Olive shook her head. “If I do, they’ll make me a wet nurse. I can’t be stuck to babies all day long.”

When at last the superintendent finished speaking, the convicts queued for the midday meal, a hunk of bread and a pint of watery soup. Mutton, they were told, though Hazel tasted only fat and gristle. It was sharply sour, rancid. Despite her hunger, she spat it back in the bowl. For the rest of the afternoon, she stood with the other women in the drafty courtyard, jiggling Ruby on her hip, waiting to see the doctor. She watched as, one by one, they disappeared into a small brick house and emerged in gray uniforms.

“Show me your hands,” the dour-faced doctor said when it was finally her turn. Hazel set Ruby on a wooden chair and held out her palms. Hands up, hands down. “Open your mouth.” Looking at her papers, he raised a bushy eyebrow. “It says here your child needs a wet nurse.”

She nodded.

“It’s because you’re too thin,” he said irritably. “You convicts don’t take care of yourselves, and others are forced to carry your burden. Who fed her on the ship?”

Hazel knew better than to implicate Olive. “A woman who sadly died.”

“That’s unfortunate.” He made a note in her chart. “It is recommended that you work in the nursery. What are your skills?”

She hesitated. “I was a midwife.”

“You delivered babies?”

“Yes. And I have some experience treating infants’ maladies.”

“I see. Well . . .” He sighed. “The ship surgeon’s report is quite positive. And we are understaffed.” Looking up from her chart, he said, “In the morning, you may walk with the new mothers and wet nurses. I’ll make a note for you to assist in the birthing room as needed.”

“Thank you.” She picked Ruby up and held her against her shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he said sharply.

“I’m—I’m taking my baby.”

“No you are not. We will transport this child to the nursery. You may see her tomorrow.”

She felt her heart thudding in her chest. “She has always slept with me.”

“Not anymore. You relinquished that right—indeed, any rights—when you committed your crime.”

“But—”

“That will be all, convict.” Stiffly, he held out his arms.

She hesitated. But what else could she do? She gave him the baby.

He took her as if he were handling a fireplace log.

With one last lingering look at Ruby, who was starting to fuss, Hazel was escorted from the room.

Across the hall, the matron, wearing a pair of long gloves, lifted the hair from the nape of her neck. “No apparent lice,” she reported to a convict scratching notes. “Luckily for you, you may keep your hair,” she said to Hazel.

After being sent to bathe in cold dirty water in a metal tub, Hazel put on her uniform—a coarse gray dress, dark stockings, and sturdy black shoes—and surreptitiously tucked Evangeline’s handkerchief in her wide front pocket. The matron handed her a parcel containing another dress, a shawl, an apron, several shifts, another pair of stockings, a rough straw bonnet, and two folded rags. “For your monthlies. If you’re of age,” she said, adding, “Are you?”