“Forgive the smell, I’m afraid its cleaning day and the smell is harsh. The house is set up in levels. We house one hundred and eighty-three children.”
“So many?” Abbie gasps.
“I’m afraid so. We set the house up in zones. The first floor houses the oldest, and they tend to be the smelliest after a good play.” Mrs. Fletcher smiles fondly when the door opens, and three boys try to run through.
“Excuse me,” she hurries to guide them back outside before turning back to them. “Not to be rude, but we are short staffed, and it’s almost lunchtime for the children. Why have you come?”
Tucker returns and hurries to Abbie side.
“I can see how busy you are, Mrs. Fletcher.” Abbie glances at Tucker, and he nods at her.
“My name is Mrs. Abbilene Gilbert, and I’ve come to claim, Mason Gilbert.” Abbie hands over the adoption papers and watches as Mrs. Fletcher blanches and nods.
“I see.” She reads the papers thoroughly before taking off her spectacles and nodding. “Everything looks in order.” A second woman appears, and Mrs. Fletcher hurries to her and whispers to her. When she returns, she clears her throat, “Yes, well… perhaps we should go to my office. Follow me.”
Abbie’s stomach drops, and she glances at Tucker who frowns. They follow her down a small hall to the left and into a well-lit office.
“Have a seat, please.”
“I’d rather not.” Abbie snaps with growing concern. “I’ve come a long way to claim Mason. Is there a problem, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Mason is no longer here,” she sighs.
“Why not? Where is he?” Tucker demands.
“He’s at the workhouse, I’m afraid.”
“You sent a five-year-old to a workhouse!” Abbie exclaims.
“The law states that no children under seven are to be sent to workhouses,” Tucker growls.
“I know that sir, but we received a letter stating that he had no family left to claim him. That makes him a pauper and therefore a ward of the state. We are at capacity.” She digs through a drawer and pulls out a folder with Mason’s name on it and slides a folded letter to Abbie.
“We didn’t send a letter,” Tucker snaps.
Abbie pulls open the typed letter and reads it. “I don’t know who sent this or why. It’s not even signed. You didn’t think to verify this before you sent a child to a workhouse?” Abbie whirls around. “We have to go get him, Tucker!”
“Where is he?” Tucker demands.
“Allegra workhouse, in Bodega county. It’s twenty miles from here.” She watches the couple and runs a hand over her face. “I’m sorry. If I’d known that he had family left…”
“Let’s go, Abbilene,” Tucker demands and guides her to the door.
“Wait! What about his sister?” Mrs. Fletcher calls.
“What?” Abbie whirls around.
“Can I be frank?” she asks, hurrying around the desk to meet them.
“Yes,” Abbie whispers.
“Mason’s mother was a “French Actress” if you get my meaning?”
Abbie covers her mouth with a hand and shakes her head no.
“That’s enough, let’s go, Abbie,” Tucker glares daggers at the old woman.
As Tucker pulls Abbie from the room into the hallway, Mrs. Fletcher calls out, “She’s six months old.”
“Oh, God,” Abbie stops walking and closes her eyes in horror.
“I know this must be a shock. They most likely don’t have the same Father, but if she stays here, it will be a miracle if she survives.”
“What happened to the mother?” Abbie asks, turning around slowly.
“She died just after having the baby. Mason kept the baby safe for two days before they were found.”
Abbie gasps at the horror that image presents. “Both children were brought to us when no family could be found. You will see in Mason’s file the name of the father, but not the baby.”
“Give us a minute, please,” Tucker insists.
“Of course,” Mrs. Fletcher hurries down the hall to speak to a worker.
“Abbie you don’t have to do this,” Tucker says. “We need to find Mason and take him home.”
Sickness and disease float on the air, threatening to suffocate any who stay too long. Glancing at Tucker, she smiles at him.
“I know, Tucker,” she lets him pull her to the front door.
Children moan, cry, scream, and plead in the background as they move towards the front door.
“Please,” Mrs. Fletcher calls before they touch the front door. “At least meet her before you go.”
Abbie stops walking.
“No, Abbie. I don’t think that’s…” Abbie stops Tucker from speaking.
“Where is she?” she asks softly.
“This way,” Mrs. Fletcher grabs Abbie by the arm and guides her up the staircase to the next level. “The house is set up in three levels, as I said earlier. Each floor houses children of different ages. The oldest is on the bottom floor. Those that can walk but are still in nappies are on the second level. The infants are kept on the top floor. Heat rises, and it is the warmest.”
The second floor has a gate across the doorway for safety. They glance inside, and Abbie stares in shock at a sea of dirty faces, ratty clothes, and toddlers. Some play happily while others lay on the floor, sharing blankets. Her heart throbs with compassion.
“Where do they all come from?” Tucker asks hoarsely.
“Like Mason, they come from single mothers with little or no support. Soldiers who died during or after the war. Some from criminals, poverty-stricken families, and more. It’s a plague, and the youngest pay the price.”
As they move through the hallway, the stench grows progressively worse. Behind them babies, cough, hack and moan, some cry for a human touch that won’t come.
“As you can see, things are dire. The older children are sent to workhouse after seven years old. Unless we are out of room. As you can see, we are in desperate need
