Chapter 23 #2
“We have to turn away most of the mothers who wish to leave their children. At least four or five times more babies would come if we could take them.”
“Why do the mothers leave their babies?” Elizabeth had not thought it possible for so many women to want to give up their children.
Mrs. Legg looked at her as though deciding how much she should reveal. Later, Elizabeth realized she must have seemed—indeed had been—exceedingly innocent.
“To conceal their shame, Miss Bennet.” Mrs. Legg sighed.
“A woman who applies for a space for a child must swear the baby is hers and that she was of good character before falling with child. She must reveal the father and swear he deserted her, giving her no means to care for the child without exposing her guilt. She must also swear that without the burden of a child, she expects she may hide the incident and resume her former virtuousness and station in society.”
“You mean…Are you saying these are all the children of gentlewomen?” Elizabeth struggled to catch her breath.
“Not all, but most are the children of gentlemen, I would wager. The hospital does take orphans of sailors and soldiers, as well, when we can. I have a class at half past, but if you have more questions next time, you may seek me here.” Mrs. Legg patted her arm as she walked past her, knowing her revelations upset the young woman.
She could not know, however, the extent to which her words had affected Elizabeth.
She might easily have been one more child raised at the Foundling Hospital.
And that only if she had been one of the lucky few to gain admittance.
What a slim escape she had made. If Papa Oliver had not agreed to marry her mother, what other choices would her mother have had?
Would she have attempted to conceal her daughter from her father and brother?
Would they have forced her to desert her baby?
Elizabeth had reflected with gratitude many times that her uncles had taken her in and supported her. Never before, though, had she realized how very much they had given her. She may end up as a servant, but she had been given a chance none of these children had.
She paused to offer a prayer of thankfulness for her own situation.
These children’s educations would not extend to classical languages and great literature or to painting and music.
They would have even less chance of marrying well than Elizabeth did.
She might at least attract a poor but respectable gentleman.
If Uncle Bennet could see reason, she may even be able to marry a tradesman who could support a family.
How many of these children would ever come closer to the social level of their parents except as their servants?
Why was birth and society’s view of it so important?
Why was it anybody else’s business who her father had been?
Although she was ashamed of him, it was not because of who he was but because of what he had done to her mother.
His class mattered not, but his character did.
This, she knew, was why she respected Papa Oliver whether he was of her own blood or not, tenant farmer or not.
She loved and respected Uncle Bennet and Uncle and Aunt Gardiner and her cousins, too.
Their worth to her was not calculated based on what neighborhood they lived in or how much money they had.
Like these children at the Foundling Hospital, they were valuable because they were alive, and she cared for them because they accepted her own value.
She was forced to admit that all people had value.
Even if she could not respect them or think well of them, everyone likely had some good in them and were important to someone.
Her mother may even have loved her real father.
How could she, then, judge him as only evil?
She knew Aunt Bennet had much good in her.
Elizabeth had seen it in her eyes as she looked at her daughters, had heard it spoken from Jane’s and Mary’s lips.
Mistreatment of herself did not strip a person of all value.
Still—and she grabbed onto this idea like a tree limb to save her from a fast-moving river—she need not welcome hateful people into her life.
She need not think well of them, not truly.
God said, “love thy neighbor,” but He did not ask her to live in the same house.
She could not think well of certain people, and she would not concern herself with their opinions.
Mr. Darcy’s stormy visage sprang to mind, but she quickly banished the image in favor of Miss Bingley’s, Aunt Bennet’s, and the spiteful youths’ of Meryton. She would remind herself that all had good in them. Later. For now, these foundling children needed her.
By the time Georgiana arrived at Pemberley in early July, Darcy was eating regular meals again and had regained enough control over himself to greet her warmly and mean it.
He was confident as the days went by that his secret was safe from her.
Now all he had to do was destroy the secret, make it nonexistent.
He would forget the unsuitable young miss who had enchanted him but briefly.
Georgiana told him of her school and studies.
She was eager to return after Michaelmas.
She had friends and liked some of her teachers.
It was a relief to see her so happy. They spent the remainder of the summer exploring the grounds on horseback, taking trips into the local village together, and eating most of their meals side by side. Her company was a solace he had needed.
She still had a sadness in her eyes on occasion, and he knew she was remembering their father.
Sometimes when he tried to talk to her about him, though, or to cheer her, she would mention that day…
the day she had spent with her. Darcy could not bear to hear her name, so he quickly changed the subject each time.
When he went to his sister’s room one day in the autumn to check on her packing, he found the chamber empty of Georgiana or her maid.
On her bedside table, though, he saw a well-worn book with a blue leather cover and gold embellishments.
Knowing what it was, he could not refrain from going to it and brushing the title with his fingertip.
Before he could stop himself, he picked it up.
He opened it and saw the note she had written to his sister on the day she had given her this book of histories.
He had seen it before, as his sister always kept the note in the book.
He had not read it since meeting Elizabeth, however. Not until now.
My Dear Friend,
I do not wish to disturb your peaceful rest, but I want you to know I will remember our brief time together with fondness.
That may surprise you, given it was not entirely cheerful, but the good outweighed the bad for me, as I hope it did for you.
You have a light in you that no tragedy or disappointment can extinguish.
Do not let the difficulties you encounter smother your innate goodness.
And remember, you will always have a friend in me.
We did not have time to finish reading this book together, so please take it with you and value it as I have done.
Maybe you will remember me sometimes when you read it, and you will remember the happiness we shared even in difficult circumstances.
Fondly,
Elizabeth Bennet