Ellen continued to examine the nappies, setting aside four that had holes in the fabric.I suppose I can include these in ourlaundry order and see what they can do.Ellen had expected the donations to all be used, as baby supplies were exorbitantly expensive. But she’d expectedgentlyused.
Amelia gasped, making Ellen’s head jerk upward in alarm. “What’s the matter?”
Mark shifted, leaning a little closer to get a look as well.
Amelia’s arm shot aloft, holding a glass bottle. “Look at this.Look at this.” The glass caught the light and refracted, sending a spot of light skittering across the floor.
“It’s…a baby bottle?” Mark offered hesitantly.
Ellen’s jaw tightened. “They donated a murder bottle?”
Amelia’s other hand went up, holding the rubber tubing and teat that would be attached to the glass bottle. “They did.”
Ellen reached for the bottle parts, turning them in her hands to examine them. Amelia rummaged around in the crate and practically growled. “Five more! There are five more of these.”
Mark cleared his throat and crouched, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “Murder bottles?”
Ellen handed him the clear glass bottle, shaped a bit like a violin, with the name Mummie’s Darling stamped on the bottom. “They used to be the most popular way to artificially feed your baby. All the household management books recommended them. But they’re terribly unhygienic.” She pointed at the rubber hose, nearly as long as her forearm. One end fitted around the mouth of the bottle, the other end held the teat. “It’s nearly impossible to clean. And the curve of the bottle is hard to sterilize, too.”
Mark looked at them with morbid fascination. “So they remained dirty? And caused infants to fall ill?”
“Caused infants todie,” Amelia corrected darkly, setting the five other bottles in a row on the floor beside her. “Physicians have been preaching against this bottle design for, oh, at least fifteen years. Perhaps longer. They belong in the rubbish bin, not a donations box.”
“Perhaps the women were unaware of the dangers?” Mark suggested hesitantly, setting the bottle beside its brethren. “If it’sbeen a few years since their children were young, perhaps they don’t realize they’re donating…murder bottles.”
“Unlikely,” Ellen said shortly. “These are well off, educated women. They know exactly what they donated.”
Amelia pulled a receiving blanket out of the third box, fingering the frayed edge. “These aren’t donations, they’re rubbish. They are just using us to get waste out of their homes.”
Anger flared, burning in Ellen’s chest. “The women of St. Giles deserve better than rubbish.”
Amelia nodded. She pulled another glass bottle from the bottom of a crate. “Finally. A bottle that won’t kill the baby,” she said sardonically. She held up a bottle shaped like a banana. These were the newest, best designed bottles. A mother could actually get a brush inside and clean it properly. And the rubber teat attached directly to the mouth of the bottle, no tubing required.
“I’ll give that to Mrs. Heinrich,” Ellen decided. “She’s not had enough supplies to feed her granddaughter.”
Quietly the women sorted through the rest of the items. There were pacifiers made of ivory, swaddling blankets, a lovely christening gown, two more banana bottles, nappies, a dozen pocket-sized Bibles, and handfuls upon handfuls of religious pamphlets. Mark helped them sort it into piles: hand out and rubbish.
Amelia and Ellen debated what to do with the Bibles, and decided to give them to children in school so they would have a book at home to practice reading. The pamphlets would be put in the rubbish, and Ellen had a feeling they’d find their way to a few neighborhood privies.
Chapter Nine
For the next four weeks, Mark and Ellen moved around one another carefully. No longer cautious, still quite gentle, as if both feared breaking whatever fragile friendship formed between them. In many ways, the camaraderie they had now was much sweeter and more intimate than before, because now they were meeting mind to mind.
Christmas drew nearer. Gray clouds hovered above London, heavy with the promise of snow. The carpenters finally returned with his bookcases and left muddy footprints all over the floor and rugs. Mrs. Gaye and the housemaid scowled and made pointed comments as the men tracked dirt back and forth, but Mark twitched with excitement to finally have his study exactly the way he wanted it. He’d dreamed of this ever since he was a student at Oxford.
Just after the entry floor was cleaned again, Gaye stomped more muddy ice on the floor when he retrieved a telegram and brought it to Mark in his study. “From Cottesloe, sir.”
Mark grabbed the telegram and adjusted his spectacles, ripping it open with a sick feeling. Was Matthew well? Had an infection set in?
He scanned the thick, heavy block letters.
SHOULD THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR HELP THIS AUTUMN STOP DID MUCH WHILST I WAS ABED STOP MOTHER SAYS YOU RECONCILED WITH ELLEN STOP BULLY FOR YOU STOP REGRET I PUT HEIRS ON YOU STOP AT LEAST ESTATE WILL STAY IN FAMILY STOP MOTHER WANTS YOU HERE FOR EASTER STOP
Mark sagged with relief. Matthew was alive, well, and blunt as ever. Sending a telegram thanks instead of a letter was just like him. Then Mark read it through a second time. The sick feeling returned.
Ellen wasn’t ready for the subject of heirs yet. And he didn’t want to frighten her away, not when he was just getting into her good graces. He didn’t want to hurt her, either. He wasn’t going to push the issue. It hurt, setting this duty down, knowing he’d be a disappointment to his family. To the estate and title. His chest tightened with sadness. This would hurt until he resolved it. But Ellen mattered, too. The conflict made his stomach ache all the more.
He’d let the topic come up on its own—if it ever did. If making love to her ever became more than a fantasy he tortured himself with at night. They were on track toward amiable housemates, but nothing more than that. The connecting door between their rooms remained locked, as it had for eight years.