Marrying Winterborne
Page 90
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Charity’s head lifted from Helen’s shoulder, breathing heavily. “Don’t leave me here.”
“Shhh.” Helen smoothed a few wild tufts of hair. “You’re coming with me. I promise.” Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw Dr. Gibson shake her head.
“I wouldn’t promise,” Dr. Gibson said quietly.
“If I have to break the law and simply walk out of here with her,” Helen said, “I’ll do it.” Rearranging Charity more comfortably in her lap, she continued to smooth her hair. “Why did they cut it so short, do you think?” she asked.
“Usually their head are shaved upon admission, to ward against vermin infestation.”
“If they’re that concerned about vermin,” Helen said, “they could give her a wash now and then.”
Charity glanced up at her anxiously. “I don’t like water.”
“Why not, darling?”
The little chin quivered. “When we’re bad, the nuns . . . push our heads in the fire p-pail.” She gave Helen a glance of childish grief, and laid her cheek back on her shoulder.
Helen was actually glad of the fury that flooded her: It gave her thoughts extra clarity, and infused her with strength. She began to rock the child slightly, as if she were an infant.
Dr. Gibson had seated herself on the edge of the desk, which was possible only because she was wearing the new style of dress, flat and straight in the front, with skirts gathered at the back in lieu of a bustle. Helen envied her mobility.
“What will they require for the discharge?” Helen asked.
Dr. Gibson replied with a frown. “According to the matron, you’ll have to fill out administrative papers to apply for what they call ‘reclamation.’ They’ll let you take the child only if you can prove a familial relationship. That means you’ll be required to produce a legal statement from Mr. Vance confirming your parentage, as well as hers. Then you would have to go before the asylum’s Board of Governors. Once you’ve explained your relationship in detail, they’ll decide whether or not to authorize the discharge.”
Helen was outraged. “Why have they made it so difficult for people to adopt these children?”
“In my opinion, the Board of Governors would rather keep the children so they can exploit them, hire them out, and garnish their wages. At the age of six, most of the residents here are taught a trade and put to work.”
Disgusted, Helen pondered the problem. As she glanced down at the undernourished little body in her arms, an idea occurred to her. “What if her presence poses a danger? What if you diagnose her with a disease that might spread through the entire orphanage unless she’s removed from the premises immediately?”
Dr. Gibson considered it. “Capital idea,” she said. “I’m annoyed that I didn’t think of it first. A case of scarlet fever should do the trick. I’m sure Mrs. Leech will go along with the plan, as long as you offer her a fiver.” She hesitated, her mind sorting through possibilities. “There may be a question of legal guardianship in the future, if the Board of Governors ever took it upon themselves to reclaim her. However, they would never dare go up against a man as formidable as Mr. Winterborne.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Winterborne will have any part of this,” Helen said quietly. “Not after I talk to him tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Dr. Gibson was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lady. For many reasons.”
THE SUN HAD just set by the time they left the orphan asylum. Aware that their safety was more at risk with each passing minute, now that it was growing dark, the two women walked with ground-eating strides. Helen carried Charity, who clung to her with her legs wrapped around her waist.
They had turned the first corner and began toward the second, when a pair of men began to follow them from behind.
“Two fine ladies must ’ave a bit o’ brass wi’ yers, to spare,” one of them said.
“Go on your way,” Dr. Gibson said shortly, her pace unfaltering.
Both men chortled in a way that made the back of Helen’s neck crawl unpleasantly. “’Appens our way lies wi’ your way,” the other one said.
“Dockyard vermin,” Dr. Gibson muttered to Helen. “Ignore them. We’ll soon reach the main thoroughfare, and then they won’t bother us.”
However, the men had no intention of letting them walk any farther. “If yer won’t give us some brass,” the one behind Helen said, “I’ll take this little jam tart instead.” A rough hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Helen staggered slightly from the weight of the child, slight though Charity was.
The man kept his meaty hand on Helen’s shoulder. He was stout and round-faced, his thick skin textured like an orange peel. Hair of an indeterminate color straggled out from beneath a shiny oilskin cap.
He stared at Helen, his beady eyes widening in fascination. “The face of an angel,” he breathed, and licked his small, narrow lips. There were black gaps between his teeth, like the sharps and flats of a piano keyboard. “I’d like a leg over yer, I would.” Helen tried to pull back from him, and his hand tightened. “Yer not going nowheres, my fine bit o’ fluff—bugger!” He let out a scream as a hickory cane whistled through the air and struck the joint of his wrist with a sickening crack.
Helen backed away quickly as the length of hickory whistled again, walloping the side of the man’s head. A sharp jab with the tip of the cane sank into his stomach, and he bent over with a groan. Deftly flipping the cane, Dr. Gibson smashed the curved handle between her opponent’s legs and yanked it back as if it were a hook. The man dropped to the ground, curling up as tightly as an overcooked shrimp. The entire procedure had taken no more than five or six seconds.
“Shhh.” Helen smoothed a few wild tufts of hair. “You’re coming with me. I promise.” Out of the periphery of her vision, she saw Dr. Gibson shake her head.
“I wouldn’t promise,” Dr. Gibson said quietly.
“If I have to break the law and simply walk out of here with her,” Helen said, “I’ll do it.” Rearranging Charity more comfortably in her lap, she continued to smooth her hair. “Why did they cut it so short, do you think?” she asked.
“Usually their head are shaved upon admission, to ward against vermin infestation.”
“If they’re that concerned about vermin,” Helen said, “they could give her a wash now and then.”
Charity glanced up at her anxiously. “I don’t like water.”
“Why not, darling?”
The little chin quivered. “When we’re bad, the nuns . . . push our heads in the fire p-pail.” She gave Helen a glance of childish grief, and laid her cheek back on her shoulder.
Helen was actually glad of the fury that flooded her: It gave her thoughts extra clarity, and infused her with strength. She began to rock the child slightly, as if she were an infant.
Dr. Gibson had seated herself on the edge of the desk, which was possible only because she was wearing the new style of dress, flat and straight in the front, with skirts gathered at the back in lieu of a bustle. Helen envied her mobility.
“What will they require for the discharge?” Helen asked.
Dr. Gibson replied with a frown. “According to the matron, you’ll have to fill out administrative papers to apply for what they call ‘reclamation.’ They’ll let you take the child only if you can prove a familial relationship. That means you’ll be required to produce a legal statement from Mr. Vance confirming your parentage, as well as hers. Then you would have to go before the asylum’s Board of Governors. Once you’ve explained your relationship in detail, they’ll decide whether or not to authorize the discharge.”
Helen was outraged. “Why have they made it so difficult for people to adopt these children?”
“In my opinion, the Board of Governors would rather keep the children so they can exploit them, hire them out, and garnish their wages. At the age of six, most of the residents here are taught a trade and put to work.”
Disgusted, Helen pondered the problem. As she glanced down at the undernourished little body in her arms, an idea occurred to her. “What if her presence poses a danger? What if you diagnose her with a disease that might spread through the entire orphanage unless she’s removed from the premises immediately?”
Dr. Gibson considered it. “Capital idea,” she said. “I’m annoyed that I didn’t think of it first. A case of scarlet fever should do the trick. I’m sure Mrs. Leech will go along with the plan, as long as you offer her a fiver.” She hesitated, her mind sorting through possibilities. “There may be a question of legal guardianship in the future, if the Board of Governors ever took it upon themselves to reclaim her. However, they would never dare go up against a man as formidable as Mr. Winterborne.”
“I don’t believe Mr. Winterborne will have any part of this,” Helen said quietly. “Not after I talk to him tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Dr. Gibson was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that, my lady. For many reasons.”
THE SUN HAD just set by the time they left the orphan asylum. Aware that their safety was more at risk with each passing minute, now that it was growing dark, the two women walked with ground-eating strides. Helen carried Charity, who clung to her with her legs wrapped around her waist.
They had turned the first corner and began toward the second, when a pair of men began to follow them from behind.
“Two fine ladies must ’ave a bit o’ brass wi’ yers, to spare,” one of them said.
“Go on your way,” Dr. Gibson said shortly, her pace unfaltering.
Both men chortled in a way that made the back of Helen’s neck crawl unpleasantly. “’Appens our way lies wi’ your way,” the other one said.
“Dockyard vermin,” Dr. Gibson muttered to Helen. “Ignore them. We’ll soon reach the main thoroughfare, and then they won’t bother us.”
However, the men had no intention of letting them walk any farther. “If yer won’t give us some brass,” the one behind Helen said, “I’ll take this little jam tart instead.” A rough hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Helen staggered slightly from the weight of the child, slight though Charity was.
The man kept his meaty hand on Helen’s shoulder. He was stout and round-faced, his thick skin textured like an orange peel. Hair of an indeterminate color straggled out from beneath a shiny oilskin cap.
He stared at Helen, his beady eyes widening in fascination. “The face of an angel,” he breathed, and licked his small, narrow lips. There were black gaps between his teeth, like the sharps and flats of a piano keyboard. “I’d like a leg over yer, I would.” Helen tried to pull back from him, and his hand tightened. “Yer not going nowheres, my fine bit o’ fluff—bugger!” He let out a scream as a hickory cane whistled through the air and struck the joint of his wrist with a sickening crack.
Helen backed away quickly as the length of hickory whistled again, walloping the side of the man’s head. A sharp jab with the tip of the cane sank into his stomach, and he bent over with a groan. Deftly flipping the cane, Dr. Gibson smashed the curved handle between her opponent’s legs and yanked it back as if it were a hook. The man dropped to the ground, curling up as tightly as an overcooked shrimp. The entire procedure had taken no more than five or six seconds.
