As we went, I told Cynthia in a low voice about Mr. Fielding and his worries about Nurse Betts and the children from the Foundling Hospital. I also related what Elsie had told me about the Hospital, my journey there, and what I’d discovered from Mrs. Compton, the cook. Cynthia listened, blue eyes filling with concern.

The hansom traveled the length of Piccadilly, past Leicester Square and to Long Acre, then north to High Holborn and Cheapside, too near where my daughter resided. I gazed longingly at the turning to the Millburns’ home, wanting to run to her, but there would be too many questions, too many explanations. I did not want to worry Grace or the Millburns yet about my change in circumstance.

The hansom moved with the many carriages, carts, and vans jammed in the City, all of us traveling under a thick pall of smoke. We passed the grand edifices that made up the financial world of London, through Cornhill and Leadenhall to Aldgate Street, and so to Whitechapel Road.

The cabbie kept up a foul soliloquy the length of the journey about the many vehicles and their incompetent drivers, shouting his disapprobation and being shouted at in return. At one point our wheels locked with that of a wagon, our driver raising his whip in threat.

The drover, a large man with giant hands, only said, “Steady on, mate,” and efficiently maneuvered his horse until the spokes slid from our hub, and the hansom jerked forward once more.

Cynthia looked back around the canopy of the hansom and gave the drover a good-natured wave.

“Whew,” she said under her breath. “We’ll hire a different man for the journey back.”

At the corner of Whitechapel Road stood the church of St. Mary Matfelon, which had once been whitewashed, I’ve been told, which was why this entire area was known as Whitechapel. Scaffolding covered the building’s walls today, as it was being rebuilt after a fire. From there, the cabbie turned south into Shadwell, an area bustling with traffic and shops, warehouses and workhouses. The bulk of the London hospital and medical college weighted down the horizon. Young men dissected unfortunate beings there, learning from the dead how to stitch and dose the living.

Mr. Fielding was vicar of the small church of All Saints on Christian Street, a fitting name for the road. I hadn’t been much to the East End and hadn’t seen this particular building before, but I liked it at once. It was elegant and devoid of the overly Gothic embellishments renovators seemed to have put on in the last few decades. The exterior was rather plain, with clear glass windows, reminding me of Grosvenor Chapel.

Cynthia handed me down like a gallant swain and tossed the cabbie a coin. He snatched it out of the air and drove sullenly away without looking at us. I wager he’d never realized Lady Cynthia was female.