“Why didn’t Gina take my baby along, or find me?”
Again his eyes judged me. “She had no home herself. She was distressed to have no way to reach you.”
No way to reach me? How could this be true? I realized and cursed myself. Since she couldn’t read, I’d never thought to write out the Burnhams’ name and address. I hadn’t even told that information to her.
Of course she’d had to leave Charlotte; merely carrying two babies out the door would have been difficult. And the man didn’t know where she’d gone. Not back to the same neighborhood, certainly, or the kind old woman there would have told me.
No, I couldn’t blame Gina. I simply had to go immediately to Blockley and remedy the effects of my grievous error.
Thank goodness the Burnhams were en route to New York City to meet Clementina’s parents. Miss Baker and Margaret might worry at my continued absence, and Henry would awaken hungry, but so it had to be.
I left the hospital and raced toward the waiting carriage. To the driver I called, “Blockley Almshouse, quickly, please.” He gave his signal and the horse dashed off, with us bouncing behind.
Soon I’ll hold and kiss my darling, I assured myself. Soon she’ll smile and gurgle. She’ll tense her little limbs and wave them with the thrill of being in my arms.
Yet my breathing came in fits and pauses. I thought of the diseases that must run quickly through the almshouse. A fine layer of sweat covered me. Inside my abdomen, the muscles clenched and twisted.
At last we crossed the Schuylkill River, which was high and frothy from a night of rain, and drew near to Blockley.
To call the almshouse imposing would be an understatement. Its many-acre compound is surrounded by high stone walls, which the carriage skirted at length to locate the gate at Thirty-sixth Street and Darby Road. On entering, we had to trace an arc around a group of well-dressed people tromping through, as apparently the place draws gawkers. Ahead stood a gathering of three-story stucco buildings, each perhaps five hundred feet long. These were surrounded by stretches of dirt, the monotony of which was relieved only by an occasional shrub or a tree.
The driver halted his horse before a building fronted by enormous columns that bore the word ADMINISTRATION. But I bid him to continue, until I saw a plaque on another edifice that listed the Children’s Asylum among its holdings. The driver promised to wait, explaining the cost at 75 cents per half hour.
I hurried to a massive door and banged its knocker. The door was opened by an oily-bearded man in an ill-fitting suit. Fetid air eased out around him. I summarized my baby’s situation and told him I needed to remove her immediately.
“Applicants are allowed only at certain hours,” he said. “The Visitor of Children takes applications from one to four on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays from them that wants to board a child out.”
“Surely a mother seeking her own child can enter at other times,” I asserted.
“Not as far as I’ve seen.” He shrugged. “And that baby’s been a cost to the city. You’ll need to pay the charges before you take ’er.”
“Charges? Even if I never put her here and don’t want her to stay?”
He nodded, raising a hand to stroke his beard.
“May I speak with someone else?” I had to get inside and find her.
Without protest he nodded and closed the door. Apparently he was accustomed to such a request. I waited on the wide steps and stared at the brass knocker of a lion’s head, its mouth gaping and toothy. Soon a pink-faced nurse stood in the doorway, pulling at the hem of her apron and adjusting her muslin cap. Upon gaining a sense of my dilemma, she concurred with the man about the hopelessness of my endeavor.
“Yer in a right fix, ma’am,” she told me.
“But this is my own baby,” I explained. “Surely these rules don’t apply.” Her stubbornness was putting me in a panic; I felt short of air.
“We must follow procedure. A child can be taken only after yer situation has been thoroughly examined. So say the rules of the Department of Charities and Correction.”
I felt the force of her indignation bearing down on me as she stood in the doorway above. No doubt the watery mucus in her eyes gave a clue to one of the diseases inside.
“Can I speak with someone else, to get an exception made?” I asked. “Or can I at least come in and view my baby?”
“Oh, no,” she said gravely, plumping out her lips. “The managers would have our heads. But I’ll tell ye what. Have ye got any friends that can write?”
“Yes.” That lovely assertion buoyed my hopes.
“Ye’ll need a letter attesting to yer character. Have ye a home of yer own?”
“Well, no. Yes. Sort of.” I would ask Clementina if I could bring Charlotte there—except she was away. The nurse looked me top to bottom, perhaps noticing my haphazard attire.
“Ye must have a home,” she said. “We don’t let the children go just anywhere.”
I filled my lungs and shouted, “My baby is just two months old and needs her mother’s milk. No matter where we live, I’ll keep her alive better than thee can!”
The nurse blushed to her ears. “Be that as it may, I can’t go giving out babies willy-nilly to folks at the door. Go get proofs of employment, good character, and a place to live. Bring the baby’s certificate of birth to prove yer the mother. Then apply to the Visitor of Children tomorrow between one and four.”
How could the fundamentals of our city be so absurd? I stormed back to the carriage, determined to get what papers I could from Anne and return forthwith to find someone with common sense.
The driver said I’d owe a dollar twenty-five more, for we were switching back to a miles-based rate rather than a time-based one, which befuddled me. But I had him take us over the rutted streets toward the charity that had been my refuge. He wove us cannily among the wagons, buggies, carts, mules, goats, dogs, and people until finally we arrived.
I brushed the dust off myself as best I could, then rang the bell. Anne answered and invited me in. She led me to her office and sat behind her desk; I took the bench.
“Are you still employed with the Burnhams?” she asked. She must have doubted it from my condition. I told her yes but explained my baby’s whereabouts and the obstacles to my claiming her. I asked if she could give me the birth certificate and a letter describing my character, lodgings, and employment.
Her face twisted, whether with concern or annoyance I was unsure. “You’ll need to return tomorrow. Delphinia rushed off to a funeral and took the cabinet key. The birth certificate is in your folder.”
I implored her to look for a spare key, which surely she must have about, and to write the letter for me.