Page 3 of Lady for a Season
“Are you afraid?” she asked Maggie. “I know there was one girl, apprenticed out to a milliner like I’m to be, and she got beaten something awful. The governors had to intervene; it was that bad.”
Maggie swallowed. “The Hospital do their best to provide good homes and occupations for us all,” she said, trying to sound brave. “I will pray for you to be happy,” she added, hoping to offer further reassurance both to herself and Tabitha.
“And I you,” said Tabitha, giving her a fierce embrace.
Maggie was still anxious when it came time for bed, but she reminded herself that Matron had been well pleased with her prospects, and that was a thought worth clinging onto. She took off her brown and red uniform for the last time, slipped on her nightgown and got into the cold bed that had been hers for the past fourteen years. She lay in the dormitory, listening to the growing sounds of sleep around her, wondering in what kind of bed she would next lay down her head.
In the grey light of dawn, Maggie stood shivering, less from the cold than from shock. She wore the long, plain grey woollendress Tabitha had sewn and a coat over it of brown drugget. The dress felt odd to her, for it had no waist like the Hospital uniform, gathered instead just below her breasts, though not tightly, for Tabitha had been more generously bosomed than Maggie. She had tied her hair in the two plaits she had always worn at the Hospital and pulled on a small woollen bonnet in the same brown drugget, tied on with a strip of the grey fabric that had made her dress. The same laced-up ankle-height boots she had worn for the past two years, worn but well polished, completed her outfit. Behind her were the gates of the Foundling Hospital. In front of her, the wide fields that surrounded it, where the children were brought out to take healthful exercise. Beyond the fields, a few scattered buildings, growing denser as she looked outwards, to the centre of London, around which a faint mist of the smoke from morning fires rose, grey against the yellow dawn.
The last time she had been outside the precincts of the Hospital she had been but six years old, returning from her foster home, which she now could barely recall, only a jumble of faces and names. Maggie had not been poorly treated, but there had been a briskness to her foster mother when young Maggie had craved affection, and she was frequently reminded that one day she would be returned “to the ‘orspital,” so there was never any doubt in her mind that as a foundling, she belonged entirely to the Hospital. The girls with whom she had grown up had gone into service long ago, but Maggie had been sheltered within the walls for an additional six years, and now the world outside the Hospital was large and frightening. There was a road coming up towards the Hospital from London and it was this that she watched, supposing that Doctor Morrison would arrive from that direction. It would have been some small comfort if Matron had stayed with her a longer, but the farewell had been quick and without emotion.
“Know your place and work hard, Maggie, and all will be well.”
“Yes, Matron.”
And she was gone.
A neat black carriage with two brown horses was approaching at a brisk trot along the road from London. Maggie took a deep breath. What if she should be snatched away by an unscrupulous man and taken… somewhere? Maggie was unsure where that would be exactly, but dire warnings were often issued by matrons making veiled threats about how cruel the outside world could be, how men might “take advantage” and be the “ruination” of an unwitting and too trusting girl. They never gave much in the way of particulars, all that Maggie had gathered from them was that men, in the outside world, were not to be trusted by girls who wished to remain godly and content. And yet here she was, standing outside the Hospital, about to get into a carriage with a man whom she had only met for a few moments, and become his employee.
The carriage pulled in close, and Maggie stepped back. It had rained heavily the night before and she did not want her clean new dress spattered with mud. The door swung open and there was Doctor Morrison. He nodded to her to step in, while the driver dismounted, pulled down the steps, then lifted her trunk onto the back, settling it on top of a far larger trunk already strapped in place.
Maggie climbed inside the carriage, which was impressively smart, lined with a dark grey wool and with seats which had been padded, so that they were softer than Matron’s parlour chairs. There were even curtains for the windows, all made from the same fabric, with a narrow braid trim in a similar shade.
Doctor Morrison nodded to her. “Good morning, Maggie. I am glad to find you punctual.”
“Yes, sir. Good morning, sir.” She had been so intent on the carriage she had barely looked at the doctor sitting opposite her.
The driver closed up the stairs and the carriage door, then resumed his seat. Doctor Morrison rapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane. The carriage moved forwards at once, jolting Maggie. She grabbed the edge of her seat to steady herself.
“Have you never travelled in a carriage before?”
“No, sir.” She had been in a cart once, fourteen years ago now, but never since.
“You will be used to it by the time we reach Harbury. We will drive all of today and arrive there late tomorrow morning. We will stay at a coaching inn along the way.”
“Yes, sir.”
The carriage rocked along the road. Maggie dearly wanted to press her face to the window and look out, to observe the streets from this place of safety, but Doctor Morrison was speaking, and she had to pay attention.
“My practice is based in Leamington Priors in Warwickshire. It is known for its healthful spa waters and has long been a place for invalids to recuperate from their maladies. A fine Pump House and Baths will be opened there in the next few months, as demand has grown from people wishing to take the waters. Harbury is a village outside of the town, half an hour away by carriage from Leamington Priors.”
Maggie nodded. She had never heard of Leamington Priors, nor of Harbury. Doctor Morrison might as well have been telling her he was taking her to the Americas.
“My patient, the young gentleman I spoke of, resides in Harbury, in a cottage which I procured for his convalescence. He has a delicate nature, prone to melancholy and occasional fits of fear or rambling, which his family felt were unsuited to his position in society. He was placed under my care some eight years back, leaving the school which he had until then attended.”
“How old is he, sir?”
“Two and twenty years, which means he is now of age, of course, but his family feel he is safe and comfortable in my care, so he remains there.”
Only two years older than herself. “Who are his family?”
The doctor frowned. “Discretion does not allow me to tell you that, Maggie. And I hope that you will not prove to be a gossiping sort of girl, who seeks out information of this kind. All you need to know is that he is of a good family who wish the best for him and that, due to his affliction, I consider it best for him to live as simply as possible. No airs and graces, nor formality. He lives a wholesome life, well provided for but with simple comforts. The servants are encouraged to treat him as they might a family member.”
“What should I call him?”
“You will call him Edward.”
That response was odd, implying that the doctor had re-named his patient, much as the foundlings were re-named as soon as they came into the Hospital. “Is that his real name, sir? Does he respond to it?”
