I stood and followed him into his office. Its tall, opened windows let in the mooing of distant cows. The man shut the door behind us and introduced himself as Mr. Lambert.
“Lillian de Jong.” I gave a slight bow before sitting. “All I want is my daughter, who is probably the one called Mary Foundling.” I began to pull an envelope from my pocket and saw that my hand was trembling. “I have papers showing she’s my daughter. She’s here because her wet nurse’s house—”
“So you want special treatment.” He waved a plump-fingered hand at me.
“No,” I said. “I only—”
“It’s the duty of my position to see that our children are given only to respectable families or institutions. What would I tell the Board of Guardians if I didn’t give you the same treatment as others, and your character ended up being unstable, or you failed to provide Mary with the proper surroundings?”
He gave me a vexed expression. I returned the same, observing the broken blood vessels in his nose and the glints of yellow in his eyes. He broke our stare, then shrugged. “I’m sure you’re not a bad sort. You say you’re the mother?”
“Yes.” I handed him Charlotte’s birth certificate.
He read a moment, then clucked as he handed it back. “There’s a father listed, but his name isn’t de Jong. Are you married?”
I kept quiet and decided not to show Anne’s letter.
He picked up a cigar from his desk and took it into his mouth. “Unless you have a husband, I can’t place a baby with you.”
My hope sank with my stomach.
“That is,” he continued, “until you’re married. Then there’d be a trial period with the child.” He lit his cigar, sucked at it, and released smoke in my direction. “You’d be visited, and reported to me for unfair treatment.” He patted his chest, then leaned forward, reducing his voice to a whisper. “Some folks’ll take foundlings and work them like slaves. We try to protect them from the worst sorts.”
The worst sorts? As if I was one of them? I was near to screaming. I might never get through such a thicket of fools.
“My husband died last summer in a mine accident in Easton,” I said. “All I have left is our baby.” I held back a real sob that expanded painfully in my chest. “Thee must please release her to me.”
“So you’re a widow!” He grimaced, showing the gold in his teeth. “I’m a widower myself. And you’re a Quaker! You people have unusual ways. Is that why you didn’t take your husband’s name?”
“Oh, yes,” I said, emboldened. “We often keep our father’s surnames.”
All of this softened his approach. “If you can pay for her keep, that’s the first thing to do. It’s two dollars for every day she’s been here.”
I gasped.
“Been here three days, you say. Six dollars, then, and you can take her. Providing you have a letter from your employer and can show proof of a safe habitation. Have you got that letter and that proof?”
“Well…” I had a letter that confirmed my unwed status and no “proof of a safe habitation.”
He consulted his gold watch. “I’ll be leaving shortly. You gather those things and return tomorrow.”
“But tomorrow I’d owe eight dollars.”
“That’s correct.” He showed his gold caps in a self-regarding smile, then put the cigar back in his mouth and puffed.
“By then my baby might be dead. I have nearly five dollars in my purse. Please let me take her.”
“She’s not yours yet.” He held the cigar between his teeth and spoke around it. “She’s the responsibility of the city. Once we’ve got your full fee and the letters, we’ll see about you taking over her care.”
Despite the urgency of Charlotte’s plight, I saw no way around this blockade of a man. I had to return to Henry and—assuming he could be roused—to remedy his neglected condition before anyone saw that I’d left him.
I stood, wishing I was taller. “I’ll see thee tomorrow,” I said, as if it were a threat, “and take my baby from this awful place.” Somehow I would make this true. I had to. I turned and left.
At the almshouse gate I considered ways of traveling the seven miles or so to the Burnhams’ house. Walking would be too slow. The streetcars across the river would move quickly, but I’d have to wait for each to come, and after that, I’d be waiting for another streetcar or a train to Germantown—and all the while, Henry might be suffering. Trickles of milk traced paths down my abdomen. A laborer walked past and eyed my chest, then smirked. I looked down: my bodice was marked with two round blotches.
I hailed a passing hack. The man drove us well and fast, and I relieved my hunger with the buttered roll from Delphinia.
When I stepped out at the Burnhams’ driveway, a challenge ensued: the driver demanded that I pay round trip, since I’d brought him far from downtown and he’d likely have no rider on his return. He spouted rates: this much for the first two miles, that much for each added mile through four, then a different rate per mile, which came to four dollars seventy cents one way—which meant, round trip, I owed him nine dollars forty cents. He bent his wiry body toward me from his seat, the reins in his lap, counting on his begrimed fingers.
Meanwhile, inside the house, for all I knew, Henry might have been choking on his spit-up or even passing into a comatose state.
I raised my hand to stop the driver’s tabulations and said that he’d no doubt find a rider at the Germantown depot, as well as a watering trough for his horse. From the purse at my neck I took all the money inside—four dollars and coins. I had but five dollars remaining in my trunk. I handed the money over and began running toward the back of the mansion. He shouted after me but didn’t abandon his horse to take chase.
I entered the dim kitchen and heard no sounds. The stew had turned to a charred mush in the cast-iron pot. I hid the pot out back, then raced up the servants’ stairs to inspect my little charge. I picked up his body, finding his bedsheet and clothing thoroughly soiled. As I cleaned him, he opened his eyes—with effort, as though the lids were heavy. When he registered my presence, hungry cries seized his frame. I sat and opened my layers, and he drank. I kissed his forehead with a hard mix of regrets: sorry to have drugged him, and sorrier still not to be holding my Lotte.