Alexandra (48 page)

An agonizing lottery. Juliana watched as two more mothers drew black balls and one lucky woman nabbed a white one. “How many mothers are hoping for placement today?”

“About a hundred, which is typical.”

And only ten would see their babies admitted. The fortunate woman with the white ball was ushered toward a corner, where a doctor waited to evaluate her child—a girl, if Juliana could judge by the scrap of ribbon crookedly tied in the baby’s sparse hair.

During the short examination, a dozen more mothers drew balls—nine chose black, one red, and two ecstatic women got white. When the first baby was declared healthy, the mothers waiting with red balls visibly drooped, gripping their infants even tighter. The lucky mother—if one could call her that—was given a numbered document that certified the Hospital’s acceptance of her baby, and a lead tag with a corresponding number was threaded and placed around the child’s neck.

Juliana’s heart squeezed as she watched the tearful parting, the mother kissing her baby girl over and over before regretfully surrendering her to a Hospital employee. “Is she given that paper so she can reclaim her child?”

“Partly. The babies are baptized with Hospital names—the child is never told the identity of the mother, and the mother won’t know her child’s new name. But if at a later date she can convince the Governors of her reformed character and improved circumstances, the paper and matching tag will ensure she collects the right child.”

“But you said
partly,
” Juliana prompted.

The woman sighed. “Truthfully, that seldom happens. She’s more likely to use the paper for her own defense; if she’s accused of having disposed of her baby by murder, the certificate might save her from the gallows.”

“Faith.” None of the mothers looked like criminals—they were just women in dreadful circumstances. “I saw no infants in either the girls’ building or the boys’. Have the babies lodgings of their own?”

“The babies aren’t kept at the Hospital. They’ll be baptized with their new names at Sunday services tomorrow and then placed with wet nurses in the countryside on Monday. The nurses receive a monthly wage and keep the children until they are five years or thereabouts, at which time they return to live here.”

Juliana watched as the infant was carried off. “Does anyone make sure the babies are treated well?”

“Oh, yes. Inspectors visit regularly. They’re responsible for the nurse’s pay and the child’s medical fees, and for purchasing clothes for the infants—”

“Purchasing clothes?”

“Baby clothes. Babies are sent to their new homes with frocks and caps and clouts and coats and blankets—”

“Don’t the girls make these in their sewing lessons?”

“The baby clothes aren’t uniforms—”

“Then I can provide them!”

“Pardon?”

“I can make them. I can make baby clothes and donate them to the Hospital.”

The kindly woman blinked at her. “I don’t know about that. I don’t believe they’ve ever received any donations of a non-monetary sort.”

Juliana watched another mother draw a red ball and, trembling, take her infant to join the small group of hopefuls. She imagined having to wish someone else’s baby proved ill so her own baby could have a chance at a decent life. Or at least she tried to imagine it. The very thought was enough to break her heart clear in two.

Perhaps providing baby clothing could free enough funds for the Governors to accept another child or two. She wouldn’t let them refuse her donation.

She turned back to the lady patroness beside her. “There’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

SPICE CAKES

Take three scoops of Flower and put into it a Spoon of ale-barm, crushed cloves, mace, and a goode deal of cinnamon. To a halfe Pound of sweet Butter add a goode deal of Sugar and mixe together. Stir in three Eggs and work until good and stiff, then add a little cold Rosewater and knead well. Knead again, pull it all in Pieces and bake your Cakes in a warm oven.

I’ve heard tell that should you eat one of these before a gathering where you are likely to meet available men, their spiciness will clear your head and allow you to choose wisely. This did not, however, work when I baked them for my daughter. In any case, they are delicious.
—Amethyst, Countess of Greystone, 1690

“HOW MANY BABY
clothes do you need to make?”

“A lot.” In her bedroom at the Chase town house in Berkeley Square early that evening, Juliana set down her little pot of lip pomade and picked up the list the Governors had given her. “Three frocks, three caps, three nightshirts, one mantle, one coat, one petticoat, two blankets, and ten clouts. And that’s
per
child. There will be ten babies.”

Emily bit into one of the spice cakes she and Juliana had baked after returning from the Foundling Hospital. “So you need to make thirty frocks?”

“Yes.” The girl was articulate
and
good with arithmetic. “And thirty caps, thirty nightshirts, ten mantles, ten coats, ten petticoats, twenty blankets, and a
hundred
clouts. All within a month, before the next reception day.”

Juliana set the list on her dressing table. Upside down, so it would stop taunting her. Whatever had she got herself into? She’d been thrilled when the Governors accepted her offer to provide clothing for the next intake of infants—until she’d realized just how
many
clothes she’d need to make.

She wasn’t worried about the cost of the materials, because she could easily cajole Griffin into paying for whatever her allowance wouldn’t cover. But the mere idea of making so many items was daunting. “You’ll help me, won’t you?”

Emily frowned. “I’m not very good with a needle.”

“You can hem blankets and sew clouts. That’s not difficult, and it will be good practice.” Reaching over the girl’s snake, Juliana wiped a few spice cake crumbs off her delicate chin. “I’m going to invite my sisters to help, too. We’ll have a lovely sewing party.” She dipped a finger into the lip pomade. “But I think you’ll need to leave Herman at home.”

“I told you, he’s not dangerous.”

“His danger, or lack thereof,” she told the child, watching her in the dressing table’s mirror as she slicked pomade on her lips, “is not the point. Ladies do not keep company with snakes.”

Emily’s chin went into the air. “I do.” She adjusted the reptile’s position around her neck, the better to reach for another spice cake. “What are these cakes supposed to do again?”

“Help me choose the right gentleman to wed.”

“All the gentlemen will want to wed you. You always look beautiful,” Emily said with a wistful sigh.

Juliana lifted a pot of rouge. “You’ll look beautiful when you’re grown up.”

It was true. Other than her unfortunate taste in neckwear, the child was a model of femininity. She always wore pink. Her cascading blond hair and large, luminous gray eyes held much promise, and she was tall for her age. Since Juliana was small in stature, Emily was nearly her height already.

“I’m certain you’ll be wildly popular,” she assured the girl, “if only you’ll get rid of the snake.”

“I’ll not give him up. Mama would be so disappointed.”

Juliana sighed. When Emily was four years old, she and her mother had stumbled upon baby Herman while playing in their garden. Her mother had suggested they keep the critter and watch him grow; the very next day, she took ill, and faded away very quickly. Emily had clung to Herman ever since.

Having lost her own mother less than three years prior, Juliana felt for the girl deeply. But she also felt that her pretty little neighbor’s alarming companion was beginning to cause a disturbance, especially among those who would turn their noses up at such unconventional behavior.

Thank goodness Juliana was here to take the situation in hand.

“Your mother would understand,” she told her gently. “Surely she only intended to keep Herman while he was small. Why, he must be five feet long now, much too big to stay cooped up inside the house all day—much less carried about on your shoulders. Don’t you think the poor creature would be happier outside?

“Herman isn’t a creature. He’s a
pet
.”

“A cuddly kitten is a pet. A rambunctious dog is a pet. A snake is a—”

“Are you ready yet?” Corinna arrived in the doorway and smirked. “A Lady of Distinction doesn’t hold with wearing rouge.”

Juliana’s threw a sour glance to the book on her bedside table,
The Mirror of the Graces
by A Lady of Distinction. Their brother had given each of his sisters a copy, hoping that learning fashionable manners would help them secure husbands.

“A Lady of Distinction can keep her sallow cheeks,” Juliana said. “I’ll keep the admiration of the gentlemen.” To emphasize her point, she brushed on more color before rising. “Yes, I’m ready. Have a spice cake while I deliver Emily home.”

“You’d best hurry.” Corinna took one. “Aunt Frances is already waiting in the carriage.”

Much to Corinna’s and Juliana’s delight, their kindly Aunt Frances was acting as their sponsor and chaperone for the season. Not only was she a dear, she was also sensationally oblivious, meaning her young charges could more or less do as they pleased.

Juliana took Emily by the hand and led her downstairs, Corinna following in their wake.

It was raining when Juliana led Emily outside—it seemed to rain every day lately—but a quick dash brought them safely next door to the lifeless Neville house. Emily had two older brothers, products of two earlier marriages, but one was married and the other was away at Cambridge most of the year, so she usually shared her home with only her father and a collection of aging servants.

Their gaunt butler, who must have been eighty if he were a day, swung the door open as they arrived.

Emily stepped inside. “When shall I see you again, Lady Juliana?”

Who could deny that precious, pleading face, even if it
was
framed by a snake? “Monday,” she promised the girl. Rain peppered her parasol and puddled at her feet. “I’m sure your father is looking forward to being with you tomorrow, but on Monday we shall visit the shops and choose fabric for the baby clothes.”

“Will Lady Corinna come, too?”

“I believe she’ll prefer to paint.” Corinna always preferred to paint. “I shall see you Monday,” Juliana promised and headed through the drizzle to the carriage.

Inside, Corinna waited with Aunt Frances, their matching deep-blue eyes impatient. The ladies’ eyes, however, were their only similarity. Aunt Frances’s peered from behind round spectacles in a face surrounded by clouds of soft gray hair, though she was only forty. Sixteen-year-old Corinna’s hair was a swing of wavy brown, her face fresh and blooming. She had no need of rouge.

Juliana, on the other hand, figured she needed all the help she could get. Due to the untimely deaths of her parents and eldest brother—God rest their souls—she’d been in mourning nearly the whole of her fifteenth and sixteenth years. Thus, at seventeen, she was enjoying her
first
London season. And with the dratted season already half over, she was no closer to securing a husband than on the day she’d arrived.

Much to her brother’s vexation.

Griffin was waiting at the ball when they arrived, surveying the crop of gentlemen in a businesslike manner. After weeks of events, Juliana feared she had already met more or less everyone there was to meet. The
ton
comprised all the people who mattered in society, but that was a limited social group, after all. Yet her brother had already managed to line up candidates for her first three dances and was keeping an eye out for more.

He’d become a matchmaking mama of the finest caliber.

Juliana wasn’t sure she appreciated her brother’s efforts, but she knew his heart was in the right place. And she did enjoy dancing, so she dutifully stood up with all three young men, smiling and chatting agreeably.

Lord Henderson was far too tall; petite Juliana spent the whole of the dance conversing with his cravat. Lord Barkely didn’t laugh at her witticisms—not a single one!—though she deployed several of her best just to make certain he was truly devoid of humor. And Mr. Farringdon was kind but more than a little dim.

The spice cakes weren’t going to help her choose wisely, she thought with an internal sigh, if no acceptable men bothered to attend this ball.