Chapter Text
It was a quarter past three in the morning when a high-pitched yell rudely woke Thomas Brackenreid from his sleep. He blinked groggily, rolling his eyes when he glanced at the clock on his bedside table. He needed to be at the station house in a few hours, and he felt like he needed a few years worth of sleep first. The cries were loud, and his walls were thin. Groaning, he pressed his pillow against his ear and closed his eyes. Those bloody neighbours with their bloody cats, he thought, trying hard to quiet his mind and go back to sleep.
Going back to sleep, it seemed, was exactly what the wailing cat outside didn’t want Thomas to do. It kept on yowling, louder and louder, its almost eerie calls echoing even through the pillow against his head. Judging by how loud it was, it was a cat in heat, who was calling for a mate right outside his front door.
After about five minutes of enduring the louder than loud caterwauls, Thomas had had enough. “I’m going to wring that bloody cat’s neck,” he muttered to himself, yawning as he slipped out of bed, rubbing his eyes. He stormed tiredly over to his front door, grabbing a broom along the way, and opened the door, raising the broom high with the intention of smacking it down to frighten the ruddy feline away.
When his eyes fell upon his doorstep, he dropped the broom in shock.
A milk crate was sitting in front of his door.
Inside the milk crate was a wadded-up patchwork quilt.
Wrapped in the quilt was a red-faced, crying newborn baby.
Eyes widening, Thomas dropped to his knees beside the box, swallowing a steadily growing lump in his throat.
The child wailed, the most blood-curdling sound he’d ever heard an infant make in his life. It was astounding that something so small could make such a huge noise.
Gently, Thomas slid his hands into the milk crate, reaching under the folds of the quilt and delicately pulling out the squalling bundle. The baby quieted slightly in his arms, still fussing, but less intensely as before.
Thomas gulped. The only baby he’d ever held before was his little sister, and he’d apparently done such a bad job at it as a little boy that his parents never let him hold her on his own again. This little one was so small, it could have fit inside a shoe box. Thomas was almost afraid the child would slip right through his fingers like a grain of sand. Support the head, he reminded himself. Don’t squeeze too tight. He sucked in a deep breath, glancing out into the dark, moonlit street.
No figures lurked in the shadows. There wasn’t a soul around, nobody except for him and this tiny little life in his arms.
The baby fretted and fussed, with a wheezy cry that couldn’t have been healthy for a baby. The child shook faintly, shivering.
Thomas watched the white clouds rise through the air with his breaths. He bit his bottom lip, looking down at the baby in his arms. “Shhh, shhh,” he soothed, holding the infant close to his chest. “It’s alright, it’s alright now. I know it’s blood— er…” he blushed, stopping himself just in time before he swore in front of a baby. “I know it’s cold out, and it couldn’t have been fun lying out here all alone, but I’ve got you now. You can stop crying.” Stepping into his front door, he marched straight to the kitchen, gently setting the baby on the counter while he got to work lighting the stove.
He fumbled for a minute with a box of matches, muttering a stifled curse under his breath as he dropped the box. Matchsticks scattered to the floor.
The baby wailed.
“I know, I know,” Thomas hissed through gritted teeth. “Just give me a moment.” He plucked a match off the floor, struck it and tossed it into the stove. Within moments, a flickering flame danced in the stove and the kitchen was lit in a warm yellow glow.
Straightening up, Thomas sighed. “There we go,” he said, moving over to the baby on his counter. He breathed a faint, nervous laugh. “It’s almost as if I’m going to cook you up,” he murmured to the child, shaking his head. “Putting you on the counter and then lighting up a stove.”
The child whimpered.
“Right, right, sorry. Let’s see what we’re working with here.” Delicately, Thomas unwrapped the quilt. It was damp in places, and reeked of urine. Glancing between the child’s exposed legs, Thomas quirked a faint grin. “A boy, then,” he said. “That’s one mystery solved.” He pinched the blanket between his thumb and forefinger and dropped it into the sink. I’ll clean that later, he thought.
The baby’s skin was red, from the chilled air, a rash, or from how new it was, or perhaps a combination of all three. He had a fine layer of brown, peach-like fuzz along his tiny little head. His eyes were puffy and swollen, looking like they belonged to some creature twice the infant’s size. His little chest rose and fell with stilted, wheezing breaths.
Sucking in a breath, Thomas ran a hand through his hair. “Right,” he said. “I suppose I ought to get you warm first.” He found a large dish towel and awkwardly maneuvered it around the baby, like some sort of crude, twisted origami project. "Is that any better?"
To his surprise, the baby’s cries softened. The child leaned into Thomas’s arms, his tiny body quivering with each breath.
Thomas swallowed, standing stock still, afraid that if he moved, the child would cry again. He watched the baby whimper. Slowly, he reached out his index finger, gently stroking the boy’s little button nose. It was something he remembered his mother doing when he and his sister were very small to get them to fall asleep.
The boy’s skin was chilly to the touch, but smooth and soft. He sneezed through a yawn.
Thomas quirked a grin. “Shh,” he said softly. “It’s alright, lad. I’ve got you now, it’s alright.”
Within a few minutes, the baby’s wails stopped entirely, and his tiny eyes shut tight.
Letting out a long, slow breath, Thomas closed his eyes. This was not something he could handle on his own. Pulling the baby close, he pulled his warm woolen coat off of its hook, wrapping it around himself and the child. “Oi, hang on, Bugalugs,” he whispered. He quirked a faint grin. Bugalugs.
It was a funny word, an old nickname, something Thomas’s father used to call him when he was a young lad. He smiled as he pulled on his boots. It somehow felt fitting for this little one.
He knew where to go for something like this. The Order of Saint Nonnatus was a small order of Anglican nuns and midwives working out of a little parish in the heart of the Ward, one of the poorest areas of Toronto. Night or day, rain or shine, they were ready to help any mother or young child in need, and Thomas knew he could count on them for this little predicament that had shown up on his doorstep.
As he unlatched his front door, a small slip of paper caught his eye. The wind lifted its edges as it fluttered around the inside of the milk crate, still sitting on the doorstep. Blinking, Thomas knelt down and picked up the paper, unfolding it as he started at a brisk march down the lamp-lit streets.
It was a note, written in shaky, spidery pencil. It read: Please find this baby a good home. His name is George Crabtree.
Through the blustery, late night haze, Thomas gazed down at the baby in his arms. “George Crabtree, huh?” he whispered.
The baby snored softly.
Thomas straightened up, adjusting his grip on the swaddled baby. “Right then, young Master Crabtree,” he said, maneuvering his coat so that the child was completely covered. “Let’s see if we can find someone to help us, shall we?”
The midwife who opened the door stared at him in shock. He wondered briefly how odd he must look; disheveled hair, dark rings around his eyes, dressed in his pyjamas with untied boots on his feet and a constable's winter coat draped awkwardly over his shoulders, pounding on a door at four in the morning and yelling about an emergency.
The nurse was young, wearing a clean, pressed uniform and a little smart cap over her pinned brown hair. "Sir? What's the matter? Is it an emergency?" Her voice was hung with a warm, motherly concern.
Breathlessly, Thomas pulled the woolen material away to reveal the baby's face. "Someone left this little one on my doorstep," he said.
The midwife ushered him in, immediately assuming a stern, professional stance. "Come in," she ordered, waving them into the foyer.
The parish was small, consisting of a chapel, a bedroom for the nurses and another for the sisters, a small kitchen and a closet-size room where they kept medical instruments and ledgers of appointments and the like.
The nurse led Thomas into this small room, laying out a towel on a table and gesturing towards it. "Lay the baby there," she said.
Thomas did as he was told, gently setting the sleeping child down on the towel. In the lamplight, the poor thing looked even paler and sicklier.
"Have you any idea how long the baby was outside?" She asked, pulling away Thomas's dish towel swaddling job.
"I woke up to him crying," said Thomas. "I've no idea how long he was out there before I heard him."
She gently examined the child. “He’s very new,” she said, pointing to his navel. “The umbilical cord is still white.” She hummed. “He must only be a day or two old at most.” The nurse let out a breath, putting a stethoscope into her ears and resting the bell on the baby's stilting chest. She pursed her lips.
"What?" Asked Thomas. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not liking the way his breathing sounds,” she said. She sighed, gently poking and prodding the baby, pressing two fingers under his arm. “But, his heartbeat is strong.”
“That’s good, right?” Thomas bit his lip. “He’ll be alright, then?”
She tilted her head. “Well,” she exhaled. “He’s hypothermic, it sounds like he has fluid in his lungs, he's very small, even for a newborn... With how new he is and how long he might have been out there…” She closed her eyes, shaking her head minutely. “He’s warming up, and he’s being looked after now. We’ll feed him and hope for the best.”
Gulping, Thomas stared at the baby’s still features. "Who would do this?" He asked. "What kind of sick, bloody criminal would just leave a tiny lad out to die like that?"
"It's not so simple," said the nurse, warming up an ointment between her palms and gently spreading it over the baby's diaper rash. "Mothers don't always have a choice. Some mothers can't afford to feed themselves, let alone a baby."
"Oi, they shouldn't have decided to have a bloody baby if they couldn't take care of one."
"Having a baby is not always a decision, sir." The nurse's voice crackled with a furious intensity. “It is ignorant, small-minded people like you who cause these kinds of horrible situations to occur in the first place!” She flushed pink. “I apologize,” she said. “I did not mean to insult you. It’s just—” She shook her head, sighing. “If people would just try to empathize first, instead of jumping to judge…” She looked at the baby sadly. “Maybe these things wouldn’t happen.”
Thomas nodded minutely.
Watching his expression, the nurse’s eyes softened. “Here,” she scooped baby George up, wrapped him in a soft blanket and passed him to Thomas. “Hold him while I get some infant formula ready for him.” She left the room, heading towards the kitchen.
Leaning on the edge of the table, Thomas glanced down at the baby in his arms. He really is tiny, he thought. He can’t weigh more than a dozen apples.
The swaddled bundle squirmed, and George yawned, his big brown eyes blinking open. He stared up at Thomas for a few seconds before his face scrunched up like a crumpled paper.
“No, no, no, no!” Thomas shh- ed the child. “Don’t—”
George opened his mouth in a red-faced wail.
Thomas sighed. “... Cry.” He gently rocked the sobbing infant back and forth, hushing him. “Shh, oi, stop your fussing, it’s all right. I’ve got you, shhhhh….”
The nurse came back in, holding a bottle. She chuckled. “Well, hello,” she said, her voice immediately raising about two octaves in pitch. She took George from Thomas’s arms, putting the bottle down. “Oh, that’s a fine pair of lungs you’ve got there,” she smiled, laying the baby on the table. She folded the child’s arms across his chest, then picked him up again, one hand bracing against George’s crossed arms and the other hand supporting him under his diaper. She held him at a slight angle, looking towards the floor, gently bouncing him up and down. “There we are,” she said to the baby. “What do we think of that?”
George’s cries stopped almost instantly. He gazed around at his surroundings with huge, curious eyes.
Thomas was impressed. “Bloody hell,” he said. “How’d you do that?”
The nurse smiled. “A little trick I picked up,” she said, passing the baby back to Thomas. “Would you like to feed him?”
Thomas blinked, nodding sheepishly. He’d never been much of a baby person, but this little one seemed to have put a magic spell on him. He held the child in one arm, awkwardly picking up the bottle and pressing the bottle into the baby’s mouth.
The nurse watched him, smiling. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” she asked.
Thomas shot her a slightly irritated look.
“Sorry.” She chuckled, taking the bottle from his hand and repositioning his fingers into a more comfortable position. “Hold him gently,” she said. “You won’t drop him.”
Thomas rearranged his grip.
The baby cooed, closing his eyes as he drank.
Thomas grinned. “Thank you,” he said to the nurse. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”
“Margaret,” she said. “Margaret Beckwith.”
“Thomas Brackenreid.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mister Brackenreid.”
Thomas tilted his head. “Constable, actually.”
Nurse Beckwith smiled, looking at the baby. “I suppose we’ll have to give this little soldier a name.”
“George,” said Thomas immediately, staring at the child in his arms. “George Crabtree.” He blinked, noticing her curious look. “It was on a note,” he mumbled. “They left him with a note.”
Margaret quirked a grin. “George Crabtree,” she said, wiggling a finger in front of the baby’s face. “It suits you.”
George swallowed the last of the contents of the bottle, letting out a small hiccup. He moved his tiny hands, latching onto Thomas’s index finger with an iron, vice-tight grip.
Thomas breathed a laugh. “Oi, you’re quite the little strongman, aren’t you?” His smile dropped. This child was so small, so vulnerable, so alone. What must that be like? Thomas wondered. He’s only just been born and he’s all alone in the world. He took the baby’s miniscule hand in his. “What’ll happen to him?” he asked.
Margaret rested her hands on her hips. “We’ll care for him here until he’s strong enough to thrive, and then he’ll be sent away to an orphanage.”
“That’s it?”
“I wish there was more we could do,” she said. “But that’s how these things go, I’m afraid.”
An orphanage. When he was small, Thomas used to see the children living in the orphanage back in Yorkshire, with pale, sunken cheeks, matted hair and stooped, hunched postures, like they were trying to make themselves so small that they might disappear. He remembered their eyes the most; huge, sad, and most of all, void of all life, like dull glass marbles.
Swallowing, Thomas looked back at baby George, who was snoring softly in his arms. “You’re sure there’s nothing else we can do? I mean… he’s all alone, and an orphanage…”
Nurse Beckwith sighed. “I’m afraid not.”
Baby George’s grip on Thomas’s finger went lax as he fell fully asleep.
Thomas took a breath, and said perhaps the most impulsive thing he had ever said in his life. “What if I took care of him?” he asked.
The nurse blinked. “You want to adopt him?” she asked. “To be his father?”
Thomas shook his head. “Let’s not say father,” he said. “I mean, what if I took care of him? Until we can find someone to adopt him, you know?”
“You want to foster him?”
“Could I?” Thomas’s heart fluttered. “I mean, he’s got no one else, and well, you and the other midwives must be too busy to take care of him properly—” He flushed. “Not that I think you’d neglect him at all, I just think he needs attention and a good home and, well, I’ve never taken care of a baby before, but I think I can handle it…” He trailed off. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
Margaret smirked. “Just a little.”
Thomas took a breath. “I just…” A smile tugged at his cheeks as he looked down at the child in his arms. “I think he needs me.”
Margaret breathed a chuckle. “Of course.” She squinted, surveying him up and down. “Well,” she said, resting her hands on her hips. “You seem like a nice enough fellow. You wouldn’t hurt him, would you?”
“No, ma’am.” He smiled down at little baby George. “I’ll keep him safe.”
He had no idea what he was thinking, he didn’t even know if he was thinking in the first place. All he knew was that this child needed a home, and that was exactly what he was going to give him. “I’ll protect him,” he said. “I promise.”