Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels #2) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,108
appeared coolly unaffected by the squalor around them.
A remarkable stench hung everywhere, impossible to avoid. Every few yards the floating miasma, dark, organic, and rotting, reshaped into a new, even more revolting version of itself. As they passed a particularly foul alley, a pervasive reek seemed to go directly from her nose to her stomach. Her insides roiled.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Dr. Gibson said, quickening her stride. “It will pass.”
Thankfully the nausea retreated, although Helen’s head swam faintly as if she’d been poisoned, and her mouth tasted like pencil lead. They turned a corner and confronted a large brick building with tall iron gates and spiked fencing all around.
“That’s the orphanage,” Dr. Gibson said.
“It looks like a prison.”
“I’ve seen worse. At least the grounds are reasonably clean.”
They walked down the street to a set of tall iron gates that had been left ajar, and passed through to the entrance. Dr. Gibson reached up to tug firmly at a bell pull. They heard it ring from somewhere inside.
After a full minute had passed, Dr. Gibson began to reach for the pull again, when the door opened.
A broad, heavy rectangle of a woman faced them. She looked incredibly weary, as if she hadn’t slept in years, the skin of her face drooping in swags.
“Are you the matron?” Dr. Gibson asked.
“I am. Who might you be?”
“I am Dr. Gibson. My companion is Miss Smith.”
“Mrs. Leech,” the matron mumbled.
“We would like to ask a few questions of you, if we may.”
The matron’s face didn’t change, but it was clear the idea held little appeal. “What would I get out of it?”
“I’m willing to donate my medical services to the children in the infirmary.”
“We don’t need a doctor. The Sisters of Mercy come three times a week to minister and do nursing.” The door began to close.
“For your time,” Helen said, discreetly extending a coin to her.
The matron’s hand closed over it, her eyelids flicking briefly as she realized it was a half-crown. Standing back, she opened the door wider and let them inside.
They entered an L-shaped main room flanked by offices on one side and a nursery on the other. A squalling infant could be heard from the nursery. A woman walked back and forth past the doorway with the infant, trying to soothe it.
Straight ahead, through a pair of open double doors, Helen could see rows of children seated at long tables. A multitude of busy spoons scraped against bowls.
“They’ll eat for ten more minutes,” Mrs. Leech said, consulting a pocket watch. “That’s all the time I have.” A few curious children had hopped off their benches and had wandered to the doorway to stare at the visitors. The matron glared at them. “Go back to the table, if you know what’s good for you!” The children scuttled back into the dining hall. Turning back to Dr. Gibson, Mrs. Leech shook her head wearily. “Some of them insist their mothers will come back for them. Every bloody time there’s a visitor, they make a fuss.”
“How many children do you have at the orphanage?” Dr. Gibson asked.
“One hundred twenty boys, ninety-seven girls, and eighteen infants.”
Helen noticed that one girl had stayed half-hidden behind the door. Slowly the child looked around the jamb. Her hair, a very light shade of blonde, had been chopped into short, uneven locks that stuck out in all directions. It had matted down in some places, giving her the appearance of a half-molted chick. She stared fixedly at Helen.
“Have any of the mothers come back in the past?” Dr. Gibson asked.
“Some used to.” Mrs. Leech looked surly. “Troublesome bitches treated this place like free lodging. Brought their children here, left them to live off charity, and came back to fetch them whenever they pleased. The in-’n-outs, we called them. So the Board of Governors made admission and discharge procedures as complicated as could be, to stop the in-’n-outs. But it’s made more work for me and my staff, and we already—” She stopped with a wrathful glare as she noticed the little girl, who had taken a few uncertain steps toward Helen. “What did I tell you?” the matron exploded. “Go back to the table!”
The child hadn’t taken her eyes—wide, frightened, awed—from Helen. “Mamma?” Her voice was small, a mere quaver in the large room.
She darted forward, her spindly legs a determined blur. Ducking beneath the matron’s arm, she threw herself at Helen, clutching her skirts. “Mamma,” she repeated over and over, in little prayerful breaths.