Page 38 of A Landscape of Love

Kathy let out a breath, holding her hand to her heart. “For the love of heaven. You might remember I’m with child. I’m not supposed to get overexcited or endure shocking news.”

“Sorry,” Hart said again. “I suppose I’d best explain.”

His sister looked, and him and shook her head. “Yes, my boy, I suppose you best had.”

The foundling hospital was immense and looked well kept, but Hart could not suppress the shudder that ran down his spine. He did not want to go in.

Kathy, dressed in all her finery and looking every inch the countess, paused beside him and reached for his hand. “Courage, Hart. Your friend is relying on you, is she not?”

Hart nodded and gritted his teeth.

“From what I hear, this place is better than most,” she added gently, her smile reassuring. “It’s well run and a far cry from the workhouse you experienced. Come along.”

This last was a command and Hart forced himself to move, following her up the steps into the offices of the Foundling Hospital. At least they were separate from the vast building that served as a home for all the unfortunate children that dwelled in it.

“Leave the talking to me, remember,” Kathy said, not that he needed any encouragement to do as she asked.

Hart’s hands were clammy and his mouth dry. All he wanted was to get Fidelia’s son and get out of here as fast as he could. Despite Kathy’s words, memories he had done his utmost to suppress were jostling in his mind: the filth, and the loneliness, the recollection of being cold and so hungry he cried himself to sleep at night. The feeling of hopelessness and being powerless to change his fate had been a sensation so familiar in those days and so long forgotten now, that to have it rush back at him made his breath catch, ice water sliding under his skin. If not for the whim of fate, making his face the one Minerva had seen the day she had come to visit the workhouse, what then? What if it had been another boy and not him? His guts tied themselves into a tight knot.

A man answered the door promptly upon Kathy’s knock, took one look at her, and ushered her inside. He was a small fellow, neat as a pin, with thinning grey hair. Hart suspected the harried look on his face was a permanent fixture, as was the pallid complexion which spoke of a man who spent every waking hour indoors.

“Good morning, madam,” the man began.

“Lady Vane,” his sister corrected coldly. “And this is my brother, Mr De Beauvoir.”

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” the man said meekly, hurrying to correct his mistake. “I am Mr Fisher, and I would be pleased to help you, however I can. What may I do for you?”

“I’m considering a charitable donation,” Kathy said, transforming before Hart’s eyes into Lady Vane, a cool, upper-class creature he felt he did not know in the least. “But I am no fool, sir, and I wish first to have some knowledge about the property. I believe you know my husband is famous for his philanthropy, however he leaves much of the choice of where he spends his money to me. If I am pleased with what I discover, we shall be generous patrons.”

The fellow beamed at her, clearly used to such treatment and not in the least disturbed by it.

“Of course, of course, my lady. Would you care for a tour of the—”

“No, sir. I wish to see the books,” she said, giving him a hard look. “All of them for the past five years. Accounts and registers too. I wish to know how many children are here, how many you can accommodate at full capacity, how many children go on to proper employment, what manner of education is given to them…”

Hart regarded his sister with dawning respect as she gave the fellow her demands. Mr Fisher looked somewhat startled, but it was clear Lady Vane was fabulously wealthy from her attire alone, and generous patrons were hard to come by.

“I will be pleased to accommodate you, my lady. If you would care to come through to my office.”

Kathy returned a regal nod and condescended to follow Mr Fisher into his offices, where he presented stacks of books in neat piles on his desk. “I’ll ring for tea,” he said, beaming at Kathy. “Do take your time.”

With a slight inclination of her head, Kathy indicated this was acceptable and surreptitiously slid the oldest register towards Hart. Once Mr Fisher had left the room, he fell upon it, rifling through the pages until he got to the week Fidelia’s son should have arrived here. His finger slid down the entries until he regarded the date in question and frowned.

“He’s not here,” he said, a hollow feeling in his stomach.

Kathy shot a look of concern at him and moved to peer over his shoulder. “The day after,” she suggested.

Hart shook his head. “There were only four arrivals that entire week. Two were older boys, a five-year-old and seven-year-old. The other two were girls. He’s not here, Kathy.”

“You’re sure this is the place?” she asked, receiving an impatient look for her trouble.

“My friend’s father wrote the name of the place in his diary, and the date which he brought the child here,” he said impatiently. Though he trusted his sister implicitly, he had not mentioned Fidelia’s name. It was not his secret to bandy about and he would not be the one to give her away, not even to Kathy.

“Well, errors can be made,” she said, looking up as Mr Fisher returned bearing a tea tray.

“Are all the arrivals noted here in this book?” Kathy asked him.

Mr Fisher nodded as he set the tray down. “Oh, yes. We take great care to note all the details as closely as we can. Approximate age, physical description, health, and whether they have anything with them. Mothers often leave the child a token. Often a coin or keepsake that’s been broken in half. If their circumstances change, they use it to identify their child, so such details are important.”