TemptingJuliana

I wish to thank:

My critique partner, Terri Castoro, for coming through for me (yet again); my fabulous editor, Laura Cifelli, for being so understanding when life intervened to delay this book (and for her wonderful ideas to improve it); Katarina Grant, curatorial assistant at the Foundling Museum in London, for invaluable research into the history of donations to the Foundling Hospital; Brent Royal-Gordon, for designing and maintaining my ever-growing Web site (and also for great brainstorming); Nancy and Charles Williams, for many (many!) fabulous book signings at Highland festivals (I hope you enjoy your retirement!); Jack, Brent, Blake, and Devonie, for suffering weeks of fast food (almost uncomplainingly) while I finished this book; my official First Readers—Ken and Dawn Royal, Herb and Joan Royal, Taire Martyn, and Karen Nesbitt—for feedback on early drafts; my awesome Street Team (
way
too many names to list, but you can see them all on the Street Team page on my Web site) for their enthusiasm and support…and, as ever, all my readers, who are constantly sending me letters that bring smiles to my days and send me back to my computer to write more.

Thank you, everyone!

The Foundling Hospital, London
Saturday, June 8, 1816

Lady Juliana Chase’s family often accused her of looking for trouble. Of sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. Of exaggerating—if not outright imagining—other people’s problems and sorrows and miseries.

But she would swear she’d never seen anything so sad in her life.

Upstairs in the Foundling Hospital’s picture gallery, she stared through the window down into the courtyard. There, arranged in six neat, regimented lines, a hundred or more young girls performed calisthenics, resignation written on their faces. In all her twenty-two years, Juliana couldn’t remember ever feeling that grim.

“William Hogarth was a genius.”

Sighing, she turned from the window to see her younger sister scrutinizing the art on the gallery’s pale green walls. “I thought you preferred the Dutch masters.”

“I do,” Corinna said. “But look at the characters in this painting.”

The work was titled
The March of the Guards to Finchley
, and the people depicted were, indeed, characters. Humor, rowdiness, and disorder abounded. “The
drummer looks quite amused,” Juliana said, swiveling back to look out the window.

The painting seemed a complete contrast to the figures outside.

Miss Emily Neville, Juliana’s eight-year-old next-door neighbor, stood gazing through the glass beside her. “The girls do not appear to be ill. So why are they in hospital?”

“
Hospital
is an old word that originally meant ‘guesthouse,’” Miss Strickland, the battle-axe of a woman assigned to shepherd visitors through the orphanage, explained in her no-nonsense way. “This is a charitable institution for children whose mothers couldn’t keep them.”

“My mother died.” Still staring outdoors, Emily absentmindedly raised a hand to stroke a slim, olive green snake that rested upon her shoulders. “May I play with them?”

Ranging in age from about five to perhaps fourteen, the children all had identical haircuts and wore aprons of stiff, unbleached linen over brown serge dresses. Juliana smoothed her palms over her own soft yellow skirts. “I’m afraid your snake might scare them.”

“The girls are not playing. They are exercising. Outdoor exercise is advocated for maximum health.” Miss Strickland crossed her arms across her ample bosom. “And you couldn’t play with them in any case, young lady, with or without that horrid creature.”

“Herman is not horrid,” Emily said, slipping her hand into Juliana’s. “He is naught but a common grass snake. Can you not tell by the black bars along his sides and the yellow collar behind his head? He is absolutely harmless, I assure you.”

Juliana hid a smile. My, such a vocabulary for a girl of eight. Emily certainly was articulate.

But carrying a snake around was just not done.

Emily was Juliana’s latest project, and Juliana was sure—positively sure—that with a bit of patience she could turn her into a perfect little lady. A few more outings with Herman ought to convince the child that the creature wasn’t welcome in public.

She squeezed Emily’s hand and turned back to Miss Strickland. “Do the girls
ever
play?”

“Of course they do,” Miss Strickland said. “For an hour every Sunday.” As though suddenly remembering her duty—principally to encourage donations—she spread her lips in a smile that appeared rather forced. “Are you ladies enjoying your visit to the gallery?”

“Very much.” Corinna moved to view the next painting. “George Lambert,” she breathed. An artist herself, she’d suggested this day’s outing to the Foundling Hospital’s gallery. “What a lovely scene.”

Mr. Lambert’s picture
was
lovely, but Juliana couldn’t peruse the painted people for long. Not when there were real people—disadvantaged children—to consider.

“What do the foundlings do all day?” she asked. “If they don’t play?”

Miss Strickland squared her shoulders and began reciting by rote. “They rise at six and prepare for the day, the older girls dressing the younger children, the boys pumping water and such. At half past seven they breakfast, and at half past eight they begin school. At one o’clock they dine and return to school from two until dusk.” She paused for a much-needed breath. “After supper, those not employed about the buildings are instructed in singing the Foundling hymns and anthems, and in their catechism. At eight they go to bed.”

What a life. Thinking about her own days and nights filled with parties and shopping and dancing, Juliana swallowed a lump in her throat. Still, the children looked healthy, warmly clothed, and well fed—which was more than could be said for much of London’s youth, she supposed. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked.

“Certainly, my lady. We are always pleased to accept monetary donations.”

Juliana knew that was one of the purposes of the gallery. Popular artists donated paintings and sculpture, a scheme that not only gave the artists a chance to cement their social positions through well-publicized acts of charity, but also ensured that their work would be seen by those most wealthy and aristocratic—exactly the sort of people who might commission works of art for themselves and be persuaded to become patrons of the Hospital.

It was a most satisfactory arrangement for all con
cerned. But unfortunately Juliana hadn’t the option to become a patroness at present. While it was true that her late father had provided a substantial dowry, and she wasn’t in any way deprived—quite the opposite, in fact—as an unmarried woman she had no money of her own, other than a small allowance granted by her brother, Griffin. “I cannot donate significant funds,” she said apologetically.

Miss Strickland aimed a rather disbelieving look down her knife-edged nose, pointedly skimming her gaze over Juliana’s fashionable dress.

“I cannot,” Juliana repeated. “But I should like to do something.” She could ask Griffin to donate, of course—and she would. But she wanted to do something herself. “Perhaps I could make clothing for the children.” Surely her allowance would cover the fabric.

“The children have no need of clothing. They wear uniforms, as you’ve seen.”

Juliana had seen the boys eating luncheon in their dining room, all wearing white linen shirts with military-style suits made of the same brown serge as the girls’ dresses. “But someone has to
make
the uniforms.”

“The girls make and repair them during their sewing lessons.”

“Then perhaps I can make treats,” she suggested. “The ladies in my family are rather renowned for our sweets.”

“The children are all fed a plain, wholesome diet. Sweets are not allowed except on very special occasions. However, food does account for a large proportion of the Hospital’s budget, so your monetary donation would be much appreciated.” Before Juliana could repeat that she had no money to give, Miss Strickland continued. “This is a reception day. Perhaps seeing some infants might change your mind.”

Though Juliana knew nothing could change her mind, she loved babies and could scarcely wait to have one of her own. “We should very much like to see the infants,” she said, drawing Emily toward the door.

“I’m not finished looking,” Corinna said, finally moving to view the next painting.

The battle-axe cast her a speculative glance. “Well, then, the horrid snake can stay with you.”

“Herman is not horrid!” Emily said, pulling her fingers from Juliana’s. “If Herman stays, I shall stay.” She marched over to take Corinna’s hand instead. “There’s an infant right here in this picture.”

Corinna nodded her dark head. “It’s Andrea Casali’s
Adoration of the Magi
.”

Juliana would never understand how anyone could stare at a single painting for so long. But then, she’d never been as interested in things as she’d been in people. “What is a reception day?” she asked, following the battle-axe from the room.

Miss Strickland led her down a corridor. “On the second Saturday of every month, mothers are invited to bring their babies for possible admission.”

“Possible?”

“They must meet specific criteria. An acceptable candidate must be under twelve months of age, the mother’s first child, and healthy, so as not to risk infecting other children. In addition, although only illegitimate offspring are admitted, the mother must establish her good character. A secondary purpose of the Hospital, you see, is the restoration of the mother to work and a life of virtue. Some children are the result of rape, but most petitions come from women who claim to have been seduced with promises of marriage and then deserted when they became pregnant. In such cases, many mothers can avoid disgrace and find employment only if they do not have to care for their children.”

“A sad truth,” Juliana said, her heart hurting at the thought of women being forced to give up their babies.

Miss Strickland opened a door. “The Committee Room,” she whispered.

And Juliana’s hurting heart broke clear in two.

Inside the elegant chamber, a queue of young mothers clutched their infants tightly, the expressions on their faces a mixture of anguish and hope. Their simple cloaks and aprons were a poignant contrast to the silk gowns of a few fashionable lady patronesses who had come to observe the spectacle.

And what a spectacle it was.

As Juliana watched, a young woman was invited to the front, where a well-dressed man held out a cloth bag. Shifting her whimpering baby, the woman reached a trembling hand into the bag and pulled out a little red ball. She swallowed hard and, gripping the ball in her white-knuckled fist, stepped off to join a small group of mothers and babies huddled at one side.

Abandoning the battle-axe, Juliana walked over to join the other spectators. “What does the ball mean?” she asked in a whisper.

A tall, middle-aged woman answered in kindly tones, “The system is called balloting. These mothers have already been screened and deemed acceptable. But the Governors can accept only ten infants at a time, and there are many more qualified mothers wishing placement for their children. Balloting is the fairest method of allocating places.”

As she finished her explanation, another young woman drew a ball—a black one—and dropped it to the floor, sudden tears spilling down her cheeks as she ran from the room, taking her baby with her.

“Black is bad?” Juliana asked.

“Mothers who draw black balls are immediately turned out of the Hospital. A white ball means the baby will be examined and admitted if it is healthy. Mothers who draw red balls are invited to wait to see whether any babies are refused admittance, in which case they are given a second chance to enter the lottery.”

An agonizing lottery. Juliana watched as two more mothers drew black balls and one lucky woman nabbed a white one. “How many mothers are hoping for placement today?”

“About a hundred, which is typical.”

And only ten would see their babies provided for. The fortunate woman with the white ball was ushered toward a corner, where a doctor waited to evaluate her child—a girl, if Juliana could judge by the scrap of ribbon crookedly tied in the baby’s sparse, downy hair. During the short examination, a dozen more mothers drew balls—nine chose black, one red, and two jubilant
women got white. When the first baby was declared healthy, the mothers waiting with red balls visibly drooped, gripping their infants more tightly. The lucky mother—if one could call her that—was given a numbered document that certified the Hospital’s acceptance of her baby, and a lead tag with a corresponding number was threaded on a necklace and placed around the child’s neck.

A tightness squeezed Juliana’s chest as she watched the tearful parting, the mother kissing her baby girl over and over before regretfully surrendering her to a Hospital employee. “Is she given that paper so she can reclaim her child?”

“Partly. The babies are baptized with Hospital names—the child is never told the identity of the mother, and the mother won’t know her child’s new name. But if at a later date she can convince the Governors of her reformed character and improved circumstances, the paper and matching necklace number will prove they restore the right child to her.”

“But you said ‘partly,’” Juliana prompted.

The woman sighed. “Truthfully, that seldom happens. She is more likely to use the paper for her own defense; if she is accused of having disposed of her baby by murder, the certificate might save her from the gallows.”

“Dear heavens.” None of the mothers looked like criminals—they were just women in tragic circumstances. “I saw no infants in either the girls’ building or the boys’. Have the babies lodgings of their own?”

“The babies aren’t kept at the Hospital. They’ll be baptized with their new names at Sunday services tomorrow and then placed with wet nurses in the countryside on Monday. The nurses receive a monthly wage and keep the children until they are five years or thereabouts, at which time they return to live here.”

Juliana watched as the infant was carried off. “Does anyone make sure the babies are treated well?”

“Oh, yes. Inspectors visit regularly. They’re responsible for the nurse’s pay and the child’s medical fees, and for purchasing clothes for the infants—”

“Purchasing clothes?”

“Baby clothes. Babies are sent to their new ‘mothers’ with frocks and caps and clouts and coats and blankets—”

“Do the girls not make these in their sewing lessons?”

“The baby clothes aren’t uniforms—”

“Then I can provide them, then!”

“Pardon?”

“I can make them. I can make baby clothes and donate them to the Hospital.”

The kindly woman blinked at her. “I don’t know about that. I don’t believe anyone donates anything besides money.”

Juliana watched another mother draw a red ball and, trembling, take her baby to join the small group of hopefuls. She imagined having to wish someone else’s child proved ill so her own child could have a chance for a decent life. Or at least she tried to imagine it. The very thought was heartrending.

She turned back to the lady patroness beside her. “The fact that the Hospital hasn’t accepted nonmonetary donations in the past doesn’t mean it cannot do so in future.” Maybe providing baby clothing would free enough funds for the Governors to accept another child or two. She wouldn’t allow them to refuse her. “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”