London, December 1917
‘This is the one.’
Edith’s eyes widened in surprise at the firm tone of her husband’s voice, the light of satisfaction in his eyes. Philip was a mild-tempered man and she rarely knew him to express such a strong opinion.
‘This is the baby for us, Edie.’
‘Edith,’ she whispered, aware of Miss Chad hovering nearby.
She contemplated the fragile infant in his arms and bit her lip, uncertain. This girl was not the prettier of the two available. Edith had wanted to reach out and cuddle the other, a sturdy cherub of ten months with rosy cheeks and a fluff of fair hair. So much like Edith’s youngest sister at the same age. The nurserymaid had set the child astride a toy horse and held her as it rocked. The darling’s blue eyes had widened with alarm and she’d clutched at the young woman’s sleeve.
This other baby was too young to sit up. ‘Three months,’ Miss Chad had said and bid another maid to lift her from her crib to show the visitors. The sleepy infant had taken one look at the portly bespectacled man in the black frock coat and his thin, plain-faced wife and burst into angry cries.
‘Poor mite,’ Philip had murmured and stretched out his arms to take her. ‘She’s so light, Edie!’ He cradled her awkwardly, muttering a tentative, ‘There, there.’ This must have been all the baby wanted because after a moment she stopped screaming and stared up at him with her troubled navy-blue gaze, tears shining on her long, dark lashes.
What sallow cheeks the child had, Edith thought, remembering the pink and white skin of the fair-haired girl. This baby’s small pointed face and almond-shaped eyes put her in mind of a kitten. Cats brought Edith out in a rash.
‘That’s better.’ Philip propped the infant up against his shoulder and stroked her whorl of dark hair. It was at that point that he had looked at his wife, beamed and said those devastating words: ‘This is the one.’
Miss Chad clasped her hands under her chin, her eyes glinting in satisfaction over her spectacles. ‘She’s very dainty, isn’t she?’ The principal of the Adoption Society was a handsome woman in her forties with a generous, upholstered figure. She wore too many strands of beads for Edith to imagine her cuddling babies.
It was Miss Chad who had answered Philip’s response to her advertisement in neat firm handwriting, but although she’d requested references, it was in a tone that could only have been described as ingratiating. A solicitor and his wife from a quiet seaside town. Conventional, comfortably off. How suitable! ‘You sound just the kind of people we wish to adopt one of our little ones’, she’d gushed, ‘but letters of support from your vicar and a local mother of standing are a minimal requirement.’ The references Philip supplied had duly been checked and today the couple had come to the nursery in west London to choose a baby girl.
‘What do we know about this one’s parents?’ Philip asked before Edith could draw breath to protest. ‘I believe I told you that we wanted an orphan.’
‘She isn’t one, exactly.’ Miss Chad did not meet his gaze. ‘But she has been fully relinquished by the mother.’
Everyone wanted orphans, Edith supposed. If the parents were safely dead, they couldn’t ask later to have the child back, could they? Miss Chad had already explained that adoption was not legally binding, such a nuisance, but that financial penalties in the Society’s contract would put off any birth parent tempted to change their mind.
‘We don’t have any orphaned girls at present.’ Miss Chad’s cheery tone grated. ‘But this baby is special. The mother’s family are well-connected, gentlefolk. Most unusual for a girl of that upbringing to get herself into trouble, but this war has upset everything. We’ve had no problems with the child. Healthy, takes her milk well. Spirited, I’d say, you’ve seen that yourselves. But with the right training I believe you’d be very pleased.’
It was, Edith thought, as though they were acquiring a puppy, not a baby.
The infant stared with fascination at the white silk handkerchief in Philip’s breast pocket. At his chuckle, her round-eyed gaze moved to his face and she batted his jaw with her starfish hand. To Edith’s amazement, her usually solemn husband burst out laughing.
‘Philip?’ she said in desperation. ‘I don’t think I want—’
‘Edie, she likes me,’ he broke in, his eyes shining with happiness.
‘Yes, I’m sure she does, but don’t you think that sweet fair-haired girl . . .’
‘An absolute enchantress, isn’t she, Mrs Burns?’ Miss Chad cooed. ‘More placid than this little puss, but then she’s adorable in her own way, too. It’s your choice. We like our parents to feel satisfied. Both children are available immediately, though we do have a waiting list for baby girls . . .’
‘We’d better decide right away,’ Philip said, turning serious. ‘Whichever you like, of course, Edie, dear.’ He smiled down at the kitten-baby. ‘But I prefer this little thing.’
Later, when Edith looked back, she wondered how she’d allowed it to happen, why she’d given in to her husband’s whim and taken a baby she hadn’t warmed to. It was partly the picture Miss Chad went on to elaborate of the mother’s genteel background. Mostly, though, it was to do with Philip’s strength of purpose. It had taken her by surprise.