Rough Justice Read Online Free

fever hospital, or by touching a sailor’s collar for a bit of good luck. Mind you, fat chance there was of any of that coming her way, when all she wound up with as payment for her trouble and her generosity was a cheap wedding ring – and that was probably made out of brass.
    ‘Well that’s me then.’ Eliza Watts backedtowards the door. ‘Aw, and a happy and a prosperous new year to you and yours, Matron.’
    Five minutes later, and without the cup of tea she had vainly supposed she’d have at least been offered – not that she would have fancied hanging around to drink it – Eliza Watts was standing in the corridor outside the matron’s office. She hadn’t been quick enough on her feet and the matron had followed her out and caught up with her. They were now staring down at Nell, who was sitting on a miniature Windsor chair. The tiny child hadn’t shifted so much as an inch since Eliza had told her to wait there while she went and talked to the lady in the starched white cap and apron.
    Now even more keen to get away – before the child opened her mouth and more awkward questions were asked – Eliza Watts replaced her sad look with a sickly smile.
    She touched the matron on the arm, cocked her head to one side and said, with a grateful smack of her lips, ‘I know you’ll take good care of the poor orphaned little dear.’ Then added with what she thought was a kind touch to win the old cow over, but immediately realised was a mistake, ‘Nell, her name is. Bless her little heart.’
    ‘How do you know her name, Mrs Jenkins?’ said the matron, staring icily at Eliza’s grubby hand on her clean white sleeve. ‘You said earlier that she hadn’t said anything to you.’
    ‘Pinned to her front on a bit of old paper,’ sheblurted out, and with that she marched briskly off towards the big double doors without so much as a glance over her shoulder, or even the slightest glimmer of pity in her eyes.
    The matron, well aware that she would be wasting her time trying to get any further information – never mind the truth – out of such a malodorous harridan, let her go. From her long experience it was obvious that the woman was a baby farmer, who no doubt had been welched on by some slum Jezebel or other, and there were plenty of those to choose from. Anyway, it probably wouldn’t hurt to keep the child. When the charitable ladies came on their visits to the home, the sight of the smaller ones – especially those with blonde curls and big grey eyes like this one had – always had them sniffling into their handkerchiefs and then digging into their husband’s bank accounts to make some very generous donations.
    ‘So . . . Nell,’ she said, shooshing her stiff white elasticated cuffs up her arms. ‘Up you get. You’re going to have a bath, child.’

Chapter 4
    Clara Sully, the thin-lipped, wobbling mound of a matron of the St Lawrence’s Whitechapel Foundlings’ and Orphans’ Home, didn’t think of herself as unkind, but rather as a pragmatic type of woman – and she considered practicality to be the most important trait in a matron. Why waste time on sentiment when there were ledgers to be filled, lists to be made, orders to be issued, and jobs – no matter how unpleasant – to be completed?
    And the job before her – bathing this very damp and smelly child – was certainly unpleasant. One she could definitely have done without at this time of the morning, or at any time of the day for that matter.
    It was all a case of bad luck. On any normal morning Matron Clara Sully would have had any number of girls on call to do it for her, as some of the older orphans and foundlings – because they were either too stupid or too disagreeable-looking to find alternative employment – stayed on as ill-paid employees of the home, despite having reached fourteen years of age. But, for some reason that Matron Sully preferred not to think about too much, Walter Thanet – the seniorgovernor of the home’s