A Mother's Courage (33 page)

Caine stood with his back to the fireplace,
cupping his hands around the bowl of the glass.
'Well, Miss Monk. You are unusually silent.
Would you like to tell me why you were in the
nursery in the middle of the night?'

'As I said, sir, I heard a child crying. There did
not seem to be anyone about and so I went into
the nursery to comfort him.'

'To comfort him? You recognised the boy's
cry?'

Realising her mistake, Eloise shook her head
emphatically. 'No, sir. What I meant to say was
that I discovered a boy who was very upset, and
I – I . . .'

'And you went into the nursery to comfort
him?'

The brandy was making her feel slightly
muzzy in the head and Eloise suspected that he
was trying to catch her out. 'I was looking for the
night nurse, sir.'

'But you've already said there was no one
about, Miss Monk. Would you like to begin again
and tell me why you were wandering about the
hospital at this hour? You couldn't possibly have
heard a child crying from the staff quarters in the
attic'

'I – I must have been sleepwalking. I found
myself in the corridor outside the nursery and
that's when I heard the child crying.'

Caine took a seat in the chair on the opposite
side of the fireplace. 'Do you really expect me to
believe such a ridiculous story?'

Stung by his attitude, Eloise took refuge in
anger. 'Are you calling me a liar, sir?'

'Miss Monk, the aim of this hospital is not only
to save the lives of abandoned children, but also
to reclaim their mothers from a life of poverty
and degradation. We try, if at all possible, to
reunite mother and child. Women who have
been driven to leave their children on our doorstep
do occasionally return, either to reclaim
them or, more often than not, just to reassure
themselves that their offspring are being looked
after properly.'

Despite the warming effect of the brandy and
her proximity to the roaring fire, Eloise shivered
beneath the folds of Caine's coat. He was so close
to the truth that it had taken her breath away and
she did not know how to respond. He leaned
towards her and his piercing blue eyes
challenged her to tell the truth. 'You do not have
anything to say, Miss Monk? I find that strange
since you have not been so reticent before.'

'I have nothing to say because there is nothing
to say,' Eloise countered. 'I am sorry for the
women of whom you speak, but I am not one of
them.'

'And yet you have been seen going in and out
of the nursery as if you could not keep away.'

'I like children, Mr Caine. I feel sorry for the
foundlings.' Eloise rose rather shakily to her feet.
'Sir, if you are going to dismiss me, please do it
now. Don't keep me in suspense. I cannot stand
it.'

Caine rose from his seat and took the glass from
her trembling fingers. 'You may have broken
some of Matron's cast-iron regulations, but I am
not going to dismiss you. As far as I can see you
have done no harm, but I would advise you to
abide by the rules in future.'

'Yes, sir. I will. May I go now?'

He turned away to set the glasses back on the
side table. 'Yes, go back to bed and get some
sleep.'

'Good night, sir.' Eloise shrugged off his coat
and was struck by a sudden chill. It was like
slipping off someone's skin and she felt suddenly
vulnerable. She hung the garment tidily
over the back of a chair and was about to leave
the room when he called her back.

'Miss Monk.'

'Yes, sir.'

'It's nothing. You may go.' He walked round
his desk and sat down, bending his head over a
sheaf of papers.

Eloise needed no second bidding. She hurried
from the office, closing the door behind her. She
paused for a moment, leaning against the wall in
an attempt to control her erratic heartbeats. She
had had a reprieve, but it was a close call and she
must be more careful in future. The sound of
movement inside the office galvanised her
frozen limbs into action and Eloise raced along
the dark corridor as if the devil himself was on
her heels. When she reached the safety of her
room, she crept in without disturbing Tibbie and
Becky and she climbed into bed, but sleep eluded
her as she lay shivering beneath the coverlet. Her
conversation with Caine had been disturbing. He
was not a likeable man, she decided. His manner
was harsh and he was arrogant, but he was not
the sort of person who could be easily fooled. She
knew that he did not believe her story, although
he could prove nothing. She decided that she
must be more careful in future. If she lost this job
she would be separated from Joss and Beth for
the foreseeable future, and that was unthinkable.
Eloise closed her eyes. If she worked hard and
avoided getting into more trouble, perhaps she
could persuade Matron that she was a suitable
person to work in the nursery. She must try
harder. She would try harder.

After her confrontation with the governor, Eloise
was extra vigilant when she crept down to the
nursery every night. She had discovered the
night nurses' routine and she knew that just after
midnight they congregated in a room on the first
floor to chat and drink cocoa. She waited until
she could smell the fragrance of hot chocolate,
mixed with the faint waft of illicit tobacco smoke,
before creeping silently to the nursery. Joss was
never asleep. It was almost as if he knew that she
was coming and he forced himself to stay awake
so that he could see her. She was certain now that
he recognised her, but he still did not speak. The
day staff had written him off as a mute, but no
one seemed unduly worried about his condition.
Perhaps they were relieved to have a silent child
on their hands, as it made life easier for them.

When she entered the nursery, Eloise always
went straight to Joss, lifting him from his cot and
talking to him in a low whisper. He listened
attentively, never taking his eyes off her face, and
his small hand would reach up to touch her lips
or her cheek, which made her want to cry, but
she held back the tears. She must never allow
him to see that she was upset or that might
distress him even more. Beth was always asleep
when Eloise arrived in the nursery but the sound
of her mother's voice seemed to penetrate her
dreams and she too would wake up, outstretching
her arms in a plea to be picked up and
cuddled. These moments alone with her children
were more precious to Eloise than the snatched
minutes she spent with them during the day. She
had organised her routine so that she reached the
nursery at dinnertime when she knew that
Phoebe would be glad of some help, and again at
teatime. She had to be careful not to pay too
much attention to her own children, and this was
a form of torture in itself, but her clash with the
governor had made her even more wary of
discovery.

As the weeks went by, Eloise lived in two
worlds. In the daytime, she was just Ellen, the
charwoman with ambitions to be a nursery
nurse, but at night she was able to give Joss and
Beth all the love that was denied to them by day.
The other infants usually slept, and if they
awakened and began to cry, she would sing
lullabies until they fell back to sleep. She dared
not linger for too long and risk being caught
again, but the pain of leaving her children never
seemed to ease. Each time she left the nursery it
felt as though she left a piece of her heart
clutched in their tiny hands. Soon she would
have none left, and perhaps the agony would go
away. Eloise had never believed that a heart
could physically break – now she was not so
certain.

After her nocturnal visits, Eloise was in the
habit of looking up and down the corridor to
make sure that the coast was clear, and every
night she saw a faint pencil line of light beneath
Caine's office door. She could almost feel pity for
such a tortured soul who never seemed to sleep,
and she began to wonder what it was that had
turned a comparatively young man into a block
of ice. She had even gone so far as to question
Tibbie, who was an inveterate gossip and had
been only too delighted to pass on what little she
knew about the governor. His wife, she said, had
been almost too beautiful for words. Not that
Tibbie had ever seen her; she was just telling
Eloise what she had heard, and there was a
portrait of Rosamund Caine hanging in the
drawing room of the governor's house. It was
said that little Maria was the image of her blonde
and blue-eyed mother, and just as lively.
Rosamund had been a talented musician; she
had played the pianoforte and had the singing
voice of an angel. The older members of staff
waxed lyrical when they spoke of how Mrs
Caine had played and sung for them at their
Christmas party. They said how light she was on
her feet when she danced with the governor, and
how devastated he had been when she had died
in childbirth. He had never got over it, so Tibbie
said, wiping a tear from her eye. Some said that
he used to be a charming fellow, with a ready wit
and a smile for everyone. His heart was broken,
and that was a fact. It was well known that he
worked all night. Perhaps he never slept at all.
Tibbie was not certain about that, but what she
did know was that he spoiled his little daughter
something rotten, and little Maria Caine had had
so many nannies that everyone had lost count.
Miss Maria's tantrums were something to
behold. If she was thwarted in anything her
screams would even drown the sound of traffic
in Guildford Street. What she needed, in Tibbie's
opinion, was a firm hand. 'Matron would sort
the young lady out good and proper,' Tibbie
said, nodding wisely. 'Spare the rod and spoil
the child is what she always says, and I think
she's right.'

Eloise listened to this diatribe with interest,
although privately she thought that Miss Maria
would gain little from corporal punishment. Her
mother would be just the person to deal with a
child such as Maria Caine. If only Mama were
here now. Eloise had gone straight away to her
room and taken the writing case from its hiding
place beneath her mattress, and she had begun
the first letter to her mother that she had
attempted to write since she left Ephraim
Hubble's house in Clerkenwell Green. At least
now she could say that she had a respectable
position in the Foundling Hospital, although she
omitted to add that her children were institutionalised
and that she was merely a charwoman.
She made no mention of all the traumas they had
suffered in the intervening weeks, and she said
nothing about working in the dust yard or her
failed attempt at earning her living as a prostitute.
If she lived to be a hundred, she would never
tell either of her parents how low she had sunk
during that long, hot summer.

She thanked Mama for her letters and said she
hoped that Janet was now settling in more
happily at the mission, and that Papa had not
suffered a recurrence of the fever which had laid
him so low. It was just a short letter, but Eloise
was satisfied that it would set her mother's mind
at rest after so many weeks of silence. On her
afternoon off, Eloise went to the post office in
Holborn and sent her letter on its way to Africa.
As it was a fine late September afternoon with
mellow sunshine and a degree of warmth, she
decided to walk as far as the Missionary Society
offices to see if there was any correspondence
awaiting her. To her delight there was a letter
addressed to her with the envelope written in her
mother's neat hand, but there was another which
bore a Yorkshire postmark. Eloise did not recognise
the handwriting and her heart skipped a
beat at the thought that it might have come from
Cribb's Hall. With her imagination running riot,
she hurried out into the street and made her way
to Lincoln's Inn Fields where she found a bench
beneath the trees. She sat for a moment, staring at
the envelope which had come from the north,
hardly daring to open it. Suppose the Cribbs had
gone through with their threat to make Joss and
Beth wards of court? If they knew that she
collected mail from the Missionary Society, it
would be easy for Pike to lie in wait for her there
and follow her back to the Foundling Hospital.
All would be lost then. Mr Caine would be
forced to dismiss her, and her children would be
wrenched from her arms. She could see it all in
her mind's eye and she sat trembling, hardly
daring to open the letter. Dry leaves drifted from
the trees, floating to the ground where they lay in
heaps of golden brown, like mounds of fools'
gold. She took a deep breath and ripped the
envelope, exposing the letter inside. She hardly
dared to unfold the paper, but when she eventually
plucked up courage to read it, she uttered a
sigh of relief.

Danby Farm
Driffield
Yorkshire
1 September 1879
Dear Ellie,

I hope this letter finds you, as it leaves me, well
and in good health. We have missed you and the
dear children since you left the farm, but I hope
that you have found yourself a good position and
that you are settled back in London.

The reason I am writing to you, my dear, and
it do not come easy to a woman like me, is to tell
you that Reggie is engaged to be married to Maud
Fosdyke. He was courting her for several years
before you came to stay with us, although, as you
know, there was no formal contract between
them. Reggie told me all about his asking you to
marry him and I cannot say I was surprised that
you had turned him down. I could wish it was
different, but I know it was not to be. You must
not be surprised or hurt at the way he has acted,
which might seem to be fickle, but I think he knew
all along that you were above his reach. I am sure
that Reggie will always hold you dear in his big,
soft heart, but the time has come for him to settle
down and Maud is a good and homely young
woman who will adapt well to life on the farm.

There have not been any more visits from those
people, you know who I mean, but I put flowers
on poor Ada's grave every time I visit the church.

Do write to me if you have the time, my dear. I
always think of you warmly and remember with
pleasure the time you spent with us.

Your very good friend,
Gladys Danby.

Eloise read and reread the letter to make
certain there was no mention of further visits
from the Cribbs. She smiled ruefully at the idea
that she might be upset by Reggie's apparent
fickleness. In fact she could understand his
sudden decision to marry his old sweetheart and
she sincerely wished him well. It was a relief to
think that she might have bruised his male pride
by rejecting his proposal of marriage, but that he
had recovered sufficiently to honour his previous
commitment to Maud, who was either
extremely good-natured or rather desperate to
catch a husband, if she was prepared to be
second best. Eloise folded the letter and put it
back in its envelope. Second best would not suit
her. She could never marry a man whose heart
belonged to another, or one whose heart was
buried in the grave. She snapped back to the
present with a jolt. What could have put that
thought in her head? She had a fleeting vision of
Barton Caine walking in the sunlit gardens of the
Foundling Hospital with his young daughter,
and her first impression of him as a cold and
haughty man. Nothing had happened to change
her mind, so why had thoughts of him suddenly
come into her head, and in such a context? He
was the last man on earth whom she could ever
think of as a prospective husband. Shocked by
her own thoughts, Eloise applied herself to
reading the letter from her mother. It had been
written in response to the first of Eloise's letters
to reach the mission house, in which she
described the grandeur of her new surroundings
in Cribb's Hall. With her customary insight,
Mama had sensed that all was not right with her
daughter, even though Eloise had been at pains
not to mention the bullying tactics of Hilda and
Joan. As she read her mother's words, Eloise
thought grimly that what had happened in
Cribb's Hall was as nothing compared to the dire
consequences of her return to London. She
would never be able to tell Mama even half of
what she had suffered.

She read on, and despite her mother's attempts
to remain positive, it seemed that life in the bush
was fraught with hardship and danger. Whether
it was poisonous snakes, lions prowling round
outside the compound and crocodiles lurking in
the undergrowth on the riverbank, or the various
diseases that threatened their health, it was
certainly not a vision of paradise. Both Papa and
Janet suffered recurrent bouts of malaria,
although by some strange quirk of fate Mama
seemed to have escaped the scourge. Janet was
having difficulty in coping with the heat and
discomfort, but Mama put a brave face on
matters, saying that the mission was thriving
and she had started up a school for the village
children who were such dears and so responsive
to her. Papa, she said, was working hard, and
even though his ill health was making life
difficult, he really seemed to have found his true
vocation and he loved his flock with a deep and
burning passion. Eloise read the brave words but
she was not fooled by them. It was obvious that
both her mother and Janet were suffering. She
struggled with the unworthy thought that her
father was a selfish man whose vaingloriousness
had brought misery to the women who loved
and depended upon him. She sighed as she
folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.
Her parents seemed even further away, and
reading about their strange existence in the wilds
of the African bush only widened the gulf
between them.