‘There’s one awaiting outside for a fare.’
Slowly Harriet got to her feet. The porter reached down for her basket and she followed him out into the bitter cold of a November day. Suddenly, she was longing quite desperately for the warmth of her sister’s house and the welcome she knew she would receive. The infant started crying – a thin, sad wail – as she climbed into the cab and gave the driver Una’s address.
‘Hush now, baby!’ she said as she settled him on her lap. ‘We will be warm and well cared-for soon. There is no need for your tears. My sister will look after you until we decide what to do with you. Just stop crying, please.’
As if the infant understood what she was saying, he suddenly looked up at her with what Harriet swore later was the hint of a smile.
SEVEN
1865–1866
B y the time the hansom cab arrived at the door of Una’s beautiful home in Ballsbridge Street, on the outskirts of Dublin, both Harriet and the infant she was holding were in no state to be received. The few towelling squares that were on the child had long since been soaked. Shamefaced, she paid the driver and, holding the basket with her few belongings as best she could, rang the front doorbell.
After one look at Harriet’s bedraggled figure and the now wailing baby in her arms, the footman told her sharply that Her Ladyship was not at home and he was unsure when she would be back.
Harriet started to explain to the disbelieving servant that she was Una’s sister when someone approached from behind him. For a single moment, Una’s nanny stared at Harriet and then, smiling in delight, she pushed the footman aside and pulled Harriet gently into the hall.
‘Lord save us!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever has befallen you, Miss Harriet … and the baby …?’
She reached out and took the wailing infant from Harriet’s arms, her face taut with shock. As the footman closed the big front door, she gasped, ‘Surely to goodness you aren’t on your own, Miss Harriet! Have you no maid? No nanny?’
Harriet burst into tears, partly from exhaustion, but also at the half-remembered comfort of her old nanny who she now recalled saying the familiar words when she cut her knee or fell off the hay cart. ‘Surely to goodness, Miss Harriet,’ she would exclaim as she dealt with the subsequent cut or bruise, ‘you shouldn’t never have been doing such a thing!’
Nanny Rogers was now staring down at the pale, wizened face of the hungry baby and, tut-tut-tutting at its wet clothing, recognized the cry from forty years of experience with tiny infants. She looked questioningly at Harriet. ‘Are you not able to feed your child?’ she asked. ‘That’s a hunger cry if ever I heard one.’
Attempting to stem her tears, Harriet shook her head. She was on the point of replying that she could not do so because the infant was not hers, but her old nanny was already barking instructions to the footman. He must send the nursery maid upstairs as quickly as possible, she told him, with hot milk, and the tweeny must go, too, with jugs of hot water for the south-facing spare room together with the tin bath, soap and towels. One of the maids must light the fire in the bedroom nearest to the nursery, make the bed and put a stone water bottle in, and he must ask Cook to warm some of her broth and have that sent upstairs in twenty minutes time.
Noticing that Harriet had no luggage large enough to contain clothes, she turned to Una’s personal maid who was staring at the curious visitor from the foot of the stairs. She must find one of Her Ladyship’s night dresses and put it to warm by the fire in the spare room, she ordered.
Turning back to Harriet, she said gently, ‘Whatever mishap has befallen you and your baby, Miss Harriet, you’re safe now. Nanny will take care of you and your little one.’ Her tone was once more one which Harriet instantly recalled from her nursery days.
‘No more talking!’ Nanny Rogers was instructing her.
Slowly Harriet got to her feet. The porter reached down for her basket and she followed him out into the bitter cold of a November day. Suddenly, she was longing quite desperately for the warmth of her sister’s house and the welcome she knew she would receive. The infant started crying – a thin, sad wail – as she climbed into the cab and gave the driver Una’s address.
‘Hush now, baby!’ she said as she settled him on her lap. ‘We will be warm and well cared-for soon. There is no need for your tears. My sister will look after you until we decide what to do with you. Just stop crying, please.’
As if the infant understood what she was saying, he suddenly looked up at her with what Harriet swore later was the hint of a smile.
SEVEN
1865–1866
B y the time the hansom cab arrived at the door of Una’s beautiful home in Ballsbridge Street, on the outskirts of Dublin, both Harriet and the infant she was holding were in no state to be received. The few towelling squares that were on the child had long since been soaked. Shamefaced, she paid the driver and, holding the basket with her few belongings as best she could, rang the front doorbell.
After one look at Harriet’s bedraggled figure and the now wailing baby in her arms, the footman told her sharply that Her Ladyship was not at home and he was unsure when she would be back.
Harriet started to explain to the disbelieving servant that she was Una’s sister when someone approached from behind him. For a single moment, Una’s nanny stared at Harriet and then, smiling in delight, she pushed the footman aside and pulled Harriet gently into the hall.
‘Lord save us!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever has befallen you, Miss Harriet … and the baby …?’
She reached out and took the wailing infant from Harriet’s arms, her face taut with shock. As the footman closed the big front door, she gasped, ‘Surely to goodness you aren’t on your own, Miss Harriet! Have you no maid? No nanny?’
Harriet burst into tears, partly from exhaustion, but also at the half-remembered comfort of her old nanny who she now recalled saying the familiar words when she cut her knee or fell off the hay cart. ‘Surely to goodness, Miss Harriet,’ she would exclaim as she dealt with the subsequent cut or bruise, ‘you shouldn’t never have been doing such a thing!’
Nanny Rogers was now staring down at the pale, wizened face of the hungry baby and, tut-tut-tutting at its wet clothing, recognized the cry from forty years of experience with tiny infants. She looked questioningly at Harriet. ‘Are you not able to feed your child?’ she asked. ‘That’s a hunger cry if ever I heard one.’
Attempting to stem her tears, Harriet shook her head. She was on the point of replying that she could not do so because the infant was not hers, but her old nanny was already barking instructions to the footman. He must send the nursery maid upstairs as quickly as possible, she told him, with hot milk, and the tweeny must go, too, with jugs of hot water for the south-facing spare room together with the tin bath, soap and towels. One of the maids must light the fire in the bedroom nearest to the nursery, make the bed and put a stone water bottle in, and he must ask Cook to warm some of her broth and have that sent upstairs in twenty minutes time.
Noticing that Harriet had no luggage large enough to contain clothes, she turned to Una’s personal maid who was staring at the curious visitor from the foot of the stairs. She must find one of Her Ladyship’s night dresses and put it to warm by the fire in the spare room, she ordered.
Turning back to Harriet, she said gently, ‘Whatever mishap has befallen you and your baby, Miss Harriet, you’re safe now. Nanny will take care of you and your little one.’ Her tone was once more one which Harriet instantly recalled from her nursery days.
‘No more talking!’ Nanny Rogers was instructing her.
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