Page 14

“What of your artwork? I sincerely hope it will be on display when your family takes up residence in Berkshire.”

“You must not believe everything Phoebe says about my attempts at painting,” Jane said. “Her reviews of my work have always been rather too glowing.”

“Not even if her opinion is seconded by your father?”

Jane laughed. “Especially not then. My father may have a clear head for business, but he is horribly subjective when it comes to my efforts at virtually everything I attempt.”

Aunt Millward leaned back in her seat, looking pleased. “As he should be. I am glad to know that he is so attentive of his daughter.”

Jane smiled even as her fingers tightened around the strings of her reticule. It seemed dreadfully ungrateful to wish that her father were less attentive of her, and yet, there were times when she felt positively smothered by his solicitousness.

The carriage slowed, and from her position at the window, she watched as they passed through the Foundling Hospital gate and rolled into the courtyard. The large open space extended a considerable distance. Another coach passed, going the other direction, and near one of the buildings, a row of young boys marched in a tidy line toward the chapel.

At last, the vehicle rolled to a stop, and moments later, the driver appeared at the door to help Aunt Millward and Jane alight.

“Come along, my dear,” Aunt Millward said once they were both securely situated without the vehicle. “I have already instructed Julian to wait for us here. There’s no reason to dillydally any longer.”

With mounting excitement, Jane took her aunt’s arm, and they ascended the stairs together. The front doors opened into the imposing lobby. To their right, she recognized the entrance to the art gallery. To their left, a bespectacled, balding man stood behind a desk, talking to a poorly dressed young woman carrying a grimy bundle of rags.

Ignoring the other occupants of the lobby, Aunt Millward veered right and led Jane toward the gallery. “At this early hour, we should have the place to ourselves,” she said.

Even as Jane nodded, her footsteps slowed. Hours of watching people from the sidelines had heightened her awareness of emotion in others, and there was no doubt that the woman at the desk was distressed. Her light-brown hair was pulled back to expose hazel eyes full of tears. Her arms clutched the bundle before her so tightly that Jane could see the tension in her stance.

“I can’t do it no more, sir. I’ve tried. Honest, I ’ave.” The young woman’s voice broke. “But it’s come ta this. I can’t work with the baby, an’ without me workin’, we’ll both starve.” She lifted one shoulder and wiped the tears off her cheek with her threadbare shawl.

“Jane?” Aunt Millward raised a questioning eyebrow, and Jane realized she’d stopped walking.

“Forgive me, Aunt.” She lowered her voice. “The woman at the desk. She appears to be in dire straits.”

Her aunt glanced to her left. “Indeed.” She sighed. “I imagine she is here to drop off her child.”

Drop off her child. Her aunt made the life-changing decision sound as perfunctory as taking worn shoes to the cobblers.

“Do you really think so?”

Before Aunt Millward could reply, the bundle in the woman’s arms moved, and a loud wail filled the lobby.

The man opened a large ledger. “Name?” he asked.

Holding the bundle close to her chest and bouncing up and down on her toes, the woman replied, “Lydia James.”

“How old is your child, Miss James?”

“Six weeks, sir.”

The man dipped a quill into a pot of ink and began writing. “Birthdate?”

“I don’ rightly know my exact birthdate, sir.”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Not yours, Miss James. Your child’s.”

“He come on the sixteenth day of March, sir. On a . . . a Sunday.” She wiped her cheek again, but there seemed to be no stemming her tears.

“Jane.” Aunt Millward gave Jane’s arm a tug. “We can enter the gallery now.”

But Jane’s feet refused to move. “Would you mind terribly if we waited just a moment?”

Aunt Millward’s brow creased. “Are you feeling ill? Do you need a chair?”