Folly (13 page)

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baby?" He stood up again, like there were a moth in his britches. Me sitting still all the while, watching.

"I'm ... surprised, but I suppose I shouldn't be," he said. "It's ... Are you certain?"

I nodded. He sat. He closed his eyes. He opened them. He took my hand and bounced it ever so slightly.

"Don't girls know about these things? What to do at such a time?"

I pulled my hand away.

His eyes implored me, like a beggar's eyes watching a market basket, wanting something there were no chance he'd get. My mouth were suddenly as dry as yesterday's cake.

He ducked his head and laid it in my lap, where I could not resist stroking his dark hair.

"I don't know yet." I answered what he hadn't asked. "I've not worked things out. I wanted ... I thought I should ... hear what you might say."

"Oh, Mary"--sitting up again--"it's a big, big thing you're telling me! You can't be surprised that I'm ... I'm shocked a little. But I'll come round to it, I'm sure I will. If only, can I go away to think about it? Can we meet tomorrow?"

Well, I'd had weeks to get used to the idea and he were just hearing. Of course there were some dazement on his part. It weren't till after we said goodbye--with a bit of a cuddle included--that I were struck with the notion that I might not see him again.

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OLIVER 1888 The Bloody Nose

Oliver gazed at the second-form boys studiously writing out the Act of Succession, 1534. When Henry VIII married Anne Boleyn and their daughter, Elizabeth, was born, the king had declared his first child, Mary, a bastard and no longer heir to the throne. He changed his mind, of course, more than once, but Oliver often wondered how the whim of one man in heat had affected the condition of bastards and foundlings throughout British history. Why was it only the king's own state of wedlock that determined whether it mattered, for the rest of time, that anyone else was married--or not--when a child was born?

"Mr. Chester?"

Oliver looked at James Nelligan.

"Permission to speak, sir?"

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"Yes, Nelligan."

"It's Walter, sir." James pointed. Walter was hunched over with his hands pressed to his face.

Oliver stood up. "What's the mat--?"

Blood was bubbling out from between the boy's fingers.

Oh dear, not blood
. Oliver sat down, instantly lightheaded. "Run and get one of the nurses, would you?" he mumbled. James sped toward the door, as Oliver pulled a thankfully fresh handkerchief out of his pocket.

"Give him this," he said, handing it to the boy named Aiken. "And tell him to press the nose closed." The children clustered around Walter, shielding him from sight, but making wildly appreciative noises that told Oliver the flow was so far undiminished. He went to the door and saw James trotting beside a young, hurrying nurse, apparently demonstrating the bleeding volcano.

"Hello," said the nurse. She looked quite jangled.

Oliver tipped his head and then clapped his hands. "Please allow the nurse to come through. Collect your copybooks--calmly, please--from your desks and file into the hallway. Give Mr. Raleigh some breathing room." He felt better at once, away from the splashes of blood on the floor.

Walter Raleigh's got a bleeding nose
, he thought. He still got a bit of a chuckle when a famous name showed up in odd moments as entirely incongruous with the life of a schoolboy.

"Raleigh's bad luck is your good," Oliver announced. "I

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hereby--Hold on! You will complete your copy of the first Act of Succession before tomorrow's lesson and give some consideration to what the Second and Third Acts may have contained. Until then you are dismissed."

That set off a whoop and a general stampede.

"Oh! Except--" Oliver grabbed the nearest arm. "Aiken. Aiken, you wait for Raleigh. Accompany him back to the ward, would you please, when he's ready?"

When the nurse was done pinching the nose and mopping the face, Oliver sent the boys off, Aiken's arm generously slung about Raleigh's waist for support.

"Thank you," said Oliver to the nurse. "I'm not so bold with blood and mess like that."

She laughed. "Most men aren't, for all their playing at war."

"I haven't seen you before," said Oliver, stacking books neatly under his arm. "Are you recently arrived?"

"Yes," she said.

He locked the classroom and they walked together along the corridor.

"Where did you work before this?"

"At the Lying-In Hospital, on Old Street. I started there as a cleaner when ... when I were just a girl. As time went on, I helped with the babies and learned more about nursing. It were a marvel, so many babies being born. All the uproar! Never a dull moment, I tell you."

"Why did you decide to come here?"

It seemed to Oliver that her hesitation was as lively as a match being struck.

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"I ... I ... The babies there, they all have mothers," she said. "The mothers ... they all are ... married. It seemed that here ... there would be more
need
...."

"I understand," he said, quietly. Even as an adult, he prickled with the shame he'd been taught to carry. But it seemed this stranger might understand what he usually pretended wasn't so. "I was a foundling," he heard himself whisper. "I know how these boys feel."

The bright flush of interest on her face surprised and warmed him, though all she said was "Ah!"

She was awfully pretty, Oliver thought. Soft-looking hair.

A moment later, she spoke again. "That boy."

"Walter Raleigh? With the nosebleed? He--"

"No, no. The other one, who came to find me."

"James Nelligan," said Oliver.

"James? That's his name? With the very blue eyes?"

"Yes. He's a clever boy, one of my best."

"He ... seemed, yes, clever. And he cared about his friend. That's
nice
," she said, as if the word weren't quite what she intended.

"They raise them up here for a purpose, you know," said Oliver. "I'm an unusual case, staying close to home. So to speak. Most of them go off to be soldiers or bakers' boys or ... well, if Walter Raleigh is permitted to pick up pins for a tailor, he should consider himself lucky. But with James, I expect he could be a teacher, or better."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes indeed. Out there"--he nodded vaguely to

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encompass the wide world beyond the walls--"who knows how far he might go? But, of course, as a foundling ... we're taught to be grateful, you understand? Grateful just to be alive. Pasts and futures are equally cloudy."

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JAMES 1888 What Changed Things

Walter rushed into the dormitory on a Sunday afternoon. The boys had two hours all of their own on Sundays after chapel, so James was lying on his bed, particularly
not
reading the Bible.

Walter always panted slightly, like the Peeveys' old dog Toby, waiting under the table for a lump of gristle.

"I have to tell you ..." Huffing.

"What?" James rubbed the lump in his cuff out of habit, checking on the lemon drop that he carried around with him. Thanks to the ladies at Sunday dinner, he was ready to pay for anything he needed. Walter saw, and got notions straightaway.

"What'll you give me?"

"What could you know that I don't?" said James.

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"There're girls arriving today."

"Well, I know that. I've got a window, haven't I?"

"From Kent," Walter said. "From Homefield."

Ah.
That
was news to James. He eased the sweet out from the hem of his sleeve and handed it over, not too fuzzy. Walter popped it straight in, smirking, never a boy to keep money in the bank.

"What are you going to do?" Walter said. "Wait! Wait for me!"

But James was already in the corridor, not wanting Walter to follow. Alone, he'd be better at sneaking. It was best--but also risky--to watch Reception Day from the main stairs. They didn't like bigger boys scaring the newcomers, so there were rules to keep them out of the way. But the officers and the matrons were busy and distracted, so James was soon stationed behind the railing, watching, wondering how he'd know Rose. It was four years since he'd seen her baby face screwed up and wailing. He'd jounced away down the road in that old cart, Mama Peevey's arm trying to keep James's little self from bouncing right off the seat, James looking back till there was nothing to see but dust.

James didn't need to know Rose, for there was Mama in the doorway. She ... she seemed ... shorter, rounder, to James, but as big as a dream. He jumped to his feet, her name falling out of his mouth without thinking.

"Mama!"

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She twisted her head around, peering, eyes maybe straining after stepping in from the day to the shadows of the grand entrance. She was wearing the same Sunday dress he knew, gray with a blue stripe. It
was
Sunday, after all, but a Sunday dress from Homefield seemed olden, faded, in London.

All this in a tenth of a moment, seeing Mama stare around, awkward. Her confusion made James remember how this place had looked to him all that time ago: as posh and foreign as Buckingham Palace. And there was Rose, hidden behind Mama's skirt.

"Mama!" called James again. "Rose!" He flew down the stairs.

"Jamie!" Mama Peevey let go Rose's hand and moved toward him. James was swallowed, caught up in her dear, familiar arms. He had long ago darned up that place where tears might come from, as neatly as the toe of a sock. But Mama's hug tore all his knots apart, and he was gushing hard.

"That's enough now." It was Mr. Byrd growling, the rotten, meddling chaplain, usually called the Turd amongst the boys. "There'll be none of this here today. You, boy! Nelligan, is it?"

Mama let go of James. She looked at Byrd and fetched up Rose's hand again.

"You're not to be here, not at all." Byrd's hand clamped James's shoulder, pulling him back from Mama, just as Rose thought to hold on.

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"James?" cried Rose. James would wager five lollipops she'd been hearing his name all her life,
James
this and
James
that:
You'll be with James when you go to London. There'll be big brother James to look out for you, lovey, nothing to worry about. When you go to live with James at the Foundling, Rosie ...

And here he was--the real thing. The real James, being yanked away before she'd even said hello-and-how-do-you-do. Mama was protesting, "Excuse me, sir, that's my boy, Jamie...."

"Not anymore, madam," Mr. Byrd said. "He's one of ours now and he's in the wrong place. It is precisely this sort of scene that we try to avoid, you understand. Think of the upset. Think of the little girl."

A circle of newcomers had arrived while James wasn't noticing: terrified foundlings, and frowning foster parents.

Pushed along by Mr. Byrd toward one of the office doors, James suddenly stopped, wishing he could dig in his heels, imagining that the marble floor was a muddy rut outside the Peeveys' front door. The hand on his shoulder became heavier, pushier.

"I only want to see my mother," said James. "How can it hurt to see my mother? I haven't seen her in four years!"

"We have rules, Nelligan, and you have broken the rules."

"James!" Rose's shriek was newly urgent. Mama leaned on her awkwardly, then staggered to one side and

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slumped to the ground. Other foster parents hurried over, crowded around, hiding her from James.

At once, he had sparks in his fists. He pounded at Mr. Byrd's waistcoat, ducking at the same time, trying to sneak under grabbing hands. Mr. Byrd caught James's wrists and wrenched them with a furious twist. He leered into James's face, puffing with hot and oniony anger.

"You have just qualified for a room to yourself." His grip bit into James's neck, not allowing another glimpse of Mama or Rose. James was yanked, stumbling, down back stairs to a door that he had never seen. Mr. Byrd flung it open, flung James through it, and flung it shut again. With the click of a lock, James was alone and in such darkness as would make an owl entirely content.

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ELIZA 1878 Follows Mary

There was no question that Mary was sneaking off somewhere more often than Thursday half days. One afternoon, Eliza tied on her crossover shawl and dashed out on Mary's tail, only to fall over a secret she hadn't come close to guessing at.

You could have knocked Eliza over with a dustcloth, she was that gobsmacked to see Mary meet up with Mr. Tucker and another fellow, in Maiden Lane. She was a canny one, that Mary! She'd kept it hid from Eliza, and from Bates--oh! Wouldn't Bates be peeved! Eliza laughed out loud right there. Ha! Here was the best kind of proof that Mary wasn't the girl for Bates. She had more than one pot on the boil, and Eliza hadn't been fooled for one minute, had she? How the devil did Mary get herself met