One small iron crib and thirteen wooden beds lined opposing walls. A small iron sconce held a single candle that flickered from the wall on which it hung, away from the bedding. The dim light it provided was barely enough to see all the children’s faces from the doorway. Lately, Nora had wondered about the women who might not have cast their children away had they had some financial help. Merely surviving, financially, was out of reach for many of these women without support.
Nora herself did not have money, but she had space and she had some connections. Much though she reviled the ton, perhaps there were some situations in which they could help others less fortunate. She needed to give the idea more thought. While she would never understand how someone could cast off their child, no matter the circumstances, she was open-minded enough to know that everyone did not fit that mold. Society saw many of them as unworthy and, in some cases, by-blows to be hidden away from view.
Parents or relatives of these children had abandoned them here or on the streets, unable or unwilling to care for them. They often cast the children out without a look back, something which broke her heart to even think of. Others lost their parents through disease or worse and were left with nowhere to turn. To remain on the street would only lead to them becoming pawns of the pickpocket gangs, who taught them to steal. It was important that these cherubs learn a respectable trade, one which would place them away from danger. She did not wish for Society to have so much control that they had no choices in life, Nora reflected, realizing with surprising clarity she was thinking of her own situation.
“Och! They are quiet at last.” A voice spoke behind her, startling her from her thoughts.
“Yes, you are right, Mrs. Simpkins,” she murmured, her mind still trying to grasp the notion that perhaps the ton itself could help undo some misfortune she saw in front of her. Nora was no fool. Some of these children were bastards, born out of wedlock to women who, perhaps because of their positions within a household or Society, could not keep a child. These women could ill afford to lose their positions and had few resources to use. How difficult that must be, she thought, to choose.
“I ken ye well enough to see ye are thinking about something serious,” the older woman whispered. “It does me heart good to see how much like yer grandma that ye be.”
Perceiving only benefits from her ideas, Nora determined to list them and visit her benefactor—Grandmama. She needed more than money to make some changes she envisioned.
“I feel as though I am taking advantage, yet my grandmother has often urged me to apply to her whenever I have need of anything,” returned Nora.
“Nay. Ye do not ken how proud she is of ye.” After a moment of silence, Mrs. Simpkins smiled and added, “I do not hear the wee one that came today. Perhaps that is a good sign.”
It was not unusual for the new children to cry themselves to sleep for several nights upon their arrival. She and Mrs. Simpkins worked hard to soothe the transition. Nora was thankful that her grandmother had loaned her the older cook—who constantly showed a heart of gold towards the children. Three women—herself, Mrs. Simpkins, and Mary, the maid—made up the household. In addition, Mr. Marsh, Grandmama’s gardener and handyman, came twice a week to help with the land and any jobs that might require a man’s strength.
Nora’s means were barely sufficient, and while bread and soup had become a staple, she had found Mrs. Simpkins to be a genius at making a sumptuous meal for the children from only a few supplies. Nora refused to take more money from her grandmother than necessary.
A cry came then from a toddler in the corner, and Nora rushed over. “There, there, Amy. I am here, little one.”
“Mama,” the child wailed, and then coughed repeatedly.
An older child raised her head. “I think she misses her mama, Miss Nora. She can sleep next to me, if that’ll help.”
“Alice, that is very sweet of you. I think I will walk about with Amy for a few minutes.” She leaned over and kissed the six-year-old girl on the forehead. “Go back to sleep, little one.”
“Thank you, Miss Nora.” The child had barely whispered her response when soft snores came from her cot.
Turning to the crib, Nora took a deep breath and out of habit, smoothed her skirt with her hands. “This transition will be hard for you, little one.” She reached into the cradle, picked up the whimpering child and held her to her chest, to comfort her.
“There, there, fret not, little one. We will look after you,” she cooed to the little girl.
Mrs. Simpkins met her at the door. “I remembered we had a little of this left over and thought warm goat’s milk could help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Simpkins. It may take both of us to help her recover from her grief. It never ceases to amaze me that people consider children as chattel. They have hearts and feelings. I will take her to my room and rock her to sleep. I should probably have a small bed installed in the corner for times such as these,” she added.
“’Tis not a bad idea. Remember, I am here if ye need me, Miss Nora. I will care for the children as if they were me own,” the woman responded.
“I know you will. You are a good, thoughtful woman, and you always made my visits to Grandmama better when I was a child. I do not recall that your lemon biscuits ever hurt me,” Nora said warmly as she kissed the toddler on the head. Mrs. Simpkins’
