Chapter Text
May 1835
Harriet
“They are staring at you again.”
Harriet winced away from the whisper in her ear and the sharp elbow to the ribs that accompanied it. Meals when the Foundling Hospital’s patrons came to observe were the worst part of the week. They stared and judged and made too-loud comments about the girls’ appearances or table manners or other shortcomings. That girl was too pale, the other too freckly, another ate her porridge indelicately, whatever that meant. Sometimes – rarely – they had a compliment. Before she had died of consumption last winter, the Patrons had marvelled over the high forehead, clear blue eyes, and delicate bearing of Felicity Brook.
“That high forehead is a sign of intelligence!” One plump, middle-aged woman had declared loudly and confidently, much to Felicity’s smug pleasure. “A countenance like that, she cannot be of common stock.”
Lately their attention had been focused on sixteen-year-old Harriet, and many curious eyes settled on her as she attempted small, ladylike spoonfulls of soup when all she wanted to do was shovel it down as quickly as possible and run out of the room. What their fascination was, Harriet could not say. She was the opposite of Felicity, dark-eyed and narrow-jawed, with a low forehead punctuated by long, straight brows. She did have lovely long, elegant fingers, though, which she was quite proud of. The Hospital’s piano master had marvelled at them and declared that Harriet might be a great pianist with those hands, before realising that Harriet was completely tone deaf and unable to tell one note from another.
“Hush, Matilda,” Lucy hissed from across the table. Matilda shrugged, her white cap slipping forward and settling just above her eyebrows.
“I’m just saying,” Matilda rolled her eyes, her voice low. “They always look at her and whisper about her. If Felicity’s forehead made her noble, what do you think that makes you? Maybe your parents were murderers or brigands –”
“Shut up, Matilda,” It was Harriet’s turn to dig her elbow into the elder girl’s side. “You’ll set the Matron on all of us.”
A brusque Ahem came from behind them, and all three girls sat up straighter. There would be no punishment in front of the Patrons, but Lucy, Matilda, and Harriet would find their knuckles on the wrong end of a wooden ruler in due course.
The meal finished in absolute silence, and the three hundred or so Foundlings of all shapes, sizes, and ages filed out in tidy rows, bobbing curtsies or bows to the Patrons as they passed.
The three girls – best friends of over a decade, despite their frequent squabbles – collected their sewing baskets and made their way to the smallest classroom on the top floor of the North Wing, where they were teaching the littlest girls the basics of sewing. Just five and six years old, and many newly arrived from the countryside, most had not been taught how to hold a needle yet, and there were many pricked fingers, bloody samplers, and tears. Harriet had taken to keeping several strips of clean muslin in her basket to tie around the injured appendages as the children’s fingers were as yet too small for thimbles.
“How many will be sobbing today?” Matilda muttered as the girls climbed the second flight of stairs, scuffing their boot toes on the carpets that desperately needed replacing.
“Six,” Harriet stated, at the same time as Lucy tutted sanctimoniously.
“That was us once. Be nice to them.”
“I never cried,” Matilda said, eyes on the stairs. “Not like that, anyway. It’s a finger prick, not a complete limb removal. I swear, the hysterics of that redheaded chit over a tiny bit of blood –”
“You shouldn’t swear,” Harriet replied, though she did herself all the time. “We’re already due a rap from Matron today, I do not want a second.”
As they prepared to mount the final staircase to the classroom, a shrill call echoed through the hallway.
“Harriet Holland!”
Harriet stopped in her tracks. Her companions turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.
“What did you do?” Matilda hissed.
Harriet shrugged, her eyes wide.
“Harriet Holland!” The voice was right behind her now, and a firm hand seized her shoulder and turned her around.
Mrs. Fulham was tall and bony and never wore any colour other than pale grey, which clashed horrifically with her sallow skin and gave her the appearance of being constantly seasick. She had joined the Hospital three years ago and ruled with an iron fist. The previous head Matron, Miss Paterson, had been kinder and, the Governors apparently thought, too permissive with her charges. And so now they were stuck with Mrs. Fulham.
“Did you not hear me, Harriet?” Mrs. Fulham’s eyes bored into Harriet’s.
“I –” Harriet started, but Matilda cut in.
“We were hurrying to teach the little ones, Mrs. Fulham. They have their sewing lessons this afternoon. We did not want to be late.” She held up the basket, and Harriet and Lucy nodded silently.
Talking back was expressly forbidden under Mrs. Fulham’s rule (“backtalk makes for dismissed servants!” she reminded them daily), but Matilda had a knack for phrasing things in just the right way to avoid trouble.
“Very well, very well – off you two go,” Mrs. Fulham gave a wave of her knobbly fingers.
“But Mrs. Fulham, the three of us are meant to be –”
“Mind your manners, Matilda Wallace. Harriet is needed elsewhere. And fix that cap!” Matilda pushed her cap back, settling it just above her hairline. She and Lucy gave Harriet a sympathetic look but hurried up the stairs and out of sight. There was no use arguing with Mrs. Fulham, so Harriet trailed glumly after her, her sewing basket swinging at her side.
They stopped outside the Governor’s office, and Harriet groaned internally. Surely a bit of talking over a meal should not warrant being hauled before the Governor? The girls and boys she had heard of being punished by the Governor had been accused of stealing or fighting or trying to run away – not a bit of chatter.
“Mrs. Fulham, we were only speaking for a moment, and just to tell Matilda –”
“Quiet, girl!” Harriet winced as Mrs. Fulham’s hand stretched forward. But she reached past Harriet to push open the heavy oak door and ushered Harriet into the Governor’s office.
***
Stepping into the Governor’s office was like stepping into a picture of a jungle that Harriet had once seen in a book. The walls, furniture, carpet, curtains – everything was a rich, vibrant green. Her feet sank into a plush carpet that was probably thicker than the mattress she slept on. On the walls hung framed paintings of every size, from tiny landscapes to larger-than-life portraits.
“Ah, Mrs. Fulham and Miss Holland, we were beginning to worry you had become lost.”
Harriet’s gaze lingered for a moment longer on the incredibly detailed miniature painting of a castle turret before she turned to face the Governor at his overlarge oak desk, bobbing a curtsey. She had been taught to keep her head down in the presence of her betters, but a large portrait of a man decked out in a black robe and curly white wig mounted on the wall behind the Governor drew her attention instead.
“Miss Holland was tending to some of our youngest foundlings,” Mrs. Fulham’s voice was light and cheery, a disturbing contrast to her usual harsh tone. She tugged on Harriet’s sleeve, drawing her to stand in front of the desk. “She has been a very diligent sewing instructor to the young girls.”
Diligent? Harriet had helped the class three times and had not contributed anything of particular value other than soothing a few sore fingers and wiping away far too many tears.
“Delightful! Just what Lady Penwood likes to hear, I hope?”
Harriet was not sure how she had missed the woman perched neatly in front of the Governor’s desk. She was clothed in the most startling pink ensemble Harriet had ever seen, with puffed sleeves twice the size of any ordinary woman’s. She was a tall, long-necked woman with a pointed nose, pointed chin and sharp, angular eyes. The gently coiled curls piled on top of her head, topped with a pink floral hat, did nothing to soften her look. She was beautiful in a frightening sort of way, all sharp angles and harsh lines. A smaller woman sat beside her dressed more simply in a deep pink ensemble with a purple apron. A maid, Harriet thought.
Lady Penwood gave a tight-lipped smile, and Harriet bobbed another curtsey.
“Now, Lady Penwood, Harriet here is an accomplished seamstress, skilled in embroidery, mending, and anything else you might need in your home. She reads, writes, and figures well, and as Mrs. Fulham says, she has been a great help with our younger foundlings. She will make a most satisfactory housemaid, I think.”
Lady Penwood nodded, her lips – also a violent shade of pink – pursed. She glanced in Harriet’s direction, scanning her up and down from the top of her starched white cap to the toes of her
“The girl has a good background? I do not wish to have a child of criminals in my home, I’m sure you understand. We have many valuables displayed around our various houses.”
“Of course, Lady Penwood, of course. I can assure you all our Foundlings come from mothers with good character references, aside from the – er – obvious.”
Harriet held back a scowl. She knew she was a bastard, but she did not see why she should be ashamed of something that happened before she was born, and she surely did not think the actions of two people she had never met should have any bearing on her own character or conduct. If they were criminals or villains, so be it. But that sort of lineage would never do for a fine lady.
“Let me see here – ah! Yes, Harriet’s mother was a Ladies Maid with exceptional character references from several employers, including the Dowager Lady Bridgerton…”
Harriet’s ears pricked up. Her mother was a Ladies Maid? She had worked in fine houses just as Harriet herself was going to. Was she perhaps still in this Dowager Bridgerton’s house? Would they run into each other one day soon? Would her mother recognise her?
She craned her head to look at the papers on the Governor’s desk, desperately seeking any additional scrap of information, but he had already closed them back up.
“Regardless, our Foundlings have excellent characters and are diligent workers. You will not be disappointed, Lady Penwood. But should anything happen, we will take her back without question and find you a more agreeable girl.”
Lady Penwood nodded, her hat bobbling precariously on top of her curls, and turned her pointed chin towards Harriet.
“How old are you, Harriet?”
“I will be seventeen next month, Ma’am.” In just three days, in fact. Harriet’s birthday was the first of June.
Lady Penwood nodded.
“You are competent in needlework and knitting and caring for children – do you have any other special talents? Do you sing, perhaps, or play the pianoforte?” The Foundlings were famous for their musical talents and often performed concerts for the Patrons, but Harriet was not among the talented ones. Matilda had once compared Harriet’s singing voice to that of a dying pig, and since that day Harriet had only mouthed the hymns at church.
“No, Ma’am. But I draw well. Very well. I should like to learn to paint one day.”
Mrs. Fulham pinched her arm hard. Foundlings were not supposed to have dreams, and if they did, they certainly were not supposed to disclose them to a potential employer.
But Lady Penwood gave an indulgent – albeit tight – smile, amused by a servant girl’s girlish ambitions.
“She will be perfectly appropriate, I believe. Mrs. Ellison, do you agree?” The plain woman in deep pink gave her assent, and Lady Penwood’s smile widened, showing off two rows of white, even teeth. “Mrs. Ellison, my housekeeper, will come to collect the girl tomorrow morning, if that is suitable?”
“Of course, Lady Penwood,” the Governor bowed his head.
“My husband will be pleased,” Lady Penwood said, taking the Governor’s hand and drawing herself to her feet. “He has been most insistent that we increase our charitable work, although we each patronise half a dozen charities!”
She paused halfway out the main door, and added,
“Do send her to me in her that quaint little uniform. I should like to ensure that the rest of the Ton witnesses my benefaction.”