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 isn't horrid!" Emily said, pulling her hand 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. Two minutes with any painting, and she was finished. But then, she'd never been as interested in things as she'd been in people. "What's 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 don't 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'd 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 many more qualified mothers wish 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 admitted. 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
