Chapter Eight

This was the place of her repression. The familiar scent of vinegar used to wash the floors of the orphanage, mixed with the ghastly smell of cooked cabbage, flooded Clarissa's nostrils and aroused memories she would rather obliterate. The chime of the grandfather clock that occupied its place of importance in the entrance foyer, and regulated all the inmates' activities during the day, resounded three times throughout the building.

Clarissa shuddered, not just from the chilled and damp air resulting from not enough fires being kept burning, but also from the familiarity. Three o'clock meant it was time for boring needlework. Uggh . Mending clothes and making samplers. The weight of her memories pressed from all directions.

"Come in," a woman's voice called.

The girl opened the door to reveal a small office. "Your visitors, ma'am," she said, bobbing a curtsy before backing away to allow them to enter.

The grey-haired Mrs. Hutton rose and walked around her desk. Clarissa shrank back from her a little. She remembered her well, as the person who often sent her to stand at the center of the vast dining room as punishment for making too much noise or exhibiting too much energy indoors. Clarissa had stood there alone while the whole orphanage ate their meal. Afterwards she would be given bread and dripping.

"Reverend Brody, I understand?" Mrs. Hutton said.

"Yes," he said. "And Miss Bartlett."

The woman ran a practiced eye over Clarissa's waistline then gave a small smile of greeting. "Please be seated." She pointed to two worn wooden chairs before her desk. "How may I assist you?" The matron resumed her seat.

"I'm assisting Miss Bartlett in her search for information about her parents."

The matron's eyes darted back to Clarissa, speculation in their depths. "You look familiar. Were you raised here?"

"I was born and grew up here," she said, and something about Frank in the chair beside her safely anchored her to life beyond these walls. She caught his kind gaze and unclenched her hands. This place couldn't harm her now. "My aunt found me five years ago and took me into her care."

"Aah." Understanding dawned on the matron's round face.

"Now I wish to know what information, if any, exists about me in your records."

"I assume there is an intake register?" Francis added. He removed his wire-rimmed reading glasses from their case and put them on.

"When were you born, Miss Bartlett?"

"August 1798."

Mrs. Hutton rose and walked to the shelves that lined the wall behind her desk. Tall registers were lined up on the top shelf. Each book was stamped with a year in gold lettering. She selected 1798 and opened it on her desk before running her index finger down a column. "Clarissa Bartlett. Is that you?"

She nodded and held her breath.

"Born on 9 August 1798. Not here, but nearby. Mother – Miss Mary Bartlett. Father – unknown."

Clarissa exhaled. Her sharp breath must have revealed all the pain of her disappointment, because Frank's eyes roamed her face. He turned and asked the matron, "Is there nothing else?"

Mrs. Hutton extracted a folded piece of paper tucked into the page. She opened it and scanned the page. A small smile grew on her face and she looked up at Clarissa. "This note may be of interest to you. It says that a gentleman enquired after Miss Mary Bartlett about two years after you left here."

Suddenly Clarissa was breathless. "Was he my father?" Her question rushed forth.

"He believed he was your father, yes. He claims not to have known of your birth until he received a lost letter from your mother years after she had dispatched it." She glanced down at the letter. "He claimed to have searched for your mother several times when he had returned to London from abroad…in the time before he got the letter from your mother."

Clarissa's heart ached. Her mother had been dead by the time he'd returned to her and she had been incarcerated here . "From abroad? Was he a foreign gentleman?" Clarissa asked.

"No, a ship's captain in the navy."

A naval officer! That would explain his absence at the time of my birth . Her pulse raced as though she was waiting for the curtain to rise on opening night. "Did he leave a forwarding address, Mrs. Hutton?"

Her smile widened. "He did. I'll transcribe the note and give you the original so you may continue your search for him. His name is Captain Richard Harding."

Captain Richard Harding . Clarissa rolled the name around in her head. What manner of man was he? She turned to Francis and couldn't keep an excited grin off her face. Could this be happening?

He returned a hopeful look, then turned to Mrs. Hutton. "Is there any information about Miss Bartlett's aunt and how she came to gain custody of Miss Bartlett?" he asked.

Mrs. Hutton rose and pulled another register from the shelf. After a brief check of the year 1814, she answered. "Five years ago, Mrs. Dora Jenkins is your aunt?" she asked Clarissa.

After Clarissa nodded, she said, "Mrs. Jenkins visited several times about the matter of taking custody of you, her niece, claiming to have only recently found out about your existence after consulting the birth register for this parish, she said."

How did she know to do that? Clarissa frowned.

"There is more to the story of your relinquishment."

What? Clarissa's stomach plunged. She exchanged a frown with Frank.

Mrs. Jenkins matched the description of the woman who left you here as a baby. Who had claimed to be Mary Bartlett's midwife and present at your birth."

This doesn't make sense! If Aunt Dora had placed me at the orphanage, why did she lie about not knowing of my existence? " Aunt Dora …left me here after my mother died?"

"I'm sorry, but it appears so…although, we didn't know she was your aunt at the time," Mrs. Hutton answered in a sympathetic tone.

"And you let her take me, although she previously left me?"

"She provided evidence of your family connection, through the assistance of the reverends of the parish in which she and her sister were baptized, and this parish where you were baptized and your mother died. Our policy is to restore children to their families, if we can, or find new guardians for them."

The moment of revelation played out across Clarissa's body, turning her hot and cold. Aunt Dora had abandoned her in this grim place…and then sixteen years later had returned to collect her…to train her for the stage.

Why? As her meal ticket? Dora had revealed that her sister's money had run out recently. Had Dora waited until the hard work of raising her was done before returning to gain access to that money as her guardian? Was that what had happened? Clarissa rubbed her roiling stomach with one hand.

While Mrs. Hutton finished scratching out a copy of the file note about her father, Francis leaned towards Clarissa. "Are you unwell?" he asked, softly enough for only her to hear.

"I'll be better once I get out of this place and find my father," she whispered back.

Memories of the day her aunt had come for her played in her head. She had hurried through the paneled passageway to this very office. Halting outside, she had raised a hand to rap on the closed timber door.

"Come in," matron had called.

Mrs. Hutton had sat behind this battered desk. Opposite her was a woman not yet in her middling years. She was flamboyantly dressed in what Clarissa thought was the height of fashion. She had never seen this woman before. She had dragged her eyes back to matron. "Ma'am, you sent for me?"

"Yes, Clarissa. Your aunt has come to give you a home."

Clarissa slammed her shocked gaze onto the woman. "My aunt?"

"Yes," the woman answered quietly.

"If you're my aunt, where have you been for the last sixteen years, while I've moldered in this orphanage?"

The woman averted her gaze.

"Really, Clarissa—" Matron began.

The woman cut her off. "I've spent that time trying to find you. Your mother died when you were a baby, and you were placed here."

"It's taken you a long time to find me!" Clarissa huffed.

"Nevertheless, I'm here now and ready to take you under my wing and train you as an actress, just like your mother. You'll become famous, just like her too."

"Clarissa, you don't have to agree to go with your aunt. You can choose to stay here and finish your education and become a governess. You are bright enough to excel in that role." Mrs. Hutton interjected, her voice kind.

With a long, slow appraisal, Clarissa had sized up the two women and the offers they made for her future. An excellent governess or a famous actress? Should she trust this ‘aunt' of hers? "Have you proof that she is who she claims?" Clarissa asked Matron.

"I've seen written evidence and I've checked her claim to work at The Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, and seen her lodgings nearby."

A look of outrage had passed over the woman's face, at this admission of investigation, but was quickly extinguished to be replaced by a smile and nod of approval. "Rightly so," she said.

"What is your name please?" Clarissa asked.

"Mrs. Dorothy Jenkins," she replied with an engaging smile.

"Not Bartlett, like my mother and me?"

"I used my husband's name when I took to the stage."

"And Mr. Jenkins?" Clarissa asked.

"No longer in this world," Mrs. Jenkins said, muffling a faint sniff.

An actress indeed .

"Have you made a decision, Clarissa?" Matron had asked gently.

To work like a drudge as a governess or to have an exciting life on the stage? There is no decision to make. She dipped her chin in assent. "I wish to go with my aunt and make my career on the stage, like my mother. I have loved performing in the few Shakespearian plays we have staged here."

Aunt Dora had clapped her hands together, a smile breaking out on her handsome face.

Elation had filled Clarissa. She had felt like jumping up and down. But she didn't. She knew better than to show such a display of emotions in this institution. It could only lead to punishment. Good governesses hid their feelings behind a professional mask of calmness.

Aunt Dora had stood and extended her hand. "Come, let us depart. You have a new life to begin." The wide smile she sent her seemed genuine.

Clarissa slipped her hand into her aunt's, a triumphant grin breaking out on her face.

"I'll have your possessions packed and brought downstairs, Clarissa." Mrs. Hutton rang a bell on her desk. "In the meantime, Mrs. Jenkins, there are documents to sign before we relinquish Clarissa into your care. She is still underage, so you need to sign in her stead."

"Of course," her aunt had said. A look of glee had shone in her eyes for a moment.

I'm going to train as an actress and become more famous than my mother. Clarissa had never forgotten that vow.

***

With the address clutched in her hand, Clarissa thanked the matron and hurried from the orphanage. "Call a hackney, Reverend Frank. My shout. I want to get to his lodgings quickly."

The journey took too long for Clarissa's peace of mind. She jiggled her legs impatiently, tapping the floor with her booted foot as they drove through a middling sort of neighborhood where the houses were cared for and the streets cleaned, but without any signs of great wealth. Finally, they arrived in front of a row of brown brick terrace houses.

Without waiting for the step to be put down, Clarissa jumped to the pavement from the carriage. Francis paid off the hackney and followed her to the front door of the boarding house. She rapped the knocker loudly.

A short, round woman opened it and greeted her.

This was her chance. "Hello, we're looking for Captain Richard Harding—a naval man. Does he still reside here?"

The woman folded her arms over her ample bosom and her forehead creased. "I remember him. He did live here a few years ago, but he went to sea again. I haven't seen him since then."

Clarissa's stomach sank. "Would he have returned here when he came home again?"

The woman shook her head. "Not necessarily. He wasn't a regular. He stayed for a few months only, then went back to Portsmouth to his ship." She jerked her head to indicate that place to the south.

"How would I find out where he is now?"

"I wouldn't really know, dearie. Ask the navy nobs. Now, I must get on. Bedmaking to finish before the gents get home." She stepped back and closed the door.

Disappointment weighed heavily in Clarissa. She turned to Francis. "What do we do now?"

"We can enquire at the naval headquarters at Whitehall. The navy will at least be able to tell us the name of his ship and perhaps an expected return date." He sent her a reassuring smile.

Francis's willing assistance cheered her. She still held hope that she would find out more about her father.

The visit to the Admiralty building at Whitehall was not very encouraging. They were asked to wait, while enquiries were made. As she sat on the hard bench trying to still her fidgeting body, her mind filled with questions.

Did he find Aunt Dora and she told him that I was put into an orphanage, but she didn't know which one? Or did she say that I had died? Or did Dora tell him about the Duke Street Orphanage?

It didn't matter which scenario was correct, the reality was that Dora had withheld the information about her father from her and stopped them meeting. The degree of betrayal by the woman she had trusted was enormous. She seethed at Dora's duplicity.

After waiting for an hour, a naval clerk advised them that Captain Richard Harding indeed served in His Majesty's Navy, but was presently at sea on board his ship, Siren's Call .

Excitement bubbled in Clarissa's veins. "When will he return to England?"

"The ship could dock any time in the next few months or years," was his unsatisfactory answer.

"Can you not predict a due date any more closely?" she pleaded.

"The sea and duty are the masters of time, not man," the clerk informed her in a lofty tone.

Clarissa's heart sank at his blithe answer. She must curb her disappointment. At least she had a name and his ship—more information than she had dreamed of previously.

She smiled over at Francis, the man who had made this revelation possible. Warmth filled her heart. He had proven himself to be a man of his word and completely trustworthy.

That was something to be treasured in this deceitful world, where her aunt had kept information about her father from her. She could only despise the woman now. Never would she trust her or have anything to do with her again.

Although any meeting with her father could be months or even years away, Clarissa hugged the information about him to her chest and smiled at Francis. "Let's go home, Frank."