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longed-for wedding date, but all put every confidence that the gentleman’s long association with your sister might withstand, nay, even overshadow, other less happy events.
Do not give up hope, my dear. There is goodness in your father, and I will fervently pray that he will soften toward you in time. For now, I have little choice but to abide his edict. Perhaps if your dear uncle stood with me, but alas, he feels it is not our place to come between father and child. You know he would do all he could to assist you were he only allowed to do so.
Still, I cannot rest without at least offering this olive branch. Likely you have been too upset to think too far into the future, but I am plagued with worry over your situation. I offer you this while not grand nor fashionable, it will at least assure a roof and bed and food to eat once your time in London is at an end.
As you may recall, I have in Crawley an elderly aunt. You can well imagine how old she is if I, your aunt, describe her thusly. Still, she lives in a snug cottage a short distance from the village proper on Crawley’s High Street. I have not seen her these many months, but at Michaelmas she was in good health and spirits. I have every confidence she would welcome you and that the two of you would get on well together. I daresay she would be quite happy for some companionship. Her own grown son lives in Manchester and, as I understand, rarely visits. I shall write her directly and introduce you.
If some impediment to this arrangement arises, I shall find some way to let you know. Otherwise, my dear, this must be my last letter, at least for the foreseeable future. My heart aches to think of it. Rest assured, you shall never be far from my thoughts or prayers.
     
Your Loving Aunt
    Charlotte wiped at the tears with her free hand, then quickly refolded the letter and tucked it into her dress pocket. She strode back inside the manor and into the workroom, determinedly putting on a cheerful face.
    “What is that you’re working on, Becky?” she asked, sitting beside the young girl at a fabric-strewn table.
    “‘Tis a swaddling blanket, mum.”
    She eyed the square of coarse cotton. “How nice. Will you have it done in time, do you think?”
    “Oh! ‘Tisn’t for my own babe. Least I don’t think ‘tis.”
    “Oh?”
    “Same as your mending stockings for the girls here, I’m stitchin’ blankets for the foundlings next door.”
    Charlotte looked in the direction of the girl’s nod.
    “You didn’t know about the foundling ward?” Becky asked.
    Charlotte shook her head. “I did wonder what was in the other wing.
    “Sure and what did you think happened to all the babes born here?” Bess asked brusquely, coming to the table with a teacup in her hand.
    “I don’t know. I had not thought …”
    “They just keep infants here ‘til they’re weaned,” Becky explained. “Then they’re moved to the big foundling hospital up on Guildford Street.”
    “Don’t some girls take their infants home with them?”
    “Is that what you’re going to do?” Bess asked skeptically, sitting down across from her.
    “No. Not home. I am not … quite sure where yet.”
    Two other girls walked to the table together, tall flaxen-haired Sally towering over petite auburn-haired Mae. They sat down on either side of Charlotte.
     
    “Well, I know where I’ll be,” Becky said. “Back in the workhouse soon as my time’s up.”
    “But … what about …”
    Bess broke in, “Don’t you be judging her or any of us.”
    “I did not mean to. I am only surprised.”
    “Some of us haven’t any choice,” Sally said quietly, eyes on her tea.
    “But … to leave one’s child in the care of strangers. It is something I could never do.”
    “Oh, don’t be too sure,” Bess said. “Never can tell what a body might do for love or money.”
    “Or to keep body and soul together,” Mae added.
    “My mum can barely feed my brothers and sisters,” Becky said. “She