In Regency London, Rose Marshall has achieved more that she could ever have wished for. She has successfully transformed from Ross, the unfulfilled bank clerk, and she has recently married Barney, the love of her life. Together with her work as a bookkeeper, Rose is busy and happy and yet there still remain certain elements that she can only dream about.
All that changes on a snowy winter’s evening when Rose stumbles upon an abandoned baby, and she has to take charge of the child before it freezes to death.
Will Rose’s rash actions impact on her happy and settled life with her new husband? Or will she and Barney successfully rise to this new challenge?
Rose shivered as a sharp gust of icy wind penetrated her cloak and swirled around her stockinged ankles. She did not miss male attire but she had to admit that pantaloons and Hessian boots were less draughty and more practical during a drop in temperature. One disadvantage of female dress.
On a late afternoon, Charing Cross and the Strand beyond were normally heaving with crowds and carriages. But with daylight fading early and snow imminent, pedestrians had vanished, businesses had shut in advance and even street sellers had given up hope of custom.
Rose was alone apart from an occasional private vehicle.
As Rose passed the church of St. Martin’s in the Fields, the oppressive silence was broken by the yowl of a cat.
I hope the poor creature finds some shelter, Rose thought.
Her steps slowed as the noise continued, becoming more insistent. With a start that made her stop in her tracks, Rose realised that the sound didn’t emanate from a stray animal.
Why, surely that’s a child!
Without hesitation, Rose mounted the steps leading to the church’s great stone portico, peering into the semi-darkness. The wailing grew louder but Rose struggled to discover the source. With further urgency, she explored the darkened portico, searching the dark corners. Finally, with a sense of overriding relief, she made out the shape of a woven basket tucked behind one of the pillars.
The cry reached screaming pitch.
Instinctively, Rose lifted the basket. It was surprisingly light, much less of a burden than the ledgers she had delivered to the Haymarket. But a much more onerous responsibility.
“Hush now,” she soothed, holding the basket in both hands and peering within. The baby responded to her voice and touch, the cries lessening now it had received the attention it sought. Its form showed only as a tiny lump beneath a meagre covering, either malnourished or a new born.
Balancing the basket on her hip, Rose used her free hand to grasp the door handle of the church, ready to share her discovery and fetch help.
The door refused to give.
Locked, she concluded. Rose tried again for good measure in case the handle was merely stiff from the cold. Her second attempt confirmed her suspicions.
A sensible precaution, she supposed, with the plate and silver laid out in readiness for Christmas services. The inclement weather wouldn’t stop enterprising thieves.
The verger’s probably gone home for a hot meal and will return shortly to finish setting up.
But that would be too late for the child.
If left exposed on the portico, even for another half hour, the rapidly freezing air would snuff out the tiny life before it had a chance to flourish. Whoever had left the baby must have hoped for a swift rescue.
Struggling with indecision, Rose looked over her shoulder.
The swirling snow started to settle on the church steps beyond the portico.
That decided her.
“I’ll take you home with me,” she said to the baby. “Get you warmed through and comfortable. Then Barney and I can discuss what to do next.”
