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Yes, that would be even worse.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I beg your pardon?” The nun—Sister Mary Stephen, according to the others of the flock who’d guided Emmeline and Mr. Pershing to her tiny office—lifted her eyes from whatever it was she’d been pretending to read. “Could you repeat that? I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
Mr. Pershing nodded. “A brother and sister. Ages seven and five.”
“With brown or blond hair,” Emmie added.
“Yes,” he affirmed. “Do you have a pair of children here matching that description?”
“I heard that part,” the nun returned. She looked very much like a nun, if that was possible. Black, protruding eyes in a severe face with prominent cheekbones and a straight, thin mouth. Terrifying, in a way nuns were supposed to be. At least their visit hadn’t merited the attention of the Mother Superior. That woman, Emmie recalled from her occasional visits, was the stuff of nightmares. “I meant the part about you and your missus wanting to borrow two youngsters.”
“In exchange for a substantial gift to your facility.” Mr. Pershing sent a pointed glance at the paint beginning to peel from the drab corners.
The nun’s eyes narrowed. “While we have received requests for children of a particular age, we as a rule make the arrangement permanent, ensuring that the child or children in question will be fed and clothed and raised in a proper Christian home until adulthood. And while we are happy to accept a donation from the adopting family, we do not sell children—or the use of them—here.”
Permanent. The idea of suddenly, in a literal blink of an eye, becoming an actual, forever parent, a mother, of all things, and one responsible for the care of two young people, made Emmie sit up straight, her heart hammering. “We—that is to say, I—we aren’t—I mean, we cannot—”
“This is to be a temporary arrangement,” Mr. Pershing persisted with a slight frown that she still somehow found attractive. She definitely couldn’t blame it on the whiskey, then. “We have not made any secret of that fact. This is a charitable project for the benefit of the youngsters. It will be for a period of eight weeks, during which time the children will be clothed and fed, and instructed in the ways of proper Society. I daresay that will improve their prospects of finding a permanent residence in the future.”
Once again, Mr. Pershing managed to make the whole enterprise sound reasonable—which, of course, it was. “They will be well cared for,” she put in, trying to catch her breath up. “And it is in the children’s best interest. Here they might find themselves fit to be bricklayers or washing women. With our guidance, they might become shop clerks, or companions, or household servants. A vast increase in employment opportunities to hand.”
Sister Mary Stephen tapped the end of her pencil against the desktop. “I should consult the Mother Superior about this, but she, unfortunately, is in Canterbury for the next week. Perhaps you could call again on Tuesday?”
“My schedule is such that we cannot remain in London for that long,” Mr. Pershing countered. “Time is money, as they say.”
“What was the figure you had in mind for your donation?” the nun asked, clearly understanding what was happening. “You never said.”
“I think two hundred fifty pounds wou—”
The nun cleared her throat.
“As I said,” Mr. Pershing resumed smoothly, “five hundred pounds would see every child here with improved meals, clothing, shoes, and beds, as well as affording new paint, roof repairs, and a donation in St. Stephen’s name to the Church, if you should so choose. All of that, not in exchange for, but rather in addition to, two of the youngsters receiving lessons in comportment and propriety.”
“It does make a certain amount of sense, when you put it that way,” the nun said. “If we have two young ones who meet your requirements.”
The woman in novice’s robes by the door made a waving motion. “I had a thought that Peter and Lotty Wevins might serve,” she said in a whispery voice. “They’re both sweet children, and—”
“Nonsense,” Sister Mary Stephen interrupted. “They are both too young, and that pleasant carpenter and his wife from Kent have expressed interest in Peter.”
“What about—”
“I have it,” the black-eyed nun cut in again. “The Fletcher children.”
The novice drew in a breath. “The Fletcher children?” she repeated.
“I think they will suit your requirements,” Sister Mary Stephen said with a smile that stretched her mouth. “George is eight and small for his age, and Rose just turned five. They are darlings. Little angels. And both would benefit from a lesson or two—for the sake of their future adoption by some appropriate family, of course.” She steepled her fingers on the desk in front of her. “If your donation is as generous as you say, that is.”
“I have a bank note to hand,” Mr. Pershing answered.
“I shall fill out the papers, then,” Sister Mary Stephen said, pulling a pair of sheets out of her desk. “Sister Mary Christopher, please fetch the Fletchers.”
The younger nun bobbed a curtsy and scurried out of the room. A new worry tightened the muscles across Emmie’s shoulders. If these two children wouldn’t suit—if they were curly-haired or clubfooted or, worse, French—they would have to begin all over again, elsewhere.
There were a frightful number of orphanages across London, of course, but only three where her connections and her charitable work would warrant them an immediate audience. As she looked around at the gray walls and small, infrequent windows and listened to the stern nuns walking about in loud shoes and the subdued children’s voices, she made a mental note to donate more of her time and efforts here in the future. No child should grow up surrounded by gray walls.
“We do not sell our children here,” Sister Mary Stephen repeated, as she wrote out the children’s names and the address of both Pershing House in London and Winnover Hall in Gloucestershire. “I am pleased, though, that you are so insistent on offering a gift to St. Stephen’s.”