Marrying Winterborne by Lisa Kleypas
After a full minute had passed, Dr. Gibson began to reach for the pull again, when the door opened.
A broad, heavy rectangle of a woman faced them. She looked incredibly weary, as if she hadn’t slept in years, the skin of her face drooping in swags.
“Are you the matron?” Dr. Gibson asked.
“I am. Who might you be?”
“I am Dr. Gibson. My companion is Miss Smith.”
“Mrs. Leech,” the matron mumbled.
“We would like to ask a few questions of you, if we may.”
The matron’s face didn’t change, but it was clear the idea held little appeal. “What would I get out of it?”
“I’m willing to donate my medical services to the children in the infirmary.”
“We don’t need a doctor. The Sisters of Mercy come three times a week to minister and do nursing.” The door began to close.
“For your time,” Helen said, discreetly extending a coin to her.
The matron’s hand closed over it, her eyelids flicking briefly as she realized it was a half-crown. Standing back, she opened the door wider and let them inside.
They entered an L-shaped main room flanked by offices on one side and a nursery on the other. A squalling infant could be heard from the nursery. A woman walked back and forth past the doorway with the infant, trying to soothe it.
Straight ahead, through a pair of open double doors, Helen could see rows of children seated at long tables. A multitude of busy spoons scraped against bowls.
“They’ll eat for ten more minutes,” Mrs. Leech said, consulting a pocket watch. “That’s all the time I have.” A few curious children had hopped off their benches and had wandered to the doorway to stare at the visitors. The matron glared at them. “Go back to the table, if you know what’s good for you!” The children scuttled back into the dining hall. Turning back to Dr. Gibson, Mrs. Leech shook her head wearily. “Some of them insist their mothers will come back for them. Every bloody time there’s a visitor, they make a fuss.”
“How many children do you have at the orphanage?” Dr. Gibson asked.
“One hundred twenty boys, ninety-seven girls, and eighteen infants.”
Helen noticed that one girl had stayed half-hidden behind the door. Slowly the child looked around the jamb. Her hair, a very light shade of blonde, had been chopped into short, uneven locks that stuck out in all directions. It had matted down in some places, giving her the appearance of a half-molted chick. She stared fixedly at Helen.
“Have any of the mothers come back in the past?” Dr. Gibson asked.
“Some used to.” Mrs. Leech looked surly. “Troublesome bitches treated this place like free lodging. Brought their children here, left them to live off charity, and came back to fetch them whenever they pleased. The in-’n-outs, we called them. So the Board of Governors made admission and discharge procedures as complicated as could be, to stop the in-’n-outs. But it’s made more work for me and my staff, and we already—” She stopped with a wrathful glare as she noticed the little girl, who had taken a few uncertain steps toward Helen. “What did I tell you?” the matron exploded. “Go back to the table!”
The child hadn’t taken her eyes—wide, frightened, awed—from Helen. “Mamma?” Her voice was small, a mere quaver in the large room.
She darted forward, her spindly legs a determined blur. Ducking beneath the matron’s arm, she threw herself at Helen, clutching her skirts. “Mamma,” she repeated over and over, in little prayerful breaths.
Frail and small though the child was, the impact had nearly knocked Helen off-balance. She was distressed to see the child yanking frantically at her chopped-off hair, as if trying to find a lock that was long enough to look at. Helen reached down to stop the desperate pulling. Their fingers brushed, and the tiny hand fastened to hers in a grip that hurt.
“Charity!” Mrs. Leech snapped. “Take your grubby paws off the lady.” She drew back to cuff the child’s head, but without even thinking, Helen blocked the swipe with her own arm.
“Her name is Charity?” Dr. Gibson asked quickly. “Charity Wednesday?”
“Yes,” the matron said, glaring at the little ragamuffin.
Dr. Gibson shook her head in amazement, turning to Helen. “I wonder what caused the child to—” She stopped, looking down at the girl. “She must have noticed the color of your hair—it’s so distinctive that—” Her gaze flickered back and forth between the two of them. “God’s feathered choir,” she muttered.
Helen couldn’t speak. She had already realized how closely Charity resembled her: the dark brows and lashes, the light grayish eyes, the white-blond hair. She had glimpsed herself too in the lost look of a child who had no place in the world.
The little girl rested her head against Helen’s waist. Her grimy face turned upward and her eyes closed, as if she were basking in the feel of sunlight. Exhausted relief had spread over her features. You’re here. You’ve come for me. I belong to someone.
As a child, Helen might have dreamed of a similar moment—she couldn’t remember. All she knew was that it had never happened.
She could hear the matron demanding to know what was going on and what they wanted with Charity, while Dr. Gibson countered with questions of her own. Continuous squalling came from the nursery. The children in the dining hall had become restless. More of them had returned to the doorway, staring and chattering.
Helen reached down to pick up the child. The small body was light and unsubstantial. Charity wrapped her arms and legs around her, clinging like a monkey. The child desperately needed a bath. Several of them. And the orphanage uniform—a blue serge dress and gray pinafore—would have to be burned. Helen longed to take her somewhere clean and quiet, and wash the filth from her, and feed her something warm and nourishing. For a despairing moment, she wondered what it would take to discharge the child from the orphanage, and what on earth she would say to Lady Berwick when she arrived at Ravenel House with her half-sister in tow.
One thing was certain—she wasn’t going to abandon Charity in this place.
“I’m your older sister, darling,” she murmured. “I’m Helen. I didn’t know you were here, or I would have come for you before. I’m taking you home with me.”
“Now?” the child quavered.
“Yes, now.”
As she stood there with the little girl in her arms, Helen realized that the course of her life had just been permanently altered, like a train that had crossed a switch-point and moved onto a new track. She would never again be a woman without a child. A confusion of emotion twisted inside her . . . fear, that no one, not even Kathleen, would agree with what she was doing . . . and grief, because she had lost Rhys, and every step she took was leading her farther away from him . . . and a faint, lonely note of joy. There would be compensations in the future. There would be solace.
But there would never again be a man like Rhys Winterborne.
Helen’s attention was caught by the other two women as they began to argue in earnest.
“Mrs. Leech,” Helen said sharply.
They both fell silent and looked at her.
Helen continued in a tone of command, which she had borrowed from Lady Berwick. “We will wait in one of your office rooms, while you attend to the children in the dining hall. Be quick about it, if you please, as our time is running short. You and I have business to discuss.”
“Yes, miss,” the matron replied, looking thoroughly harassed.
“You may refer to me as ‘my lady,’” Helen said coolly, and took private satisfaction in the woman’s glance of surprise.
“Yes, milady,” came the subdued reply.
After Mrs. Leech had shown them to a shabbily furnished office, Helen sat with Charity in her lap.
Dr. Gibson wandered around the small room, shamelessly glancing through a stack of papers on the desk and opening a few drawers. “If you want to have her discharged tonight,” she said, “I’m sorry to tell you that it probably won’t be possible
Charity’s head lifted from Helen’s shoulder, breathing heavily. “Don’t leave me here.”
“Shhh.” Helen smoothed a few wild tufts of hair. “You’re coming with me. I promise.” Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw Dr. Gibson shake her head.
“I wouldn’t promise,” Dr. Gibson said quietly.
“If I have to break the law and simply walk out of here with her,” Helen said, “I’ll do it.” Rearranging Charity more comfortably in her lap, she continued to smooth her hair. “Why did they cut it so short, do you think?” she asked.
“Usually their head are shaved upon admission, to ward against vermin infestation.”
“If they’re that concerned about vermin,” Helen said, “they could give her a wash now and then.”
Charity glanced up at her anxiously. “I don’t like water.”
“Why not, darling?”
The little chin quivered. “When we’re bad, the nuns . . . push our heads in the fire p-pail.” She gave Helen a glance of childish grief, and laid her cheek back on her shoulder.
Helen was actually glad of the fury that flooded her: It gave her thoughts extra clarity, and infused her with strength. She began to rock the child slightly, as if she were an infant.
Dr. Gibson had seated herself on the edge of the desk, which was possible only because she was wearing the new style of dress, flat and straight in the front, with skirts gathered at the back in lieu of a bustle. Helen envied her mobility.
“What will they require for the discharge?” Helen asked.
Dr. Gibson replied with a frown. “According to the matron, you’ll have to fill out administrative papers to apply for what they call ‘reclamation.’ They’ll let you take the child only if you can prove a familial relationship. That means you’ll be required to produce a legal statement from Mr. Vance confirming your parentage, as well as hers. Then you would have to go before the asylum’s Board of Governors. Once you’ve explained your relationship in detail, they’ll decide whether or not to authorize the discharge.”
Helen was outraged. “Why have they made it so difficult for people to adopt these children?”
“In my opinion, the Board of Governors would rather keep the children so they can exploit them, hire them out, and garnish their wages. At the age of six, most of the residents here are taught a trade and put to work.”
Disgusted, Helen pondered the problem. As she glanced down at the undernourished little body in her arms, an idea occurred to her. “What if her presence poses a danger? What if you diagnose her with a disease that might spread through the entire orphanage unless she’s removed from the premises immediately?”
Dr. Gibson considered it. “Capital idea,” she said. “I’m annoyed that I didn’t think of it first. A case of scarlet fever should do the trick. I’m sure Mrs. Leech will go along with the plan, as long as you offer her a fiver.” She hesitated, her mind sorting through possibilities. “There may be a question of legal guardianship in the future, if the Board of Governors ever took it upon themselves to reclaim her. However, they would never dare go up against a man as formidable as Mr. Winterborne.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Winterborne will have any part of this,” Helen said quietly. “Not after I talk to him tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Dr. Gibson was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lady. For many reasons.”
THE SUN HAD just set by the time they left the orphan asylum. Aware that their safety was more at risk with each passing minute, now that it was growing dark, the two women walked with ground-eating strides. Helen carried Charity, who clung to her with her legs wrapped around her waist.
They had turned the first corner and began toward the second, when a pair of men began to follow them from behind.
“Two fine ladies must ’ave a bit o’ brass wi’ yers, to spare,” one of them said.
“Go on your way,” Dr. Gibson said shortly, her pace unfaltering.
Both men chortled in a way that made the back of Helen’s neck crawl unpleasantly. “’Appens our way lies wi’ your way,” the other one said.
“Dockyard vermin,” Dr. Gibson muttered to Helen. “Ignore them. We’ll soon reach the main thoroughfare, and then they won’t bother us.”
However, the men had no intention of letting them walk any farther. “If yer won’t give us some brass,” the one behind Helen said, “I’ll take this little jam tart instead.” A rough hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Helen staggered slightly from the weight of the child, slight though Charity was.
The man kept his meaty hand on Helen’s shoulder. He was stout and round-faced, his thick skin textured like an orange peel. Hair of an indeterminate color straggled out from beneath a shiny oilskin cap.
He stared at Helen, his beady eyes widening in fascination. “The face of an angel,” he breathed, and licked his small, narrow lips. There were black gaps between his teeth, like the sharps and flats of a piano keyboard. “I’d like a leg over yer, I would.” Helen tried to pull back from him, and his hand tightened. “Yer not going nowheres, my fine bit o’ fluff—bugger!” He let out a scream as a hickory cane whistled through the air and struck the joint of his wrist with a sickening crack.
Helen backed away quickly as the length of hickory whistled again, walloping the side of the man’s head. A sharp jab with the tip of the cane sank into his stomach, and he bent over with a groan. Deftly flipping the cane, Dr. Gibson smashed the curved handle between her opponent’s legs and yanked it back as if it were a hook. The man dropped to the ground, curling up as tightly as an overcooked shrimp. The entire procedure had taken no more than five or six seconds.
Without pausing, Dr. Gibson turned to confront the other man, who had lunged forward. Before he reached her, however, someone had seized him from behind and spun him around.
The stranger displayed extraordinary agility, dodging to the side with fluid ease as the thug swung at him. He moved in with an effortlessly fast and brutal combination: a jab, right cross, left uppercut, and a full force blow with his right. The ruffian collapsed to the street beside his companion.
Helen whispered to the petrified child, who was whimpering against her neck. “It’s all right. It’s over.”
Dr. Gibson viewed the stranger warily, lowering the tip of her cane to the ground.
He returned her gaze implacably, adjusting the brim of his hat. “Are you unharmed, ladies?”
“Quite,” Dr. Gibson said crisply. “We thank you for your assistance, although I had the situation under control.”
Helen had the impression that the other woman was annoyed at having been deprived of the chance to demolish the second ruffian as thoroughly as she had the first.
“Obviously you could have managed on your own,” the stranger said as he approached. He was a well-dressed young man, slightly taller than average, and extraordinarily fit. “But when I saw two women being harassed, I thought it only civilized to lend a hand.”
He had an unusual accent, in that it was difficult to place. Most accents were so specific that one could easily discern what area they were from, sometimes even pinpoint the county. As he drew closer, Helen saw that he was very good-looking, with blue eyes and dark brown hair, and strong features.
“What are you doing in this area?” Dr. Gibson asked suspiciously.
“I’m on my way to meet a friend at a tavern.”
“What is the name of it?”
“The Grapes,” came his easy reply. His gaze moved to Helen and the child in her arms. “It’s not safe here,” he said gently, “and night is falling fast. May I hail a hansom for you?”
Dr. Gibson replied before Helen was able. “Thank you, but we don’t need assistance.”
“I’ll stay at a distance,” he conceded, “but I’m going to keep an eye on you until you’re safely in a cab.”
“Suit yourself,” Dr. Gibson said crisply. “My lady, shall we go?”
Helen hesitated and spoke to the stranger. “Will you
He met her gaze, and his face softened slightly.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I would rather not.”
She smiled at him. “I understand.”
He lifted his hat off his forehead in a respectful gesture, the outer corners of his eyes crinkling as they walked away. Helen beamed, remembering West’s warning about strangers and heroes in disguise. Wait until she told him about this.
“No smiling,” Dr. Gibson reminded Helen.
“But he helped us,” she protested.
“It’s not help when one doesn’t need it.”
When they had nearly reached the main road, Dr. Gibson threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “He’s following us at a distance,” she said, annoyed.
“Like a guardian angel,” Helen said.
Dr. Gibson snorted. “Did you see the way he felled that thug? His fists were as quick as thought. Like a professional fighter. One has to question how such a man appeared out of nowhere at just the right moment.”
“I think he did far less damage to his opponent than you did to yours,” Helen said admiringly. “The way you took that ruffian down with your cane—I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“My aim was a bit off,” Dr. Gibson said. “I didn’t connect squarely with the ulnar nerve in his wrist. I shall have to consult with my fencing-master about my technique.”
“It was still very impressive,” Helen assured her. “I pity anyone who makes the mistake of underestimating you, Dr. Gibson.”
“My lady, the sentiment is returned in full.”
Chapter 29
ALTHOUGH HELEN HAD, IN the recent past, discovered that she rather enjoyed shocking people, she had now come to the conclusion that it was highly overrated. She felt nostalgic for all those quiet, peaceful days at Eversby Priory when nothing had ever happened. Too much was happening now.
It seemed that Ravenel House was collectively paralyzed when Helen returned with a bedraggled orphan of mysterious origins, in questionable health and decidedly unsanitary condition. Setting Charity on her feet, Helen held her hand, and the child huddled against her. Servants stopped in their tracks. The housekeeper, Mrs. Abbott, came to the entrance hall and froze in astonishment. Pandora and Cassandra descended the stairs, chattering, but as they saw Helen standing in the entrance hall with a ragged child, they both fell abruptly silent.