The Perfect Waltz (25 page)

The child glanced from Hope to Lady Elinore and then back. She bobbed a curtsy. “Please miss, me name’s May.”

“That’s a pretty name. May is one of my favorite months.”

The waif nodded fervently. “Mine, too, miss, coz it’s me birfday—well, not me real birfday—I dunno when that is. But they give us a month when we first come here, an’ all the girls who have that month have a birfday in the middle of it. An’ today is the middle day of May.”

“Oh! You have birthday celebrations here? How lovely.” Hope was delighted. It was the first small human touch she had seen at the institution. “And what happens here on your ‘birthday,’ May?”

The child jerked her head at the butter dishes. “We get butter an’ jam wiv our bread at dinner. And—” She bunched her apron again in her fists, but her eyes were bright with excitement. “We get a present!”

Hope smiled, able to empathize. Her own childhood had been bare of presents, except for small items her sisters had given her and Faith in secret. She still found presents thrilling. “And what do you hope to get this year?”

“A doll.”

“And do you think you will get one?”

“I dunno, miss. I hope so. I’d love a little doll.” Her eyes were bright with anticipation.

“Were you here last year?”

“Yes, miss.”

“What did you get last year?”

The child screwed her face up endearingly. “Wool and a needle to darn my stockings wiv.”

“Oh dear.” It wasn’t much of a present, Hope thought. “And the year before that, were you here?”

May gave a rueful, gap-toothed grin. “Yes, miss, an’ I got wool and a needle then, too.”

“Oh dear.”

“It’s what they usually give us, miss. A darning kit.”

Hope bit her lip. “And yet this year you’re hoping for a doll?

May nodded emphatically.“They say in church if you really want something, you haveta pray for it, and so I’ve prayed an’ prayed for a doll, so maybe . . .” She gave a bright-eyed, optimistic shrug.

Hope smiled warmly. “I hope you get your doll, May.”

“Thank you, miss. I ’ope so, too. I’ve never had a doll. Never had nuffin of me own.”

Probably not even a name of her own. Were both butter and jam dishes destined for a child called May? wondered Hope. No wonder she longed for something of her own. A doll was something to love. “How long have you lived here, May?”

“Five years, miss. I come here when I was about four, I think.”

Hope couldn’t help but smile back. “And yet you keep hoping for a doll?”

The child shrugged. “It don’t hurt to dream, miss, does it?”

Hope put her hand on the child’s small head. “No, May,” she said softly. “It certainly doesn’t hurt to dream.”

The child ran off to her duties, and Hope returned to the tour, a lump in her throat. She said to Lady Elinore, “The child said today was her birthday. She said there would be a small celebration?”

Lady Elinore nodded. “Yes, we do it on the fifteenth day of every month. All nonsense, of course. Celebrating a birthday is not at all Rational, particularly when you reflect that most of these children were born unwanted. But some of the ladies on the board like it. And it is a reward for good behavior.”

“And the children get a present?”

“Yes.”

“What will May get?”

“Darning wool and a needle.”

“She’s been praying for a doll to love.”

“Good heavens, why? They always get darning wool and a needle. She knows that. It’s a good, useful gift.” Lady Elinore nodded in a satisfied manner. “They must darn their stockings anyway, so the expense is justified, and we have found that when they are given their own darning needle, they treat it more carefully. Fewer are bent or broken.”

“I see. It is a cost-saving measure.”

“Yes.” Lady Elinore smiled.

“And she won’t get her doll?”

“No. It’s not at all practical. Now, shall we move on to the dormitories?”

Hope followed, inwardly frozen. These little girls’ lives were so cheerless and grim. Completely devoid of joy.

She thought of little May, with anxious fists and gap-toothed smile, in her tight pigtails and her shiny, too-big boots. And her bright optimism, flourishing in the face of all the grim, gray Rationality.

A doll. Was it so much to ask?

A doll was easily come by—a small hank of rag and a couple of well-placed buttons, and you had a little friend of your own to take to bed and hug, to love and tell your secrets to.

She followed the group silently.

They viewed two dormitories, in each of which were ranged fifteen narrow beds covered with gray woolen counterpanes. Behind each bed was a hook on which hung each girl’s Sunday dress. At the end of each bed sat a small chest that contained their other clothes. Lady Elinore showed them the contents of one such chest. Other than the clothes, there were no personal items.

The little ones’ dormitory was identical. Not a doll or book or a keepsake in sight. The walls were decorated with texts from the published works of Lady Elinore’s late mother.

And everything—everything!—was gray, black, white, or brown. Not a hint of blue or green or pink or yellow or red.

Hope examined it all without saying a word. She kept thinking about little May. The Merridew girls were orphans. If they’d had no one to take them in, they could have ended up in a place like this . . . And this was one of the good places.

They viewed the workroom. Sixteen girls, ranging in age from about eleven to fifteen, sat in rows, silently plying their needles. Their birthday needles, no doubt.

“Girls!” A black-clad woman at the front of the class rapped. “We have guests.”

In unison the girls lay down their task, stood, and curtsied to the visitors. Each girl was clad identically in plain gowns of gray serge, with black woolen stockings and thick black boots. Their hair was scraped back from their heads and knotted tightly behind them. Their young faces were pale and solemn.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” they chanted, then sat down again and bent diligently over their tasks. The needles barely slowed, though Hope noticed that many of the girls were eyeing her and her sister curiously from under their lashes, taking in every detail of their clothing and appearance. Their heads remained bowed.

Their meek silence depressed her. Faith slipped a hand in hers and squeezed it.

Hope watched the needles flash in and out, in and out. She thought of the hours she’d spent as a child, hemming seams. Her stitches had always to be pulled out for being uneven or crooked.

Faith whispered, “It’s nearly as bad as Grandpapa’s.”

Hope shook her head. It was worse. Grandpapa may have been hate-filled and violent, but her sisters were loving and supportive. These girls seemed to have . . . nothing. No fellowship or camaraderie. No one to care for, no one to love. They were allowed nothing personal, not even a doll. Their bodies were cared for, but not their hearts.

Hope ached for their poor, lonely little hearts.

“It’s a treat to watch such happy diligence,” Lady Elinore said proudly.

Hope stared at her in incredulity. Didn’t she realize?

“Our girls fashion all the garments they are wearing, even down to their knitted stockings. Not, of course, their boots, which are made by a local cobbler. But some of the older girls are being trained as milliners, and they make the hats and bonnets.”

Hope looked back at the row of plain gray bonnets hanging on pegs in the hallway. Underneath each peg hung a plain gray coat. All that distinguished one from the other was the size of the garment and the number above each peg.

She wanted to scream, to shatter the silence and order, to run through the bare, echoing rooms, shouting and hooting at the top of her voice. She wanted to knock all the neat, gray, ugly bonnets to the floor and jump on them. She wanted to drag all the girls outside and run with them to the park, to skip and sing and play.

“Each girl is trained to be as independent as possible, so they leave here equipped to earn a living,” Mr. Reyne added. “As soon as they are old enough, they are apprenticed to a trade.”

“Yes, as milliners, seamstresses, cooks, housemaids, servants of all sorts, naturally. It is unlikely any of them will marry, of course,” Lady Elinore added in a whisper. “Not with their backgrounds.”

Hope could not even look at Faith. If she did, she would not be able to contain herself.

“And where do the children play?” she asked.

“Play? Oh, you mean take exercise. Out here.” Lady Elinore conducted them to the small cobbled yard.

They stepped out into the air. High stone walls on all sides. A square glimpse of sky above. Not a shred of green, nor anything to break the grim grayness.

“They walk out here twice daily. Regular exercise is necessary for their health, of course.”

“Here?” exclaimed her sister. Faith was clearly as horrified as she.

“I meant play, not simply exercise,” Hope said. “Do they not have free time in which to play and be children? I saw no toys or personal items in the dormitories—not even in the little ones’.”

Lady Elinore stared, as if she did not understand the question. “What would they want with toys? They are orphans. Their lives will be hard. They must prepare for that.”

There was a long silence. Hope clenched her fists and told herself that Lady Elinore meant well, she did. She was a kind person. She did not know what she was doing to these children.

Mr. Reyne, picking up on the tension between them, explained. “Most children in the world do not have the luxury of play, as the children of the rich do. Most children must work for their daily bread. It is that or starve.”

Hope could not believe he was defending this policy. She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind, stared at the harsh, grim line of his mouth, and remembered how he had been pulled out of his life of privilege and flung into a factory, working for his daily bread. And his gutter-bruised fruit and vegetables. The thought silenced her.

He said forcefully, “Most orphans would consider the life these girls have as luxurious. I know of institutions where all the inmates, children as young as five or six, must work twelve-hour days and longer in a factory. Some from five in the morning till eight at night. The children are whipped to keep them awake. Sleepy children cause mill accidents. Accidents mean the loss of income for everyone, while small bodies are cleared from machinery.”

Hope shuddered at the image his words produced. He was right, she knew. She thought of his little brother, Johnny.

He continued in a low, hard voice, “In time, the work cripples them. Young bones are not strong enough to stand up to the strain of standing in one place day in and day out. Their bones bend, and their young spines twist. I have visited an institution that contains a hundred young boys on crutches or carts, crippled by their working youth.” He hesitated, then went on, determined to make her understand. “Girls fare worse. I know of one man who keeps a hundred young female orphans to use in his factory. He has a reputation as a rake. From time to time a young girl will simply disappear. No one asks questions.” He paused to let his words sink in, then added, “If Lady Elinore is proud of this institution, she has good reason.”

It was a clear reprimand. And Hope knew she deserved it. He knew what he was talking about. He’d experienced it himself. Hope glanced at Mr. Bemerton. His eyes were somber.

Sebastian Reyne had suffered as a child, worked in a manufactory. His body bore scars, the legacy of a childhood that had been far from easy. His crooked nose was a testament to the knocks he’d taken. His very bearing, always alert, always expecting trouble, showed he’d had to fight to survive. She thought of his poor fingers, crushed in vain, trying to save his little brother from a horrible death.

Of course he saw no lack in the way these girls lived. They were fed, they were clothed, they were housed. They were clean, and they had work. In his eyes, they needed nothing else. He thought them lucky, well off, and perhaps in the greater scheme of things, they were.

But no wonder his eyes were so stark, so lonely.

She ached for him, for the happiness he was snatched from as a child, for his bleak and joyless outlook on life. She ached for Lady Elinore and her Rational existence, and she ached for each and every girl in the institution.

Because although he was right, he was also wrong, so wrong. They were all wrong. Except for little May.

The child had said it all:
“It don’t hurt to dream, miss, does it?”

She said, “So, you would teach a child to expect nothing but hard times? I disagree. Children have a right to expect some joy in life. We all do—each and every one of us, no matter who we are; child, adult, rich or poor, orphan or not.” She took a deep breath and announced, “And to that purpose, I am inviting them all to take tea with my sisters and me next week.”

There was a flurry of concern at her words.

“You can’t!” Lady Elinore gasped. “It will disrupt their routine.”

“Only for a few hours. I’m sure they will be all the better for a change of pace.”

“Excellent idea, Miss Hope,” Mr. Bemerton said. “Dreary things, routines. Made to be broken, if you ask me.”

At his words, all Lady Elinore’s uncertainty vanished. She gave him a quelling look and said severely, “No, I’m sorry, Miss Merridew, it’s not possible. There are too many girls. Besides, they wouldn’t know how to behave in a lady’s drawing room.”

“I don’t agree. You have obviously done a beautiful job in training them, Lady Elinore, but it is not an exercise in etiquette. All I ask is that they enjoy themselves. Have fun.”

“Won’t know how to behave? Unnervingly correct, if you ask me,” Mr. Bemerton offered. “Be a relief to see them crack.”

Hope and her sister beamed at him.