Page 23 of Miss Devoted
He made a shameless exit before Bea could pose another question and paused in the chilly shadows outside the nursery door. Guilt was his constant companion—guilt for not spending more time with the children, guilt for stealing what time he did with them, guilt for not providing them with more than necessities, guilt for housing only two in a nursery that would hold four times that number.
If he had to walk naked in the street to support them, he would, but children needed more than porridge and spare blankets if they were to thrive.
That thought raised the specter of yet more guilt. On a bad night, when Michael’s calves were aching from walking too many miles in resoled boots, when the landlady had claimed for a week straight to be out of butter, when he faced the prospect of yet another genteel matchmaking ordeal at his sister’s table… He resented the bottomless emotional and financial pit that parenting had become and the constant sense of being overwhelmed.
Babies were simple—one end fed and the other end clean, as Mrs. Harris had said. His children were no longer babies, and the complications that posed kept him awake many a night.
“Mrs. Harris awaits you in the kitchen, sir,” the nurserymaid, Finster, said, coming up the stairs. “I vow winter gets longer each year, but the kitchen’s always cozy.”
“Then I will take myself there. Until next week, Finny, and thank you for all your hard work. The children are clearly thriving.”
“You’re welcome, sir. My pleasure.” She ducked into the nursery, and Michael steeled himself for the weekly ordeal of the ledgers. To his relief, Mrs. Harris’s report was better than usual—the books balanced for once—and thanks to an evening spent with Mrs. Fremont, Michael was able to pass along a bit extra.
They reviewed ledgers at the kitchen table because Mrs. Harris economized by eschewing a fire in the housekeeper’s parlor. The tea was weak and the shortbread stale—Mrs. Harris was prodigiously talented with economies—but the kitchen was indeed warm.
“You found a pot of gold, sir?” She slid the extra coins into her palm and dropped them into a blue glass jar on the mantel.
“I have accepted some extra work and hope the position will continue for some weeks. Set aside whatever funds you don’t need, because the price of bread seems only to rise.”
“That, it do,” she said, returning to her seat across from him. “More extra work, Mr. Delancey? You took on extra work before the holidays, and I gather those responsibilities continue. The children won’t appreciate it if you come down with a lung fever and expire on us. For that matter, I won’t appreciate it, and Finny will curse you to perdition if she has to go back to the Magdalen house.”
“If anything happens to me, Mrs. H, you have your character. You and Finny can go to my sister or my father, and they will find you another post.” So Michael hoped. Dorcas and Papa were truly charitable souls, and they would not hold Michael’s deception against his employees.
“Right. Your family, who never comes to call.” Mrs. Harris peered into her tea cup and swirled the contents clockwise, then counterclockwise, like a fortune-teller. “I’m dear old Mrs. Harris what knew you in Yorkshire. Fine for me, but what of the nippers? If you work yourself into an early grave, they’ll have nobody.”
“I’m in excellent health, but I’d ask you to prevail on my family if I’m ever unable to care for the children.”
Mrs. Harris topped up her cup, though the tea was tepid. “Bea’s beginning to ask questions. ‘Why does my Papa work so far away?’ She sees Mr. Belcher right across the street coming and going daily from his job in the City. Mr. Daley goes to his post at the printer. Bea’s papa works ‘far away, at Lambeth.’ In another year or two, she’ll be able to walk to Lambeth. She’s a smart girl, and she’ll have more questions.”
Questions for which Michael would have no answers, and that, too, was a cause for worry. “Fortunately, her curiosity is limited at present to the alphabet, my favorite animal, and why cats have six kittens at a time, but people only show up in ones or twos.”
Six infants at one go. The mind boggled.
“We saw a pair of twins at market this week,” Mrs. Harris said, sipping her tea. “Bea was fascinated.”
Michael stared at his own tea. “Why was Bea at market with you?” He posed the question calmly, but taking Bea out like that had been a violation of very clear orders.
“Because the girl wants fresh air from time to time and to be free of her younger brother.”
Patience was a skill for adults as well as children—different forms of patience. “I agree that children need fresh air, such as can be found in London. We’ve discussed this. Bea can go to the park with you at midmornings.” When the parks were least crowded. “She need not tag along when you do the marketing.”
Mrs. Harris wasn’t elderly, but she’d spent three years in a parish workhouse upon becoming widowed. Her two children had died in the first wave of measles to hit the facility, and her own health had suffered considerably.
“Does Bea look like her mother?” Mrs. Harris asked mildly. “Is that the problem? I assume her mother hails from London, and that’s why you’ve been so fretful since we came south.”
Mrs. Harris had many fine qualities, and not prying into Michael’s business ranked high among them. This was as close to prying as she’d ever come.
“My familyis in London,” Michael said. “My sister has in-laws and cousins-by-marriage, and my father knows half the clergy in the Home Counties. I have to be careful, and if I’m fretful, I do apologize.” Exhaustion and frustration could do that to a man.
Mrs. Harris considered him by the flickering light of the hearth fire. Outside, the winter wind moaned and distant bells tolled. The walk back to Lambeth would be hellish.
“Do you know nothing at all about Bea’s mama?”
“I know Bea’s mother survived the birth by about half a year, but never truly recovered. When the mama succumbed to influenza, the child’s father was not in a position to care for her, and then he fell ill too. My church duties gave me an opportunity to intervene when Bea was orphaned. She’s growing up in a loving home as a result.” Not quite the whole truth, but as good as.
“You have a novel view of church duties, Mr. Delancey. I thought I’d like London, myself, but I don’t.”
If Mrs. Harris piked off, Michael would… cope, somehow, but not easily. “The winters are the worst. Once the coal smoke abates, London can be quite pleasant.”
