Joan served herself tea and then sat back down. Biting into a flaky, sweet biscuit, she thought over Miss Bronson’s question. “I suppose I enjoy reading; I also love riding and utterly hate needlepoint.”
This confession earned a snicker from Miss Bronson. “On that we are agreed.”
“Odious and time-consuming activity,” Joan added.
“And what does it accomplish? Another frilly decoration? Or napkin, or handkerchief? As if we do not have enough already.”
“Exactly!” Joan lifted her teacup in approval.
The clock chimed half past, and Joan nodded to her new friend. “I suppose we should start our journey if we are to be there by noon.”
“Indeed.”
“We can take my carriage. Will that work?” Joan asked.
“Perfectly.” Miss Bronson rose from her seat and placed the empty teacup and saucer by the tray. “Betsey?” She turned to her maid.
“I’ll send word to Mary, and she will meet us in the front.”
Soon Joan sat beside Miss Bronson and across from their two maids as they started toward the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury.
In short order, they approached the stone building, clearly built for efficiency rather than beauty. As they alighted from the carriage, Joan studied the stone-and-iron gate that led to the courtyard. Ladies and gentlemen milled about, coming and going. And a row of children in white uniforms with blue sashes crossing their chests stood in a straight line, following their leader across the gravel yard.
A star with arrows decorated the front alongside the main gate. Joan nodded to Miss Bronson, waiting for her to catch up before they entered. The gravel crunched under their feet as they crossed the wide courtyard, lined by obelisks. Another courtyard could be seen to the left behind another stone wall with an arched entrance, but Joan made her way to the front of the stone building, where Miss Vanderhaul had said she’d be waiting.
As they approached, a woman in a nurse’s uniform stepped into the sunshine from the doorway, smiling a welcome. “You must be Lady Joan and Miss Bronson.”
Joan nodded. “Indeed, and are you Miss Vanderhaul?”
“I am, and it’s a pleasure to meet you both. Sandra Bookman is a dear friend, and I’ve heard nothing but good things about you, Lady Joan. And I’m looking forward to getting to know you, Miss Bronson.”
“It’s our pleasure, and we’re honored to be of any assistance,” Joan answered, immediately liking the woman. Her thick black hair was swept into a tight knot, but the severity of her hairstyle was counteracted by the kindness in brown eyes full of compassion and hope. Joan read a deep well of hope beneath her look, one that was cool and peaceful, unwavering. It refreshed her very soul to see it.
“Yes, however we may help, you will find our hands equal to the task,” Miss Bronson added.
Miss Vanderhaul nodded, clasping her hands in front of her wide waist. “We can use the help. Come. If you’ll follow me, we shall begin with a tour.”
She started through the gate to the left and walked into the back courtyard. “There are two separate wings, east and west, so that we may keep the boys separate from the girls.”
Gesturing to the left, she led them through a narrow door into a wing. “This is the girls’ wing. You’ll see that everything is nice and orderly. It’s vastly important to keep everything tidy with this number of children,” she said wryly. “And this way, as we pass down this hall and to the left…”
Joan glanced at Miss Bronson, sharing a smile as they worked to keep up with the energetic woman.
“This is the nursery where we take in the surrendered babies.” She waved to a row of cribs. “And of course every mother is interviewed, making sure their child is a proper fit for the orphanage.”
“Miss Vanderhaul,” Joan asked, “what criteria do you use to decide if a baby is taken in or not?”
“Call me Corinne, please.” She lowered her voice. “Unfortunately, the majority of them are either true orphans or by-blows. It’s no fault of the babe, so we take in as many as possible. We’ll keep some here, foster some to other families, and some go to stay with foster families in the countryside, but all will return here by the age of five.”
“Do you name them? Or does the mother?” Miss Bronson asked.
“Every child is baptized and given a new name,” Corinne responded, nodding to a row of cribs.
Joan noted that some of the cribs held tokens of various sorts tied to the wood. “And what are those?” She studied a faded blue handkerchief.
“Ah.” Corinne nodded. “That is a token left by the mother. In case she were to return and collect her child, she would know which one belonged to her.”
“But wouldn’t a mother recognize her own child?” Miss Bronson asked.