St Mary Matfelon Church, Whitechapel, London – Christmas Eve 1859
‘I found her in Angel Alley, Vicar.’ The verger cradled the infant in his arms, protecting her from the falling snow. ‘She was all alone and no one else in sight.’
‘Bring her into the warmth, Fowler, before she freezes to death.’ The Reverend John Hardisty stood aside, ushering the verger into the candlelit church. The bells were ringing out to summon worshippers to midnight mass, and the first of the faithful were already starting to arrive.
‘What will we do with her, Vicar?’ Jim Fowler gazed down into the blue eyes that regarded him with an unblinking stare. ‘She must be cold and no doubt she’ll be hungry soon. Where will we find someone to care for her at this time of night, and at Christmas, too?’
‘Take her to the vestry. My wife will know what to do.’
A married man himself, with nine little Fowlers to raise, Jim carried the infant to the vestry and as he pushed the door open he was greeted by the sound of female chatter, which stopped abruptly when the assembled ladies spotted the baby.
‘Good gracious, Jim, what have you got there?’ Letitia Hardisty surged towards him, peering at the baby with undisguised distaste. ‘Not another foundling, surely?’
‘Oh, Letty, that’s not a very Christian attitude.’ Cordelia Wilding, a plump woman wearing a fur-trimmed velvet bonnet and matching cape pushed past her to snatch the infant from the verger’s arms. ‘What a beautiful child. Just look at those soft golden curls and big blue eyes. She’s a little angel.’
The third woman, Margaret Edwards, the deacon’s wife, plainly dressed in serviceable grey linsey-woolsey with an equally plain bonnet, leaned over to take a closer look at the baby. ‘A Christmas angel, to be sure. I believe she’s smiling, Cordelia.’
‘It’s probably wind.’ Letitia stood back, frowning thoughtfully. ‘If you’ll stop cooing over her, ladies, you’ll realise that we have a problem on our hands.’
Margaret touched the infant’s cheek with the tip of her finger. ‘Where did you find her, Fowler? Was there a note of any kind?’
Jim puffed out his chest, pleased to be able to tell the deacon’s wife something she did not know. Margaret Edwards was notoriously opinionated and very conscious of her husband’s standing in the community. ‘I took it to be of the female gender, ma’am. Judging by the lace dress, which must have cost a pretty penny, in my humble opinion.’ He glanced round the small group and he realised that they were unimpressed. He cleared his throat. ‘Ahem … I was taking a short cut through Angel Alley and I heard a sound. She weren’t crying, but sort of cooing, as if to call out to me.’
‘Very interesting,’ Letitia said sharply. ‘But was she on a doorstep? If so, the mother might have intended the householder to take her in. Or was she in some sort of shelter? It’s been snowing for several hours.’
Cowed by her supercilious stare and the caustic tone of her voice, he bowed his head. ‘She was left in a portmanteau, ma’am.’
‘A portmanteau?’ Margaret tapped her teeth with her fingernail, a habit that never failed to annoy Letitia.
‘I think we all know what a portmanteau is, Margaret.’ Letitia moved closer to the verger, fixing him a stern look. ‘Did you bring it with you? It might help us to identify the child. This is obviously a matter for the police.’
He shook his head. ‘It were sodden with snow, ma’am. I was too concerned about the little one to think of anything but getting her to safety.’
‘You stupid man. There might have been a clue as to who she is, if indeed it is a girl.’ Letitia cocked her head, listening. ‘The bells have stopped. It’s time for the service to begin. We can’t stay here talking all night.’
‘What will we do with the infant, Letty?’ Cordelia clasped her hands to her bosom, her grey eyes filling with tears. ‘Someone must take her in. I would, but I’m afraid Mr Wilding would object. We have visitors staying with us, important business contacts, you understand.’
‘I can’t have her,’ Margaret said firmly. ‘I must support the deacon during this busy time of the year. He has his duties to perform, as has the vicar.’
‘And for that reason I cannot have her either,’ Letitia added, nodding. ‘Besides which, the child needs a wet nurse.’ She turned to Jim. ‘You have a large family, Fowler. Surely one more would make little difference, and I seem to remember that your youngest is only a few months old.’
Jim took a step backwards, holding up his hands. ‘My Florrie has enough to do, ma’am. We can barely feed and clothe the young ’uns as it is. Maybe the Foundling Hospital would take her in, or else it will be the workhouse.’
‘Send for a constable,’ Letitia said hurriedly. ‘The police station in Leman Street is the best place for the child. They’re used to handling such matters, and you, Fowler, must go to Angel Alley right away and fetch the case in which you found the baby. It might prove to be vital evidence for the police to find and apprehend the mother who committed the crime of abandonment.’
‘Oh, no, Letty,’ Cordelia said tearfully. ‘The poor creature needs sympathy. Where is your compassion? It is Christmas Eve, after all. Remember the babe that was born in the stable.’
‘The stable in Bethlehem is not Angel Alley in Whitechapel, Cordelia.’ Letitia shooed the verger out of the room. ‘You had best stay with the child, Cordelia, since she seems to be taken with you. Come, Margaret, the service has started.’ She left the vestry with the deacon’s wife following in her wake.
Cordelia sank down on one of the upright wooden chairs – comfort was not the main purpose of the vestry furniture. She unfolded the woollen shawl, which was new and of the best quality. The flannel nightdress was trimmed with lace and the yoke embroidered with tiny pink rosebuds. Someone, perhaps the expectant mother, had put time and effort into making the garment. Cordelia was not the most imaginative of people, but it seemed unlikely that someone who had taken such trouble over a simple nightgown would desert a much-wanted infant. The baby had not uttered a sound, and that in itself was unnerving and seemed unnatural. Cordelia had long ago given up hope of having a child of her own, and although part of her longed to take the little one home and give her the love and attention she deserved, a small voice in her head warned her against such folly. Her husband, Joseph Willard Wilding, was a successful businessman who had bought a failing brewery and turned its fortune around. They entertained regularly and she was expected to be the perfect hostess. A child would not fit in with their way of life.
‘You are a beautiful little girl. If you were mine I would christen you Angel, because that’s what you are.’
The baby gurgled and a tiny hand grasped Cordelia’s finger with surprising strength. She felt a tug at her heartstrings and an ache in her empty womb.
How long Cordelia sat there she did not know, but she felt a bond growing with the child and the sweet, milky, baby smell filled her with unacknowledged longing. Then, just as Angel was becoming restive and beginning to whimper, the