Edith
Chapter One
Edith returns to Scales'
It’s the only way.
Edith repeated the phrase to herself over and over as she splashed through the streets, her three-month-old daughter in her arms, bundled against the frigid rain and sleet that fell like a judgment. In Edith’s pocket was a scrap of newsprint torn from the Daily Telegraph:
NURSE CHILD WANTED, OR TO ADOPT -- The Advertiser, Beatrice Scales of 29 Beckford Row, Bethnal Green — a Widow with a little family of her own, and moderate allowance from her late husband’s friends — would be glad to accept the charge of a young child. Age no object. If sickly would receive a parent’s care. Terms, Fifteen Shillings a month; or would adopt entirely if under two months for the small sum of Twelve pounds.
The fifteen shillings jingled in Edith’s purse, accusing her with every step, and she imagined that every person she passed knew where she was going, what she was up to. How could they not? Scurrying through the streets in the dead of night, no umbrella, half-frozen child in her arms. She might as well have been wearing a sign around her neck: Fallen Woman.
The baby pulled the blanket back from her face and instantly began to wail. Ice pellets struck her cheeks, collected in her eyes. Edith ducked beneath a narrow overhang, brushed the ice from the baby’s face and replaced the blanket, cooing and singing a lullaby her own mother had sung to her when she was a child. The song was threaded with love, warmth, security — rocking chair by the fire, something delicious on the stove and her father coming in from work at the end of the day, stomping snow from his boots and calling for his welcome home kisses from his little angel.
No rocking Edith’s child. No fire, no father. Only a face full of rain and a mother about to leave her in the care of a stranger.
God forgive me.
The baby began to shiver. Edith looked up at the looming stone buildings along the street; she needed to get the baby out of the rain for a moment or two, dry her off, bundle her tighter. All the windows were dark, everything closed for the evening. Not that any one of them would have been open to her were it high noon on St. Swithun’s Day.
There were no doors open to the likes of her, nor to her child. Virtue was a national mania, and the only way to deal with the epidemic of illegitimates was to punish the offenders, make examples of them. Unwed mothers were universally spurned — by family and friends, alike. And finding employment was impossible with a bastard on your hip. Even if the odd shopkeeper found himself sympathetic to the plight of the young, destitute mother desperate to feed her offspring and fancied paying her a few pence to keep the place tidy, he couldn’t afford the wrath of his customers should they discover the shameful secret.
Edith was fortunate: she had a job — housemaid to the Tophams of Ludgate Hill, a well-off young family living literally in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Mr. Topham showed Edith nothing but kindness and Mrs. Topham — not very much older than Edith, herself — was more sister than employer, often asking Edith to come into her bedroom and give her opinion of this dress or that hat, the two of them talking and laughing sometimes for hours.
Edith’s room was far enough removed from the rest of the house that keeping Grace secret had so far been easy enough: her crib in the closet and a well-rehearsed fib about a stray cat crying for a saucer of milk should anyone ask.
But how long could that go on? A few more months at most? Better to make arrangements now, before she was found out and lost all hope of income. The Tophams were fair, to be sure, but word would get out. No one would hire her. And then how would she feed her child?
No, her daughter’s only hope was far from this prosperous district, in the care of Beatrice Scales. Edith would save her money, ask for more responsibilities. And when she had saved enough, she would find a home of her own, perhaps open a boarding house. And then things would be different.
It’s the only way.
She peered down the dark street, tucked the blanket snug around the baby’s face and stepped back out into the downpour.
Edith arrives at Scales's
Edith returns to Scales'
It’s the only way.
Edith repeated the phrase to herself over and over as she splashed through the streets, her three-month-old daughter in her arms, bundled against the frigid rain and sleet that fell like a judgment. In Edith’s pocket was a scrap of newsprint torn from the Daily Telegraph:
NURSE CHILD WANTED, OR TO ADOPT -- The Advertiser, Beatrice Scales of 29 Beckford Row, Bethnal Green — a Widow with a little family of her own, and moderate allowance from her late husband’s friends — would be glad to accept the charge of a young child. Age no object. If sickly would receive a parent’s care. Terms, Fifteen Shillings a month; or would adopt entirely if under two months for the small sum of Twelve pounds.
The fifteen shillings jingled in Edith’s purse, accusing her with every step, and she imagined that every person she passed knew where she was going, what she was up to. How could they not? Scurrying through the streets in the dead of night, no umbrella, half-frozen child in her arms. She might as well have been wearing a sign around her neck: Fallen Woman.
The baby pulled the blanket back from her face and instantly began to wail. Ice pellets struck her cheeks, collected in her eyes. Edith ducked beneath a narrow overhang, brushed the ice from the baby’s face and replaced the blanket, cooing and singing a lullaby her own mother had sung to her when she was a child. The song was threaded with love, warmth, security — rocking chair by the fire, something delicious on the stove and her father coming in from work at the end of the day, stomping snow from his boots and calling for his welcome home kisses from his little angel.
No rocking Edith’s child. No fire, no father. Only a face full of rain and a mother about to leave her in the care of a stranger.
God forgive me.
The baby began to shiver. Edith looked up at the looming stone buildings along the street; she needed to get the baby out of the rain for a moment or two, dry her off, bundle her tighter. All the windows were dark, everything closed for the evening. Not that any one of them would have been open to her were it high noon on St. Swithun’s Day.
There were no doors open to the likes of her, nor to her child. Virtue was a national mania, and the only way to deal with the epidemic of illegitimates was to punish the offenders, make examples of them. Unwed mothers were universally spurned — by family and friends, alike. And finding employment was impossible with a bastard on your hip. Even if the odd shopkeeper found himself sympathetic to the plight of the young, destitute mother desperate to feed her offspring and fancied paying her a few pence to keep the place tidy, he couldn’t afford the wrath of his customers should they discover the shameful secret.
Edith was fortunate: she had a job — housemaid to the Tophams of Ludgate Hill, a well-off young family living literally in the shadow of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Mr. Topham showed Edith nothing but kindness and Mrs. Topham — not very much older than Edith, herself — was more sister than employer, often asking Edith to come into her bedroom and give her opinion of this dress or that hat, the two of them talking and laughing sometimes for hours.
Edith’s room was far enough removed from the rest of the house that keeping Grace secret had so far been easy enough: her crib in the closet and a well-rehearsed fib about a stray cat crying for a saucer of milk should anyone ask.
But how long could that go on? A few more months at most? Better to make arrangements now, before she was found out and lost all hope of income. The Tophams were fair, to be sure, but word would get out. No one would hire her. And then how would she feed her child?
No, her daughter’s only hope was far from this prosperous district, in the care of Beatrice Scales. Edith would save her money, ask for more responsibilities. And when she had saved enough, she would find a home of her own, perhaps open a boarding house. And then things would be different.
It’s the only way.
She peered down the dark street, tucked the blanket snug around the baby’s face and stepped back out into the downpour.
Edith arrives at Scales's
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