LITMIR.BIZ

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the Earl, but his daughter. Lady Eleanor is its main benefactor, through a charitable trust. Why, do you know her?’

      ‘We are distantly related,’ she said with a wry smile. She did not know Eleanor well and, on the few family occasions when they met, she had found the lady aloof and distant. She could not imagine her stooping to handle an urchin such as she had just rescued and spoiling her fashionable clothes. ‘I did not know she had given her name to an orphanage.’

      ‘It is more than an orphanage. It is the headquarters of The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children. We also find foster homes for some of the children.’

      ‘We?’ she queried.

      ‘I am one of its trustees and, though we take children into the Hartingdon when there is no help for it, I firmly believe that a loving home is far more beneficial to a child’s well-being than an institution.’

      ‘A loving home, yes, but how many foster homes are? You hear such dreadful tales about foster mothers beating and starving the children in their care and not only in London. The countryside is as bad, if not worse. I cannot understand why the women do the job if they have no feeling for children.’

      ‘It is a way of earning a few pence,’ he said. ‘And it can be done in conjunction with looking after their own.’

      ‘But that is half the trouble. If it comes to a choice between feeding their own or feeding the foster child, there is no question who will come first, is there?’ She spoke with such feeling, he looked sharply at her and wondered what had brought it about. ‘Did you know that less than half the children sent out like that survive?’

      ‘Yes, I did,’ he said quietly. ‘I deplore the practice of sending little children away from home to be fostered, just as much as you do, Mrs Meredith. The gentry do it in order not to have a troublesome baby on their hands, but they are usually careful to choose a woman who is known to them and whom they can trust. At the other end of the scale there are poverty-stricken mothers, with no husbands, or husbands that cannot be brought to book, who cannot cope with unwanted children and farm them out for a few pence a week. That is where the trouble lies.’

      It was coming upon one such foster mother quite by accident that had set Simon on the course he had taken. The war against Napoleon had ended and he had been making his way to Grove Hall, his uncle’s estate, simply because it was the only home he had known; until he set up an establishment of his own, there was nowhere else to go.

      He had stopped for refreshment at a wayside inn and was sitting outside in the evening sunshine enjoying a quart of ale while his horse was fed, watered and rested, when he saw three small children being driven along the road by what he could only describe as a hag. The children were in rags and the woman was filthy. She had them tied to each other by a rope, and was hauling them along like cattle. She stopped in the inn yard, tied the children to a rail normally used for tethering horses and went inside.

      She was there a long time, while the children, unable to move about, sank to the ground and waited. They were so thin as to be skeletal, eyes sunk deep in their sockets and their arms bruised by fingermarks. They were so listless they did not even try to fight against their bonds. He walked over to them, squatted down and tried to talk to them, but they looked blankly at him. It was more than he could stomach. He went into the parlour where the woman was sitting with a pot of ale and a meat pie in front of her. ‘Madam, are you not going to share your pie with your children?’ he had asked mildly.

      He was answered with invective and a desire that he should mind his own business. ‘If you thinks I’mpaid well eno’ to indulge them with meat pie, you thinks wrong,’ she told him. ‘They’ll get their gruel when I get ’em’ome.’

      He had begun arguing with her, telling her she was a disgrace to womanhood and more besides. He had been so angry he did not notice the rest of the inn’s clientele had turned on him until one of them spoke. ‘You leave us alone, mister. If it weren’t for coves like you, taking your pleasures wherever you fancy, there’d be no need for parish nurses. The brats have been abandoned by their mothers and, if Mother Cody ha’n’t taken ’em in, they’d be dead in a ditch long afore now.’

      ‘That is no reason to treat them like animals.’ He had refused to be intimidated, although the dreadful woman was threatening him with the knife she had been using to cut up her pie. Had she been a man, he would have had no compunction about disarming her and knocking her to the ground, but he could not do that, repulsive as she was, and he could not beat a room full of men, especially as no law had been broken. Instead he had given her half a guinea, told her to spend it on food for the children, and left, musing about those poor mites. How many more were there like those three? And should women like that not be regulated and their homes inspected periodically?

      If he had not been so disappointed by his reception when he arrived at Grove Hall, he might have put the matter from his mind. His aunt, who was never as hard and unbending as his uncle, was pleased to see him, but the presence of Isobel, at one time betrothed to him, but since married to his cousin, stirred up all his old anger and he knew, much as he loved the place, he could not stay there. He needed an outlet for his restless energy, something to make him feel he was doing some good and it was then he remembered those children. It was not enough to say something should be done, he must do it himself, and thus was born The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children, intended, in some small way, to address the problem, not only of the children, but also his own restless spirit. The first children he had rescued were the three he had seen at the inn, though Mrs Cody demanded an exorbitant sum by way of compensation for the loss of her livelihood.

      ‘Then I am surprised you condone it.’ Kate’s voice brought him out of his reverie.

      ‘We are very careful where we send the children in our care,’ he said stiffly. ‘The women are questioned closely and their homes inspected.’

      ‘So they may be,’ she said. ‘And no doubt the women put on a good show when they are being interviewed. What happens when you turn your back on them?’

      ‘You are very scathing,’ he said. ‘You ought not to brand them all with the same iron. Some do their best.’

      ‘I am sorry. I am a little too outspoken sometimes.’

      ‘Do not be sorry. It is good to speak one’s mind occasionally.’

      She laughed. ‘I do it a little too often, I think. But the question does not arise here because you cannot take this child anywhere if his parents are looking for him.’

      ‘I shall do my best to reunite them. The Home is full to overflowing as it is; finding more room will be difficult.’

      The area around Covent Garden was extremely busy, with stall holders, costermongers, porters and farmers with loaded carts all rushing about as if they did not have a minute to lose, and he wondered why he was persevering. He could just as easily have taken the boy straight to the Hartingdon Home and squeezed him in somewhere, but, like Mrs Meredith, he imagined the boy’s mother frantically searching for him. On the other hand, she might not be searching; she might have abandoned him as many another mother had done who could not cope. In which case, the Home it would have to be.

      They went from stall to stall, spoke to several of the little urchins who congregated there because there was a chance that they might either be given or filch some food from the stall holders, but no one recognised Joe. ‘Now what?’ Kate asked. She had been right about the needle in a haystack. London was a very big haystack and perhaps they were looking in the wrong area after all.

      ‘Let us try over there.’ He pointed to the steps of a church, surprised that she was still with him. He had expected her to have given up and gone home long before now. He wondered what she would have done about the little urchin if he had not been there. She was evidently very fond of children and not afraid of a little dirt.

      Young Joe gave a sudden cry of recognition and wriggled to be put down. Simon set him down and he ran to a woman sitting on the tail of a cart, nursing a mewling infant, surrounded by squashed fruit, cabbage leaves and horse droppings.

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