It was a narrow three-story building wedged between a chandler’s shop and a solicitor’s office, its stone front the color of long rain, its windows small and set high in the way of buildings that had been designed with economy in mind and not much else.
A brass plate beside the door readSt. Clement’s Home for Foundling Children, est. 1798,and beneath it someone had recently added, in letters slightly less well-formed than the original,Supported by the Blackmoor Estate.
William handed her down from the carriage, and she stood for a moment looking at the building while he spoke briefly to the driver. The street smelled of coal smoke and damp stone. From somewhere inside, she could faintly hear the sound of children.
William knocked.
The matron was a tall woman of about sixty, spare and upright. She introduced herself as Mrs. Peel, curtseyed, and then led them inside.
The entrance hall was clean. That was the first thing Cecily noticed, and she noticed it because cleanliness was clearly being maintained at some cost—the floor scrubbed, the walls wiped down, everything in its place—in a building that was, beneath the cleanliness, simply too thin.
Too thin in the walls, too thin in the light, too thin in the sounds that came from the upper floors, where the older children wereat their lessons, voices reciting something in the flat, patient monotone of children doing what was required of them.
“How many children are you currently housing, Mrs. Peel?” Cecily asked as they were led down the narrow corridor toward the main room.
“Thirty-one, Your Grace. Seventeen girls and fourteen boys. Ages ranging from six weeks to eleven years.”
“And your staff?”
“Three women, including myself. We had a fourth until last month.” A pause, brief and neutral. “She took a position elsewhere.”
“Was she replaced?”
“Not yet, Your Grace.”
Cecily glanced at William. He was looking at the corridor wall, at a place where the plaster had been patched and the patch had begun to separate again at the upper edge.
“The building,” he said. “When was it last properly maintained?”
“The roof was seen to in the spring, Your Grace,” Mrs. Peel replied carefully. It sounded to Cecily like the tone of someone identifying the thing that had been done rather than thelonger list of things that had not. “There are some matters outstanding.”
“Such as?”
“The windows on the upper floor do not seal properly. We have managed with additional blankets, but…” Mrs. Peel trailed off. “We manage, Your Grace.”
“What kind of additional blankets?” Cecily asked.
A small pause. “Whatever has been available.”
They reached the main room.
It was a large, low-ceilinged space that might have been comfortable if it had more of everything—more light, more heat from the inadequate fireplace at the far end, more furniture than the two long tables and the collection of mismatched chairs arranged around them.
A group of small children was assembled around the nearest table, perhaps eight or nine of them, between the ages of two and five, overseen by a young woman who looked up when they entered with an expression that was simultaneously hopeful and cautious.
The children looked up, too. Several of them stared with the frank, uncomplicated curiosity of children who had not yet learned that staring was impolite. One small boy in a patchedgrey coat had a wooden horse in his hands that he had apparently been in the middle of showing his friend when they arrived, and he held it now mid-demonstration, frozen, his eyes very large.
Cecily looked around the room. The blankets were thin. She had been told they were thin, and she had understood it as information. But standing here and looking at them draped over small chairs and folded on the window seat, she understood it differently—the kind of thin that had been washed too many times, that let the cold through, that was doing its best with diminishing resources.
The fire was small. The windows, as described, did not seal. She could feel it from where she stood, the faint draft moving through the room at child height, exactly where children spent most of their time.
She pressed her lips together.
“The younger ones,” she said to Mrs. Peel, keeping her voice even. “Where are they kept?”
“The nursery is through here, Your Grace.”
The nursery was even smaller and warmer—someone had made sure of that, at least—with four wooden cribs arranged along the far wall and a low chair between them, where the young nursemaid was sitting with an infant against her shoulder. She stood quickly when they entered, shifting the baby with practiced care.
