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“I am quite well,” Jane said. How could she explain her compelling desire to witness the interaction occurring on the other side of the room without sounding addled? “Perhaps . . . perhaps you are right. I think it would be best if I sat for a spell.”

Aunt Millward guided her toward the short row of chairs lining the wall beside the gallery entrance and hovered over her until she was seated. “There now,” she said, taking the chair beside Jane’s. “Close your eyes and rest. We have plenty of time yet.”

Jane did not close her eyes. Instead, she directed her attention back toward Miss James and the man behind the desk.

“Place your mark here,” the man said, turning the ledger book around and handing the young woman his quill.

Shifting the whimpering bundle to her other arm, Miss James took the quill and scratched an unsteady x onto the paper.

“I . . . I was told I could keep a token,” she said. “So you’d know he was mine when I come back fer ’im.”

This time, the man’s sigh was even deeper than before. “No one comes back, Miss James. Your son will be given a new name and a far brighter future here at the hospital than he would ever have on the streets.”

“But once I get me feet under me and can feed ’im meself, you will let me take ’im?” There was a hint of panic in her voice now.

“If that happens, you will need to verify your identity and his.” He eyed the filthy blanket. “In which case, unless your child has an identifying birthmark, a token would be advisable.”

Miss James set her bundle on the counter. The baby’s cries immediately increased, drowning out the sound of the young woman’s sniffles. After unwrapping one corner of the filthy blanket, the woman gave the fabric a sharp tug. Jane heard it tear. With a lump in her throat, she watched as Miss James pulled a strip of the blanket off and tore it in two.

“Take this,” she said, handing the man one scrap. “I’ll keep th’ other.”

Tucking the remaining portion of fabric into her bodice, she lifted the crying infant in her arms one more time. Squeezing him tightly, she pressed her face against his and cooed a few words in his ear. The baby calmed, and in the sudden quiet, Jane noticed that another woman had appeared through a door behind the desk. She was tidily dressed, a white apron covering a sensible blue gown and her dark hair pulled up beneath a mobcap.

“Mrs. Albury is here for the child,” the man said.

Slowly, Miss James turned her head.

“He will be well cared for,” the woman said, extending her arms across the counter.

With a heart-wrenching sob, Miss James handed the baby and his unraveled blanket to her.

The man cleared his throat. “That will be all, Miss James.”

The young woman’s gaze moved from the man’s face to the woman holding her child, who was now exiting via the same door through which she’d entered. And then with tears streaming down her face, Miss James turned and walked out of the lobby and into the courtyard.

Jane took an unsteady breath, suddenly aware that her cheeks were also wet.

“Is it your leg, dear?” Aunt Millward reached over and patted one of her hands anxiously. “Is the pain simply too much for you today?”

Her leg? Good heavens. How trivial that discomfort seemed compared to the agony Miss James must be experiencing. “Not at all,” she said, reaching into her reticule for a handkerchief to dab at her tears. “I am just . . .” She swallowed hard. “That poor young woman. To give up her baby because she could not care for it . . . to leave here with nothing more than a token scrap of fabric . . .”

The words echoed in her mind even as she spoke them out loud. But she heard them repeated in Lord Bloxley’s deep voice. “A piece of string with a scrap of fabric attached.”

Jane gasped. “That’s it! The fabric the flower lady gave to Lord Bloxley was her token.”

Aunt Millward’s expression turned from mild concern to true alarm, and her fingers moved from Jane’s hand to her forehead. “You are sure you are not feverish?”

“No. No.” Jane struggled to her feet. “Quickly, Aunt Millward. We must go.”

“Go? Go where?”

“To Claremont House. Immediately.”

Aunt Millward’s eyes widened. “To Claremont House? But you’ve not set foot inside the gallery yet.”

“The paintings will have to wait,” Jane said. “I must speak to Lord Bloxley right away.”

Aunt Millward rose. “You do realize that it is far too early in the day to be calling on anyone.”