“He has admirable ideas.”
The duchess tilted her head. “And a stubborn streak a mile wide. It sounds as though you became well acquainted with my son.”
“He charmed all of us. And was quite helpful. We picnicked together one day. He was very excited to begin his explorations and spoke of them often—Always taking notes…” She remembered how she’d been so impressed that he was always contemplating solutions and complications that might arise. Or questions he wanted answered.
Margaret’s words drew a sad smile from her hostess. “My charming, intelligent son. If only he wasn’t also so very stubborn. She sighed heavily. “Which gives me cause to doubt he’ll return any time soon. I imagine I ought to begin looking for a match for my other son if I’m ever to become a grandmother. You don’t know any eligible young ladies with half a brain, do you?”
Margaret shook her head, almost mournfully.
Even his mother was giving up.
For the remainder of their visit, their conversation turned to other topics, and Margaret found it pushed away her melancholy when she learned that the duchess had interests more meaningful than society in general. She was actively involved with numerous charities, a few in particular that raised awareness and funds to improve living conditions for the poor and of some schools.
Margaret was deep in thought as she entered her home and nearly missed the envelope resting in the salver.
New York City, January 23rd, 1829
Maggie,
There is so much to learn here that I doubt I’ll travel to another city for some time. I think that in my mind, New York shall always epitomize America to me.
First, let me tell you, this sick anyway seems to be made up of far more immigrants than actual Americans. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, I doubt anyplace else exists on earth where there is a greater quest for wealth—nor is more productive. The poverty I’ve encountered, however, is equally astounding. I spend my days in offices and shops talking to merchants, businessmen, and bankers, and my evenings in pubs listening to the tales and woes of the working class. Whether they are speaking in Italian or Polish or German, the stories are often the same. They work so much that they hardly have a chance to do anything but sleep and eat and rather than go home, they sit drinking whiskey with strangers. So much whiskey, Maggie, you cannot imagine the amounts of whiskey consumed here.
And always the children walking like shadows through the streets. Begging, some thieving, dirt on their faces and bugs in their hair. But it’s their eyes that give away their plights. Pleading eyes, hopeless eyes. On some nights, I want to run from their exhaustion and hardship and yet my soul won’t allow it.
I have so much to tell you but I can hardly keep my eyes open.
Yours,
Sebastian
28
Margaret’s Path
Kingdom Foundling Hospital in London, March 12th, 1829
“If a child is accepted,he or she is renamed and baptized and then sent out to be cared for by nurses for the first five years of their lives,” Miss Mildred Clark explained in a clinical-sounding voice as she walked Margaret through one of the cold corridors of the Kingdom’s Foundling Hospital. “Unless they have particular medical needs, in which case we provide for their needs here.”
Penelope had advised Margaret that this would be the first place she ought to visit in her quest to seek out a more meaningful life and only an hour into her visit, Margaret’s mind could hardly contain all that she’d learned.
“Why would a child be turned away?” The notion itself was inconceivable.
“For a number of reasons, My Lady.” Miss Clark, although kind, was very matter-of-fact in her dispassionate explanations. She walked stiffly, reminding Margaret of a soldier, and had her hair pinned back so tightly that it stretched the skin around her eyes. “A child will be rejected if he or she is diseased for obvious reasons. In the past, some foundling homes have been closed down due to the spread of syphilis from a single infant. A wet-nurse can easily contract it from one charge and then transmit it to another through her milk. We cannot be too careful, My Lady.”
Margaret nodded and then stopped to study an exquisite painting on the wall. She’d known that fashionable and noble ladies patronized charities such as the home, but she’d been surprised to learn the history of the famous artists and musicians who’d heavily invested in the hospital’s funding.
“What other requirements must a child meet?” She turned away to continue the tour.
“They must be illegitimate, of course, and they must be a mother’s first issue. This allows the woman an opportunity to make a fresh start without the burden of caring for a child. We are here to offer compassion and safety for children but in doing so we are also careful that we do not encourage wantonness and prostitution.”
“Those ideals seem to contradict themselves,” Margaret observed. “What will happen to those children who are sent away?”
The woman pinched her lips tightly together. “Some will end up in the workhouse or on the streets. These are the rules we’re given, Lady Asherton, and we must follow them. If we don’t, we could lose our funding. And then we would not exist to help even a single child.”
Ah, the politics of charity. Margaret slowed to study another painting. She wondered if Miss Clark resented the time she was giving up showing her around. Naturally, Margaret had included a large donation along with the request, but she couldn’t help but feel resentment from the other woman.
“How long have you worked for the hospital, Miss Clark?”
