There were any number of reasons a nurse at a children’s home would vanish, I had to admit. Some of those reasons were unfortunately troubling.

“Is there anyone at the Foundling Hospital, if I were to go there myself, you suggest I speak to?” I asked. “The vicar wishes me to be discreet—to not upset the matrons or other children. Who could I talk to who would keep a confidence?”

Elsie thought. “There’s a cook, Mrs. Compton. She’s the best of the lot—maybe she’d speak to you. Maids would know more, but the one on Mabel’s ward is sour as can be. Old Miss Nick, we called her, though her name’s Bessie.”

“Mrs. Compton then.” I committed the names she’d given me to memory. “Now to think of a reason to enter the kitchens of the Foundling Hospital,” I murmured, half to myself.

“Her ladyship could do it.” Elsie’s eyes sparkled. “She could pretend to be a charity lady and you could visit with her. Or she could go on a Sunday afternoon to watch Sunday dinner.”

I pulled myself out of my ponderings to gaze at her in surprise. “Watch Sunday dinner? How does one watch a dinner?”

“It’s a fine thing for ladies and gentlemen, innit? To pay a shilling or tuppence, or whatever it is, to view the foundling boys and girls eating their charity food. All in a row we’d sit, all in our same frocks, happy to have our grub. They’d file in and watch us like we were animals in a menagerie, they would. Talking all about us as they did.”

I’d heard of such things—a person could pay to stare at madmen in Bedlam, or at the convicts in Millbank. The directors of the places used the fees they collected to keep said place in funds. Wretched humanity on display. I would have hoped children would be spared.

“I am sorry,” I said, a bit awkwardly. “It is a pity you had to endure such things.”

Elsie shrugged, but I saw her stiffness. “Was better than starving in the streets, wann’t it? The matron could be hard, but we was fed and warm. And now I’m here.” She gave the copper pots and her sink full of dishes an almost fond look. “Could do worse, couldn’t I?”

I patted her shoulder. “You’re a diligent worker and a good girl, Elsie. I can ask Mrs. Bywater to consider making you a downstairs maid, so your hands won’t be in dishwater all the livelong day.”

Elsie looked alarmed, not grateful. “I like the kitchen, Mrs. Holloway. None bother me here, and you don’t mind my singing.”