“I’m trying my best.” Olivia managed a weak smile, if only to reassure her friend.
They found seats close to the wooden railing that separated the council area from the public and sat down. Olivia scanned the room, hoping to catch sight of any friendly faces. Cherise and Patricia hadn’t been ready to come with them but had promised they would arrive in time to give their statements.
From across the aisle, Margaret waved at them. Olivia smiled and waved back, one layer of tension receding. At least someone other than Ruth would clap after she spoke.
On the far side of the room, Mr. Simmons stood in conversation with several men in suits, likely the business owners from their neighborhood. Ruth’s lawyer had explained that when the time came, Mr. Simmons would speak first, then others would be allowed to present opposing opinions.
Olivia turned in her seat, discreetly searching the far corners of the room. Would Darius or his boss be here? It would make sense that Mr. Walcott would wish to attend, if only to learn the fate of the maternity home firsthand. She’d thought Darius might as well. Yet there was no sign of the handsome face that haunted her dreams. She released a soft breath, disappointment leaking from her pores. Perhaps it was just as well. She would need a clear head with no unnecessary distractions while giving her short speech.
Soon the room was called to order as Mayor Conboy and the council members filed in to take their seats.
Olivia found it hard to concentrate on the initial portion of the meeting as it droned on in formal language, but she perked up immediately when the floor opened to concerns from the public. Mr. Simmons came forward to present his signed petition of five hundred and sixty-two signatures and gave a heated speech about the undesirable facility that had opened across the street from him. After he finished, he invited several local businessmen to speak.
“This maternity home is a disgrace.” Mr. Weiss, a butcher, peered over his glasses at the councilors. “How can I expect to keep my customers with those type of women invading our neighborhood?”
A parade of other businessmen followed, each pronouncing their distaste for Bennington Place and how it was bringing down their property value. Then a few women got up to speak, citing the danger to their children.
“Why, just a few weeks ago,” one lady said, “a drunken man almost ran my baby carriage down before he crashed into a lamppost. Turns out he was related to one of the women in the maternity home. We can’t have derelicts ruining our neighborhood.”
Olivia cringed but did her best to block out their negative words and focus on her own speech.
Finally, the chairman asked for anyone who wished to speak in favor of the maternity home. Ruth squeezed Olivia’s hand and rose. The impressive woman held her head high as she crossed to a microphone stand.
“Good morning, Your Worship, esteemed council members. My name is Ruth Bennington, and I am a co-founder of the Bennington Place Maternity Home. We are a small private facility that can house up to twelve women and infants. We employ a doctor from Toronto General Hospital and an accredited midwife to attend to our residents. For the most part, we exist quietly and peacefully. Other than the unfortunate car accident, the only interruption to our community was a recent riot incited by an inflammatory newspaper article. These rabble-rousers, led by our neighbor Mr. Simmons, not only caused damage to my property but injured my partner, Miss Rosetti, which resulted in seventeen stitches to her head.”
A murmur went through the crowd behind them. Olivia couldn’t tell whether the tone was sympathetic or not.
Ruth cleared her throat. “Some of you may wonder why a woman of my years would decide to open a maternity home.”
Olivia’s muscles tightened as she moved to the edge of her chair. Ruth was about to take a huge risk, putting her good name and reputation on the line. How would these people handle her confession?
“Fifty-four years ago,” Ruth said slowly, “I was pregnant and unmarried. With no resources at my disposal, I was shipped off to a distant relative, where I gave birth to a daughter whom I gave up for adoption. Yet I was one of the lucky ones who managed to go on and make an excellent life for myself, mostly due to my dear late husband, Henry.” She paused. “When I met Miss Rosetti last spring, she shared her own story with me and spoke of her desire to open a maternity home. It struck a chord deep inside me, and I knew this was the path God wanted me to follow.” Ruth glanced over at Olivia. “At this time, I invite Miss Rosetti to come forward and give her own testimony.”
Quiet shrouded the council chambers as Olivia rose on unsteady legs to approach the microphone. Her palms were clammy, and perspiration dampened her dress. When she unfolded the piece of paper containing the words she had written, her hands shook hard enough to rattle the sheet.
Dear Lord, give me the courage to see this through.
“Thank you, Ruth,” she said. “My name is Olivia Rosetti, and I am the other co-founder of Bennington Place.” She stared straight ahead at the wall above the mayor’s chair. If she made eye contact with anyone, she might lose her nerve. “This maternity home came into existence as a result of a deeply personal experience. Not long ago, I found myself in trouble with nowhere to turn. My fiancé had already left to join the war when I found out I was expecting.” She swallowed. “Upon learning of my condition, my father disowned me and had me sent to the Mercer Reformatory for Women, a place where unspeakable atrocities occur every day. Where women are treated worse than
