Rosie stayed on her knees. Silent.
“Why were you hiding in my carriage, child? Were you hiding from someone?”
Rosie listened to the lady’s voice. It was different from other voices she’d heard. Musical, almost. She wanted to answer, wanted to blurt it all out, but she couldn’t, limited both by her vocabulary and by her fear of what they would do with her. She glanced up, turning her head in the direction of the lady’s voice, wishing she had the words to explain. Instead, she just nodded her head slowly up and down.
“You were hiding? Running away from someone?”
Again, she nodded.
For a while, this curious conversation continued on the sweeping gravel driveway in front of the grand Richmond Hill home. Had her eyes served her well, Rosie might have gasped at the sight of the carefully tended lawns, the pruned box hedges, the gleaming windows of the three floors of the house, the impressive Doric columns, and the ornamental pond, which shimmered in the sunlight and afforded the occasional glimpse of golden carp.
The lady continued to ask questions, and Rosie continued to answer with only a nod or a shake of her head. In this way, Rosie was able to let her know that she had been hiding from a man; that she had no parents, just a sister, whom she had lost; and that she was now frightened and all alone. But, above all else, she wanted to impress upon the woman that she was terrified of the workhouse.
“Not workhouse, Miss. Please, not workhouse.”
Rosie was almost as surprised as the lady to hear these words fall from her mouth. If she could have seen the lady’s face, she would have detected a softening in her eyes, a look of pity, the stirring of the memory of a child much missed. But she saw only shifting shadows and blurred shapes and a dark terror creeping toward her.
“She can’t be more than four or five years old, poor little wretch. Look how she trembles, and still clutching her violets,” the lady remarked. “Violettes we call them in France. Really, have you ever seen anything so pitiful?”
Mrs. Jeffers sighed. She didn’t reply.
“Perhaps we should give her something to eat, and a warm drink. What do you think, Mrs. Jeffers?”
“Are you sure it’s wise to encourage the child, m’lady? Surely, it’s best to send her back with Thompson in the carriage and forget all about it. She’ll only be telling the other urchins what a fine trick she played, getting a ride in a lady’s carriage and going home with a full belly.”
“Quite probably that would be the right thing to do, but then the right thing to do isn’t always the best thing to do, is it?”
The question hung in the air above Rosie’s head, circling and swirling in a light breeze that had sprung up. Conscious of the time that had already passed since she’d become separated from Florrie, she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to be sent back to the city in the carriage to face whatever was waiting for her there, or whether it would be best to stay here and be given something to eat and drink. Her empty belly ached at the thought.
“It’s only a little food after all. What harm can come of it?” Rosie listened intently to the hushed conversation between the two women. “Perhaps you could run a bath, Mrs. Jeffers, and give her a good wash,” the lady suggested. “Ingram will be back from the factory soon, and I suspect it would be better for him to see the child clean and presentable, rather than in her current state.”
“And what shall I dress her in?”
“She can use Delphine’s clothes.”
Rosie heard Mrs. Jeffers gasp. “Delphine’s clothes? But . . . are you quite sure, m’lady?”
“Yes, Mrs. Jeffers. I am quite sure. Now, let’s not dawdle. Thompson, you may take the brougham around the back and stable the horses for the time being.”
“Yes, m’lady. Very well, m’lady.”
Rosie heard the fading sound of carriage wheels on gravel as a soft hand clasped hers. How she wished it was Florrie’s hand. She felt the absence of that familiar hand in hers as keenly as if she were holding a hot coal.
Too weak to protest, she allowed herself to be led toward a looming gray mass, which she presumed to be the house. For a moment she thought she might run after the carriage, driven by a desperate fear of never seeing her sister again. But the ache in her belly was too great and the thought of food too tempting to resist.
“What’s your name, child?” Mrs. Jeffers asked as they walked.
Rosie remained silent.
“It’s no use,” the lady said, tightening her grip on Rosie’s hand. “She’s clearly too terrified to say anything, other than to plead for me not to take her to the workhouse. Poor little thing. It’s unimaginable to think that a child so young and frail has been wandering the streets all on her own. And her eyes look infected. Perhaps Dr. Asquith will be able to prescribe a tincture or some drops. I’ll have to ask him to come and take a look at her.”
She stooped down so that her face was level with Rosie’s. “My name is Marguerite. Marguerite Ingram. I’m going to take care of you.”
Chapter 19
Nightingale House, London
June 1876
Thomas Ingram listened patiently to his wife’s detailed explanation of everything that had happened that afternoon, trying to comprehend how, and why, there was a young girl eating bread and butter at the maids’ table.
“And we know nothing about the child’s circumstances?” he asked, his brow furrowed with concentration.
“No, darling. Nothing. She’ll barely speak, she’s so terrified. All I’ve been able to establish is that she’s a flower seller—an orphan—who was hiding from someone. She indicates she has a sister, although I’m not sure whether they still lived together.”
They were standing just outside the kitchen, in the maids’ corridor, speaking quietly so that the child—and the maids—wouldn’t hear them. They certainly didn’t want to give the household staff any more reason to discuss their private matters. There’d been enough gossip about the Ingram family over the last few years; they were both acutely aware of that.
“Do we even know her name?”
“She won’t say. I think she’s worried I’ll report her to the police if she gives me any personal details. It seems so unkind to simply refer to her as ‘the child’ or ‘the girl,’ as Mrs. Jeffers insists on doing. Honestly, darling, that woman can be so unfeeling sometimes. The child was carrying a bunch of violets when Thompson found her under the seat.” Marguerite hesitated, pulling at the silver locket at her neck. “I thought Violette would be a pleasant name for her. For the time being.”
Thomas Ingram was barely listening, his eyes fixed firmly on the child.
“Yes, dear. And you say she was already in the carriage when you got in? You’re quite sure of that?”
“She must have been, darling, because we didn’t stop between Westminster Bridge and Richmond Hill. Lord knows how long she’d been hiding there. She could have been there for days, Thomas, riding back and forth, cowering in the dust. Poor little thing. Oh, if you’d seen her . . .”
Marguerite stopped talking as Thomas placed his hand gently on her shoulder. She looked into his kind amber eyes. Studying his face properly for the first time that evening, she noticed that he looked unusually tired; the dark shadows under his eyes betrayed his many early mornings and late evenings. His ambitious plans to expand his sugar business, and to take on more factories outside London, were clearly taking their toll. She felt a pang of guilt at having added to his burden by bringing the child into the house. She knew he was trying his best to understand, to be patient with her. For Marguerite, this was not simply about a child seeking refuge in her carriage. This was about reignited memories of a daughter lost and a woman deprived of the chance to be a mother.
“Should I try to talk to her?” Thomas glanced toward the child, who seemed oblivious to everything other than the food on her plate. “She might respond more positively to the firm approach of a man.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea. She seemed particular
ly terrified when Thompson spoke to her earlier. Any male voice sends her into a panic. When Roberts spoke to her to ask if she’d like to go and see the horses, she cowered in a corner for twenty minutes and was still trembling like a lamb when Cook finally managed to coax her out with the promise of hot chocolate. I suspect she wasn’t treated too well by her father. Probably gave her a beating if she didn’t sell her flowers.” She sighed and placed her hand over the locket at her neck.
“And we know nothing about her? Nothing at all?” Thomas’s exasperation was now evident by the strain in his voice. He ran his hands through his thick black hair before leaning against the doorway. He resembled a puppet devoid of its strings.
“The only slight clue to her identity might be her hair color, and her accent. I’m sure I can detect a hint of Irish, although she doesn’t speak very clearly at all.”
“Irish!” Thomas laughed. “Well, that narrows it down then. We should have her back home before sunset!”
Marguerite flinched. “There’s no need to be facetious, Thomas, and, please, lower your voice.” She glanced anxiously at the maids.
“But there’s half of Ireland living on London’s streets, Marguerite. She may as well be invisible for all the help that gives us in trying to find out who she is. And you’re certain she had nothing with her. Nothing hidden away in a pocket. A photograph? Anything that might help someone identify her—or help us to identify where she lives?”
“No. Nothing. Just the violets she was holding. Mrs. Jeffers insisted we burn her clothes to destroy any infectious disease they might be carrying.” Marguerite took hold of her husband’s hand, turning her eyes up to him. She tilted her head to one side, accentuating her slender neck. “Was that the right thing to do, darling?”
He nodded. “Yes. It was very wise of Mrs. Jeffers. This house has known enough disease.”
They stood in silence, gazing at the child.
Marguerite wasn’t sure why she chose not to mention the lace handkerchief Mrs. Jeffers had discovered in the pocket of the girl’s dress. She wasn’t even sure why, instead of permitting Mrs. Jeffers to burn the handkerchief along with the child’s clothes, she’d quietly asked her lady’s maid to boil it, dry it, and return it to her. Marguerite Ingram believed in destiny. She believed in the notion of trinkets bringing luck to a person. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the handkerchief had a cluster of shamrocks neatly stitched into one corner. Perhaps the child and the shamrocks had been sent to her for a reason. Perhaps they would bring some good fortune to Nightingale House.
In any event, the handkerchief was now ironed, neatly folded, wrapped in tissue paper, and placed, for safekeeping, beneath Marguerite’s prayer book in a drawer of her dressing table. It would remain there until the child was ready to return to the city. While Mrs. Jeffers had scrubbed the child clean of years of London filth, Marguerite had quietly taken the bunch of violets the child had carried and placed them in the flower press she kept in her wardrobe, along with all the other specimens she’d collected that year from her walks in Petersham Meadows: poppies, delphiniums, foxgloves, and pansies. She would keep the violets. They would be her secret, a hidden reminder of the little orphan girl who had come into her life, however fleetingly.
Thomas looked at his wife and back toward the child. He knew what Marguerite must be thinking as she watched the young girl, sitting at the table, eating bread and butter. It was such a simple, everyday scene, and yet he knew the emotions it would be stirring within her. She was remembering Delphine. He could guess the emotional leaps Marguerite was making; that she was already wondering what the child would look like at the age of eight, twelve, twenty. She would be running away with the future as she was always apt to do, until their future—their daughter—had been taken from them so cruelly. It was hard to believe that three summers had already passed since that dreadful day.
“I’m really not sure about this, Marguerite,” he cautioned, pulling at the edge of his mustache, as he always did when he was troubled. “Perhaps it would be best if we inform the authorities this evening. Someone may be looking for her—a distant relative, or this sister she has told you about. She may also be lying through her teeth, of course—let’s not forget that possibility. She may have a mother and father waiting for her at home. It isn’t entirely impossible that she was sent here as part of a ruse, to see what we have that may be worth stealing. She’ll run away as soon as she gets chance, report back to them, and the silver will be taken before the week is out. You mark my words.”
Marguerite wrapped her arms around her husband’s broad shoulders, resting her head against his chest.
“Oh, darling, please don’t inform the police. Not yet. And who could possibly be looking for her?” Pulling back, she looked directly at him, tears forming in her eyes. “Look at her. She clearly has no one. If you’d seen how wretched she looked a few hours ago, you would know that for sure. I doubt whether anyone has looked for her—or cared for her—for most of her life. Oh, the poor little thing, Thomas. I didn’t know what else to do. She was so terrified and filthy and wretched. How could I send her back? How could I sleep at night not knowing what had become of her? If she could just stay for a day or two, until her nerves are settled, she might start talking and then we can find out where she lives and Thompson can take her back. At least we’ll know we did our best and didn’t just abandon her to the streets like an unwanted dog.”
Thomas listened patiently. He understood what was behind his wife’s insistence on keeping the child. While he might have a reputation as a ruthless businessman, even he didn’t have the heart to deprive his wife of the chance to be a mother again, if only for a day or two.
Against his better judgment, he gave his consent that the girl could stay until the end of the week. “At which point,” he said, “if it transpires that she has nowhere she wishes to be returned to, or hasn’t run away, I will make alternative arrangements for her. I’d also suggest that we keep the matter to ourselves for the time being—none of your gossiping lady-friends must know about this. I’ll speak to Mrs. Jeffers about how we handle the staff, and I’ll arrange for Dr. Asquith to come to the house first thing in the morning to give the child a thorough inspection. I also think it best, presuming she does start to speak, if she refers to us only as Mr. and Mrs. Ingram. We don’t want her becoming overly familiar.”
Marguerite threw her arms around her husband, planting soft, grateful kisses on his cheek. He was a good, good man. “Oh, thank you, darling. Thank you so much. This is the right thing to do. I just know it is.”
He let out a deep sigh. “I do hope so, Marguerite. I do hope so.”
DR. ASQUITH ARRIVED just after breakfast the following morning. He was greeted by frayed tempers and dark circles under the housekeeper’s eyes. Everyone had been kept awake all night by the child’s sporadic screams and the comings and goings of the maids to fetch things at Marguerite’s request.
Despite the chaos, and the child’s refusal to comply with anything he asked her to do, he continued with his examination until he seemed satisfied. Violette, as it had been decided she would be known, was then taken away by Mrs. Jeffers while the doctor addressed Marguerite with his conclusions.
“Clearly, she needs to put on a significant amount of weight, but I am sure Mrs. Jeffers and Cook’s team in the kitchen will soon see to that. There is also quite a significant case of head lice to attend to, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, dear.” Marguerite sat upright in her chair, trying to appear unfazed by this announcement. She suspected that Thomas would have asked the doctor to take a note of her own health and general demeanor, as well as the child’s. “And what should we do to address that, Doctor?”
“I would recommend that the girl’s hair be cut short for a start and the head washed very thoroughly with soap and water. You might then apply a little benzene to the scalp—perhaps under a cap to confine the vapor. That should destroy all the live creatures. A pomade scented with oil of lavender s
hould then be used to prevent their reappearance.”
“Yes, Doctor. Of course. Although it does seem a shame to cut her lovely hair.”
“Hair grows back, Mrs. Ingram.” He stared at her from over his half-moon spectacles. “It is not for the sake of vanity that we should see the child suffer unnecessarily.”
“No, Doctor. Of course not. We will see to it immediately. And at least there aren’t any significant or life-threatening problems. I must admit, I was rather anxious that she would be carrying a chronic disease.”
“Well, there is, of course, the other matter—which is rather more serious.”
“The other matter?”
“Her eyesight, Mrs. Ingram. Surely you noticed her eyes?”
“Well, yes. I noticed they were a little clouded. I assumed she’d picked up an infection.”
The doctor put down his notepad, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned forward. “I’m afraid it is rather more serious than that. The child appears to be completely blind in one eye and only has partial sight in the other. She may be able to make out light and dark and occasional shapes, but she is technically blind, Mrs. Ingram. This little girl will need more care than most.”
Marguerite hesitated. “Blind? My goodness. No wonder she’s so terrified. She can’t even see us?”
“No. She will not be able to see any distinguishing features or colors. She was most probably born with the affliction, or perhaps suffered from the scarlet fever when she was an infant. It’s very common among the poor. I’m afraid there is nothing we can do medically, unless she undergoes surgery, and I suspect that would be far too traumatic for her at the moment—not to mention terribly expensive. Given the circumstances under which she has arrived here, I would suggest that such drastic measures not be considered. Not for the time being, at least. Emotional and practical support is what she needs in the immediate future.”