“Your name is—” the woman scanned the letter—“Miss ... Smith?”
“Yes, Smith. Charlotte Smith.”
Mrs. Moorling paused only a moment before continuing, again with no change in her expression, though Charlotte had the distinct impression the woman knew she was lying about her name. “Before I can admit you, there are a few questions I need to ask.”
Charlotte swallowed.
“Is this your first occasion availing yourself upon such an institution?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Not ‘of course,’ Miss Smith. There are many who do not learn from experience. I must tell you that the Manor Home for Unwed Mothers is a place for deserving unmarried women with their first child. Our goal is to rehabilitate our patients for a morally upright life.”
Charlotte looked down, feeling the heat of embarrassment snake up her neck and pulse in her ears. She heard the sound of paper rustling and knew the matron was again reading the letter.
“This letter attests to your character and background, though I haven’t the time to verify it at the moment.”
“Mrs. Moorling. I assure you. I have never been in such a predicament before ... never conceived myself in such a predicament.”
Poor choice of words,Charlotte thought grimly.
She forced herself to meet the older woman’s eyes. Mrs. Moorling looked directly at her for a moment, then nodded.
“Gibbs will find a place for you to sleep.”
Gibbs, the plain, painfully thin young woman, led her back through the entry hall and to the right, to the street-facing wing of the L-shaped building. Hurrying to keep up, Charlotte followed her through the long corridor to a door midway down its length. Charlotte looked into the dim room—once a portion of a fine drawing room, perhaps—with a high ceiling and broad hearth. The bedchamber held only one narrow bed, the width less than Charlotte’s height. A small table with a brass candlestick sat on either side of the bed, and one chair stood against the nearest wall. Three simple wooden chests lined the opposite wall, no doubt used to store the belongings of the room’s temporary lodgers.
“You’ll be sharing with Mae and Becky. Both slight girls—you’re a fortunate one. They must be off visiting in one of the other rooms. They’ll be in by and by. We have a water closet below stairs. But there’s usually a wait for it. Chamber pots under the bed for late-night emergencies. We know how you lying-in girls get toward the end. You’re responsible for emptying your own, at least until your ninth month or so. Our physicians believe activity is healthy. All the girls have duties, long as you’re able. You’ll get your assignment at breakfast tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Any questions?”
Charlotte’s mind was whirling with them, but she only shook her head.
“Good night, then.” Gibbs let herself from the room.
There is no sense in crying over spilt milk.
Why bewail what is done and cannot be recalled?
—SOPHOCLES
CHAPTER2
She is dreaming or remembering—she isn’t sure which, but the sensation is delightful. She is dancing with a young gentleman at Sharsted Court, a gentleman whose name she can’t recall, or perhaps never knew. She feels the polite pressure of his hand on her gloved palm and sees the warm admiration in his shy glances. In fact, she feels admiring glances follow her as she moves effortlessly through the patterns and steps of the dance. She feels not, she hopes, bloated vanity but rather surprise and pleasure at the attention paid her. Her sister, Beatrice, is not in attendance this night. Beautiful Bea, home with a cold. She is sorry, but really, how heavenly to feel so sought after, so desirable, all loveliness in her sky blue silk. Suitors aplenty, all her life ahead of her.
The music ends, and the young gentleman, golden eyelashes against thin pale cheeks, escorts her from the floor. She catches a glimpse of green eyes and rust-gold hair, but when she looks again, another partner has already taken his place. This one boldly thrusts his hand toward her, his brown eyes gleaming confidently, impudently. She turns away but feels his hand fall against her shoulder and turn her back around. She wants to flee, to refuse the presumptuous hand.
Instead, she wakens.
There, in the dimness before Charlotte’s eyes, dangled a hand. Someone in bed beside her had thrown an arm across her shoulder. Bea?No, her mind told her.You’re not home any longer.Dread and black fear swelled and sank deep within her.
Please. Please, let it all be a dream. Oh, God, please ...
She reached under the blanket and ran her hand across her midriff, hoping it would still be smooth and flat.
Please.
Her hand found the hard rounded mound and she winced her eyes tightly shut.
It cannot be. It cannot be.
