Honourable Doctor, Improper Arrangement

‘Grandmother,’ she said now, ‘what exactly is my relationship to Lady Eleanor Hartingdon?’

‘Let me see,’ her ladyship said. ‘The third Earl was my brother, so his son, the present Earl, is your father’s cousin. That makes Eleanor his second cousin and your second cousin once removed. Something like that. Why do you ask?’

‘Her name was mentioned to me today.’

‘By whom and in what context?’

Kate took a deep breath and launched into an explanation of all that had happened in the park and afterwards. ‘I never knew Lady Eleanor had a children’s home named after her.’

‘Neither did I. She never struck me as the maternal sort, but then you do not have to be motherly to have a conscience and support a charitable cause, do you?’

‘I suppose not. I wonder how Dr Redfern is getting on with Joe. I can’t stop thinking about him.’

‘Dr Redfern?’

Kate laughed to cover her embarrassment. ‘No, I meant the little boy. He was in the most pitiful rags and so filthy it was difficult to tell what colour his hair was.’

‘And you picked him up!’ Her ladyship was so shocked she almost recoiled. ‘You must strip off those clothes this minute and have a hot bath. You can finish telling me after you have changed.’

Kate went to obey.

She was soon down again, dressed in a blue jaconet gown with little puffed sleeves and a boat-shaped neckline. Her hair was once again brushed and neatly coiled. By then her father had joined her grandmother, ready to go in to dinner, and she went over the afternoon’s events again for his benefit.

‘What do you know of this Dr Redfern?’ her father asked.

‘Nothing, Papa. He was simply there and helped me to restrain the child. He seemed a gentleman. He was certainly dressed like one. We took the child to the Hartingdon Home.’ She decided to leave out the visit to the rookeries, which would have given her grandmother a fit. ‘You will meet him tomorrow. I have said he may call.’

‘Was that necessary, Kate?’ her grandmother put in. ‘A stranger you met in the park without the benefit of an introduction. He could be anybody, a rake, a scapegrace or worse.’

‘I am sure he is not, and how else am I to find out how the little boy is faring?’

The old lady sighed. ‘I shall be glad when you are safely married and have a family of your own, then perhaps you will not concern yourself with every little urchin you meet.’

‘I shall always be concerned about the lives of poor children,’ Kate said. ‘Being married will not make any difference to that.’

‘I think Lord Cranford might have something to say on the matter.’

‘Why should he object? Anyone with an ounce of pity would feel the same as I do. He is not a hard man.’

‘Hmph,’ the old lady said and fell silent.

Kate could not stop thinking about the little boy and thoughts of him were all mixed up with thoughts of Dr Redfern. He did not look a bit like a doctor. Doctors usually dressed in sombre clothes and were often a little shabby, but Dr Redfern was elegantly, if simply, dressed. She had admired the way he dealt with the child, in firm but friendly fashion, and he had not been afraid of dirtying his fine clothes. Such a man must be a wonderful papa. Was he married? Did he have children of his own? Would a married man interest himself in other people’s children if he had offspring of his own? But if he was single, surely he should be looking for a wife and setting up a nursery of his own, not concerning himself with slum children?

Kate was sitting in the drawing room with her grandmother the next day when Dr Redfern was announced by their parlour maid, Susan. She put down the book she had been reading and jumped up eagerly, almost too eagerly, to receive him. He was wearing a long-tailed coat of green superfine, yellow-and-white striped waistcoat, skin-tight pantaloons which showed off his muscular thighs and well-polished boots. His shirt was white and his starched cravat was tied neatly between the points of his shirt collar which were high, but not so high he could not turn his head. He had removed his top hat and held it in the crook of his arm. ‘Mrs Meredith, your obedient,’ he said, bowing.

‘Doctor Redfern.’ Kate bent her knee slightly and inclined her head, as good manners dictated, then turned to her grandmother. ‘Grandmother, may I present Doctor Redfern. Doctor Redfern, the Dowager Lady Morland.’

‘My lady.’ He managed to contain his surprise and bowed again. How could he have imagined Mrs Meredith was a nursery maid? He felt himself grow hot, remembering how he had treated her with condescension. Why, she came from aristocratic stock! She had said she was related to Lady Eleanor too, and he had simply imagined she was the poor relation. Nothing he could see about him now bore that out. The room was elegantly furnished and the old lady was regal in her bearing. She was looking him up and down through a quizzing glass, taking in every detail of his apparel, and he was glad he had taken trouble with his appearance.

‘Redfern,’ she said, at last. ‘Any relation to the Redferns of Finchingfield?’

‘Yes, my lady. Lord Redfern of Grove Hall is my uncle.’

‘Ahh,’ she said, as if he had answered some conundrum that had been puzzling her. ‘Please be seated. You will take tea?’

‘Thank you.’ He took a seat opposite her and put his hat on the floor at his side.

Kate found another chair close by. ‘How is Joe?’ she asked him, as her grandmother instructed Susan to bring the tea things. They did not employ a footman. They had a cook, a kitchen maid and a chambermaid besides Susan. Her grandmother had a maid whom Kate shared on special occasions and her father had a valet who also acted as his secretary. Two women came daily to clean and to do the laundry and a man came to see to the garden. Daniels, their coachman, lived in the mews.

‘He has settled down well. I am trying to find the family a more wholesome place to live, so that he can be returned to his mother.’ He noticed Kate slowly shaking her head and realised she had not told her grandmother the whole of what had happened the previous day and he must tread carefully.

‘How did you come to be involved in such work?’ her ladyship asked.

‘The plight of poor children has always interested me; since the war it seems harder for men to find work and there are so many poor, unwanted children about. I thought something should be done, so I approached as many influential and wealthy people as I could and one of those was Lady Eleanor. Between us we set up an association of like-minded people to raise funds and the result has been The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children and a home for those we cannot foster out.’

‘And why did you choose to be a doctor?’ the old lady persisted in her questioning. ‘It seems a strange thing for a gentleman to do do.’

He laughed. ‘I was always picking up injured birds and animals when I was a boy and looking after them until they either died or were cured, then I would release them back into the wild. And when a choice of career was being considered, I decided on the army. But I would rather preserve life than end it, so I trained to be an army doctor…’

‘A far cry from looking after children,’ the old lady went on, as Susan returned with the tea things and, having set them out, left Kate to pour it and hand it out.

‘There are children with the women who follow the march,’ he told her. ‘Many were born in camp. I acted midwife on many an occasion, but my main occupation was treating the sick and wounded after the battles.’

Although Kate would not have dreamed of quizzing him as her grandmother was doing, she listened with growing admiration as he talked. If she had been a man, she would have pursued the same calling or something very like it, but such a career was not open to a woman and she had to content herself with visiting the poor and sick and taking them little comforts like food and clothing and helping them in any way she could.

‘I collect you were brought up by your uncle, is that not so?’ Lady Morland queried, changing tack suddenly.

‘Yes, my lady. Both my parents died when I was very young and he became my guardian.’

‘But you are not your uncle’s heir?’

‘I was not, but nine months ago my cousin died in a hunting accident, which has unexpectedly put me in that position.’

‘I see.’

Kate looked at him with renewed interest. She could feel for him; her own mother had died when she was seven and she knew the sense of loss never entirely went away. It might account for the bleak look she sometimes saw in his eyes.

Lady Morland was not done with him yet. ‘And do you do your work with your uncle’s blessing?’

He gave a wry smile. ‘Not exactly. He told me to go to the devil in my own way. Fortunately he is in prime kilter and I do not expect to inherit for a long time yet.’ It was a mild way of describing his relationship with his uncle, which had been, and still was, a stormy one, especially since the death of his cousin. He was expected to step into Charles’s shoes, marry an heiress and give him a brood of grandchildren. ‘You should be looking for a wife and setting up your own nursery, not taking on other people’s bantlings,’ Aunt Matilda told him repeatedly. ‘You will catch some dreadful disease, or be set upon and robbed by the very people you are trying to help…’ And that was mild compared with what his uncle said.

‘I assume from that you have not married.’

‘No, I have yet to meet the lady who will put up with my peccadilloes.’ It was his stock answer, if not entirely accurate.

‘I would not call the wish to help your fellow creatures a peccadillo, Dr Redfern,’ Kate put in. ‘It is an admirable thing to do.’

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ He paused and plunged on, unwilling to continue being quizzed on the subject of marriage. ‘If you are interested in the work of the Society, there is be a lecture at Somerset House on Friday evening at eight o’clock with the object of raising funds. If you are not otherwise engaged, would you care to attend?’

‘Yes, I think I would.’

As Kate spoke, her father came into the room. He was, Simon judged, about fifty, grey-haired and dressed in the dark clothes of a cleric. Kate introduced them.

‘Oh, you are the fellow my daughter met yesterday,’ the Reverend said, shaking Simon’s hand.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What happened to the little boy she rescued?’

‘He has been taken into the Hartingdon Home. I am hoping something can be done for the family and then he can be returned to them.’

‘Kate has told me a little of the work you do,’ the Reverend went on. ‘It is a thankless task, I think.’

‘There are times when I feel despondent, but when things go well and a family thrives, then I am glad that I have done my small part in bringing it about.’

‘I think the government should do more,’ Kate said. ‘Children should not have to rely on charity for the basic things in life, like food, clothes and a home. If I had my way, ex-soldiers would have decent pensions—’ She stopped suddenly, realising she was becoming heated. ‘I beg your pardon. I am sometimes a little too forthright.’

Simon smiled, admiring her heightened colour, the brightness of her eyes and the passion with which she spoke. How he wished there were more like her! ‘I agree with you. The war has ruined so many lives—children left either without fathers or ones so badly disabled they cannot work, and mothers who must work to keep the family from starving and in the process neglecting their children.’

‘Papa,’ Kate said, ‘Dr Redfern has invited me to attend a lecture about the work of The Society for the Welfare of Destitute Children on Friday evening. I have a mind to go. Would you accompany me?’

‘That is the charity Lady Eleanor is involved with, is it not?’ he asked Simon.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then I see no harm in attending. But if you are looking for a large donation, I am afraid you have come to the wrong person.’

Kate laughed. ‘One must not forget the tale of the widow’s mite. And perhaps there are other ways to help besides money, even if it is only spending a little time with the children at the Home.’

‘Kate, how can you think of anything like that?’ Lady Morland remonstrated. ‘You don’t know where they have come from. You might pick up anything…’

Kate did know where most of them came from, but she was not going to tell her grandmother about her visit to the slums. ‘Then I can help raise funds. There is no harm in that, is there?’

Simon, unwilling to witness an altercation between the old lady and her granddaughter, picked up his hat, before standing up and bowing to everyone. ‘My lady. Reverend. Mrs Meredith. I thank you for your interest.’

Kate rose to go to the front door with him; it was not their habit to ring for Susan to see callers off the premises. ‘I really would like to help you,’ she told him. ‘I am sure you will be able to find something useful for me to do.’

‘But ought you to go against your family’s wishes?’

‘Oh, take no note of Grandmama, her bark is worse than her bite. I can easily bring her round my thumb and I know my father will let me have my way; he thinks as I do. You have not seen the last of me.’

‘Then I wish you good day, Mrs Meredith. I shall look forward to seeing you at the meeting on Friday.’ He clamped his hat back on his head and strode down the path to the gate.

Kate returned to her grandmother. Her father had disappeared into his study again. ‘What a strange man,’ her ladyship said.

‘Do you mean Dr Redfern? I do not find him strange.’

‘An heir to a baron, grubbing about in the dirt, playing nursemaid to a horde of filthy children is strange, Kate, believe me. But if my memory serves me, there was a scandal there somewhere in the past, a falling out between uncle and nephew. Unless it was his cousin. I cannot be sure. I shall have to make enquiries.’

‘Why, Grandmother? Whatever it was has nothing to do with us and if he chooses to spend his time helping the poor, that is commendable, not strange.’

‘Nothing to do with us! Of course it is. If he expects to be received, then his character is important. We do not want our friends, and particularly Viscount Cranford, to think we encourage the man if he is not acceptable in polite society. And is a man who spends his time among the riff-raff in the rookeries acceptable?’

‘Grandmother, that is unfair. I did not think you were like that.’

‘If it were left to me, I would not be so particular, but others might not be so tolerant. We must be careful.’

‘Lady Eleanor seems to find him acceptable.’

‘As a working colleague, perhaps—that does not mean she is prepared to meet him socially. Your father is going to the meeting with you next week, he can question Eleanor.’

‘Grandmother, I think it is reprehensible to go behind Dr Redfern’s back like that. If he finds out, I hope he will not blame me, for I find a great deal to admire in him.’

The old lady looked sideways at her, but did not comment.

The meeting at Somerset House was well attended, which was a testament to Dr Redfern’s persuasiveness and also to Lady Eleanor’s wealthy connections. The room had been arranged with seats facing a dais on which were a row of chairs and a lectern. Kate and her father found places just as half a dozen dignitaries filed on to the dais and took their seats. All except Lady Eleanor, who stood at the lectern to begin proceedings.

She was regally upright, a handsome woman, if not exactly beautiful, with glossy black hair that was carefully arranged under a bonnet that Kate decided must have cost a small fortune. Her dress was of green silk trimmed with rows of dark green velvet, over which she wore an embroidered cape. Kate wondered idly why she had not married, coming as she did from a very old and wealthy aristocratic family. She could no doubt command an enormous dowry; instead, she chose to be a spinster and spend her money on her various charities.

She introduced the trustees who sat behind her and then invited Simon to take the stand. He was impeccably attired in a black evening coat and pantaloon trousers, a waistcoat in figured brocade and a neat cravat. His fair hair had been carefully arranged. This, Kate knew, was his public persona, that underneath there was a caring, almost boyish figure who loved children and did not care how grubby they made him.

He spoke well, describing how he had met a parish nurse who was ill treating the children in her care and that, on investigation, had discovered the woman was not the only one. The practice was widespread and often resulted in the death of the children, either from physical ill treatment or simply neglect. It was a disgrace to any civilised society. He gave many instances, which appalled Kate and many of his audience, who called out, ‘Shame!’

Kate risked a glance at her father, wondering if the doctor’s words had brought back bitter memories; he appeared to be listening, but not distressed. Did he never think of his tiny son who had died in the care of a wet nurse? Kate had only seen her brother George briefly the day he had been born, but she could never forget him. Seven years old she had been, left to her own devices in the schoolroom of the rambling old rectory in Hertfordshire with instructions not to leave it until she was sent for. She had known something out of the ordinary was happening and strained her ears for any sound from the room below where she sat, supposedly doing some arithmetic her father had set her.

What she had heard curdled her blood and she longed to go down to her mother, whose cries of pain and distress filled the house. And then she heard the cry of a baby and nothing could keep her in the schoolroom. She had run helter-skelter down the stairs and skittered to a stop outside her mother’s bedroom door as their doctor came out of the room, followed by her father.

‘Papa…’

‘I told you to stay upstairs.’

‘I know, but I heard a baby.’

‘Yes, you have a little brother.’

She remembered her reaction as one of huge joy. She had been an only child for so long and had always longed to have a brother or sister. Some of the women in the village had very large families; though the children did not appear to have much in the way of clothes and toys, they made their own fun and were company for each other. When she was out with her mother, primly taking a walk in her smart clothes and dainty shoes, she had seen the children romping about and making a great deal of noise. Oh, how she had envied them!

She had once asked her mother why she did not have any brothers and sisters and had been told, ‘It is God’s will’, a statement she had learned to accept, but it did not stop her adding the wish to her prayers in the hope that He might change His mind. Then it seemed He had.

‘May I see him? Oh, let me see him, Papa, please.’

‘Let her come in.’ Her mother’s voice, though weak, was clear.

Her father stood to one side. ‘A minute, no longer.’

She had darted into the room and run to the bed where her mother lay. She had a shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms. ‘Here, Kate, here is your baby brother.’ She pulled the shawl away to reveal a tiny pink screwed-up face. ‘We are going to call him George.’

Kate had gently touched his face with her finger. He opened bright blue eyes and seemed to be looking straight at her. In that moment something happened to her. Her heart seemed to melt with love. Here was the playmate she had prayed for. ‘He is very little,’ she said, overawed.

‘He has only just come into the world, but he will grow.’

‘How did he come into the world?’

‘I will tell you one day when you are a little older and able to understand.’

But she never did. Mama died that night and the whole house went into deep mourning. It had been a terrible time. She never saw George or heard his cries again. Her grandmother had moved in to take charge of the running of the house because her father seemed incapable of doing anything, and one day she asked her what had become of the baby. ‘He has been sent to a kind lady who is looking after him until he is a little bigger,’ she had said. Kate could not understand why he had to be sent away and she was convinced her father, whose grief was terrible, had given him away because he did not want him. He did not seem to want her either. He shut himself up in his study, had his meals sent in to him and took no interest in the parish or his parishioners. Kate had mourned alone.

She had not even had her brother to console her. Whenever she saw someone with a baby, she would run up to them and look at the child, wondering if it was her sibling, until her governess or grandmother dragged her away, tight-lipped and disinclined to tell her what she wanted to know. Where was her brother?

She had been passing through the hall one morning, when she had overheard her grandmother remonstrating with her father. ‘If you cannot minister to your flock,’ she was saying, ‘then give up and do something else. Move away. There are too many unhappy memories here. Brooding will not bring them back.’

Kate, listening outside his study door, waited a long time for his answer and when it came, it shocked her to the core. ‘It was my fault. I killed her. Him too.’

She had stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop herself crying out. Why would her father do such a horrible thing? He had loved her mother, everybody did. And what did he mean, ‘Him too’? Had Grandmother lied to her when she said George had been sent to a kind lady? She had run and hidden herself in the shrubbery in the garden, half-afraid he would kill her too. It was a long time before she understood what he had meant and it was her grandmother who had enlightened her.

‘What is the matter with you, child?’ she asked her one day about a year after her mother died. By then her father had come out of his torment enough to make plans to move to London. He was trying his best to be the father he had once been, but Kate was too wary of him to respond. ‘You flinch whenever your papa comes anywhere near you.’

She had mumbled something incoherent about not wanting to go to London.

‘Why not?’

‘We will be leaving Mama behind.’

‘No, your mama’s spirit will be with us wherever we go. She is watching over you now, just as she always did. She would be ashamed of the way you have been behaving of late.’

‘Does she know Papa killed her?’

‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’

It had all spilled out, what she had overheard, her fear. And then to her consternation, her grandmother had laughed. ‘Of course he did not kill her,’ she said. ‘Your papa felt bad because your mama had died and he did not think he had done enough to save her. People often think like that when they are torn with grief, even when there is nothing they could have done. One day you will understand.’

‘And the baby?’

‘That is another matter altogether.’

‘Where is he? Why hasn’t he come home?’

‘Kate, he was a puny little thing. He did not thrive…’

‘You mean he is dead too and Papa did not do enough to save him either.’ It was an accusation delivered in an angry voice. She had been looking forward to having her brother home, thinking, in her childish way, that his presence would make everyone happy again.

‘No, I mean he was born too weak to live. You see, he was not ready to come into the world and the woman who looked after him did not have enough milk for both him and her own child.’

‘We could have given him milk, we always have plenty. There is a whole herd of cows on the farm. And you let him starve to death.’ She was furious and stamped her foot. ‘That is what Papa meant, isn’t it? Oh, how could he? How could you?’ And she had burst into tears. ‘You lied to me,’ she said between sobs. ‘You said he was with a kind lady and he wasn’t. He wasn’t at all.’

Her grandmother had grabbed her and pinned her arms to her sides because they were flailing about. ‘Don’t take on so, child. I see I shall have to try to make you understand or you will brood over it for years.’ And so Grandmama had taken her on to her lap and, after taking a deep breath, tried to explain about pregnancy and premature births and the need for human milk to make a baby grow strong.