Storm Child Read Online Free

morning.’
    Charlotte’s mother looked more
closely, narrowing her eyes. ‘Didn’t you sleep well?’
    ‘No.’ Charlotte answered more
truthfully than she wanted to.
    ‘The baby kept you awake?’
    ‘No,’ Charlotte replied quickly.
‘I had the most terrible dreams… about the orphanage.’ She looked up at her
mother hopefully.
    ‘I haven’t changed my mind. And
in a few days, you will have forgotten all about this business.’
    Charlotte’s mother was wrong; she
would not forget about this for a long time.
    The baby
continued to sleep through breakfast.  In the end, Charlotte’s mother woke
her so she could be fed before the long walk to the village to see Mr Finch,
who took care of the parish poor. Though, Charlotte wasn’t sure that take
care was how the way would describe it.  The workhouses and orphanages
around the area were notoriously foreboding places, but the one Mr Finch took
care of was the worst of all, or so she had heard. Charlotte was not yet an
adult, but she understood how close to the workhouse she, George and her mother
had come after her father had died, and every day she thanked God for the tiny
cottage out on the heath that they had somehow managed to keep. Her mother took
in odd jobs; sewing, crocheting, even singing lessons.  Mother grew food
and they had a goat and a few precious chickens (fewer by the month as they
were picked off by foxes) to make the money stretch further. Charlotte knew how
hard it was for her mother to do all this, especially after George had died and
all she wanted to do was curl into a ball and never speak again.  But she
did it for Charlotte, her one remaining child.
    The morning turned out to be fine. The sun, low on the
horizon, skimmed the heath, its dazzling winter rays reflected off the
dew-soaked bracken. It was so bright that Charlotte and her mother had
difficulty seeing the road ahead. The raw wind of the night had settled into a
brisk, chill breeze, whipping the smell of damp vegetation into the air. 
Charlotte’s mother held the baby, tightly wrapped in a blanket, against her
chest. The baby burrowed into her shoulder to keep warm, quiet and subdued.
Charlotte was silent, deep in thought, her eyes downcast, partly to concentrate
on her footing, but in part, to hide the sadness. Every step closer they took
to the village, and the imposing sandstone house of Mr Finch, the greater
Charlotte’s sadness became. She still could not quite believe that her mother
was going to leave the baby there.
    Eventually, Charlotte looked up
and blinked with surprise as the house loomed before them.  She had hardly
noticed that they had walked so quickly, or that the house had been rearing in
front of them for some few minutes.
    ‘Charlotte, would you pull the
bell for me?’
    Charlotte stepped forward and
yanked on the long cord. The bell sounded solemnly somewhere inside the
house.  There was a brief silence, then the door was opened by a grey
haired lady with a ruddy face that reminded Charlotte of freshly kneaded dough.
Charlotte curtsied shortly.
    ‘Mrs Harding… Miss Harding. Good
morning to you both.’ The lady greeted them with a brisk courtesy and then
peered at the bundle in Charlotte’s mother’s arms with a bright, inquisitive
look. ‘What’s this then?’
    Charlotte’s mother turned the
baby’s face the lady. ‘We found this little one, abandoned, out on the heath.’
    The lady clicked her tongue in
disapproval. ‘How dreadful.  I suppose you’ll be wanting Mr Finch then.’
    Charlotte’s mother nodded. ‘We do
indeed, Mrs Brown.’
    The old lady moved back from the
doorway. ‘Come and stand in the hallway, out of the cold. I’ll see if he has
some time to see you.’
    Charlotte and her mother stepped
into the vast entrance hall. Charlotte had never been inside Mr Finch’s house
before. On visits after her father’s death, her mother had spared Charlotte
that humiliation by going alone to beg for help.  It was dusty