds and the result has been The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children and a home for those we cannot foster out.’

‘And why did you choose to be a doctor?’ the old lady persisted in her questioning. ‘It seems a strange thing for a gentleman to do do.’

He laughed. ‘I was always picking up injured birds and animals when I was a boy and looking after them until they either died or were cured, then I would release them back into the wild. And when a choice of career was being considered, I decided on the army. But I would rather preserve life than end it, so I trained to be an army doctor…’

‘A far cry from looking after children,’ the old lady went on, as Susan returned with the tea things and, having set them out, left Kate to pour it and hand it out.

‘There are children with the women who follow the march,’ he told her. ‘Many were born in camp. I acted midwife on many an occasion, but my main occupation was treating the sick and wounded after the battles.’

Although Kate would not have dreamed of quizzing him as her grandmother was doing, she listened with growing admiration as he talked. If she had been a man, she would have pursued the same calling or something very like it, but such a career was not open to a woman and she had to content herself with visiting the poor and sick and taking them little comforts like food and clothing and helping them in any way she could.

‘I collect you were brought up by your uncle, is that not so?’ Lady Morland queried, changing tack suddenly.

‘Yes, my lady. Both my parents died when I was very young and he became my guardian.’

‘But you are not your uncle’s heir?’

‘I was not, but nine months ago my cousin died in a hunting accident, which has unexpectedly put me in that position.’

‘I see.’

Kate looked at him with renewed interest. She could feel for him; her own mother had died when she was seven and she knew the sense of loss never entirely went away. It might account for the bleak look she sometimes saw in his eyes.

Lady Morland was not done with him yet. ‘And do you do your work with your uncle’s blessing?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘Not exactly. He told me to go to the devil in my own way. Fortunately he is in prime kilter and I do not expect to inherit for a long time yet.’ It was a mild way of describing his relationship with his uncle, which had been, and still was, a stormy one, especially since the death of his cousin. He was expected to step into Charles’s shoes, marry an heiress and give him a brood of grandchildren. ‘You should be looking for a wife and setting up your own nursery, not taking on other people’s bantlings,’ Aunt Matilda told him repeatedly. ‘You will catch some dreadful disease, or be set upon and robbed by the very people you are trying to help…’ And that was mild compared with what his uncle said.

‘I assume from that you have not married.’

‘No, I have yet to meet the lady who will put up with my peccadilloes.’ It was his stock answer, if not entirely accurate.

‘I would not call the wish to help your fellow creatures a peccadillo, Dr Redfern,’ Kate put in. ‘It is an admirable thing to do.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He paused and plunged on, unwilling to continue being quizzed on the subject of marriage. ‘If you are interested in the work of the Society, there is be a lecture at Somerset House on Friday evening at eight o’clock with the object of raising funds. If you are not otherwise engaged, would you care to attend?’

‘Yes, I think I would.’

As Kate spoke, her father came into the room. He was, Simon judged, about fifty, grey-haired and dressed in the dark clothes of a cleric. Kate introduced them.

‘Oh, you are the fellow my daughter met yesterday,’ the Reverend said, shaking Simon’s hand.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What happened to the little boy she rescued?’

‘He has been taken into the Hartingdon Home. I am hoping something can be done for the family and then he can be returned to them.’

‘Kate has told me a little of the work you do,’ the Reverend went on. ‘It is a thankless task, I think.’

‘There are times when I feel despondent, but when things go well and a family thrives, then I am glad that I have done my small part in bringing it about.’

‘I think the government should do more,’ Kate said. ‘Children should not have to rely on charity for the basic things in life, like food, clothes and a home. If I had my way, ex-soldiers would have decent pensions—’ She stopped suddenly, realising she was becoming heated. ‘I beg your pardon. I am sometimes a little too forthright.’

Simon smiled, admiring her heightened colour, the brightness of her eyes and the passion with which she spoke. How he wished there were more like her! ‘I agree with you. The war has ruined so many lives—children left either without fathers or ones so badly disabled they cannot work, and mothers who must work to keep the family from starving and in the process neglecting their children.’

‘Papa,’ Kate said, ‘Dr Redfern has invited me to attend a lecture about the work of The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children on Friday evening. I have a mind to go. Would you accompany me?’

‘That is the charity Lady Eleanor is involved with, is it not?’ he asked Simon.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I see no harm in attending. But if you are looking for a large donation, I am afraid you have come to the wrong person.’

Kate laughed. ‘One must not forget the tale of the widow’s mite. And perhaps there are other ways to help besides money, even if it is only spending a little time with the children at the Home.’

‘Kate, how can you think of anything like that?’ Lady Morland remonstrated. ‘You don’t know where they have come from. You might pick up anything…’

Kate did know where most of them came from, but she was not going to tell her grandmother about her visit to the slums. ‘Then I can help raise funds. There is no harm in that, is there?’

Simon, unwilling to witness an altercation between the old lady and her granddaughter, picked up his hat, before standing up and bowing to everyone. ‘My lady. Reverend. Mrs Meredith. I thank you for your interest.’

Kate rose to go to the front door with him; it was not their habit to ring for Susan to see callers off the premises. ‘I really would like to help you,’ she told him. ‘I am sure you will be able to find something useful for me to do.’

‘But ought you to go against your family’s wishes?’

‘Oh, take no note of Grandmama, her bark is worse than her bite. I can easily bring her round my thumb and I know my father will let me have my way; he thinks as I do. You have not seen the last of me.’

‘Then I wish you good day, Mrs Meredith. I shall look forward to seeing you at the meeting on Friday.’ He clamped his hat back on his head and strode down the path to the gate.

Kate returned to her grandmother. Her father had disappeared into his study again. ‘What a strange man,’ her ladyship said.

‘Do you mean Dr Redfern? I do not find him strange.’

‘An heir to a baron, grubbing about in the dirt, playing nursemaid to a horde of filthy children is strange, Kate, believe me. But if my memory serves me, there was a scandal there somewhere in the past, a falling out between uncle and nephew. Unless it was his cousin. I cannot be sure. I shall have to make enquiries.’

‘Why, Grandmother? Whatever it was has nothing to do with us and if he chooses to spend his time helping the poor, that is commendable, not strange.’

‘Nothing to do with us! Of course it is. If he expects to be received, then his character is important. We do not want our friends, and particularly Viscount Cranford, to think we encourage the man if he is not acceptable in polite society. And is a man who spends his time among the riff-raff in the rookeries acceptable?’

‘Grandmother, that is unfair. I did not think you were like that.’

‘If it were left to me, I would not be so particular, but others might not be so tolerant. We must be careful.’

‘Lady Eleanor seems to find him acceptable.’

‘As a working colleague, perhaps—that does not mean she is prepared to meet him socially. Your father is going to the meeting with you next week, he can question Eleanor.’

‘Grandmother, I think it is reprehensible to go behind Dr Redfern’s back like that. If he finds out, I hope he will not blame me, for I find a great deal to admire in him.’

The old lady looked sideways at her, but did not comment.

The meeting at Somerset House was well attended, which was a testament to Dr Redfern’s persuasiveness and also to Lady Eleanor’s wealthy connections. The room had been arranged with seats facing a dais on which were a row of chairs and a lectern. Kate and her father found places just as half a dozen dignitaries filed on to the dais and took their seats. All except Lady Eleanor, who stood at the lectern to begin proceedings.

She was regally upright, a handsome woman, if not exactly beautiful, with glossy black hair that was carefully arranged under a bonnet that Kate decided must have cost a small fortune. Her dress was of green silk trimmed with rows of dark green velvet, over which she wore an embroidered cape. Kate wondered idly why she had not married, coming as she did from a very old and wealthy aristocratic family. She could no doubt command an enormous dowry; instead, she chose to be a spinster and spend her money on her various charities.

She introduced the trustees who sat behind her and then invited Simon to take the stand. He was impeccably attired in a black evening coat and pantaloon trousers, a waistcoat in figured brocade and a neat cravat. His fair hair had been carefully arranged. This, Kate knew, was his public persona, that underneath there was a caring, almost boyish figure who loved children and did not care how grubby they made him.

He spoke well, describing how he had met a parish nurse who was ill treating the children in her care and that, on investigation, had discovered the woman was not the only one. The practice was widespread and often resulted in the death of the children, either from physical ill treatment or simply neglect. It was a disgrace to any civilised society. He gave many instances, which appalled Kate and many of his audience, who called out, ‘Shame!’

Kate risked a glance at her father, wondering if the doctor’s words had brought back bitter memories; he appeared to be listening, but not distressed. Did he never think of his tiny son who had died in the care of a wet nurse? Kate had only seen her brother George briefly the day he had been born, but she could never forget him. Seven years old she had been, left to her own devices in the schoolroom of the rambling old rectory in Hertfordshire with instructions not to leave it until she was sent for. She had known something out of the ordinary was happening and strained her ears for any sound from the room below where she sat, supposedly doing some arithmetic her father had set her.

What she had heard curdled her blood and she longed to go down to her mother, whose cries of pain and distress filled the house. And then she heard the cry of a baby and nothing could keep her in the schoolroom. She had run helter-skelter down the stairs and skittered to a stop outside her mother’s bedroom door as their doctor came out of the room, followed by her father.

‘Papa…’

‘I told you to stay upstairs.’

‘I know, but I heard a baby.’

‘Yes, you have a little brother.’

She remembered her reaction as one of huge joy. She had been an only child for so long and had always longed to have a brother or sister. Some of the women in the village had very large families; though the children did not appear to have much in the way of clothes and toys, they made their own fun and were company for each other. When she was out with her mother, primly taking a walk in her smart clothes and dainty shoes, she had seen the children romping about and making a great deal of noise. Oh, how she had envied them!

She had once asked her mother why she did not have any brothers and sisters and had been told, ‘It is God’s will’, a statement she had learned to accept, but it did not stop her adding the wish to her prayers in the hope that He might change His mind. Then it seemed He had.

‘May I see him? Oh, let me see him, Papa, please.’

‘Let her come in.’ Her mother’s voice, though weak, was clear.

Her father stood to one side. ‘A minute, no longer.’

She had darted into the room and run to the bed where her mother lay. She had a shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms. ‘Here, Kate, here is your baby brother.’ She pulled the shawl away to reveal a tiny pink screwed-up face. ‘We are going to call him George.’

Kate had gently touched his face with her finger. He opened bright blue eyes and seemed to be looking straight at her. In that moment something happened to her. Her heart seemed to melt with love. Here was the playmate she had prayed for. ‘He is very little,’ she said, overawed.

‘He has only just come into the world, but he will grow.’

‘How did he come into the world?’

‘I will tell you one day when you are a little older and able to understand.’

But she never did. Mama died that night and the whole house went into deep mourning. It had been a terrible time. She never saw George or heard his cries again. Her grandmother had moved in to take charge of the running of the house because her father seemed incapable of doing anything, and one day she asked her what had become of the baby. ‘He has been sent to a kind lady who is looking after him until he is a little bigger,’ she had said. Kate could not understand why he had to be sent away and she was convinced her father, whose grief was terrible, had given him away because he did not want him. He did not seem to want her either. He shut himself up in his study, had his meals sent in to him and took no interest in the parish or his parishioners. Kate had mourned alone.

She had not even had her brother to console her. Whenever she saw someone with a baby, she would run up to them and look at the child, wondering if it was her sibling, until her governess or grandmother dragged her away, tight-lipped and disinclined to tell her what she wanted to know. Where was her brother?

She had been passing through the hall one morning, when she had overheard her grandmother remonstrating with her father. ‘If you cannot minister to your flock,’ she was saying, ‘then give up and do something else. Move away. There are too many unhappy memories here. Brooding will not bring them back.’

Kate, listening outside his study door, waited a long time for his answer and when it came, it shocked her to the core. ‘It was my fault. I killed her. Him too.’

She had stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop herself crying out. Why would her father do such a horrible thing? He had loved her mother, everybody did. And what did he mean, ‘Him too’? Had Grandmother lied to her when she said George had been sent to a kind lady? She had run and hidden herself in the shrubbery in the garden, half-afraid he would kill her too. It was a long time before she understood what he had meant and it was her grandmother who had enlightened her.

‘What is the matter with you, child?’ she asked her one day about a year after her mother died. By then her father had come out of his torment enough to make plans to move to London. He was trying his best to be the father he had once been, but Kate was too wary of him to respond. ‘You flinch whenever your papa comes anywhere near you.’

She had mumbled something incoherent about not wanting to go to London.

‘Why not?’

‘We will be leaving Mama behind.’

‘No, your mama’s spirit will be with us wherever we go. She is watching over you now, just as she always did. She would be ashamed of the way you have been behaving of late.’

‘Does she know Papa killed her?’

‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’

It had all spilled out, what she had overheard, her fear. And then to her consternation, her grandmother had laughed. ‘Of course he did not kill her,’ she said. ‘Your papa felt bad because your mama had died and he did not think he had done enough to save her. People often think like that when they are torn with grief, even when there is nothing they could have done. One day you will understand.’

‘And the baby?’

‘That is another matter altogether.’

‘Where is he? Why hasn’t he come home?’

‘Kate, he was a puny little thing. He did not thrive…’

‘You mean he is dead too and Papa did not do enough to save him either.’ It was an accusation delivered in an angry voice. She had been looking forward to having her brother home, thinking, in her childish way, that his presence would make everyone happy again.

‘No, I mean he was born too weak to live. You see, he was not ready to come into the world and the woman who looked after him did not have enough milk for both him and her own child.’

‘We could have given him milk, we always have plenty. There is a whole herd of cows on the farm. And you let him starve to death.’ She was furious and stamped her foot. ‘That is what Papa meant, isn’t it? Oh, how could he? How could you?’ And she had burst into tears. ‘You lied to me,’ she said between sobs. ‘You said he was with a kind lady and he wasn’t. He wasn’t at all.’

Her grandmother had grabbed her and pinned her arms to her sides because they were flailing about. ‘Don’t take on so, child. I see I shall have to try to make you understand or you will brood over it for years.’ And so Grandmama had taken her on to her lap and, after taking a deep breath, tried to explain about pregnancy and premature births and the need for human milk to make a baby grow strong.

Kate’s seven-year-old brain could not take it all in and it had not made her feel any less bitter at the loss of her mother, nor convince her that if her brother had not been sent away, he would have been well and happy and a playmate for her at the rectory where she was often lonely. She did not want to believe he was dead. Dead of neglect, that was the worst part of it.

As time went by and she grew up, she had begun to understand, to accept that both her mother and brother had gone and that her father was not the ogre she imagined him to be, but an unhappy man who had loved his wife, a little too well, for he had been told she should not have more children. That was why he felt so guilty.

She dragged herself back to the lecture, which was coming to a close.

‘Children are the future of our country,’ the doctor was saying. ‘If they are badly treated, they will grow up knowing nothing else but cruelty and indifference and will pass that on to future generations in the way they treat their own offspring. All children should be adequately fed, clothed and educated, even the poorest…’

There was a slight murmur of disagreement at the mention of education, but he ignored it. ‘We call ourselves civilized, yet we allow cruelty to our children that we would not condone if they were dogs. Foster parents should be licensed and controlled and their premises and the children they care for regularly inspected, but until that happy state is realised, we must do what we can privately. The Foundling Hospital is doing excellent work and there are orphanages who do their best for their inmates, while others are less to be commended. But what of those children who are not orphans, those who have at least one parent without the means and often without the will to look after them?

‘The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children has been set up to remedy some of these ills. We find respectable and responsible foster homes for the children, until they are able to be returned to their own families, or, when they are old enough, found suitable occupations. We have many influential subscribers, but the list of children needing help in the metropolis alone is growing at an alarming rate, especially since the war, and we need your donations, however small. We also need foster parents to take a child into their homes on a temporary basis. Some of the women who apply are only doing it for the money and have been known to neglect and sometimes ill treat the children. We investigate everyone very carefully before we put them on our books and we pay them enough so there is no excuse to neglect the children.’

He sat down amid restrained applause. Kate turned to look at her father. He was very pale and his hands were trembling. Perhaps she should not have asked him to accompany her; some wounds never heal.

Lady Eleanor rose to introduce the treasurer, who outlined the finances of the society and told his audience what was needed to keep a child in a foster home and visit regularly and how much it cost to keep a child in the Hartingdon Home. The meeting was wound up by the Chairman of the Trustees, who said that their members would be on hand to answer any questions his listeners might have.

Although neither Kate nor her father joined in the debate, the question-and-answer session revealed the disparate views of the audience, some decrying what the society was trying to achieve, others praising it, while still more wanted more information about how the finances were managed. When there were no more questions, the evening was brought to an end and Kate and her father found their way to the front where Simon and Lady Eleanor were in conversation.

Simon’s eyes lit up at the sight of Kate. He bowed. ‘Mrs Meredith, your obedient. Reverend, how do you do?’

Lady Eleanor turned to them. ‘Cousin Thomas, I did not know you were acquainted with Dr Redfern.’

‘We met earlier in the week and he prevailed upon us to attend this evening.’

‘How do you think it went?’

‘You have given us all a great deal to think about.’

Simon smiled. ‘That is all we can ask—that people think about it and do what they can, however little.’

‘I should like to do more,’ Kate said. ‘Even if it is only helping at the Home or raising funds with soirées and concerts. I am sure there are musicians and singers willing to give their services free for such a worthy cause.’

‘We do that already,’ Eleanor said. ‘There is to be a subscription ball at Hartingdon House next Thursday. Would you like tickets?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I will have them sent to you,’ Simon said, mentally deciding to deliver them in person.

‘How is little Joe?’ Kate asked him as Lady Eleanor left them to speak to one of the other trustees.

‘He is well, but I think he misses his mother, for all that she was glad enough to hand him over to me. He would perhaps be happier in a foster home, but we are very short of those because, as you heard, we are very particular about those we employ.’

‘I am glad to hear that,’ Kate said.

The room was emptying; her ladyship and the other trustees had gone. They bade each other goodnight and went their separate ways.

‘Kate, I do not see how you can become involved,’ her father said as they settled in the family carriage to be driven home. ‘The Viscount will be back in England shortly…’

‘So? If he comes before the ball at Lady Eleanor’s, he can come too. His presence can do nothing but good.’

‘Kate, beware you are not assuming too much. You cannot dictate to Viscount Cranford what he should do.’

‘I would not dream of dictating, but I do not see why he should not listen to my views and support me in something I feel strongly about.’

‘It will not help, you know,’ he said quietly. ‘Regulating foster homes will not undo the past.’

‘No, but it might stop other families grieving as we did.’

‘You blame me, don’t you?’ It was the first time he had ever talked to her about it. ‘You think I did not make sure the wet nurse was clean and healthy. If I had had my wits about me at the time, I would have, then…’ He paused, swallowed and went on, ‘George might have lived.’

‘Papa, stop it. Stop torturing yourself. No one was to blame. I wish now I had not asked you to accompany me tonight. It has been too much for you.’

‘No, it has made me see that something must be done and I shall support Dr Redfern wholeheartedly. I think I will write a tract about it.’

‘Yes, you do that,’ she said, reaching out to cover his hand with her own. He could write tracts or whatever made him feel better; she would offer to help at the Home.