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's more likely to use the paper for her own defense; if she's 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—"
"Don't the girls 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 at 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?"
SPICE CAKES
Take three scoops of Flower and put into it a Spoon of ale-barm, crushed cloves, mace, and a goode deal of cinnamon. To a halfe Pound of sweet Butter add a goode deal of Sugar and mixe together. Stir in three Eggs and work until good and stiff, then add a little cold Rosewater and knead well. Knead again, pull it all in Pieces and bake your Cakes in a warm oven.
I've heard tell that should you eat one of these before a gathering where you are likely to meet available men; their spiciness will clear your head and allow you to choose wisely. This did not, however, work when I baked them for my daughter. In any case, they are delicious.
—Amethyst, Countess of Greystone, 1690
"HOW MANY BABY clothes do you need to make?"
"A lot." In her bedroom at the Chase town house in Berkeley Square early that evening, Juliana set down her little pot of lip pomade and picked up the list the Governors had given her. "Three frocks, three caps, three nightshirts, one mantle, one coat, one petticoat, two blankets, and ten clouts. And that's per child. There will be ten babies."
Emily bit into one of the spice cakes she and Juliana had baked after returning from the Foundling Hospital. "So you need to make thirty frocks?"
"Yes." The girl was articulate and good with arithmetic. "And thirty caps, thirty nightshirts, ten mantles, ten coats, ten petticoats, twenty blankets, and a hundred clouts. All within a month, before the next reception day."
Juliana set the list on her dressing table. Upside down, so it would stop taunting her. Whatever had she got herself into? She'd been thrilled when the Governors accepted her offer to provide clothing for the next intake of infants—until she'd realized just how many clothes she'd need.
She wasn't worried about the cost of the materials, because she was certain she could cajole Griffin into paying for whatever her allowance wouldn't cover. But the mere thought of making so many items was daunting. "You'll help me, won't you?"
Emily frowned. "I'm not very good with a needle."
"You can hem blankets and sew clouts. That's not very difficult, and it will be good practice." Reaching over the girl's snake, Juliana wiped a few spice cake crumbs off her mouth. "I'm going to invite my sisters to help, too. We'll have a sewing party. It will be fun to work together." She dipped a finger into the lip pomade. "But I think you'll need to leave Herman home."
"I told you, he's not dangerous."
"His danger, or lack thereof," she told the child, watching her in the dressing table's mirror as she slicked pomade on her lips, "is not the point. Little ladies do not carry snakes."
Emily's delicate chin went into the air. "I do." She adjusted the long, olive green reptile where it was wound around her neck, the better to eat another spice cake. "What are these cakes supposed to do again?"
"Help me choose a husband wisely."
"All the gentlemen will want you. You look beautiful tonight, Lady Juliana. Of course, you always look beautiful," she added with a wistful sigh.
Juliana lifted a pot of rouge. "You'll look beautiful when you're my age."
It was true. Other than her unfortunate attachment to the reptile, the child was
