Today, I heard that the foundling died.
She was barely alive when I last saw her, and it was either a miracle or a tragedy that she survived as long as she did: you take your pick. Once she got to the hospital, she never left there. At first she was weak and dehydrated, and the sister fed her through the night, and she seemed to do better. Then Doc McDonald said that she developed whooping cough in her last few days. She simply never had a chance.
God rest her tiny soul.
The mother—whoever she is—isn’t just guilty of criminal neglect anymore. The crime she’s committed is far worse: she’s damned her immortal soul. I feel no sympathy for her. I rarely do.
But it’s not the baby’s death that troubles me the most. I haven’t had any clues as to the mother’s identity, and it’s possible that I never will. The truth is that some crimes—a lot of crimes—are never solved. The baby’s likely to go nameless and unmourned into a pauper’s grave. At least, since she was born and had a life, however short, she’ll have a burial. Unlike ours.
I’m sitting at my desk, looking out past the door and wondering how I’m going to break the news to Gracie.
I know she’s been holding out hope that the baby would be fine, and that we could raise her as our own. She mentioned it once or twice, even though I’ve tried to tell her she was on a fool’s errand, but she wouldn’t listen. Once Gracie has something fixed in her mind, she never listens. She shuts out logic and I’m powerless to persuade her. So I usually say nothing.
Constable Mahoney says he’s heard that Father Donnelly went to the hospital to christen the baby. He’s heard the baby was named Mabelle. Ma belle, ma belle amie: phrases I brought back with me from the Great War, and I’ve mentioned them at home from time to time. Even though she never said so, I suspect Gracie’s behind the choice of name, and that she most likely stood up as Mabelle’s sponsor.
Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, since Mabelle has no surname. She has no family to cry for her.
I’m not relishing the thought of telling Gracie, and I’m still hanging onto that thought when she dashes in. I catch sight of her rushing through the door and, as much as I love to see her, my heart sinks. I can tell from the red rings around her eyes that she knows.
‘Oh, Jack,’ she says, ‘is it true?’
‘Yes dear,’ I reply. ‘I heard about it not long ago from Doc McDonald, but how did you find out so soon?’
‘The hospital called me directly.’ She’s frowning.
I don’t know what to say. If I ask her if she’s all right, it’s as if I’m thinking she won’t be.
She straightens her skirt and fidgets with her bag. At last she says, ‘I can tell you’re worried about me.’
‘And should I be?’
‘No, no, it’s all right. I won’t say I’m fine, but it’s different from when…well you know… I’m sad, of course, but I did try to listen when you said she wouldn’t be ours. I did try…’ The tears are gathering in her eyes.
‘I’m sorry, love.’ I give her a hug. ‘I wish it had ended differently. The best I can do for Mabelle now is to try to find her mother.’
‘Yes, do. She has to learn a lesson. It is not acceptable to abandon your child, no matter what.’
‘Of course not. She let her baby die, and I’m afraid that she’s going to have to pay for it,’ I assure her and it seems to help. ‘If the mother’s not made an example of, what with all the soldiers about and a town full of apparently willing women, there could well be a spate of similar things happening.’
Gracie nods. ‘We may be at war,’ she says, ‘but morals are morals.’ She takes a hanky from her bag, wipes her eyes and blows her nose. She pecks me on the cheek. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll arrange for her burial.’
‘If it’s all right with the Doc and Father Donnelly, it’s fine by me.’
I watch her sigh as she leaves, and I’m as proud of her as I can be.